The Italian Woman

by Виктория Холт

  ‘His murderer has died a horrible death, Henry. He has suffered torture. There is comfort in knowing that the man who killed Le Balafré lies dead and useless now.’

  ‘My father has not been avenged as I would have it,’ cried Henry angrily. ‘That miserable, low-born creature was the tool of others. I do not consider that my father has been avenged. You know what he said at the torture. You know whom he accused?’

  ‘Coligny,’ said Margot, her eyes flashing. ‘Coligny … the pious … the good man! That is he whom Poltrot de Méray accused.’

  ‘And that villain, that scoundrel, is the murderer of my father. De Méray said Coligny paid him money to murder my father. That is good enough for me.’

  Margot said: ‘But Coligny has told my mother that it was to buy a horse that he gave the man money, and that it had nothing to do with murdering the Duke.’

  Henry dug his spurs into his horse and galloped ahead, that Margot might not see the tears in his eyes. He would never forget how they had carried in his father, his great father, his noble father whom he loved to idolatry. Henry could not bear to think of that once arrogant figure stretched out on a litter, bleeding, unable to speak clearly. Henry had vowed there and then: ‘I will not rest content until I see his murderer dead before me. This I will work for. This I will achieve, and until I have achieved it, I will despise myself.’ It was a vow; a dedication. And who was his enemy? He might have known. He might have guessed. It was none other than Gaspard de Coligny, the virtuous man, the man who gave Poltrot de Méray money to buy a horse, so he said – not to bring about the assassination of Francis Duke of Guise.

  His wily uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, had talked to him very seriously. ‘Henry, my nephew, remember what this means to you … to our house. You are its head. You are vehement; you are young and rash. Gaspard de Coligny is the greatest enemy of our house. He is the leader of the heretics. Henry, my dear nephew, we must protect our Faith; we must protect our house. One day, who knows, it may be a Prince of Lorraine who sits on the throne of France. How do we know, Henry, whether that might not be you, my nephew? Your father was a great man; he was strong and brave; he was the greatest man in France. Shall I tell you why? It was because he was possessed of rare calm, of great discretion; he knew when to act and – what was more important – he knew when not to act. You must walk in his footsteps. You must imitate your father in all you do. And then, nephew, who knows? Valois? Bourbon?’ The Cardinal laughed. ‘Dear nephew, I wonder whether your opinion of these Princes is the same as mine.’

  ‘My uncle,’ young Henry had said, ‘you are right; but I have one wish, and that is to avenge my father.’

  ‘You will avenge him best by doing what he would want you to do. Rest assured that when the time comes we shall not spare the assassin of your father. That time is not yet, but I’ll swear to you that before the end of your life you shall see the lifeless body of the Admiral at your feet. That foot of yours shall kick him as he lies.’

  Henry had covered his face with his hands, forgetting vengeance, forgetting this talk of a crown, remembering only that the one he loved most in the world – more than Margot even, more than any – was lost to him.

  Margot rode up to him. ‘Henry,’ she cried, ‘do not mind that I should see your tears. Look! See mine! For I love you, Henry, and your grief is my grief; and when we are married that is how it shall be all the days of our lives.’

  He reached for her hand and pressed it; then they rode on together.

  ‘I hate Coligny,’ he said, for he was unable to stop talking of this matter.

  ‘I hate him too,’ said Margot.

  ‘He admitted that he overheard the plot to kill my father. He admitted that, hearing it, he did nothing about it. Is that not like him? He is so good … so virtuous … he cannot tell a lie.’

  ‘Hypocrite and heretic!’ cried Margot.

  ‘He said: “The words I utter in self-defence are not said out of regret for Monsieur de Guise. Fortune can deal no better stroke of good for the Kingdom and the Church of God; and most especially it is good for myself and my house.” Those were his words.’

  ‘He shall die for them,’ said Margot.

  ‘He shall! If I wait for years, mine shall be the hand that holds the sword which shall pierce his heart.’

  As they rode through the streets of Paris they were recognised. An old market woman called out: ‘Long live the little Duke of Guise!’

  Others caught up the cry. ‘A Guise! A Guise!’

  Their horses were surrounded and Margot looked on, smiling proudly. She saw that the eyes of those who watched shone with admiration for the gallant figure of the boy; he had beauty which was beloved of Parisians. Perhaps they thought of their King with his bouts of madness; perhaps they thought of his brother Henry, who might one day be King; handsome, Henry was, it was true, but with long, sly Medici eyes and an Italian way of talking – an effeminate youth with earrings, necklaces and garments of an exaggerated fashion. Perhaps they thought of Hercule, the pockmarked little Prince. These were the children of the Italian woman, and the Parisians could not take them to their hearts, even though they were also the sons of good King Henry. But this boy with his virile, masculine beauty was a boy they could admire and love; besides, he was now a pathetic figure. His father – their idol – had been recently murdered. They were pleased to see him in company with a Princess of the reigning house. With tears in their eyes and love in their voices, they cheered the little Duke of Guise and the Princess Margot.

  Henry was sufficiently the son of his father to know how to deal with such a situation.

  He doffed his cap and spoke to them:

  ‘Good people of Paris, dear Parisians, who have always shown love and friendship to my house and my father …’ His voice shook a little, and a cry of ‘The good God keep you!’ rose from the crowd. ‘My father,’ went on Henry, ‘my most gallant father, now lies murdered; but you must know that I will never let the murderer go free.’

  The crowd cheered madly. The excitable Parisians were delighted with their little Duke.

  ‘Power to your arm!’ they cried. ‘God preserve you. All power to Lorraine. A Guise! A Guise!’

  And many came forward to kiss the little boy’s hand as though he were the King of France himself.

  When he and Margot rode into the courtyard of the Palace, Henry was smiling a little and Margot was delighted; the incident had done something to soothe his grief.

  ‘Oh, Henry,’ she cried, ‘how they love you! Who knows, one day you and I may be King and Queen of France.’

  When Margot went up to her apartments her mother was there.

  Catherine was smiling, and Margot did not trust her mother’s smiles. It was, however, a smile of pleasure, for Catherine was thinking that her affairs had taken a turn for the better. Antoine of Navarre was dead; Francis Duke of Guise was dead; she had no longer any need to concern herself with these men, and that, to say the least, was a great relief. Montmorency was the prisoner of the Huguenots, and Condé was in the hands of the Catholics. Oh yes, matters were certainly taking a turn for the better. If someone could dispose of the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Spanish Ambassador, all those who had grown to know her too well for her peace of mind would be removed.

  ‘Well, my daughter,’ she said, ‘did you enjoy your jaunt with the King of Paris?’

  Margot did not know what to answer. She expected a punishment, but none came. The Queen Mother was smiling as she continued with her secret thoughts.

  * * *

  The court of France was making its royal progress to the Spanish frontier, where King Charles and the Queen Mother were to meet Elisabeth of Spain and Philip’s Ambassador, the wily Duke of Alva.

  The journey was a slow one; the train consisted of nearly a thousand men and women; great nobles each with his retinue made up the procession. There must be the transportation of household goods, including beds; there must be cooking utensils and food; there must be garments for s
tate occasions. Catherine, with her two sons, Charles and Henry, required extensive impedimenta; and young Margot, fully conscious of her person, though still only a child, was already beginning to be a leader of fashion and must also carry a large wardrobe.

  Henry of Navarre rode with them, often side by side with Margot. Why, thought Margot, was it not that other Henry, her beloved King of Paris, instead of this boy with the alert black eyes and the untidy black hair which grew straight up from his head in the ungainly fashion of Nérac, who did not care that his hands were sometimes unclean and who now and then broke out into the coarse Béarnais dialect?

  Margot looked down her Valois nose at him, but he did not show any resentment. Margot meant nothing to him. He liked girls, but if Margot did not like him, there were others who did. He did not care what class of girls they were – peasant girls, beggar girls, princesses – they were all girls to Henry of Navarre, and if Margot, Princess of France, was not attracted to him, she was one of the few who were not.

  Charles the King was quiet on the journey. He was realising that he would never marry Mary Queen of Scots. She was only a memory to him now – beautiful, but distant, almost unreal; and his mother was trying to arrange a match with the Queen of England for him. He did not like the thought of marriage with that woman, for he had heard such tales of her. She was a virago; she would bully him, so he had heard. But his mother had said that was nonsense. He was the King of France, and if he married the Queen of England he would be the King of England as well; it would be for her to live in France with him, and he could command her to do so; they could set a Lieutenant-General over England, so that life would be much the same as it was now, except that he would have two crowns instead of one.

  He did not want this marriage, but his mother thought it would be good; therefore it must be so. Sometimes he wondered whether she wanted the throne for his brother Henry. Everything Henry did was right. Henry was the only one who was not afraid of her; she adored Henry; she wanted everything for him. Perhaps she wanted Charles out of the way, settled in England, so that his brother Henry could take the throne of France! Charles did not know, but he was full of misgivings.

  He had wanted to protest against this English marriage. The Queen of England did not seem to want it, nor did her Ambassador, who had such long conversations with him and his mother. As Charles rode in that grand procession, he could still hear his mother’s voice, suave and persuasive; he could still see the cold face of the English Ambassador.

  ‘Your first objection is the age of my son. But if the Queen Elizabeth will put up with it, I will put up with the age of the Queen,’ said his mother; and Charles had quickly said what he had been told to say: ‘I should be very pleased if your mistress would be as pleased with my age as I am with hers.’ The English Ambassador said his Queen would never consent to live in France. ‘A Lieutenant-General could govern her kingdom,’ said Charles’s mother. ‘The English would not obey a Lieutenant, and Lieutenants grow insolent, says my Queen.’ ‘Ah,’ sighed Charles’s mother, ‘my good sister Elizabeth already calls herself the Queen of France, but she is so only in name. Through this marriage she could be the Queen of France indeed.’ The Ambassador had terrified Charles by turning and speaking to him, with that accent of the English when they spoke French, as though to speak French was somehow comic and shameful: ‘If you were but three or four years older, if you had but seen the Queen, and if you were really in love with her, I should not be astonished at this haste.’ Under his mother’s eyes, Charles had replied: ‘But in good sooth I love her.’ And at that the English Ambassador had smiled, and, with that bluntness on which the English prided themselves, replied: ‘At your age, Sire, none knoweth what love is.’ Charles grew hot at the thought of it.

  He had been glad to get away from the conference; he was glad to think of the coming meeting with his sister. It was five years since he had seen her. Then she had been sad – sad to leave her native France for a country and a husband she had never seen.

  What a tragic thing was this marrying of royal people, though not so bad for a prince as for a princess, for princesses lost their country, their nationality, when they married foreign husbands. His sister Elisabeth was a Spaniard now.

  He hoped nothing would come of the negotiations with England. Who knew, there might be negotiations with Scotland one day; then he could truthfully say: ‘I love the Queen of Scotland.’

  On they went, staying at various castles on the way, where banquets, balls and masques were given in their honour.

  Margot was enjoying all this; the only drawback was the absence of Henry of Guise; she could, however, give herself up wholeheartedly to teasing Henry of Navarre. She criticised the way he rode his horse.

  ‘Like a peasant,’ she told him.

  ‘I’ll ride faster than you.’

  ‘We must race one day.’

  ‘Now,’ he suggested.

  ‘I do not choose to do so now.’

  ‘Come, you have said it. Let us put it to the test.’

  ‘And break from the procession! You have the manners of a peasant. Do they teach you nothing of etiquette in Nérac?’

  ‘I learn what is good for me,’ said Henry of Navarre, his eyes glinting.

  When they rested at the next castle and went hunting in the forest, Henry reminded her of her challenge.

  Margot prevaricated, gauging the strength of the boy. He had no gallantry. Henry of Guise would not thus challenge a princess.

  ‘I do not wish to ride against you. I dislike you.’

  Henry was angry; he retorted, like the blunt Béarnais he was: ‘You will have to learn to like me, for one day I shall be your husband.’

  ‘Do not dare to say such things to me.’

  ‘I shall dare to say what is truth.’

  Margot could smile slyly; she knew that one of the objects of this journey down to the Spanish frontier was to renew negotiations for her marriage to Don Carlos, and her brother Henry’s to the old widowed sister of King Philip. But Henry of Navarre did not know this, nor did his stern old mother. Margot was not half Medici for nothing; she was an adept at the art of eavesdropping, particularly when she herself was under discussion.

  She betrayed nothing of this. Let him think that one day he would be her husband. It amused her. Let him tremble to contemplate the trouble in store for him with the Princess Margot as his wife!

  ‘So you think you will be my husband, then?’

  ‘It is arranged.’

  ‘That remains to be seen. It could not be for years.’

  ‘But the marriages of princes and princesses are arranged when they are young.’

  ‘You should feel honoured, Monsieur of Navarre, to have a marriage arranged for you with a Princess of France, for even if it does not come to pass, it has been arranged, and that is an honour you should recognise.’

  ‘Honour?’ he said, the hot blood staining his brown face red. ‘If you are a Princess, I am a Prince.’

  ‘My father was a great King. He was the great King Henry the Second of France.’

  ‘My father was the King of Navarre.’

  Margot began to chant: ‘ “Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette.” ’

  At which Henry of Navarre turned to her and would have struck her, had she not galloped off and joined the group about her brother Charles. Then she turned and put out her tongue at Henry of Navarre.

  * * *

  Catherine stepped into the boat which was to carry her across the river, on the other side of which she would meet her daughter. Everywhere about her was the glitter of pageantry, proclaiming to all the importance of this occasion. Leafy arches had been erected, under which the procession passed on its way to the river. The heat was great, and Catherine felt it intensely on account of her heavy figure. She was excited; her face was pale, and her eyes seemed larger and more prominent than usual. This was not so much a meeting with a daughter – now nineteen – whom she had not seen since she was fourteen, as a meeting with the Q
ueen of Spain, the consort of the man Catherine feared more than any on Earth. Her daughter? She did not exactly love her – she loved no one but her son Henry – but she was proud of her, proud of the exalted position she occupied as the wife of the mightiest monarch in the world. Her other daughter, Claude, whom she had visited on her way through France, meant little to her. Claude, a docile, charming girl, was only the wife of the Duke of Lorraine; it was a very different matter, coming face to face with the Queen of Spain.

  On the other side of the river were assembled the Queen of Spain and those who accompanied her to the border. Philip had not deigned to come; he had more weighty matters to occupy him; but representing him had come the great Duke of Alva.

  The fiery heat of the midsummer sun was unbearable, and several of Catherine’s soldiers died of suffocation in their armour before the arrival of the Queen of Spain.

  Catherine greeted her daughter warmly; Elisabeth was aloof, solemn, correct; in five years they had made a Spanish lady of the little French girl. Yet Catherine noticed, even in that first ceremonial greeting, that Elisabeth had not entirely forgotten the fear she had once had of her mother.

  In great pomp they crossed the river, and the next day they rode into the town of Bayonne with greater magnificence than any in that town had ever seen before. Elisabeth rode between her brother Henry and the Cardinal of Bourbon, with a hundred gentlemen about them. The chief citizens of the town of Bayonne, richly dressed in scarlet, held a canopy over the Queen of Spain as they escorted her to the Cathedral, whence, after listening to music and prayer, she went to the Royal Palace, where little King Charles was lodged. Catherine noticed that the men of Spain who were in attendance were mounted on miserable mules and wore no state dress; she knew by this that Philip of Spain intended to snub her; he was implying by this lack of respect that he did not care for what his Ambassador had told him of Catherine’s recent manoeuvres with the Huguenot Party.