There was Duke Henry beside her, already proclaiming to the world, with his arrogant demeanour, that he was head of the great House of Lorraine and Guise – the most feared, the most important in the country. Margot was eyeing him in an unseemly manner for which she should be punished later. When Margot met her mother’s eyes she smiled innocently, but Catherine’s expression grew a shade colder as she surveyed her daughter, and she knew that she had caused icy shivers to run through that body which, a moment before, had thrilled at the handsome arrogance of Henry of Guise.
There too was the Cardinal of Lorraine, the marks of his dissipation already marring the almost incomparable beauty of his features. It was said that there was nothing sufficiently licentious to please the Cardinal now; his erotic senses must be titillated as regularly as his palate. His mistresses were numerous. In his Cardinal’s robes, adorned with magnificent jewels, he attracted every eye, the debauched man of the Church, the Catholic lecher. He bowed to Catherine, and his gaze as he met hers was haughty.
‘Welcome, my lord Cardinal,’ said Catherine. ‘It does me good to see your pious face.’
‘May I be so bold as to say that it does me good to see your Majesty’s honest one? Madame, you are a light in our court. Your shining virtues are an example to everyone; and above all, your Majesty’s deep sincerity puts us all to shame.’
‘You flatter me, Cardinal.’
‘Nothing, dear Madame, was farther from my mind.’
‘Then I will not flatter you, dear Cardinal. I will only say that the whole of France should take as an example the piety and virtue of such a man of God.’
She turned to greet another. She was thinking: One of these days that lecher shall take a goblet of wine, shall eat of roast peacock, or perhaps finger some beautiful jewel – and then, no more of Monsieur le Cardinal!
But what was the use of thinking thus? She must continually guard against her impulse to destroy these notable people. Francis of Guise was dead – let that suffice for the moment – for who knew what the result of his death would be?
If a member of the Flying Squadron became impertinent, if a minor statesman became intransigent, then the procedure was simple; but with these prominent men and women it was always necessary to work in secret, to approach the object by devious roads, along which it was imperative to leave no traces. She would have to postpone dealing with the Cardinal.
Coligny was approaching. Ah, there was a man who was as easy to read as a book. Now he was looking stern, and his cold features said quite clearly: It is no wish of mine to be here. I have no desire for the friendship of the Catholic Guises. I was commanded to come. I gave my word that I would come; so come I did.
‘Well met, Admiral,’ said Catherine. ‘It pleases me to see you here.’
‘I but obeyed your command, Madame.’
Catherine tried to infuse into her expression that deep sincerity which had been the object of the Cardinal’s jibe. But Coligny, that straightforward, honest man, was not the wily Cardinal. If the Queen Mother appeared sincere to him, Coligny would not doubt that she was so.
‘Forgive a weak woman’s desire for peace in her realm, dear Admiral.’
He bowed. ‘I have no desire at any time but to carry out your Majesty’s wishes.’
He passed on, and Catherine looked about her; she did not see the Duke of Aumale among the assembly, although she had commanded his presence.
She called to the Duchess of Guise: ‘Madame, I do not see your brother Aumale here.’
‘No, Madame. He is not here.’
‘Why not?’
‘Madame, he suffers from a fever.’
Catherine’s eyes narrowed. ‘A fever of pride!’ she said angrily. She beckoned young Henry of Guise to her side. How attractive he was! And how handsome! And what a man he would be one day!
‘I am grieved not to see your uncle Aumale,’ she said.
‘I am sorry that your Majesty should be grieved.’
‘A fever?’ she said.
‘Madame, you sent no express command to him.’
‘I said I wished your family to be present.’
‘Madame, he thought that, as your Majesty wished our family to be represented, you would only need myself and my uncle, the Cardinal.’
‘I wished Aumale to be here,’ said Catherine haughtily. ‘It is no good excuse to plead a fever.’
‘Madame,’ said the boy, ‘it is not pleasant for members of my family to show friendship to their enemies.’
‘Have a care, boy,’ she said. ‘I’ll have you thrashed if you give yourself airs. You are not yet a man, you know. A short while ago you were in the nursery. It would be well for you to remember that.’
Many watching eyes noticed the sudden heightened colour of the young Duke.
‘My dear Duke,’ continued Catherine more gently, ‘it would be well for you to remember your youth and the need for obedience.’
Henry bowed formally and left the Queen Mother.
It would not be a good policy, Catherine realised, to have the Colignys and the Guises sitting near each other at table; she had taken the precaution of ensuring that they were separated by other guests. And when the feast was over, Catherine rose to address the assembly:
‘Lords and ladies, you know that I have asked you here for a purpose this day, and my purpose is to put an end to evil rumour; for rumour is a foolish thing and when it is without truth it is an evil thing indeed. We mourn the untimely death of our dearly beloved Duke Francis of Guise, our greatest soldier, slain by the hand of a cowardly assassin. That in itself was a foul deed, and we offer to the bereaved family our sincerest condolence while we mourn with them for one we loved as our own brother. But the rumours which have circulated since his death have been as evil as that bloody deed, and there is one man among us here – one of our finest men, a man whom we all honour and revere – who has been accused of complicity in the murder of the Duke.
‘Lords and ladies, these rumours are evil. They are proved to be slanders. The assassin has confessed them to be lies; and for that reason I have brought together here my greatly respected Admiral of France and the one who has perhaps suffered more than any of us from this horrible deed. I mean, of course, Duke Francis’s son, Duke Henry of Guise, who is now the head of his house and who will, I know, bring it honour and glory as his father did before him. Admiral Gaspard de Coligny and Henry Duke of Guise, come forth.’
They stepped forward slowly towards the Queen Mother: the Admiral pale-faced, his mouth sternly set, the Duke with the rich colour in his face and his head held high.
Catherine stood between them. ‘Give me your hand, Admiral,’ she said. ‘And yours, my lord Duke.’
She placed their two right hands together. Henry’s was limp in that of the Admiral; his left hand rested on his sword.
There was silence while the two enemies faced each other and made it quite obvious to all that they had no liking for what the Queen Mother was pleased to consider a reconciliation. But Catherine had little understanding of others. Had she been in Coligny’s place, she would have made a great show of embracing Henry of Guise, hoping thereby to assure the spectators of her wish for friendship. If she had been Henry of Guise, she would have accepted Coligny’s embrace while she made her plans to destroy him. Catherine’s greatest weakness was her lack of understanding of others.
‘I would have you show us that you are friends, and that all enmity is forgotten in the kiss of peace,’ she said.
Coligny leaned forward to kiss Henry on the cheek, but the young Duke stood up straight and said, so clearly that all in the room might hear it: ‘Madame, I could not kiss a man whose name has been mentioned in connection with the tragic death of my father.’
Catherine would have liked to slap that arrogant young face, and to call to the guards to have him taken down to one of the dungeons where his proud spirit might be broken. But she smiled pathetically as though to say: ‘Ah, the arrogance of youth!’
She pat
ted him on the shoulder and said something about his recent loss, and that he had shaken hands, which they would all accept as sufficient proof of his friendly feelings towards the Admiral.
There were murmurings throughout the hall. The ceremony had become a farce. Catherine knew it, but she would not admit it; and, looking at the tall, proud figure and the flushed face of that arrogant boy, she knew that as soon as Francis of Guise had been laid in his grave, there was another, made in his own shape, to take his place, to torment her, to give her cause for anxiety in the years to come.
That murmuring in the hall, Catherine knew, meant approval. It meant: ‘The Duke is dead. Long live the Duke!’
* * *
The King of France was happy; never in the whole of his life had he been so happy. He was in love, and his love was returned.
He had met Marie on one of his journeys through his realm. She was as young as he was, and as shy. She had not realised when she had first met him that he was the King of France; and that was what was so enchanting about the affair. She loved him, not his rank; and for the first time in his life the one he loved loved him.
Mary of Scotland had become a dream. Marie Touchet, the provincial judge’s daughter, was the reality. Marie was delightful, so young, so innocent, so unworldly. She had wanted to run away when she knew that her lover was the King of France.
‘Dearest Marie,’ he had said, ‘that is of no account. It is I, Charles, whom you love, and you must go on loving me, for I need love. I need love as no other man in France needs it.’
It was possible to tell her of his black moods of melancholy and how, when they were over, it was necessary to go out and do violence. ‘Now I have you, my darling, it may be that there will not be these moods. I have black fears, Marie – terrible fears which descend upon me by night, and I must shout and scream and see blood flow to soften these moods.’
She comforted him and soothed him, and they made love. He had installed her in the palace. His mother knew of his love for Marie.
‘So you are a man after all, my son!’ she said with a hint of grim amusement in her voice.
‘How do you mean, Madame?’
‘Just that, my dear boy. You are a man.’
‘Mother, you like Marie, do you not?’ His eyes were fearful. Catherine smiled, looking into them; he knew that if she did not like Marie, Marie would not stay long in the palace and he would not long enjoy the comfort and joy she brought him. His hands trembled while he waited for his mother’s answer.
‘Marie? Your little mistress? Why, I scarcely noticed her.’
‘How glad I am!’
‘What? Glad that your choice of a mistress is such that she is noticed neither for her wit nor her beauty?’
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘those who remain unnoticed by you are the safest.’
She looked at him sharply, and saw that obstinacy in his face which she had noticed before. He would not lightly let her take his mistress from him. And why should she? What harm could the little Touchet do? She was of no importance whatever. Touchet was safe enough.
‘Ah, enjoy yourself, my son,’ she said. ‘The duties of kingship are hard, but the privileges are rewarding. No woman, however virtuous, can resist a King.’
He stammered: ‘You do Marie wrong. She did not know … who I was. She loved me ere …’
Catherine patted his shoulder. ‘There, my son. Your mother but teased you. Go and enjoy your little Touchet to your heart’s content, I like her well enough. She is such a mild little playfellow.’
He kissed her hand, and she was pleased with him; he still obeyed her; that was what she wanted.
They had not been able to make a pervert of him. Nevertheless, it was hardly likely that he would procreate offspring. It would be an interesting experiment to let him be tried out on the little Touchet. If there was no child within a reasonable time, it might be safe to get him married and satisfy the people of France.
Henry was growing up. He was seventeen. Young yet for kingship, but in a few years’ time he would be ready. She must watch Charles, though. He must not think that, because he took a mistress, he was like other young men. He was not quite sane; he must never be allowed to forget that.
Charles had changed. Marie inspired him, gave him confidence, listened to his accounts of how his mother favoured his brother Henry. ‘He is to her as her right eye, Marie. There are times when I believe she wants the throne for him.’
‘Then she cannot have it for him,’ said Marie with sound provincial common sense. ‘Not while it is yours.’
In Marie’s company he felt truly a King.
One day his attendants came to him and told him that the Queen of Navarre, who was at court, wished to have a word with him.
He received her warmly, for he was fond of Jeanne, who was so calm and serene; she had the very qualities which he lacked and which he longed to possess. It was true that she was a Huguenot but – and he had determined that none should know this – Marie had confessed to him that she had leanings towards the Huguenot Faith, and though he had bidden her to tell no one, he felt a friendliness for the Huguenots that he had never felt before.
Jeanne was ushered into his presence. She kissed his hand.
‘You have something to say to me, dear Aunt,’ said Charles. ‘Shall I ask my mother if she will join us?’
‘Sire, I beg of you, do no such thing, for I would rather talk to you alone.’
Charles was flattered. People usually requested his mother’s presence, because they knew that nothing important could be decided without her.
‘Proceed then,’ said Charles, feeling just as a King should feel.
‘Sire, as you know, I am leaving Paris in the next few days to visit Picardy. I have long been separated from my son, and I think that the time has come for him to be presented to his vassals in Vendôme, through which I shall pass. I ask your most gracious permission for him to accompany me.’
‘But, my dear Aunt,’ said the King, ‘if it is your wish, certainly Henry shall go with you.’
‘Then I have your permission, Sire?’
He saw the joy in her face, and tears rushed to his eyes. How delightful it was to be able to give so much pleasure by granting a small request! It mattered not to him whether the noisy lustful Henry of Navarre left the court or not.
‘You have my permission,’ he said in his most royal manner.
‘I thank you with all my heart, Sire.’ She seized his hand and kissed it.
‘Dearest Aunt,’ he said, ‘I am glad to be able to please you.’
‘You have given your word,’ she said, ‘and I know that nothing will make you break it. May I go, Sire, and give this wonderful news to my son?’
‘Go by all means,’ said Charles.
She retired, while he sat smiling, thinking that it was sometimes very pleasant to be a King.
* * *
Catherine walked up and down the apartment while Charles sat miserably watching her – not a King now so much as a foolish boy.
‘Have you no more intelligence,’ demanded Catherine, for once shaken out of her calm, ‘than to let that wily she-wolf come and snatch the heir of Navarre from under our noses? What hope will you have, my lord, of subduing the Huguenots, when you let your most precious hostage go? You give him away. No conditions. Nothing! “I want my son,” she says, “my little Henry. He needs his Maman!” And you, like the little fool you are, say: “You may take him, dearest Aunt. He is only a boy …” Fool! Idiot! He was a hostage. The heir of Navarre … in our hands! If Jeanne of Navarre had dared threaten us – and I mean you and your brothers – I would have threatened her with the death or the imprisonment of her precious boy. And you, you fool, would give him back! I shall not allow it. The boy shall stay here. And never dare give an order again without my permission. Never grant a request without first asking me if you may do so.’
‘But she is his mother, and she asked for him with tears in her eyes. They have been so long separated. I coul
d not refuse her.’
‘You could not refuse her! And others have heard you grant this request, I doubt not?’
Charles was silent.
‘This was so, was it not?’ demanded his mother.
‘Yes. Others heard.’
‘Fool! To think I should have such a son! Your brother Henry would never have behaved with such folly. But I shall cancel the order. Navarre shall not be allowed to leave the court. His mother shall go alone. Stop stammering and trembling, and sign this order.’
‘But I gave my word.’
‘You will sign this at once.’
Charles cried shrilly: ‘I am tired of being told that Henry would do this and Henry would do that. Henry does not happen to be the King of this realm. I am. I am … and when I say …’
‘Sign this,’ said Catherine. She pushed him into a chair and put the pen into his hand. He looked over his shoulder; her face was near his – very pale, her eyes enormous. He trembled more than before. He felt that she saw right through to his soul.
He began to write.
‘That is well,’ she said. ‘Now we can remedy your rash act. Oh, my son, I know you do this out of the kindness of your heart, but always remember that I am here to love and advise you. Never decide such weighty matters without first consulting your mother, whose one thought is to make you happy and’ – her face came closer to his – ‘and … safe. Why, Charles, my dear son, what you have done might let loose civil war. And what if your enemies should be triumphant? Eh, what then? What if they took you prisoner? You would not relish lying in a dank dungeon … close to the torture-rooms … the rats your companions … until …’
‘Pray cease,’ whimpered the King. ‘You are right. You are always right. Navarre must not go. I have signed it. You will stop his going. You will stop it.’
The Italian Woman Page 26
