‘Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette …’
They despised him; even though they knew he was outside their walls with a mighty army, they made fun of him. Antoine de Bourbon, L’Échangeur, the little quail who changed his coat to suit himself.
Antoine felt low in spirit. The pain from his wounds was intense; he lay tossing and turning. His surgeons were with him, one on either side of the bed, and he realised with a sudden flash of humour that it was characteristic of L’Échangeur that one of these was a Jesuit, the other a Huguenot.
Was this death? he wondered. Memories of the past would keep recurring. At times he wandered a little. Sometimes he thought the warm winds of Béarn blew upon him and that Jeanne was there, as she had been in the first days of their marriage, discussing with him some domestic detail.
There was a woman in the camp with him, a woman who had followed him and who was nursing him devotedly. She was at his side now, holding wine to his lips. He could smell the perfume she used; he was aware of her soft, yielding body under her rich brocade dress – La Belle Rouet. He took her hand and kissed it. She had really loved him after all; it was not because he was a King that she had borne his child. Why had Jeanne not come to see him when he was wounded? It was her duty to have come.
The sweat stood out on his face – the sweat of anger against Jeanne; tears filled his eyes because he had failed, had been unable to live up to the high ideal she had set before him.
The last time he had seen his wife was when at Saint-Germain she had come to see their boy. He had been on the point then – though she did not know it – of throwing away all that was promised him by the Spanish King, of giving up his place in the Triumvirate. Yes, he assured himself weakly, he had all but fled with Jeanne to Béarn. But then he had changed his mind – which was what must be expected of L’Échangeur; he had given orders that she should be detained in Vendôme.
She had defied him, he reminded himself. She had gone back to Béarn and had set about bolstering up the Reformed Faith there. She had sent help to Condé’s troops. Ah, his brother! What did his brother think of him now? Dearest Louis – they had been close. But religion, as so often happened, had broken the bonds of brotherhood, and they were fighting against each other now.
That was a mean revenge he had taken on Jeanne when little Henry had lain at the point of death at Saint-Germain. Louise had been taking care of the boy at that time. The little fellow had a very bad attack of the smallpox and when Jeanne had heard the news she had been frantic in her anxiety. She had begged Antoine and the Queen Mother to let her have her son with her. But Catherine had refused. She had said: ‘It is the only hold we have over the boy’s mother.’ But Catherine had allowed the child to be sent to the Duchess of Ferrara to be cared for, and that was all the satisfaction Jeanne received. Yet, had he insisted, he could have come to some terms with the Queen Mother; he could have arranged for the boy to be sent to his mother. There had been occasions when he had meant to, but when the Queen Mother had stated her wishes it had been easier to fall in with them.
Tears stung his eyes. He was depressed; he was in pain. His physicians told him that he was not mortally wounded. He would see the entry into Rouen.
‘Louise!’ he called; and she came to his side at once. ‘Let us have gaiety, music, dancing – or I shall go mad.’
She was glad to see the change in his mood. She called in the gayest of the men and women who had followed his army – his court friends. Louise lay on his bed beside him and put her arms about him. There was music and dancing and the latest court scandals were retold. He felt wretchedly ill, but with such distraction he could deceive himself into thinking that he was as much alive as any.
His physicians reasoned with him:
‘Monseigneur, you need rest. The wounds must be allowed to heal.’
‘Rest!’ he cried. ‘I don’t want rest. Rest makes me think, and I do not want to think. I want to hear laughter and wit. I want to see my friends dance. I want to hear their songs. Be silent, or I’ll have your tongues cut out. Let me live my life as I want to.’
So the distractions continued. He kept La Belle Rouet with him. ‘Why not?’ he cried. ‘My wife does not come to see me. A man must live. A man must love.’
‘Nay, Monseigneur,’ begged his doctors. ‘Your state does not permit you.’
‘To the devil with you!’ cried Antoine. ‘I’ll find my own diversions.’
His army took Rouen. He declared his intention to be carried into the city on a litter, and he wanted Louise carried with him. He wanted to see the fun; he wanted to ask the Huguenots if they would sing Caillette now!
He was laid on his litter, but he did not see the inside of the town, for he fell into a deep fainting fit before he reached its walls.
When he recovered he found that he was back in camp.
Lauro bent his head down to him. ‘Monseigneur, your Majesty must prepare to meet your God.’
‘Is it so, then?’ said Antoine; and he began to tremble as the memory of his weakness came back to him. He wished the tent to be cleared of all but the doctors, the prelate and his mistress.
He opened his eyes and looked in bewilderment from one face to another. ‘I … I …’ He found it difficult to speak. ‘I … I am a Catholic by profession, but, now that my end is near …’
It seemed to him that Jeanne’s steadfast brown eyes were watching him, that she was smiling at him now. It was not my fault, Jeanne, he thought. I loved you. In the beginning, I did. If we had been humble people … if we could have lived there in Béarn … farming our land together, planting our mulberries, watching them grow, we should have been happy. I should have been the gay one; you the sober wife. You would have kept me beside you. But you were a Queen and you made me a King. The position was too tempting for me. I became greedy for more power. I did not know what I wanted. One moment I was sure, the next I was unsure.
At length he spoke: ‘Now that my end is near, my heart returns to the Protestant Faith.’
‘Repent,’ he was urged. ‘Think of your sins, Monseigneur. Repent that you may enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.’
He looked at the man who had spoken, and recognised him. ‘Ah, Raphael,’ he said slowly. ‘You have served me for twenty years, and this is the only time that you have ever warned me of my miserable mistakes.’
Then he began to think of his sins, to enumerate them, and to ask God for forgiveness.
‘Oh, Lord,’ he prayed, ‘if I recover, I will send forth Lutheran missionaries to preach the gospel throughout France.’
He heard someone whisper: ‘It is too late to talk thus.’
Ah yes. He understood. It was too late.
‘Jeanne,’ he moaned, ‘why did you not come? You should have made the journey that you might be with me.’
He did not die at once. His brother, the Cardinal of Bourbon, came to him, and Antoine begged him to ask forgiveness for him of that other brother, Louis, the Prince of Condé, whom he had loved so dearly before religion had come between them.
‘I will die a Huguenot!’ cried Antoine, thinking of Louis and of Jeanne. ‘It matters not whether people believe me to be sincere. I am resolved to die in accordance with the Confession of Luther.’
It was decided that he must be moved to more comfortable quarters, and one misty November day he was taken on to a boat and rowed down the Seine towards Saint-Maur. This was not wise, for the rocking of the boat was very painful to him, and when they carried him ashore he knew that his last moments had come.
The Guises had sent a monk to pray for him and, too weak to resist, Antoine listened to his prayers; and when they were over he murmured: ‘Amen.’
Because of this the Guises said he died a Catholic, and if he had declared himself a Huguenot when he was dying, well, that was only to be expected of L’Échangeur.
* * *
In her stronghold of Béarn, Jeanne received the news.
She stared stonily before her. It is nothing to me, sh
e assured herself. I had finished with him. I hated him … at our last meeting, if not before. When he refused to let me have my son, I knew I could never feel any tenderness towards him again.
Nevertheless, it was not Antoine the turn-coat, the unfaithful husband, the cruel father, of whom she must think, but Antoine the gay Prince at the christening of King Francis, Antoine the lover in a silver galleon triumphantly seizing his love. It was Antoine, lover and husband, whom she must remember.
And the tears rolled down the cheeks of the widow of the King of Navarre.
* * *
Catherine was in residence at her favourite Castle of Blois. Life was a little more secure than it had been a few months ago. The towns which had been taken by the Huguenots were being slowly won back; she herself was no longer a prisoner of the Guises; for she had been their prisoner; she knew it and they knew it, although they had tried so hard to disguise this fact.
Now she had lulled them to a certain feeling of security, and she must keep them thus. She must act with greater caution. She had learned an important lesson, and as she had been learning through bitter lessons all her life, she was not likely to forget this one.
She was glad that Francis of Guise was busily engaged in warfare. She was happier with that man out of the way. At the moment he was fighting for Orléans. Who knew what would happen to him! France’s greatest soldier, yes; but Catherine’s greatest enemy.
Catherine’s thoughts turned from the Duke of Guise to her son Charles, the King,
Charles was growing up. He was only thirteen, it was true, but thirteen was a considerable age for a Valois King. They would have to marry him soon. Catherine smiled grimly. The boy still thought he was going to have Mary of Scotland. But perhaps his memories of her were growing dim by now. He was changing. One expected him to change. He could not remain static. He had to grow up. He was a strange boy, with many sides to his personality. There was a streak – more than a streak – of madness in him and it was widening as the years passed, the unbalanced fits were growing more frequent.
Yet he was clever. He could, at times, be eloquent, but he was too easily moved. She had seen his face work with emotion during a sermon or the reading of a poem which he thought particularly beautiful; she had seen his mouth twitch – though not with madness – and tears stream from his eyes. He himself wrote poetry, and he was modest enough to declare it to be worthless. Ronsard was one of his constant companions. He struck up friendships with his musicians – humble folk like that boy servant of the Duke of Bavaria, just a musician who had a gift for playing the lute; and the King of France would take him for his boon companion. Nor would the King be denied his pleasures; his brow would darken and he would frown, even at his mother, if called from his music and his poetry-reading. He would sit till long past midnight with the writers and musicians, and at such times he would be very happy. Then there would be no madness, only an aloof enchantment. Catherine would look in on him and his friends and find them all together, talking in low, earnest voices while the candles burned low; and he would turn to look at the intruder without seeing her, even though she was his mother, of whom, on all other occasions, he was deeply aware.
His tutors could do nothing with him at such times.
And then that mood would pass and he would be touched with black melancholy. Sometimes he would stay in his bed all day, and this was a sure sign that the madness was on him. Perhaps at midnight, he would be seized with a wild mood of hilarity, and he would awaken his friends – a different set of friends from the poets – and insist that they follow him; he would make them put on masks and carry lighted torches. It was alarming to see him at such times, his eyes glinting through his mask, his mouth working, the madness on him, the lust for violence. He and his friends would creep out of the palace and go to the apartments of one of their friends, whom they would thrash into unconsciousness. This was hardly a suitable pastime for the thirteen-year-old King of France, thought Catherine.
If there was not a flagellating party, he would hunt with such recklessness that none could keep up with him; he would thrash his horses and dogs with the energy which he used on his friends. A more harmless madness was that of imitating a blacksmith and hammering iron until he was exhausted.
Then he would return to normal; he would be gentle, loving, pliable; and it would invariably seem that when he had recovered he would have little remembrance of those terrifying bouts.
What should one do with such a son? Catherine did not have to wonder. She knew. She did not wish Charles to remain on the throne when Henry was ready to take it. Therefore she could look complacently on these fits of madness. Soon the periods of gentleness would grow less; and later they would disappear altogether. And then what would Charles the Ninth of France become? A maniac! Maniacs must be put away; they could not be allowed to breed sons. So much the better, since there was another waiting to take the throne of France.
Charles showed few signs of sexual perversion, in spite of his tutors. He was not voluptuous, nor inclined to amorousness. He was not like Margot – that minx who must be very closely watched – or young Henry of Guise, or that rough little Henry of Navarre. Those three would be lusty and lustful before long. No! He was not as they were; nor was he as his brother Henry. His passion for Mary of Scotland showed a lamentable normality in such matters; and it seemed that even expert tuition in perversion could not achieve the desired result.
Never mind! Charles was growing more and more unbalanced, and each fit of insanity left him weaker, not only in mind but in body.
Her thoughts of the King were broken up by the arrival of a messenger. She saw him ride into the courtyard, for the clatter of hoofs had brought her quickly to the window.
Something was afoot. Guise had taken Orléans. That must be the case, for those were the Guise colours down there. Well, she would feign great rejoicing, for it was very necessary that the Catholics should believe her to be of their faith. She must win back their respect, their belief in her as a good Catholic.
She went down to greet the messenger, but his face was grave; he had no news of victory, that was certain.
‘What news?’ asked Catherine.
‘Terrible news, Madame,’ cried the messenger. ‘It is my lord Duke. He has been shot. He lies near to death.’
Margot was there beside her mother. The child had no restraint. She ran to the messenger, plucking at his sleeve. ‘He is not dead! He must not die. Henry could not bear it if he died. Oh, Madame, my mother, we must send … send surgeons … we must send …’
‘Be quiet!’ said Catherine; and Margot even forgot her anxiety for the father of the boy she loved in her sudden fear of her mother.
‘Tell me everything,’ said Catherine.
‘Madame, my lord Duke was making a tour of inspection before riding back to the castle and his lady wife. He had taken off his armour, for the battle was over. And then, from behind a hedge, there was a shot. My lord fell to the ground senseless. We got him to the castle, but he bleeds … he bleeds terribly, Madame.’
‘We must send surgeons!’ cried Margot. ‘At once. Oh, at once. There must be no delay.’
‘And,’ said Catherine, ‘they have caught the assassin?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Poltrot de Méray.’
‘All that matters,’ cried Margot, ‘is that we must be in time to save the Duke …’
‘I will send surgeons at once,’ said Catherine. ‘Go back and tell the Duchess that help is on the way. I shall send my best surgeons to save the Duke.’
Margot hung on her mother’s arm. ‘Oh, thank you … thank you. We must save the Duke.’
Catherine gripped her daughter’s arm so tightly that Margot wanted to scream. But she knew better than to do that. She allowed herself to be led away.
Catherine took her up to her apartment and locked her in an ante-room. Margot lay sobbing. Henry’s father was hurt, perhaps dying. She was terrified of her mother
, for, having shown her feelings in a way which she knew her mother would consider tasteless, she knew she was going to be severely punished. But for the moment she could think of no one but Henry, whom she loved more than anyone on Earth, of his devotion to his father, of the terrible grief he would suffer if the Duke were to die.
Catherine was talking to her surgeon, talking quietly through half-closed lips. He knew what she wished in regard to the Duke. He was to go and serve him as he knew his mistress would serve that great fighter, if she had his skill and could go in his place.
The man bowed and retired, and very soon he was riding with all speed to Orléans.
Catherine went to her daughter and herself administered the beating.
‘Ten years old!’ she said. ‘And behaving like an ill-bred peasant.’
Margot dared not evade her mother’s blows as she did those of others. She lay, accepting them, her body flinching from them, but her mind unaware of them almost, as she prayed silently: ‘Holy Mother, do not let Henry’s father die. You could not let Henry be hurt like that. The Duke is not only Henry’s father; he is the greatest man in France. Holy Mother, save him.’
Catherine prayed neither to God nor the Virgin. But she too was thinking of the Duke; she was thinking of the handsome, scarred face, distorted with pain, the agony of death in those haughty eyes, the eyes of the man whom she had come to regard as her greatest enemy.
* * *
Riding beside the handsome young boy who was now the head of the House of Lorraine, Margot was weeping silently.
He was so handsome, this Henry of Guise, with his fair curly hair, which seemed such a contrast with his manly face and his well-proportioned figure. Already he showed signs of the man he would become. Margot wanted to comfort him, to tell him that his grief was her grief, and that it would always be so.
‘Talk of it, Henry,’ she said. ‘Talk of it, my dearest. To talk of it will help you.’
‘Why should it have happened to him?’ demanded Henry. ‘Because of treachery, I tell you. I will not rest until I see his murderer dead at my feet.’
The Italian Woman Page 22
