by Jean Plaidy
‘I― I will go and leave the garden to you.’
‘Oh, please do not.’
He was moving away from her; if he could reach the opening in the hedge,
he would run.
‘Please sit down,’ she begged. ‘Just as you were― on the grass. Otherwise I shall be convinced that I have driven you away, and that will make me very unhappy. You would not wish to make me unhappy, would you?’
‘I― I― cannot see that my presence here―’
‘I will explain. I saw you from the palace. I said to myself: Ah! There is Monsieur le Duc d’Orléans, whose advice I wish to ask. Now is my
opportunity!’
The hot blood rushed into his face. ‘My advice?’ he said.
She sat on the grass beside him, surely an undignified thing for a great lady to do. I want to buy some horses, and I know that your knowledge concerning them is great. Would you, I was wondering, be kind enough to give me a little advice.’
He was staring at her, still suspicious, but his heart had begun to pound. He felt ecstatically happy one moment, suspicious the next. Was she taunting him, teasing him? Was she going to show him shortly that he did not know anything about the one subject he really believed he understood?
‘I am sure that you could find― people to― to,’ He was preparing to rise to his feet. He would make some attempt to bow and dash out of the gardens.
But she had laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘I could find people talk and look wise, I doubt not; but what I want is someone whose judgment I can trust.’
His mouth grew sullen; she was making fun of him.
She went on quickly: ‘I have watched you come riding in from the chase. I saw you on a chestnut mare― a lovely animal.’
His mouth turned up at the corners very slightly. Nobody could make fun of his mare, for she was perfect.
‘I should like to have a mare like that, if, of course it is possible to get one. I doubt if I could match her perfections.’
‘It would be difficult,’ he said; and he began to speak, out a stammer, of the delightful animal― of her age, exploits, of her habits.
The lady listened entranced. He had never had such conversation with
anyone before, but as soon as he realize much he was talking, he became
tongue-tied again and longed to escape.
‘Do tell me more,’ she said. ‘I see I was wise when I decided to ask your help.’
So he found himself telling her of the merits of others of his horses.
In turn, she told him of her home, the château of Anet in the lovely valley of the Eure, and of the forests which surrounded it. It was wonderful hunting country; but there again, she said, she felt that a little of the right sort of knowledge would make it even better. There was so much that should be done.
There was the cutting down of trees, he added; and the planting of fresh
ones. He could tell her quite a lot about hunting country.
She wished that he could see it. ‘I confess I should escaping from the court for a while,’ she said.
Then he asked who she was. ‘I do not think I have see you before.’ He was sure he had not, for if he had, he could not have failed to remember her.
‘I am in attendance on the Queen. I love her dearly, but sometimes I am
lonely. You see, I am a widow. It is two years since my husband died, but if one has been happy, one cannot forget.’ She smoothed the rich black and white of her gown with delicate white hands. She was like a statue, thought the boy; the statue of some beautiful saint. ‘I fear I do not fit in with this gay court,’ she added.
‘Nor I!’ he said bitterly. And now he did not wish to run away; in fact, he wanted to go on sitting here, talking to her; he was afraid that someone else would come into the garden and claim her attention, so that he would have to remember he was ashy boy, awkward and uninteresting.
‘You do!’ she told him. ‘You are the son of the King. I am just a lonely
widow.’
‘My father― hates me!’ he spoke vehemently. He dared not say he hated his father, but his tone implied it.
‘Oh no! Nobody could hate you. Your father least of all. I have two little girls. I know. Parents cannot hate their own children.’
‘My father can. He loves my little brother, Charles. He loves my sisters
Madeleine and Marguerite. I think too― though he is often angry with him―
that he loves the Dauphin. But myself― never. I am the one who angers him most.’
‘No, no!’
‘But I assure you that it is so. His looks, his words tell me so. One can be mistaken in looks, but not in words. Francis is the Dauphin, and one day he will be King, and my father does not forget that. But he sneers at him. He says he is too solemn and dresses like a Spaniard and likes water better than wine. Francis is cleverer than I; he can learn French ways more quickly. But little Charles is the one my father loves best. Lucky Charles! He was too young to be sent to Spain.’
‘You could win your father’s favour as easily as Francis.’
‘How?’ The boy was pathetic in his eagerness.
‘It would take time. Your father has always surrounded himself with people who joke and laugh. He does not mind if the joke goes against himself even, as long as it makes him laugh If you can make your father laugh, you are halfway to his heart.’
‘He laughs at me― but in derision.’
‘He wants to laugh for amusement. Mind you, his wit high order, and it is not easy.’
‘My young brother can make him laugh.’
‘Oh, Monsieur Charles will be the King all over again. My lord Duke, if you were less afraid of offending your father, you would offend him less.’
‘Yes,’ said the boy eagerly; ‘that is it. I am always wondering what I must answer him, even before he has spoken to me.’
‘This is the first thing to learn, then: there is nothing to fear. And when you bow or kiss a lady’s hand, you should not wonder whether you are doing so with a lack of grace. You should not care. You should stand up straight and hold your head high. If you do not try very hard to please people, you can please them more. You must forgive me. I talk too much.’
‘Indeed, no! No one has ever spoken so kindly to me before.’
‘I am glad I have not bored you, for I was going to take a great liberty. I was going to ask you if you would be so good as to pay a visit to my home and look at those stables of mine― and perhaps ride out and advise about my land.’
His face lighted up. ‘I can think of nothing I should like better.’ The light died out of his face. ‘I should not be allowed to leave the court.’ He scowled, visualizing the scene with his father. So you wish to visit a lady! My dear Henry, the affairs of the heart must be conducted with some decorum― even here in France! Something like that, he would say, and with that coarseness always so gracefully expressed, would the honour of this beautiful lady. Henry knew he could not bear that to happen.
‘You could come accompanied by a few attendants. Why not?’
‘My father would never allow it, I fear.’
‘Monsieur le Duc, have I your permission to ask your father if I might take a small party, including yourself, for a brief visit to my home?’
She had a way of putting it that made it seem less unattainable. That was the way with some people. They were able to say with ease what they meant; he was so clumsy.
‘That would give me great pleasure,’ he said. ‘But I fear you will soon wish to send me back.’
She laughed. ‘Forgive me if I say you must dispense with such modesty.
Always remember that you are the Duke of Orléans, the son of the King himself.
Forget those unhappy years in Spain. They are gone and cannot return. I hope you will not be bored at my château. I shall do my best to give you the
hospitality worthy of a king’s son. Now, have I your permission, my dear friend, to make my request to the King? Please say yes.’
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br /> ‘I shall be desolate if I may not come, for I long to see your château and your horses and your land.’
She held out her hand and he took it, blushing hotly.
She put her head close to his. ‘Never forget,’ she said, ‘that you are the son of the King of France.’
She was right. He was the King’s son. He had never felt his importance so keenly before.
He stared after her as she left the garden. She gave him a smile over her shoulder as she went.
So beautiful, he thought, like a goddess, and yet so kind withal!
――――――――
The summer months were the happiest Henry had ever known.
Miraculously, his lady had gained the King’s consent to the wonderful visit. He was not the same boy when he supped and talked and rode with Madame la Grande Sénéschale of Normandy.
‘I will call you Henry,’ she said, ‘and you shall call me Diane, for we are friends, are we not― friends for as long as we both shall live?’
He stammered something about hoping he would always be worthy of her
friendship. They rode together, though not as much as he would ride in the ordinary course of events. Diane was not so fond of the chase as he was, and she had no intention of risking an accident to her beautiful body. She was making an excellent job of the task which the King had set her. In her company the boy seemed to shed all his awkwardness; it was a pity that it returned as soon as others were with him. She was getting fond of him. He was not without charm; and the devotion he was beginning to feel for her was flattering. It was so disinterested; she was accustomed to admiration, but that of the boy was
different from anything she had before experienced. She was filled with pity for him. He had been so badly treated that it was small wonder that he responded as he did to a little kindness.
In a very short time after their first meeting, it seemed Henry that there was no happiness to be found away from Diane. To him she was perfect, a goddess in truth; and he asked nothing from her but to be allowed to serve her. He looked about for what he could do, but there seemed nothing. He longed to wear her colours and enter the jousts; but so many men wore a lady’s colours, and that just to win her favours. Henry wanted none to mistake his devotion. He did not wish for favours as ordinary people understood them. It was favour enough for him to be able to sit near her, to watch her beautiful face, and to listen to the wisdom that came from her perfectly moulded lips, to bask in the kindness she alone offered him
She had given him a horse when she bought those which he had chosen. She
had asked which in his opinion was the finest of the lot, and when he had told her― little guessing what in her mind― she said that one should be his. He had protested with tears in his eyes. He wanted no gifts; he wanted only to be allowed to serve her. But she had laughed and said: ‘What are gifts among friends?’
‘It shall be my dearest possession,’ he had told her earnestly.
Everything she did was exalted; nothing was ordinary. Even when she
discussed his clothes and told him what to wear, how to bow, how to greet men and women, she did it with such grace and charm that it did not seem like a lesson. One thing she could not teach him, and that was to smile for others; he kept his smiles for her alone.
When he heard that he was to be married to an Italian girl, he was much
alarmed; he went to Diane at once and told her of it.
Then was she her most sweetly sympathetic. She held his hands just as
though he were in truth her own son; and she told him how she, a little girl of fifteen. about the age that he was now, had been given into marriage with an old man. She told him of her own fears.
‘But Henry, I quickly learned that there was nothing to fear. He was an old man; and this Italian is your own age. It is not for you to be afraid of a little girl.’
‘No, Diane,’ he said. ‘I should not be afraid, should I? But I wish I need not marry. I have no wish to marry.’
‘But my dear little friend, those of high birth must marry.’
‘I would have wished to choose a bride then,’ he lifted his eyes to her face.
‘But she whom I would choose would be too far above me.’
Diane was startled. What had happened to the boy?
She laughed lightly. ‘Oh come, my lord, who is too exalted for the Duke of Orléans?’
He was about to stammer something when she turned the subject quickly.
It was well, she thought that he was about to be married. She hoped the little Italian girl would be pretty enough to charm him.
It was with great delight that Henry heard Diane was to be of the party who would accompany him down to Marseilles where he was to meet and marry the little Medici.
CATERINA THE BRIDE
IN THE valley lay the noblest city in all Europe. Its dot and spires that glittered in the smokeless air seemed to challenge the quiet hills which stopped only at its gates. The river gleamed silvery grey in the distance as it twisted west-wards through the valley of the Arno, through Tuscany to Pisa and to the sea. The Country was fertile, rich with its vineyards and plantations of olives.
The town was richer; its bank and wool merchants had made it prosperous, but it possessed a greater richness than they could give, to share with the world.
Leonardo da Vinci and Botticelli, Dante and Donatello had beautified it; and Michelangelo, still a comparatively young man, was on this summer’s day, at work within its walls. Its palaces and churches were storehouses of treasures; but in the city there was one possession which was more highly valued than art and learning. This was freedom. And the townsfolk looked to their ruling family to remember Florentine pride and Florentine independence.
The sun burned hotly in the Via Larga, scorching the thick stone walls of the Medici Palace. The first of the renaissance palaces of Florence, it looked strong enough to withstand attack, for it was not only a palace, but a fortress; constructed to face the glare of an Italian sun, delightful in the contrast of light and shadow it presented, it was arresting, with its grim almost prison-like tower structure and the decorative designs of the upper storeys. It was one of the most impressive buildings in a city of beauty.
In one of the upper rooms of this palace, little Caterina sat at her lessons.
Her head ached, for her eyes were tired, but she must give no sign of this; she must never mention phys disability; she must never forget her dignity; she must, in fact, always remember that she was a member of the ruling house of Florence.
Cardinal Passerini, who, by orders of the Pope, ruled the city under his master and at the same time supervised her learning, and her Aunt Clarissa, who
supervised her manners, together with the Holy Father himself, who she saw less frequently, all impressed this upon her. She was important, because on her their hopes were fixed.
‘Do not forget, Caterina Maria Romola de’ Medici,’ Clarissa Strozzi would say― for Aunt Clarissa always used her full names to stress the need of
preserving dignity― ‘do not forget that you are a daughter of the house of Medici. It is for you to show dignity, courage, and learning always― passion and folly never.’
When these lessons were done, there would be more lessons to follow―
deportment, dancing, riding, and conversation with the Cardinal, Aunt Clarissa, and perhaps Filippo Strozzi, Aunt Clarissa’s banker husband. Besides the study of languages, she must learn the history of her own family and that of the ruling houses of other countries. Aunt Clarissa insisted that she know each glorious incident in the life of her great-grandfather, Lorenzo the Magnificent; he was Aunt Clarissa’s hero and she often compared him with Guilio de’ Medici, who now, as Pope Clement VII, was head of the family. Caterina had been shocked to hear the Holy Father spoken of with disrespect, but the greatest lesson she had had to learn was that of hiding her feelings; so Caterina listened and showed no sign of her surprise.
Now she pushed her long fai
r hair back from her thin little face, and as she was about to return to her books she heard a scratching at the door, and, forgetting her dignity for a moment, she leaped up and let in Guido, a spaniel with adoring brown eyes. She had two of them― Fedo and Guido― and only
these two living beings knew her as a little girl who sometimes liked to romp and laugh more loudly than would have been seemly if any but they had heard it.
Guido was frightened. He cowered against her and licked her hand. He had
the air of a dog who has escaped some terrible fate, but who knows his escape to be temporary. She guessed at once that the pursuer was Alessandro― the boy who called himself her brother and whom she called The Moor. He loved
nothing better than to maltreat dogs and young serving boys and girls, any of whom he could torture without bringing trouble on himself. One day he would, she guessed, try to have similar fun with grown-up people.
She put a hand down to the dog and fondled his silky coat. She would have liked to have knelt on the floor and flung her arms about him. But the idea of Caterina of the house of Medici stooping to caress a dog in a room where she might be discovered must be immediately dismissed.
She had been right. It was Alessandro who had been chasing the dog, for he now pushed open the door and came into the room. He shut the door and leaned against it, looking at Caterina while the dog tried to hide behind his mistress’
feet; and Caterina, giving no sign of the violent beating of her heart, lifted her eyes to look at Alessandro.
They called him a Medici! Why, why, Caterina asked herself passionately,
had her noble father gone about the world, planting his seed in such ignoble ground! How could he have loved the low Barbary slave who must have been
Alessandro’s mother? But evidently he had, if only for a short while, since Alessandro was here in the palace with her― her half-brother. The Pope insisted that he should live here, although Aunt Clarissa would have gladly turned him into the streets. A bastard, by good fortune; for what if he had been her legitimate brother? But no! Noble blood could never produce that low brow with the dark hair growing down almost to the eyebrows, that short, broad nose, that vicious mouth, those lecherous protruding eyes. Caterina would have been
