Madame Serpent

by Jean Plaidy

  residence at Les Tournelles; and so neatly had it been executed that, if the spy-hole between the two floors was not looked for, it would not be noticed. The workman was an artist in his way, and the hole in the ceiling was set within a beautiful carving of flowers so that it seemed to the casual eye to be part of the decoration. On Catherine’s floor it was carefully covered by a rug over which she kept her writing desk. She was just able to move this desk herself; then it was a simple task to remove the rug, put her eye to the hole, and see a good deal of what went on in the room below.

  When the Court was at Saint-Germain and Diane was with it, ostensibly in

  attendance on the Queen, Catherine would lock her doors, lift the desk, remove the rug, and watch through the spy-hole.

  The sight of her husband and his mistress together, while it tortured her, yet fascinated her; and while she knew they were together, she could not resist watching them.

  Through the spy-hole, she saw a new Henry, a new Diane.

  Sometimes she laughed to think that she shared their intimate secrets; more often she wept. She knew that she would be a happier woman if she brought back her Italian workman and bid him fill up the hole.

  But again and again she returned to the torture. And on this night they were together― her husband, dark and lithe, Diane with her milk-white skin and raven hair.

  Catherine wept bitterly as, cramped and stiff, she kept vigil at the spy-hole until they slept.

  ―――――――

  Catherine could see no escape from her enemy. She believed now that Henry would be faithful to Diane till death. If only Anne d’Etampes could prevail upon the King to banish Diane from court!

  Tension between the King and the Dauphin was growing. The war between

  France and Spain had come to another halt with the Treaty of Crépy; and the two court parties― the Reformed party and the Catholic party― were at odds concerning the treaty. The King had agreed to it, and the Dauphin was against it.

  Henry believed that had he been allowed to fight he and his troops would have been more than a match for those of Spain. But Francis, with Anne and young Charles of Orléans, was delighted with a treaty which offered the young Prince a choice of two brides― Charles V’s daughter, Infanta Maria, or his niece, the daughter of Ferdinand of Austria. And he was to be allowed four months in which to decide. With the Infanta went the Netherlands, but only on the death of Charles V; with Charles’s niece went Milan, but only when an heir was born to the couple.

  Henry pointed out that these terms were much the same that had been

  offered previously. What, he demanded, had they gained by the sacrifices of the war which they had been pursuing for so long? The boy was right, thought

  Francis; but he was weary of war. He wanted to see young Charles settled; and Anne was continually pointing out that the Dauphin’s objections to the treaty meant that he did not wish to see his brother too powerful.

  Henry’s apartments, with those of Diane, had become the headquarters of

  the Catholic party; and one evening, not long after the signing of the Crépy Treaty, Diane and Henry were supping more merrily than usual with a group of their closest friends.

  Catherine was not of the party; she remained in her chamber. She had,

  earlier in the day, spoken of a sick headache. She had set Madalenna to watch and report all that was said at Henry’s supper table.

  The girl must wait in an antechamber, hide herself in the hangings and make sure that she was in a spot where she could overhear what was being said.

  Catherine waited wretchedly. Madalenna did her work well, for all that she hated it. She dared do nothing else. Catherine smiled coldly, recalling the frightened face of Madalenna. She, Catherine de’ Medici, might not know how to win people’s love, but she knew how to make them tremble.

  She hoped Madalenna would have something worthwhile to report; if Diane

  would only say something which would, if repeated, be construed as treason against the King! What joy if she were banished. But then, if she were, Henry would follow her into exile. Still, as Dauphin, there were duties at court which he could not neglect. She was tempted to tell Anne something of her love for her husband and her hatred of his mistress. The venomous feelings they both had for Diane should make them the closest allies. But she hesitated, reminding herself that no one must know her mind, for it had always been advantageous to work in the dark.

  Madalenna came breathlessly to her and Catherine rose from her chair.

  ‘Madalenna! Why have you left your post?’

  ‘Madame la Dauphine, Monsieur de Vieilleville has just left the Dauphin’s table. He said that he was unwilling to be a party to the Dauphin’s indiscretion.

  There is a fine scene in there― and―’

  ‘What scene?’ demanded Catherine. ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘It begun when they talked of the King and said what a fine man he once

  was, and how sadly he is changing, and how in the last months his health is seen to be failing―’

  ‘Yes, yes. We know all that.’

  ‘Well, then the Dauphin said that when he was King, he would bring back

  Anne de Montmorency, and there was applause round the table. Then he told Monsieur Brissac that he should be Grand Master of the Artillery and Monsieur de Saint-André that he should be Grand Chamberlain.’

  ‘What folly!’ cried Catherine. ‘What if this comes to the King’s ears?’

  ‘That is what Monsieur de Vieilleville said. He said that the Dauphin was selling the skin of the bear before the bear is killed. And he begged leave to go.’

  ‘You have done well, Madalenna. Why, the Dauphin and the Sénéchale have done enough, I’ll swear, to get themselves banished from the court― You need not go back. Stay here. Tell none what you have heard, or they would ask you how you heard it, and that, little Madalenna, would not be easy for you to explain.’

  Madalenna flushed hotly and Catherine smiled at her. She slipped out into the corridor which separated her apartments from those of her husband and, seating herself in a window seat, she waited.

  She did not wait long before she saw the King’s Jester Briandas, creep

  silently out of the Dauphin’s apartment, ‘Good day to you, Briandas,’ she cried.

  ‘You have a guilty air! What secrets have you been listening to in there?’

  The man seemed astonished; he had lost his native wit. He stammered:

  ‘Secrets? Why, Madame la Dauphine―’

  Catherine said slyly: ‘And what post, Briandas, is to be yours when mine is Queen of France?’

  ‘You have sharp ears, Madame la Dauphine.’

  ‘News travels fast in palaces, Jester.’ She stared at her beautiful white fingers. “Do you think Saint-André will be a better Grand Chamberlain than Saint-Pol?’ She continued to study her fingers. ‘I know not what the King will say to these changes. I fear he will not be over-pleased with those who

  applauded them. They might find that they lose their heads before they attain their posts. What think you, Jester?’

  ‘It is true,’ said Briandas, ‘a post would be of little use to a man without a head.’

  ‘All those present would be under suspicion.’

  ‘Is that so, Madame la Dauphine? Methinks you are right. Only a humble man such as myself would be safe.’

  ‘It is not wise to be too humble, Briandas. I myself am humble yet had I

  been at that table, I know what I should be doing now instead of exchanging this chatter.’

  ‘What would you be doing, Dauphine?’

  ‘I would go to the King and make sure that he knew I was a loyal subject. A King-that-is is more to be feared than a King-to-be. For if you lost your head today, it would not matter to you who is King tomorrow.’

  ‘I see you are my friend, Madame.’

  ‘I am the friend the humble and meek.’

  The jester’s eyes kindled as he bowed low.


  Catherine watched him make his way to the King’s apartments.

  Francis was at supper with Anne, the Cardinal of Lorraine and several of the officers of the Crown, including Monsieur de Tais, the Grand Master of the Artillery and the Comte de Saint-Pol.

  The jester addressed the King without ceremony.

  ‘God save you, Francis of Valois!’ he cried.

  Francis, startled by such an insolent address, even from his jester, demanded to know the meaning of it.

  ‘Why,’ said Briandas slyly, ‘you are King no longer. I have just had this proved to me. And you, Monsieur de Tais, are no longer Grand Master of the Artillery; Brissac is appointed. And you, Comte de Saint-Pol, are no longer Grand Chamberlain, because Saint-André is. Montmorency is soon to be with us again. Begone, Francis of Valois. I call God to witness, thou art a dead man.’

  The King rose; he took the jester by the collar and shook the little man.

  ‘Foy de gentilhomme!’ he cried. ‘You will explain more fully what you mean, or feel my steel in your heart. Speak, man, if you wish to live other minute.’

  ‘The King is dead!’ cried Briandas. ‘Long live King Henry of Valois!’

  The King’s face was purple.

  Briandas hurried on: ‘With these ears I have heard. King Henry and Queen

  Diane are already mounting the throne.’

  But the King had had enough of this folly and told him to speak seriously of what he had heard. When Briandas finished, Francis stood glowering before him.

  Anne laughed. ‘So he has dared to speak his evil aloud. Depend upon it, this is Madame Diane’s will. She can no longer wait for her queen-ship.’

  But there was no need to goad Francis. Catherine, who had quietly entered the room during the uproar, saw that his blood was up. She laughed silently, for she had heard Anne speak of Diane. Surely now there would be no place at court for Henry’s mistress; and surely the Dauphin would not be allowed away too long.

  Francis was preparing to show Henry whether or not he was dead. He

  shouted for the captain of his guard and ordered to bring with him forty of his archers.

  At their head, with vengeance in his heart, the King set out for his son’s apartments.

  But Diane’s spies were as alert as Catherine’s; and had been warned of his father’s anger ten minutes before Francis reached his apartments. He and Diane had immediately left for Anet.

  So when Francis, with his archers at his heels, kicked open the door of his son’s apartments, there was no one but the lackeys clearing away the remains of the feast. Francis took hold of the first one he could lay his hands on and shook until the man’s face was as purple as his own.

  ‘Where is your master?’ he cried. ‘Speak, you fool, or by the Virgin I’ll slit your throat.’

  ‘Sire― my gracious King― he― left― ten minutes gone.’

  Francis threw the man from him. ‘So he has flown. That is well for him, and for his friends who yearn to take the shoes their betters. Get you gone― all of you!’ He turned on the trembling lackeys, flourishing his sword. He signed to his archers, and they began chasing the unfortunate lackeys, who now had one thought, and that to hide themselves from the King’s anger. The only way in which they could escape was by leaping out into the courtyards through the windows, and this they did; whereupon the King and his archers threw the

  remains of the feat after them; and, the royal anger being not at all appeased, the glass, plate and cutlery followed. After that the chairs, tables, and mirrors were hurled out on to the cobbled courtyard. Then the King snatched up a halberd and slit all the beautiful tapestries that adorned the walls, his rage for once being greater than his love of the beautiful.

  As he slashed, he seemed to hear the insolent voice of his jester. ‘God save you Francis of Valois!’ and then: ‘I call God to witness, thou art a dead man!’

  And he knew that, had he been younger, he would not have been so angry. It was because he felt himself to be near the grave that he was infuriated by being reminded of it.

  He was unhappy.

  Catherine was also unhappy. She had succeeded in driving Diane from court but she should have known that the mistress would take Catherine’s husband with her.

  ―――――――

  The King of France was a sad man. He could not find it in his heart to

  forgive a son who was so obviously awaiting his death with eagerness.

  Henry stayed at Anet for four weeks before he dared show himself at court, and then there was much coming and going between Fontainebleau and Anet,

  until at last the ailing King had seen he must be reconciled with his heir. All the same, he had little affection for him; and he kept young Charles closer him and doted on him more than ever.

  But Henry could be useful to his father, for he was a good soldier; and peace with Spain did not necessarily mean peace with the English. Henry came out of his brief exile to help his father in the struggle with the enemy across the Channel.

  There was a wild attempt to invade the coast of Sussex and another to

  invade the Isle of Wight― both of which were failures. There was another and unsuccessful onslaught on Boulogne― a fruitless endeavour to recapture the town from the English.

  It was when he was encamped near Abbeville that one of the greatest

  tragedies of his life overtook Francis.

  The weather was hot, for it was August, and from the steaming streets of the town rose the smell of putrefaction. It was not long before the dreaded news was running through the camp. The plague had come to Abbeville!

  Francis hastily gave orders that none was to go into the town. He knew that this was the end of his campaign. He could fight an army of men; he could not fight the plague. He must, as soon as possible, treat with the English, seek allies and strengthen every fortress in France.

  He lay in his luxurious bed― for even in camp, his bed must be luxurious―

  and thought sadly of his reign which had begun so brilliantly and now seemed to be ending in gloom. He wondered if sober-sided Henry would recover

  everything his father had lost.

  And while he lay there, news was brought that the and handsome Count

  d’Enghien craved an audience; and when the young man came, the King saw at once that his face was blotched with weeping.

  He knelt, but would not approach the King; and same in the strangeness of his demeanour put terrible fear into the heart of Francis.

  ‘What is it, man?’ he demanded.

  The young Count sought for words, but he could only and the King, raising himself on his elbow, spoke first harshly and then gently, bidding him state immediately what news he had brought.

  ‘Sire, last night, I went to the town.’

  ‘What?’ roared the King. ‘You knew the order?’

  ‘Sire, it was by order of the Duke of Orléans that I went.’

  The King smiled wryly. Young Charles, the reckless, the brave, had no

  doubt declared he was afraid of nothing even the plague. What a boy he was with his pranks and his mischief! But this was serious. He must be punished for this. And what was wrong with this bright young man― a favourite of Francis’?

  Why did young d’Enghien kneel there snivelling like a girl?

  Francis was uneasy. He ordered the young man to continue.

  “We went to the house of a merchant, Sire.’

  ‘Get on! Get on!’ cried Francis.

  ‘There was a girl there― the merchant’s daughter. The Duke had seen her

  and fancied her.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘She had died, Sire― of the plague.’

  ‘You fool!’ shouted Francis. ‘You come here to me and boast of this silly escapade. Foy de gentilhomme, you shall pay for this. I’ll clap you into prison.

  You idiot! You fool!’

  ‘That is not all Sire. The dead-cart took her as we reached the house, and the Duke insisted we go inside. He tho
ught it was a trick of her father’s to hide the girl, Sire.’

  Francis felt suddenly ill. He knew that the count was trying to break some tragic news. He was trying to tell him gently, gradually. Francis opened his mouth to shout, but no words came.

  ‘We saw the bed, Sire, the bed on which she died. The Duke, continuing his belief that the girl was being hidden from him, slit the bed with his sword. Sire, the feathers flew about the room― they covered us― The feathers from a bed in which a girl died of the plague!’

  ‘My God!’ groaned Francis; and now he dared not look at the young man.

  ‘Her father seemed to watch us, Sire, but he did not see us, I think. He too was smitten by the plague.’

  Francis leaped off the bed. ‘Stop babbling, you fool. Where is my son?’

  D’Enghien was on his feet, barring the King’s way. ‘Sire, you cannot go to him. You dare not go to him.’

  Francis pushed the young man aside. He could feel the sweat in the palms of his hands, as he ran towards the tent of his younger son.

  Those who stood outside it tried to stop him. He shouted at them. Was he, the King, to obey their orders! They stand aside or take the consequences.

  Oh misery! On the bed lay his sweet son Charles. Was this the boy he had

  smiled on only yesterday morning?

  ‘Charles!’ he cried brokenly. ‘My dearest son. What folly is this?―’ But his voice broke, for the eyes that that were lifted to his did not recognize him.

  D’Enghien had entered the tent and was standing beside the King. He was

  weeping silently.

  ‘The priest bid us leave the town,’ said the young man as though he talked to himself. ‘He was right― when he said we danced with death―’

  Francis turned on him. ‘Something must be done!’ cried the King. ‘Where

  are our doctors― our physicians?’

  But as d’Enghien lifted his wretched eyes to those of the King, they both knew that nothing could be done.

  ―――――――

  To be old when you had been so gloriously young, to love of life when you have worshipped it with every breath in your body― that, thought Francis, was a sad plight for to come to.