Meanwhile, it was pleasant to talk to the Prince; such a gallant man was not meant to be a faithful husband; but if he were ever married to the Queen Mother he would have to be a faithful husband, for she would endure no more Dianes. There should be no more watching her husband and his mistress together.
And when she recalled that torture, she had less zest for the game she was playing with Condé.
She left him in his dungeon, puzzled and bewildered, vainly trying to understand the strange friendship offered him by Catherine de’ Medici; and in the rooms above his dungeons Catherine sought to mould the other brother to her will.
Antoine was easy to handle. It did not need the full force of her cunning to handle this little popinjay. Vain, vacillating, his earrings gleaming in his ears, he walked beside the Queen Mother, who put her arm through his and called him her brother, while she told him she wished to be his friend.
‘My dear brother of Navarre, you must not blame me for what has happened to the unfortunate Condé. Rest assured that I did everything in my power to help you both. It was the King who desired this, and kings – though young – must be obeyed.’
All knew that little King Francis had not a will beyond that of his mother and his wife’s uncles, yet Antoine found it agreeable to believe in the friendship of the Queen Mother.
‘My lord, I have many burdens on these poor shoulders. I fear that my son will not live long.’
‘Madame, this is sad news.’
‘Alas! But not unexpected. Have you not noticed how this terrible sickness of his gains on him? My poor Francis, he has not many days left to him. But a tragedy to some could be a blessing to others. You love your brother; and it is this son of mine who has sworn that he shall die for the part he played in the Amboise plot.’
Antoine felt a pulse throbbing in his temple; he wished Jeanne was here at Amboise with him; then he could have asked her to help him unravel the meaning of Catherine’s advances. But no! Jeanne was suspicious of Catherine. She would say, ‘Draw back. Beware. When the Queen Mother tries to win your approval of some scheme, never give your consent to it, no matter how attractive it may seem.’
Catherine pressed his arm; her face was close to his; he looked into the prominent eyes and tried in vain to read what was behind them.
She went on slowly: ‘If Francis died, then my son Charles would be King of France, and he is such a young boy to have greatness thrust upon him. Boys of tender years cannot rule a great country, particularly when that country is split by two religious factions. If Charles came to the throne, my lord, there would be a Regency, and you, as a Prince of the Blood, would be expected to play a big part. You know my little Henry and my Hercule are younger than their brother Charles; and the next in succession would be yourself, and after you, Monsieur de Condé.’ She gave a sudden laugh. ‘I would not care to be the one to have charge of Charles unless his mother were at hand to help me. He is often sick … sick in the mind, I mean … and at such times none but his mother can manage him. What a tragedy it would be for my son and those who tried to lead him … if any but I, his mother, attempted to do that!’
She had removed her hand from his arm. She stood before him, her arms folded across her black gown. She looked unearthly in the cap which she had favoured since the death of her husband, with its point resting on her forehead. Antoine felt himself shudder. There were strange threats in her eyes, and he remembered the mysterious deaths of some people who had come into contact with her. He thought fleetingly of Dauphin Francis, who had died, some said, to make her way clear to the throne.
‘What is your will, Madame?’ asked Antoine.
And she answered in a manner which seemed straightforward to him: ‘That if there is to be a Regent of France, I shall be that Regent. Oh, do not imagine that I am ignorant of your powers, of your wisdom. Far from it.’ She put her face close to his and he heard her laugh again. ‘I should give you the post of Lieutenant-General and all edicts would be published in our joint names.’
‘I see,’ said Antoine slowly.
She put her fingers to her lips, and she made of the gesture something almost obscene, unholy. ‘A secret, my dear Antoine; a secret, my brother. The Guises would not be made happy by these plans, for, believe me, they are not anxious to see my son Francis in his grave, whither, I fear, this weakening of his blood is leading him.’
‘No, Madame,’ said Antoine.
‘Well, do you agree?’
Antoine’s natural indecision came to his aid. ‘It is too important a matter to settle quickly. I will think of this, and rest assured that as soon as I have made my decision I shall lose no time in passing it on to you.’
The white hands – her one real beauty – were laid once more upon his arm.
‘My friend, do not make the mistake of delaying too long. I am a poor, lonely widow with little children to look after. If I can find no succour from the House of Bourbon – which House it is most proper that I should ask first – there would be no alternative but for me to beg help from the House of Lorraine. My lord, the heads of the House of Lorraine would go … to God alone knows what lengths … to take from a Prince of Bourbon that honour of Lieutenant-General which I have just offered you.’
Antoine bowed. He felt as though he had been offered the poison cup in order to speed his decision to bend to her will.
Her face was expressionless, but surely her words meant: ‘Make me Regent of France on the death of the King. For yourself accept the Lieutenant-Generalship … or death.’
Long after he had left her, Antoine’s body was clammy with the sweat of fear.
* * *
Catherine was in the King’s apartment. Francis was lying on his bed exhausted. Mary stood up and addressed the Queen Mother.
‘Madame, Francis is very tired. He wishes to sleep.’
Catherine smiled smoothly. ‘I shall not tire him. Rest assured that I know more of the nature of my son’s indisposition than any, and best know how to treat it. I wish to speak to him, and I will ask your Majesty to leave us alone for a little while.’
‘Madame …’ began Mary.
But Catherine had lifted a white hand. ‘Leave us … for ten minutes only. You will, I am sure, have much to say to your uncle, the Duke. You see, Francis and I wish to be alone.’
‘But Francis said …’
Francis was feeling ill, and although he wished to please his wife in everything, he was aware of the domination of his mother.
‘If you wish me to go, Francis, I will,’ said Mary.
‘Certainly he wishes it. It is just a little motherly talk, dear daughter. The Duke was asking for you. I should go along to his apartments.’
Mary hesitated for a moment before she bowed and retired.
‘Why, she is a little jailer!’ cried Catherine. ‘I declare she did not want to leave her captive alone with his own mother!’
‘It is because she wishes to be with me, to care for me when she knows I am not well.’
‘Of course. Of course. Do not rise, dear son. Lie still. What I have to say to you can be said while you rest. You are looking ill to-day. I must get a health potion for you. Cosmo will mix you something; although I am beginning to wonder whether René’s draughts are not more useful. Excuse me one moment.’
She went to the door and opened it. Mary stood there.
‘Ah, my dear daughter,’ said Catherine with a smile, ‘do not stand about in the corridors. They are draughty and bad for your health. Moreover, Monsieur de Guise awaits you. Do not disappoint him.’
Catherine stood watching the discomfited Mary walk very slowly and with some dignity along the corridor and up the staircase to the Duke’s apartments.
Catherine shut the door and went back to the bed.
‘You are disturbed, my boy. Something worries you. Tell your mother.’
‘Nothing worries me, Mother.’
‘They try your strength too much … these uncles of your wife. Why, what you need is to go away to
the quietest of your castles and there rest or walk in the green fields with your wife beside you. You need rest from state duties; you need rest and play.’
‘Oh yes!’ said Francis fervently.
‘I shall see that this is arranged. Your mother will see that you enjoy such recreation.’
‘If only it were possible!’
‘I promise you rest, my son.’ She laid her cool hands on his hot head. How it was throbbing!
He lifted his eyes to her face as he had done when he was a little boy. ‘Maman, there are pains … pains in my head … in every part of my body.’
‘Francis … my little one!’
‘And oh, Maman, I am so tired. Could I not go away … just with Mary … and the smallest of trains? Could you not arrange that?’
‘I will arrange your departure, my son. But first tell me what it is that worries you. Tell Maman. What have these uncles been hatching up for you? You hate them, do you not? It is from them you long to escape.’
‘Maman, the Duke is a very fine gentleman. There is no greater man in France.’
‘Ah yes. Le Balafré is a very great man. Ask the people of Paris. He is a hero to them. They do more homage to him than to you, my son.’
‘Yes; he is a very great man.’
‘And the Cardinal, he is also a very great man. Mary says so, does she not?’
‘The Cardinal …’ Francis began to tremble, and Catherine put her lips to his ear.
‘It might be, my son, that I could help you. Tell me what it is that they have been hatching up for you?’
Francis swallowed and pressed his lips together. She had not been mistaken, then. She had heard something of this, but the tube failed her again and again, carrying to her alert ears only scraps of conversation; but Francis’s demeanour had betrayed his agitation and that he had no liking for this newest plot of Mary’s uncles.
‘It is something to do with Antoine de Bourbon, is it not?’
He opened his eyes wide and stared at her. ‘Maman, how could you know? Why … none knows.’
‘There are many things which you cannot yet understand, my son. One day you may understand. Suffice it for the present that I know.’
‘Maman … some say that you are in league with … things beyond this world.’
‘My son, many strange things are said of your mother. They are going to kill Antoine. That is it, is it not?’
He nodded.
‘And how are you, my poor sick boy, to take a hand in this?’
‘It is to happen naturally. He is to threaten me, and I am … in a fit of rage … to strike at him with my dagger. When I lift it, the Duke and the Cardinal with the Maréchal de Saint-André, who will be close at hand, will rush in and do the rest.’
‘And how will you get our poor Antoine to strike you, Francis? He loves you. He would never commit such a dastardly action.’
‘I am to abuse him and make him angry, to strike him if necessary. He will think I am alone, but a boy, and weak …’
‘My poor boy! And you will do this?’
She stroked his tumbled hair from his forehead.
‘Madame,’ he said. ‘Madame, my mother, the Bourbons seek to undermine our house. They wish to take the throne from us.’
‘My poor Francis,’ she whispered. ‘Poor Antoine … weak, defenceless, helpless. What a terrible thing it is to wear a crown!’
There was a footstep outside the door.
Catherine whispered: ‘Obey your conscience, son, but tell no one that your mother knows of this diabolical plot to murder your kinsman … a Prince of the Blood.’ Mary had come into the room. ‘Au revoir, dear son. Ah, here is your charming wife. Mary, sit beside him. He misses your bright presence. He has been telling me how much you do for him. You have been so quick. Did you find your uncle, the Duke?’
‘He was not in his apartments, Madame.’
‘Was he not?’ Catherine rose and placed her hands on Mary’s shoulders. She kissed first one of her flushed cheeks, then the other. ‘Thank you, my dear, for all you have done for our dear little King. May the saints preserve you!’
Mary bowed, rigorously correct, as always with Catherine. Catherine smiled at the lovely bowed head.
Spy! she thought. It shall not be long before you find it impossible to spy on me, for you shall not remain at the court of France.
* * *
Francis was waiting. The palms of his hands were clammy; he was frightened; he fingered the dagger at his belt; he licked his lips. He knew he was going to fail.
He could not forget that they were watching him, despising him. He knew that his lips would tremble and that he would forget what he had to say to Antoine. He would falter, and he would not sound in the least angry or cuttingly cynical. Why did not Mary’s uncles carry out their own diabolical plots?
Henry of Guise might look upon this as an exciting adventure if his father had called upon him to play the part Francis had to play. But Francis hated bloodshed; hated death. He wanted to be happy, playing his lute, reading to Mary, making love. That was living a good life. But they would not let him live a good life.
‘Sire, the King of Navarre is without and begs an audience.’
‘Send him in,’ said Francis, and was appalled by the tremor in his voice.
But he must do as he was bid. He dared do nothing else.
And here was Antoine, with a strange, cold glitter in his eyes as though he knew what was about to happen. He approached, and surely there was caution in his manner, surely his eyes were looking round the room for concealed assassins. He was solemn, lacking his usual gaiety; Francis became obsessed by the idea that Antoine knew.
One of Antoine’s attendants remained stationed at the door.
Francis said: ‘You may go. What I have to say to the King of Navarre is for his ears alone.’
The man went, but Francis believed he waited on the other side of the door, ready to run to his master’s assistance.
Antoine stood, calm yet alert. He was ready and waiting, for Catherine had warned him of the plot; she had advised him what to do, and the Queen Mother’s advice was worth having. If he escaped alive from this trap, he would be ready to throw in his lot with Catherine, he would accept the Lieutenant-Generalship and agree to her becoming the Regent of France on the death of Francis. She must be his friend, for if all happened as she had warned him it would, and he emerged from this room with his life, he would owe it to her.
Francis began to shout in a nervous voice: ‘You coward! You traitor! You with your brother have schemed against us. You would set yourself on the throne. You are traitors, both of you … vacillating traitors; and you deserve to die.’
Francis waited for the expected indignation, for the protests; but none came, and Francis never knew how to deal with unexpected situations.
He swallowed and began again. ‘You traitor! How dare you …?’
But Antoine kept his distance; he did not approach the King, but stood midway between him and the door.
‘Why don’t you speak?’ cried Francis. ‘Speak! Speak! Why don’t you defend yourself?’
Then Antoine spoke. ‘There is nothing I would gainsay if my King declared it to be so.’
‘You mean … you mean …’ spluttered Francis. He half turned towards the door which led to the antechamber. They were waiting in there for the signal, for the cry he was to give: ‘Help! Help! Assassin!’ But how could he give it while Antoine kept so far away? It would so obviously be a trick. The man waiting outside the door – Antoine’s man – would come in and see what had happened. He must lure him on. But he did not know how.
‘Sire,’ said Antoine quietly, ‘you are distraught. Have I your leave to retire that you may send for me when you are feeling better?’
‘Yes … yes …’ cried Francis. And then: ‘No, no. You coward! You traitor …’
But Antoine had slipped through the door.
‘Come back! Come back!’ screamed Francis. ‘I … I didn’t get a chanc
e.’
A door was opened, but it was not the one through which Antoine had departed. It was that of the antechamber.
On one side of the King stood the Duke, the terrible scar standing out on his livid face, and the eye above it watering, as it did when he was angry. On the other side of the King stood the Cardinal.
They both carried daggers, and for the moment Francis thought they were going to use them on him, as they could not on the King of Navarre.
The Duke did not speak, but Francis heard the words which came through the Cardinal’s thin lips.
‘Behold the most lily-livered King that ever sat upon the throne of France!’
* * *
Antoine had agreed to accept the Lieutenant-Generalship and that Catherine should be Regent of France. Mary Stuart was a spy who was watching every action of the Queen Mother and reporting it to her uncles. So there seemed nothing to be done but wait for the death of Francis; and the sooner it came, the sooner would that power for which she longed be Catherine’s.
The poor little King was growing gradually weaker. Catherine herself prepared many potions for him, but these did not seem to improve his health, but rather to make him more feeble. She herself spent much time in his apartment, braving, as she said to some, the jealousy of her little daughter-in-law. ‘But,’ she would quickly add, ‘I understand that. They are lovers, but when a boy is sick it is his mother who should be at his side, and the King is but a boy.’
The Italian Woman Page 12
