by Jean Plaidy
dual must not take place.’
‘Why not?’ He supposed he would give way, but he was going to frighten
her first. ‘It will give the people pleasure,’ he went on. ‘Do I not always say they have to be amused?’
He smiled at her. ‘I am hard put to it to think up new amusements for my
people. And here is a ready-made entertainment. A public combat. What could be better?’
‘It would be murder.’
‘And how my people enjoy to see blood spilt! Think of it, my darling! There will be those who gamble on de Chabot and those who wager on de Vivonne. A gamble! A duel! I’ll wager Monsieur de Vivonne will be the victor. It is true, my love, that he is the finest swordsman in France. I was better― once. But alas! I have grown old and others take my place― yes, take my place.’
She narrowed her eyes, whilst his smouldered. She knew he was thinking of de Chabot’s making love to her, as de Nançay had been when he discovered
them. He would be amused to have her lover murdered by the best swordsman in France, for de Vivonne would avenge the King’s honour as well as that of the Dauphin.
She repeated: ‘It would be murder.’
‘Oh come, my love, your opinion of de Chabot is unworthy of him. He is not such a poor, craven fellow that he is going to fling aside his sword and beg for mercy as soon as de Vivonne holds his at his throat.’
‘He is no craven, certainly!’ She spoke with vehemence.
‘Then doubtless, he will give a good account of himself,’ said the King.
‘He will, but still it will be murder.’
‘Do not distress yourself, my love. The young fool would have brought this on himself. What matters it if he is his mother’s lover? Who should care?’
‘His stepmother.’ she said.
‘Mother― stepmother― I do not care. But the fellow should not have made
such a fool of himself. He should not have gone about lusting for revenge.’
‘It was natural.’
‘How gracious of you to champion the young fool, my dear. So charming of
you to take so much trouble to save his life.’
She said: ‘It is of the house of Valois that I think.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘How so?’
‘Sire, you know this is not de Vivonne’s quarrel. It is the Dauphin’s.’
‘What of that?’
‘It demeans your royal house that another should take Dauphin’s quarrel.’
‘Yet this young man declares his honour must be avenged.’
‘He is young and hot-blooded.’
The King looked at her slyly. ‘I warrant he is; and very reason it would seem he finds favour with some.’
‘Francis, you must stop this duel. This kind of combat cannot take place
without your consent. I implore you not to give it.’
There were tears in her blue eyes; he could see the beating of her heart
disturbing her elaborate bodice. Poor Anne! Indeed, she loved the handsome fellow. She was asking for his life as she had once asked for Madame de
Chateaubriand’s jewels.
She threw herself down beside him, and, taking his jeweled hand, kissed it; she laid her face against his coat.
Odd, thought the King. The King’s mistress pleading with the King that he might spare the life of her lover. The sort of situation Marguerite might have put into one of her tales.
He drew his hand across the softness of her throat as it were a sword to sever the lovely head from the proud shoulders.
‘Why do you do that?’ she asked; and he replied: ‘Thinking of my old
friend, the King of England.’
She laughed suddenly with that quick understanding which had always
delighted him. He knew all. De Chabot was her lover, and she was pleading for his life because she could not bear to be without him.
He joined in her laughter.
‘Dear Francis!’ she said. ‘I would that we could start our life again. I would that this was the first evening we met. Do you remember?’
He remembered. There was no woman he had loved as he had loved Anne
d’Heilly. He was getting old and he had not long to live; and Anne saw, staring her in the face, a future at which she dared not look too closely.
She clung to him.
‘Francis― let us be happy.’
So much she given him; so much would she continue to give to him; and all she asked in return was complaisance and the life of her lover. So how could he, the most chivalrous of men, refuse to give her what she asked?
———————
All during the last months of that year there was uneasiness throughout the court. The old order was dying. People were wondering what changes would be made when the new king came to the throne.
Anne, having saved the life of her lover when Francis refused the duel
between him and de Vivonne to take place enjoyed a temporary respite. She knew it could not last. The King’s bouts of illness were growing more and more frequent, he did not care to stay in any place for more than a few days now. He hunted often, although he was too ill to enjoy the chase; but he always said that he would go, and if he was too old and sick to ride, he would be carried there.
Anne prayed daily for his health. The Reformed party watched uneasily while the Catholic party waited hopefully.
Catherine felt stimulated by the de Chabot affair, which she herself had
cunningly brought about. She felt that if she wished it, eventually she could make puppets of all these people about her while she herself was the puppet-master.
She longed for power. She would use all her cunning to achieve it. If the love of her husband and the affection of her children were denied to her, why should she not work for power?
She had learned to work in the shadows.
She watched the King growing weaker with each passing day. She was
tender to him, solicitous, showing great eagerness to serve. And she smiled, remembering that in her wisdom, she had made friends with Diane and, because of that deeply humiliating effort, she now had children, so that she need not, as poor Anne d’Etampes, fear the death of Francis. Those children, who had come to her out of her wisdom and her cunning, had given her the security for which she had once to plead with the King.
Up and down the country went the court at the bidding of its restless King.
A week at Blois; another at Amboise; to Loches; to Saint-Germain, and back to Les Tournelles and Fontainebleau. And then― on again.
———————
It was February and the court had travelled down to and come to rest at the Château of La Roche-Guyon. Here they would be forced to stay awhile, for the snow was falling incessantly and the sky was still heavy with it. Great fires were built up in the huge fireplaces; Anne, with Catherine and members of the Petite Bande, put their heads together in order to devise some means of diverting the King from his gloom.
They planned masques and plays; there was dicing and cards; balls, when
the company planned extravagant fantastic fancy dresses. But the King would not be amused; he hated to be forced to stay in one place when he wished to go on, and the King’s mood, as always, was reflected in his courtiers. They stood about in melancholy groups, asking themselves and each other what they could possibly do to relieve the tedium. They were like fretful children, Catherine thought, with too many toys. As for herself, what did she care if the snow kept them prisoners here. Henry was here and Diane was here. It made no difference to her whether they were at Les Tournelles or Loches, Fontainebleau or La Roche-Guyon. She still had her hours of agony to endure when the Dauphin
was, as she knew full well, making love to Diane; she still had her moments of hope when ceremony demanded that he sit beside her or dance with her; there was still the bittersweet hour when he dutifully came to her apartments. And to set beside jealousy, there was always hope; and neither of thes
e altered by place or time.
The snow was piling up high in the courtyards; it lay along the castle walls.
Never had the old château seemed so gloomy, and the King was growing more and more irritable, bursting into sudden temper over matters which would once have called forth nothing but a grunt of amusement.
It was midday and they had just eaten heavily; the old were drowsy; the
young were fidgety. Why, asked one young nobleman of the Count d’Enghien, could not the King go to his chamber and sleep, or perhaps take a beautiful girl to keep him company― two beautiful girls? He had but to tender the invitation.
The Count replied sadly that the King was not the man he had been.
‘Come here, Catherine, my dear,’ said Francis, ‘and sit beside think of some game we might play to relieve this tedium? Of all my châteaux, I think that after this I shall hate La Roche-Guyon most.’
Catherine looked at Anne, who. was sitting on the other side of the King’s chair. Anne lifted her shoulders; she was listless. The King looked very ill today.
‘There is nothing, Sire, but to watch the snow and be glad that we are in this warm château and not out there in the cold,’ said Catherine.
‘The child would bid me count my blessings!’ said the King. ‘Why, in the
days of my youth we had some good fights in the snow.’
‘Sire, let there be a fight now!’ cried Catherine.
‘Alas! I am old to join in it.’
‘It is pleasanter to look on at a fight than to take part in it,’ said Anne,
‘come, you slothful people. The King commands you to fight― to take up arms against each other―’
‘Armfuls of snow!’ cried Catherine. ‘A mock battle! It will be amusing.’
Francis with Catherine, Anne, Diane, and other ladies and some of the older men, ranged themselves about the while the young men rushed out to the
courtyards.
Catherine, watching the fight, smiled to herself. Even in a game, it seemed, there must be two parties. D’Enghien was the leader of the Reformed party; d’Enghien for the King and Anne. For the Catholic party and Diane― and
Henry of course, and with him the dashing and imperious Francis de Guise. It was the latter who concentrated his shower of snow on the Count. Henry, as Dauphin, must necessarily keep aloof. The two young men, de Guise and
d’Enghien, were heroes of the fight. Diane was watching them closely; and Catherine watched Diane.
‘Bravo, Count!’ cried the King when his favourite scored a neat hit.
‘And bravo, de Guise!’ Diane was bold enough to shout when that
handsome fellow threw his snowballs with accuracy.
Even there, in the group surrounding the King, there was evidence of the
two parties. Only one person kept silent― the wise one; she who was content to be thought meek and humble and in reality was more cunning than any.
Catholic against Protestant, thought Catherine. The d’Etampes party against Diane’s party. De Vivonne against de Chabot. The fools, thought Catherine, to take sides in somebody else’s quarrel. The wise worked for themselves.
The King noticed the silence of his daughter-in.law and drawing her to him, whispered: ‘Why, Catherine, who you favour― my charming Count or that
handsome rogue de Guise?’
‘I favour the winner, Sire,’ said Catherine, ‘for he will be the better man.’
Francis held her wrist and looked into her eyes. ‘Methinks there is great wisdom behind these charming dark eyes. I say, let them fight this out with snowballs― fit weapons for such a quarrel.’
The fight went on. It was too amusing to be stopped. Even the King forgot his melancholy.
Catherine laughed aloud to see dashing de Guise sprawling in the snow; and when Diane turned cold eyes upon her, she laughed equally loudly to see to young d’Enghien go headfirst into a snowdrift. Catherine’s eyes met those of Henry’s mistress, and Diane smiled.
You suppose Diane, thought Catherine, that I am of no account. I am too humble to take part in your petty quarrels. To a simpleton such as I am, this is but a snow-fight― nothing more.
Diane said: ‘Good fun, this snow-fight, is it not, Madame?’
‘Most excellent fun,’ replied Catherine.
And she thought: nothing is forgiven. Every pin-prick, every small
humiliation is noted; and one day you will be asked to pay for them all, Sénéchale.
The battle had taken on a new turn. One man found a stone and threw it;
another discovered a goblet which had been left in the courtyard and aimed it at the head of a man in the opposing party. The first blood was then shed. It brought laughter and applause from the onlookers.
Now, some of the fighters had come inside the castle and were throwing
cushions at one another. The King and the watchers were so overcome with
laughter that they encouraged the fight to grow wilder and wilder.
A stool came crashing through a window; it was followed by others.
‘Come!’ said Francis. ‘Attack, men!’
Catherine noticed Francis de Guise disappear from the fight. She only knew that something significant was about to happen. If she could but slip away, send a command to one of her women to follow Monsieur de Guise!
All manner of articles were flying out of the windows now. A china bowl
splintered on the head of one young man, who staggered, looked startled and then fell unconscious on the
‘Carry in the wounded!’ cried Francis.
Even as he spoke, pots and pans were flying out of the windows, followed
by chairs and small tables.
The King roared with laughter.
‘What a merry turn to a snow battle!’ cried Anne.
And the comedy was suddenly turned to tragedy. Catherine need no longer
wonder as to the disappearance of Monsieur de Guise.
Suddenly, crashing down from an upper window came a heavy chest.
The Count was standing immediately beneath the window from which it fell.
There was a warning shout of horror which the King joined, but it was too late.
D’Enghien, startled, looked up, but he could not escape in time. The chest fell on top of him; and his blood gushed startlingly red over the whiteness of the snow.
———————
That sad year sped by quickly for the King of France. There seemed little left to live for.
‘I have but to love, and misfortune overtakes my loved ones!’ he said.
‘When I love my son Francis, he died suddenly and mysteriously. My beloved Charles was a victim of the plague. And this handsome boy, who in some small measure took their place in my heart, has been cruelly done to death in a sham battle.’
He sought to forget his grief in gaiety. There was a long meandering from castle to castle. The tempo must be speeded up; there must be richer food at his tables; stronger wine-flow; the women surrounding him must be more beautiful; the morals of his court the more depraved. His dress was more extravagantly jewelled. The sparkle of diamonds must make up for the lack-lustre of his eyes, the red of rubies for the pallor which had touched his face. Wit and wine, women and love, music and poetry― they must be his to enjoy. His must still be the most luxurious and the most intellectual court in Europe.
It was February, exactly a year after the death of the Count; a cold and
snowy February to remind him of the tragedy.
The Court was at Saint-Germain-en-Laye; and at the head of his banqueting table, Francis sat― his Queen on his right, Anne on his left.
Catherine, in her place at the table, was thinking now would she change
places with the King of France. His day was fast ending and it was the turn of others to enjoy great power. Henry. Diane. And Catherine de’ Medici?
When the banquet was over and the company danced, Catherine assured
herself that hers would be
the brightest destiny. She had learned to hide her light under a bushel until time came for her to show it; then should its brightness only dazzle, not only the men and women of France, but of all Europe.
Outside, the snow was falling fast; inside the castle, the heat was unbearable.
Bodices slipped from shoulders; eyes gleamed in torchlight. Anne sat beside the King and with her was Catherine. Neither cared to dance. Catherine, her hands meekly folded in her lap, knew that Henry was whispering to Diane as they sat among their friends and supporters; Catherine gave no sign that she as much as saw them. Anne was watching de Chabot with a red-headed beauty, and there was smouldering jealousy in her eyes; the King was aware of Anne’s jealousy. It gave Catherine a feeling of comfort to know that for once the his mistress were experiencing the same bitter emotion as she did herself. It gave her a feeling of satisfaction to realize that long endurance had taught her to hide her feelings far better than they could.
A messenger came while the dance was in progress. He craved the King’s
permission to speak, and on receiving it, he announced the death of the King of England.
Francis stared before him. ‘Dead!’ he said. ‘So he is dead then.’
He beckoned to an attendant and bid him look after the messenger and feed him well.
‘I had been expecting this,’ said Francis. ‘He has been long sick.’
‘The end of an old enemy,’ said Anne. ‘I wonder how he will face his Judge.
We must do a masque: The King of England at the Judgment Seat. What think you?’
But Francis was silent.
Anne pressed his hand and said: ‘This saddens you, my love.’
The King smiled. ‘We were of an age,’ he said. ‘My old friend; my old
enemy. He has gone whither I shortly must follow.’
Catherine said: ‘I beg of you, Sire, say not so.’
‘There, my little one. Do not be distressed. It is something we must all come to, and I but happen to be a step or two nearer than you and Anne here.’
Anne’s lips were tight. ‘I beg of you not to speak of it,’ she said.
‘And I beg of you, my darlings, not to be distressed,’ he said lightly.
‘Catherine, you are safe now, my child. You have a son and a daughter. Get you more of them. I will speak to Henry of you, sweet Anne. He is a good and
