The Italian Woman

by Виктория Холт

  ‘It would not seem so, to look at you now, Sire,’ Margot had retorted.

  She was daring, reckless, but had she gone too far?

  Charles foamed at the mouth. ‘Have her whipped!’ he cried. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

  He ran at her with eyes flashing; he was certainly terrifying in his madness; she must remember that he was the King; he could give an order and have her taken to a dungeon. When his madness was on him he might do this.

  She ran to Marie Touchet and begged for her protection.

  ‘Marie, my dear, I have offended the King. Plead with him for me.’

  And good-hearted Marie did, soothing the King as only she could soothe him. His sister Margot was but a child. He should remember that. She was so sorry to have offended him.

  ‘She … she is a wanton. She … she gives herself and our secrets to Henry of Guise.’

  ‘But if she loves, my dearest lord, can we blame her? Do not we also love?’

  Margot wanted to laugh at that. Mild Marie Touchet and mad Charles … to be compared with her and Henry!

  But she had learned her lesson. She must not be so rash. She might put Henry in danger if she were; after all, he had managed to make some people think he was contemplating marriage with the Princess of Clèves.

  Her brother Henry was not wild, like Charles, but he was very angry with her. He frightened her more than Charles did, for she knew he discussed her with their mother.

  One day Catherine sent for her, and as she entered the Queen Mother’s apartments she began to tremble; she felt the sweat in the palms of her hands as she used to when she was a little girl.

  ‘Come here,’ said Catherine.

  Margot went to her and curtsied. Her lips touched her mother’s hand.

  ‘Rise now,’ said Catherine. ‘No ceremony, my daughter.’ Her lids slid down over her eyes. Madame le Serpent, thought Margot, waiting, deciding whether or not now is the time to strike.

  Catherine started to walk up and down the apartment.

  ‘My daughter, it is time you married. You are no longer a child, and princesses must marry early.’ Margot’s heart began to pound. ‘I have taken a good deal of trouble on your account already, and have, I think, succeeded in making a brilliant match for you.’

  Margot began: ‘Madame …’ But Catherine looked at her in astonishment that she should have dared to interrupt, and Margot was immediately silent.

  ‘Sebastian, the King of Portugal, is considering whether he will take you as his wife.’

  Margot gulped and tried to speak.

  Catherine went on: ‘As you know, he is the nephew of the King of Spain, and Philip himself puts no obstacle in the way of the match. I am sure that when Sebastian himself sees you in all your maidenly beauty, he will be eager to make you his wife. Now, my daughter, you will be ignorant of the duties of the married state, and you may need instruction in such matters. Do not forget that I am your mother and that I shall be willing to help you and tell you what you wish to know of such matters of which you, as a maiden, will be ignorant.’

  Margot flushed scarlet; she knew that her mother was aware of her love affair. She wanted to show defiance as she had to Charles and Henry, but she was numbed by that cold terror which she always felt in the presence of her mother.

  ‘Speak, my daughter! Speak, Marguerite, and tell me that you are happy because of this match I have arranged for you. Tell me, what is your will in all this?’

  The cold eyes held Margot’s, and the girl felt as though she were in the presence of a supernatural being, something inhuman and horrible that was threatening death to her love, and life-long misery. She remembered her lover’s instructions to be calm, to indulge in temporary deceit for the purpose of winning in the end.

  ‘I … I have no will of my own, Madame,’ she heard herself say. ‘I only have that will which depends on yours.’

  Catherine burst into loud laughter. She took Margot’s ear and pulled her towards her.

  ‘No will but mine … and that of Monsieur de Guise, eh?’

  Margot cried out in pain, but her mother gripped her ear the harder. Then she put her lips close to that ear and began to whisper that she knew what Margot believed to have been known only to herself and her lover. All Catherine’s coarseness came out now. The loud laugh on her lips, the crude words, made Margot flinch.

  ‘Harlot! Wanton! Do you know no better? It is you who have seduced him … not he you. It is you who have importuned Monsieur de Guise to take you to his bed. Marriage! What of that? The Princess of France, for whom I have tried to arrange one of the grandest marriages the world has ever known, is a harlot, begging the favours of the Duke of Guise. “Henry … take me … take me … Now … now … I cannot wait. I long so for you …” ’ Catherine began to laugh. ‘Monsieur de Guise must have found the conquest of the Princess of France the easiest he ever undertook.’

  And with these scornful words, Catherine flung Margot from her; and Margot, who would have been quick-witted, who would have made her escape from any other, lay where she had fallen, as though petrified, unable to move, while her mother, portly and vengeful, swept slowly and majestically towards her.

  ‘Get up!’ she cried; and Margot rose immediately.

  Catherine slapped Margot’s face, her rings cutting into the girl’s cheek.

  ‘Ah!’ said Catherine. ‘That must not be. We must not let your future husband know that we have had to beat you for wantonness with the Duke of Guise.’ Catherine pulled Margot towards her. ‘And why do you think Guise has made you his mistress? Because he loves you? Because he is as mad for you as you so shamelessly are for him? Never! Because, foolish wanton, the Cardinal of Lorraine told him to seduce you in the hope that, having been his mistress, it would be impossible for you to marry him whom I have chosen for you. That is their scheme. “Henry, I long for you.” “And I for you, Margot. And for all that you can bring me. Not your wanton body, you fool, but your name, your rank, for besides being a harlot you are the daughter of a royal house, the most noble house in France.” ’

  ‘You lie,’ said Margot. ‘He loves me … me.’

  ‘You little fool. Monsieur de Guise is not the sort to say “No” when a woman begs so insistently.’

  ‘You lie …’

  Catherine took Margot by the sleeve of her gown and dragged her to a couch. She pushed her down and bent over her. ‘You may well show fear. You dare to tell me, your mother, that I lie! You dare to solicit favours of Monsieur de Guise! You dare to become the mistress of the man who threatens your brother the King and the whole of your family!’

  This was one of those rare occasions when Catherine’s control broke. She imagined she heard Margot’s voice: ‘Henry, I long for you.’ She imagined she heard the deep, passionate response of Henry of Guise. But it was not these two she pictured; it was another Henry, oh, long ago, loving his mistress as he never could his wife.

  In a sudden rush of fury, she tore off Margot’s clothes and beat her savagely.

  ‘Not the face this time!’ she cried. ‘We must not show the King of Portugal that we have a wanton for a daughter. We must beat you where the marks of a beating will not be seen … except, perhaps, by Monsieur de Guise.’

  Margot lay panting under the fury of her mother, who had picked up a cane with a jewelled handle which Charles used when he left the palace on flagellating orgies. It came down again and again on Margot’s body; and all the time it seemed to Catherine that she was watching two lovers through a hole in the floor of the palace at Saint-Germain. It was not, it seemed to her then, Margot who lay there, but Diane.

  Eventually her passion was spent. She reflected that it was a rare thing for her to indulge in such emotion. Yet it had been irresistible. Margot had called up too many memories. It had been foolish of her to compare Henry of Guise with Henry of Valois, simply because they both bore the same name.

  Margot lay limp on the couch, and Catherine stared down at her bruised body.

  �
�Go,’ said Catherine. ‘Put on your dress. Later I will discuss with you the arrangements for the greeting of the King of Portugal.’

  And while Margot, in her own apartments, was bathing her wounds, terrified lest some mark should spoil the perfection of her body, Catherine reproached herself for that outburst of fury.

  Looking back was something in which she knew it was folly to indulge. There were too many dangers of the moment for past insults and humiliations to be of any importance.

  * * *

  Margot was preparing to meet her suitor. Her dress was of cloth of gold; her jewels magnificent; and her eyes were as hard and as brilliant as the diamonds she wore. She was saying to herself: ‘I will never marry him. I will marry Henry. There will be a way, and we will find it.’

  She had seen Henry of Guise earlier that day. He was constantly in the company of the Princess of Clèves, being so much wiser than she could ever be. He knew of that interview she had had with her mother; he begged her to be calm, discreet. It was for Henry’s sake that she had feigned meekness and pretended to submit to her mother’s commands.

  She had said to Henry when they met: ‘I must see you later. I want to come to you in my rich gown and my jewels. I have said I will wear them to greet my bridegroom. You are my bridegroom.’

  ‘It is dangerous,’ he said.

  But Margot’s passion carried her beyond the thought of danger. She must see him. It was so long since they had made love. Two days ago … It was an age! To-night, after the ceremonial meeting with the King of Portugal, they would meet. Did he know that small chamber close to his own apartments in this palace of the Louvre? She would come to him there, and he must be ready for her. They would spend the whole night together. They must. She would not be put off with a mere hour. They must be together all through the night. It was only with such a prospect before her that she could face the ordeal of the evening’s ceremony.

  He had agreed to be at the rendezvous, and Margot, having dressed herself with the greatest care, knew she had never looked so beautiful.

  ‘Ah!’ said one of her women. ‘You look like a Princess who is going to meet her lover.’

  Margot embraced her warmly, and the woman knew what that meant.

  ‘Keep my doors locked to-night,’ whispered Margot.

  ‘My dearest lady Princess, be careful.’

  ‘Have no fears for me.’

  ‘It is dangerous, my lady.’

  Margot laughed; she loved danger if it meant love-making with Henry of Guise.

  ‘Ah, my Princess, I can understand. There is no one like him in the whole of France.’

  ‘There is no one like him in the whole world,’ corrected Margot.

  She conducted herself with decorum at the ceremony of meeting her suitor, who was deeply impressed with the wild beauty of the Princess. It was true, he concluded, that she was the most fascinating lady at the court of France.

  Henry of Guise was there, watching. Margot wondered if he suffered similar pangs to those she felt when he bent his handsome head towards that of Catherine of Clèves.

  Catherine watched too. The girl was defiant, but she knew she must obey. During her chastisement she had cringed in a manner which had been quite gratifying. Margot was wild; she was passionate, more desirous – and perhaps therefore more desirable – than a woman should be; but Catherine believed she knew how to manage Margot’s affairs with satisfaction.

  For Margot the evening seemed endless; the bright lights were too dazzling. She was charming to the King of Portugal and his attendants. She gave the impression that the match would not be distasteful to her; but all the time she was scarcely aware of her suitor; she was only aware of Henry, now talking to the Princess of Clèves, now dancing with her, while the latter – the little fool that she was! – looked as though all she desired on Earth was the smile of the young Duke of Guise.

  Margot fretted and waited; and during those long hours of ceremony she yearned for her lover.

  At last it was over, and the palace was quiet.

  Margot was ready, waiting in her robes of state, for the moment when she should slip out and along to that little chamber where Henry would be waiting for her. Her women ran about eagerly, touching her dress here and there, putting a fold of her gown in place, telling her she was more beautiful tonight than she had ever been; they looked into the corridor to make sure that no one was lurking there; and then Margot was speeding through corridors, up stairs to her meeting with her lover.

  She clung to him while they murmured words of love. He told of his jealousy, she of hers. She lit the candles that he might see her in all her finery.

  ‘You were more beautiful than ever to-night,’ he said.

  ‘It was because I was coming here to you. If I had not been coming to you, I should have been ugly … hating them all. Oh, Henry, shall I ever cease to love you like this?’

  ‘Never,’ he said, ‘I hope.’

  He had made a bed of his velvet cloak; she saw it and laughed. ‘We have known so many strange beds. When shall we know our marriage bed?’

  ‘Soon, Margot, soon. But we must be doubly cautious now that this man from Portugal is here.’

  The candles guttered out, and they lay in the darkness. The night passed and, when the first signs of the new day were in the sky, Margot regretted its passing.

  ‘The most wonderful night of my life!’ she sighed. ‘I shall remember it always.’

  ‘There will be many such when we are married. Then we shall have no fear of discovery.’

  She was laughing, demanding more kisses. Neither of them heard the door open, so engrossed were they in each other; nor did they see the figure standing there watching them. The door was quietly closed again, and not long after there was a great commotion in the corridor which even they could not fail to hear.

  ‘Keep very still,’ said Henry. ‘Make no sound.’

  He had risen silently, but before he had his coat on and his sword at his side, the door burst open. The King stood there; his clothes had been hastily thrown on; his eyes were bloodshot and his mouth working. Behind him stood several of the attendants of his bedchamber.

  He screamed an order. ‘Take them to my mother’s apartments. With all speed. No delay.’

  The lovers were surrounded. Four men were needed to overcome the struggles of Guise. Two seized Margot; and the pair were then hustled along the corridors to the apartments of the Queen Mother.

  Catherine, startled out of her sleep, stared at the intruders, but it did not take her long, when she saw who the captives were, to realise what had happened. Charles, the little fool, had once more acted without his mother; by this impetuous act he had exposed the liaison between his sister and the Duke of Guise to the whole court. And Sebastian, the King of Portugal, was in the Palace of the Louvre at this very hour!

  Catherine did not know whom she hated more at this moment – her stupid son Charles or her wanton daughter, Margot.

  Angry as she was, she did not lose her self-control.

  ‘Monsieur de Guise,’ she said, ‘your presence is not needed here.’

  Henry bowed and left the room. It was the only thing he could do. He flashed a warning glance at Margot, begging her to be calm and diplomatic.

  Catherine glanced at all those assembled, and her look said clearly that it would be the worse for them all if they mentioned to any what they had seen this morning. ‘All may leave with Monsieur de Guise,’ she said. ‘His Majesty and I wish to be alone with the Princess.’

  When the room was empty but for the three of them, Catherine went to the door and locked it. She signed to Charles to attack his sister, and he, nothing loth, took his stick and approached the terrified girl. Margot ran to her mother, who flung her back to the King. Charles was biting his lips so that blood mingled with the foam there.

  ‘We must try to beat some sense into this little fool,’ said Catherine. ‘On the very night when she meets her suitor, she keeps an assignation with her lover. Beat h
er. Let her learn what it costs to bring disgrace on us all.’

  Catherine now unleashed her fury. Margot’s rich gown was torn in shreds and, bleeding and exhausted, she begged them to spare her. But she was not to be spared.

  Margot had suffered many beatings in her lifetime, but nothing so severe as this. At length she sank unconscious to the floor. Charles kicked her as she lay there; the sight of blood always inflamed him, and a mood of frenzy had come upon him.

  Catherine, looking on, considered the possibility of Margot’s death. It would not be the first time that a disobedient child had been beaten to death, but Margot’s death would be most inconvenient. Catherine’s rage had passed. Moreover, the room was light, for the day had now come.

  ‘Enough!’ she cried to Charles.

  But it was not easy to stop Charles. He wanted to see blood flow. It was always thus when his madness was on him. He wanted to have Henry of Guise’s head off.

  ‘Kill him! Kill him!’ he screamed. ‘Torture him … And Margot shall see it all. Let her be there. Let her watch him, naked and sweating under the torture, and see then if she recognises her handsome lover.’

  ‘Silence!’ commanded Catherine.

  The King’s face was distorted as he stared wildly at his mother; his lips were twitching; his glaring eyes were bloodshot; moisture trickled from his mouth. He was prancing about the unconscious body of his sister. He wanted to kick her to death, yet when he recovered his sanity he would be filled with remorse if he had hurt her.

  ‘My dear son,’ said Catherine, putting an arm about his twitching form, ‘have a care. You know these Guises. What if they turned the tables on you? What if you were naked … sweating, eh? Remember who is the man you wish to torture. Remember Le Balafré. Remember the Cardinal. Have a care, my son.’

  ‘He must die! He must die!’ panted Charles.

  ‘He shall die,’ soothed Catherine. ‘But my way … Mother’s way … not yours. Lie on the couch, my darling, and rest. Leave this to your mother. She knows best. She does not want them to take her darling boy … her dear little King, and torture him.’