The Italian Woman

by Виктория Холт

  Francis hurried to her and kissed her hands. ‘We but waited for you.’

  ‘Alas, dear niece,’ said the Cardinal, ‘you will not ride the way you chose. The King has given orders that we must ride south to greet the Bourbon.’

  Mary looked from her husband to her uncle. She took her cue from the Cardinal as always.

  ‘Oh, Francis, but I did not want to go south. I had made other plans. There is something I wished to show you on the north road.’ She grimaced charmingly. ‘And the Bourbon! He wears earrings. He is a fop and a fool, and he tires me so. Francis, please, let us pretend we have missed him. Let us ride the other way. Yes, Francis … darling … to please me.’

  Francis murmured: ‘We will go where you lead us, my love, my darling.’

  And the Cardinal looked on, smiling benignly at his beautiful niece and her little King.

  * * *

  Antoine was only a few miles from the Palace of Saint-Germain. He was thinking of the new status which was his since the death of King Henry. He was a Prince of the Blood Royal, and young Francis was only sixteen. In such cases it was necessary to have a strong and influential Privy Council, and naturally he, on account of his rank, should have high office in it.

  He thought pleasantly of what he would do for the persecuted Protestants for whom he and his brother felt such sympathy. He felt proud, contemplating that all over the country Protestants would look to him as their leader; they would rejoice when they heard that he was at court. He could almost hear their cries: ‘Vive le Bourbon! Let us make him our leader. All our hopes rest in him!’

  He had talked of this with Jeanne before he had left home, for his wife was fast growing in sympathy with the Reformed Faith; she would soon come out into the open. It was not that she was afraid to announce her belief; she did not fear the enmity of the Guises and Philip of Spain; it was the honour which she felt was due to her father that prevented her from making her feelings known just yet.

  Oh, Jeanne, he thought, how I love you! How I admire you, my darling! You are more than a woman … more than a wife. I am even glad of the profligate life I led before I met you, because my dealings with those light women whom I knew at that time have taught me to appreciate you more.

  Jeanne wanted him to lead the Protestants so that they might rid themselves of these perpetual persecutions. In Jeanne’s eyes he was already a leader. He would come back to Nérac, to Jeanne and his children; and she would be proud of his achievements.

  He said to his attendants: ‘We shall be meeting the King’s party at any moment now. Be prepared.’

  But they rode on, and there was no sign of the King’s party; and when they reached the Palace of Saint-Germain, the attendants seemed surprised to see them.

  Antoine, furious at this reception, said coldly: ‘Take me to my apartments at once.’

  ‘My lord Prince,’ was the answer, ‘no apartments have been prepared.’

  ‘This is nonsense. Am I not expected? Conduct me to the King … no, to the Queen Mother.’

  ‘My Lord, they are out hunting. They will not return until the late afternoon.’

  Antoine realised now that this was no accident, but an intentional slight, and he could guess who had arranged it. It could mean only one thing. His perennial enemies, the Guises, were in command.

  Even as he stood there, hesitating and uncertain, he knew what Francis Duke of Guise would have done in his place. He would have drawn his sword, he would have shouted curses; he would have demanded that apartments immediately be prepared for him. And the Cardinal? Antoine could imagine the scorn on those cold, handsome features; he could hear the clear, cutting voice which would strike terror into all who heard it.

  But Antoine was no Guise. He did not know how to act. He was not physically afraid; his was a moral cowardice, and an inability to think quickly and to know how to act in an emergency. In battle he would be as brave as any – but this was not battle.

  His friend the Maréchal de Saint-André came to his rescue and offered him his room at the palace, saying that he would help find lodgings in the village for Antoine’s attendants. Antoine accepted this offer with gratitude. He saw now that this had been planned by the Guises, who had decided that he should come to court and find himself in the midst of his enemies with a few – a very few – attendants scattered in the village. He knew that he had been unwise to delay his visit so long and that he should have been at court weeks before, for perhaps at that time the Guises might not have been in such complete power. He should have come in pomp, well guarded by his own men. He had been a fool to listen to evil counsels, and now he knew it. He realised to the full what power was working against him when, on the return of the hunting party, he went into the audience chamber.

  King Francis – looking uncomfortable, it was true, but obviously obeying orders – stood quite still and made no attempt to greet him. The Cardinal of Lorraine, who stood close to the King, did likewise. This was a great insult, for Antoine was of higher rank than the Cardinal, and even if the King chose to insult Antoine, the Cardinal certainly had no right to do so. But Antoine was without dignity. Uncertainly he embraced the King and the Cardinal, though neither gave the slightest response.

  Catherine was present with the young Queen, and as Catherine watched Antoine de Bourbon she felt a desire to burst out laughing. She had been fortunate in not putting her trust in a Bourbon. He was reduced to the position of a chambermaid, she thought. And how meekly he accepted it! The fool! Could he not see that this was no time for weakness?

  He should have demanded the homage of the Cardinal; he could have made the poor little King shiver if he had done so; and the Cardinal also would have realised that he had a strong man to deal with. But no! Antoine had no dignity, no arrogance … only meekness.

  The Cardinal spoke to him most haughtily, and Antoine smiled, glad to receive some attention.

  Poor little popinjay! thought Catherine. Now, there is a man whom it should not be difficult to use.

  * * *

  Antoine had gone back to his wife, and Catherine laughed to think of their reunion. She was no longer jealous of their love for one another, for she was certain that one day Jeanne was going to repent of her marriage. Jeanne was strong, and as a strong woman she must despise weakness; so she must soon despise her husband. It was amusing to think of Antoine’s creeping back to his wife to tell of his reception at court, of all he had been able to achieve for the Protestants, whose hope he now was since Condé had been tactfully sent away on a foreign mission – for what Antoine had achieved was precisely nothing.

  Condé was in a different class. Condé was not a man to be dismissed as lightly as his elder brother Antoine; but Condé was away, and there was no need to think of him now. This scheming for power was such a difficult task, such an allabsorbing one, so complicated that one could never see more than a few moves ahead.

  Still, there was time to reflect that Antoine was creeping back to his wife, his tail between his legs, to tell her a tale of humiliation and defeat. One day Madame Jeanne would be forced to see what kind of man she had married.

  Thoughts of Jeanne still haunted Catherine a good deal; she would always hate her, would always see her as a political rival as well as a woman who had been successful in love – though with what a partner! – and a woman to watch in the future.

  There was much to think of at home. ‘With the help of the brothers Ruggieri and her perfumer René, who had a shop on the quay opposite the Louvre, she had removed from this life one or two minor characters who had made themselves difficult. Such actions gave her a satisfying sense of her power; she enjoyed giving her smiles to her intended victims and assuring them that they were well on the way to gaining her favour; then would come the removal, sometimes swift, sometimes lingering, whichever suited her purpose. This was like soothing ointments on her wounds, those wounds which had been made long ago by Diane de Poitiers and now by the Guises. Sometimes she thought it would be a clever thing to slip som
ething into the wine of Francis of Guise, something which would improve the taste of the wine, for his was a rare palate; at others she thought how she would have enjoyed presenting the Cardinal of Lorraine with a book, the pages of which had been specially treated by René or one of the Ruggieri brothers; it would have made her happy to have given to that dandy, Antoine de Bourbon, a pair of perfumed gloves, the kind which, when drawn on to the hands, produced death. But such would be only a momentary satisfaction. It was unwise to deal thus with those of rank and importance. Moreover, she was beginning to see that the Guises and the Bourbons would be of more use to her alive than dead, for it would be to her advantage to set one rival house against the other. At the moment it might appear that she was siding with the Guises, but she did not always intend to do that. When she had a chance she would let that weak, vain little Bourbon think that she was on his side – secretly, because of the power of the Guises; she would remind him that Francis could not live for ever.

  When Francis died, Charles would take the crown; and Charles, hysterical and unbalanced, had been taught to rely on his mother. Yet, pliable as he was, she must not forget that streak of madness in him; there was a hint of rebellion also. Catherine had seen how, through Mary of Scotland, her son Francis had been weaned from her control.

  She decided now to put into action a plan which had long been in her mind. It seemed impossible to banish Mary Stuart from Charles’s mind. When Catherine talked to him, rousing that greatest emotion of which he was capable, fear – fear of his mother, fear of torture and death – he was compliant; but when the next day he set eyes on Mary, he would watch her like a lovesick boy.

  Catherine sent for two Italians of her suite, two men whom she trusted as she trusted her astrologers.

  When they were in her apartments she closed the doors and made sure that there was no one hidden in any cupboard or anteroom. Then she explained what she wanted of them. It was possible to speak frankly – or as near as Catherine could get to frankness – to Birago and Gondi, the Count of Retz; for they, as Italians, must obey the Italian Queen, since they knew that their prospects in France depended on her good graces.

  ‘I am alarmed concerning my son,’ she said. ‘I do not mean the King, but my son Charles, who would take the King’s place were the King to meet with an early death. My lords, the little boy has feelings beyond his years … and for his brother’s wife. This is not healthy in a little boy. The French …’ She smiled at them intimately … Italian to Italian. ‘The French, my lords, see nothing wrong in love between the sexes … even in the cases of children. “It is natural,” they say. “What a lover he will become!” ’ She gave a sudden spurt of laughter. ‘But at the age of my son, it is more natural, I think, to have a fondness for members of his own sex.’

  Her wide, prominent eyes stared blankly before her, and the men watched her closely.

  ‘You think, Madame,’ ventured the Count of Retz, ‘that it would be more natural were he to indulge in the usual passionate friendships with … boys of his own age.’

  ‘How well you understand! I do. Indeed I do. I do not wish to curb his natural emotions.’ She smiled, and they smiled with her, knowing full well that it was a habit of the Queen Mother’s to say what she did not mean. ‘I wish him to enjoy friendships with members of his own sex. He is not strong, and I feel you gentlemen could do much for him. Let him not, at his tender age, think of women.’

  The Italians smiled afresh. They knew that they had been chosen as tutors for Charles because of their perverted tastes rather than for their academic qualifications.

  They understood the Queen Mother. The Prince Henry was as dear to her, so it was said, ‘as her right eye’. Francis did not look as if he would make old bones, and as yet he had no son to follow him. If it should happen that the little Queen of Scots gave him one, they did not doubt that Catherine would know how to remove that little obstacle. And after Francis … Charles. Let the danger of Charles’s producing children be made as remote as possible. He was weak and unbalanced; well, it should not be difficult to turn such a boy from his natural inclinations.

  Some might have been astonished at this interview with the Queen Mother; but Charles’s new tutors were not. They understood perfectly and accepted the task required of them.

  * * *

  Catherine was preparing to set out for Francis’s Coronation, which was to take place, as tradition demanded, in the town of Rheims. How long, she asked herself, would this little King stay on the throne? He had been such a difficult baby to rear. She remembered how in the first year of his life his body had from time to time been covered with livid patches about which the doctors could do nothing, being absolutely ignorant of their cause. There was an obstruction in his nose which it had been thought at one time would kill him; but he had survived to speak with a nasal accent which was not very pleasant to listen to. It had always seemed that he was too delicate for long life, and now, by the look of him, it appeared that he could scarcely survive his Coronation. Watching him, Catherine felt competent to arrange that matters should go the way she wished.

  A few days before they were due to set out for Rheims, Catherine was sitting with some of her ladies when the talk turned to Anne du Bourg, whom Catherine’s husband, the late Henry the Second, had sent to prison for holding heterodox views. Anne du Bourg was now awaiting his trial, and there was more unrest than ever in the country on account of this man. As they talked, Catherine realised that the ladies about her all had Huguenot leanings – the Duchess de Montpensier, Mademoiselle de Goguier, Madame de Crussol and Madame de Mailly. Catherine was stimulated, for her sense of intrigue warned her that the gathering together of such ladies was not an accident. She let them talk.

  ‘Ah,’ she said at length. ‘But, ladies, it would seem to me that there are two parties of Huguenots in France to-day: those who devote themselves to their Faith – and these I honour – and those who make a political issue of religion. Nay, Madame de Mailly, do not interrupt me. Some of the party, I have reason to believe, plot with Elizabeth of England. I understand it is their wish to depose my son and put the Prince of Condé on the throne.’

  Her thoughts went to Condé as she spoke, and she could not prevent a little smile. Condé! What queer thoughts this man aroused in her! She knew that she would not hesitate to use him, even to slip a little potion into his wine if need be; but she could never hear his name without a slight emotion. That was folly for a woman of her age, particularly as she had no great desire for physical passion. Yet, try as she might, she could not overcome this excitement with which she was filled at the prospect of meeting Condé. He was a man of immense vitality, and his magnetism affected every female who set eyes on him; this must be so if it could touch Catherine de’ Medici. She heard that many women were in love with him. He was small, yet enchanting; he was hot-tempered, quick to take offence; and, she imagined, quite unstable. He would need much guidance, but it was said that he got this in good measure from his wife Eléonore, a fervent defender of the Reformed Faith. He was a practised philanderer, this Condé, as was his brother, Antoine de Bourbon. Philanderers both – yet held in check by over-devoted wives!

  She had missed a little of the conversation while she had been thinking of Condé, which showed how unlike herself she became at the very mention of the man’s name.

  ‘Ah,’ she went on. ‘You would not expect me to support those who ill-wished my son!’

  ‘Madame,’ cried Madame de Montpensier, ‘the Huguenots are loyal … absolutely loyal to the Crown.’

  Catherine shrugged her shoulders. ‘There are some,’ she went on, ‘who wish to have no King at all. A republic, they say they prefer … ruled by Calvin!’

  ‘Nay, Madame, you have heard false tales.’

  ‘It may be that you are right.’

  And when she dismissed these women, Madame de Mailly remained behind and whispered to Catherine: ‘Madame, the Admiral of France would wish to have a word with you. May I bring him to you
r presence?’

  Catherine nodded.

  Gaspard de Coligny. She studied him as he knelt before her, and as she looked at his stern and handsome face, it occurred to her that such a man, after all, might not be difficult to use. She knew a good deal of him, for she had made his acquaintance when she had first come to France. He was of Catherine’s own age, and his mother had been the sister of Montmorency, the Constable of France. He was handsome in quite a different way from Condé. Gaspard de Coligny had a stern and noble look. Yet in his youth he had been a gay figure of fashion, spending his time between the court and the battlefield. Catherine remembered him well. He had been seen everywhere with his greatest friend, Francis of Guise; now the greatest friends had become the greatest enemies, Francis of Guise being the nominal head of the Catholic Party, while Coligny was the hope of the Protestants. Coligny was a power in the land; as Admiral of France, he controlled Normandy and Picardy. He had been a good Catholic until, during three years’ captivity in Flanders, he had taken to the Protestant religion. A quiet and serious man he had become, and he was married to a plain and very wise wife who worshipped him and to whom he was devoted. In the presence of Coligny, Catherine was aware of strength, and such strength excited her as she wondered how she could use it.

  When Coligny had risen, she asked him what he wished to say to her, and he answered that it was the Queen Mother to whom the Protestants were now looking with hope. She smiled, well pleased, for it was amusing to discover how successfully she had managed to hide her true self from the people about her.

  ‘They are aware of your sympathy, Madame,’ said Coligny earnestly.

  Then she spoke to him of what she had mentioned to the ladies; of plots with England, of plots with Calvin. He in his turn assured her of his loyalty to the Crown; and when Coligny spoke of loyalty she must believe him.

  ‘Madame,’ said Coligny, ‘you are on your way to Rheims. A meeting could be arranged there … or somewhere near. There is much which should be discussed with you.’