by Jean Plaidy
She found great pleasure in her plans.
Meanwhile, she tried to share Henry’s interests, to work patiently and subtly to lure him from Diane. He loved music. and she spared herself nothing in the pursuit of this art. He was particularly interested in chants and hymns, so it was Catherine’s delight to discover old ones and have new ones written. But Diane concerned herself with music, and anything which Diane showed him was, to Henry, always a hundred times beautiful than anything anyone else could
proffer.
Catherine was an excellent horsewoman, and she contrived, between
pregnancies, to be present at every hunting expedition. She won admiration, even from Henry, for her courage and good horsemanship, while Diane often remained in the castle to welcome the King on his return. How bitterly did Catherine note the eagerness with which the King always greeted his mistress on returning from a hunt in which she had not accompanied him.
He still came to Catherine at night because, so far, she had been able to keep from him the knowledge that she was once more pregnant.
Now that he was the King, Henry had a respect for his position which almost amounted to reverence, His visits to his mistress’ apartments were conducted with great secrecy― as though the whole court did not know of the relationship between himself and Diane. As King, he was naturally more in the public eye than he had been as Dauphin. He would rise at dawn, and the moment he stirred, his entourage would become alive with activity. The highest noblemen in the land, who had been waiting in the antechamber, would enter to salute him and the man of highest rank would hand him his chemise. His first duty on rising was to pray before his bedroom altar in the presence of the assembled company; but from the moment he arose from his bed, and even while he prayed, the
dulcimer and clavicord, the horn and lute would enchant his ears.
After prayers, business followed; and then he would eat. He was no
trencherman; he had forgotten how to eat, it was said, when he had been a prisoner in Spain; and it was an art he had never been able to master, rather to the disgust of countrymen, for the French cuisine was fast becoming the best in the world. This did not seem in any way to impair his health; he was fit and strong, and after discussing further with his ministers of state, he would devote the afternoon to sport. Usually it was the chase― the most loved of all sports―
but he played a good game in the racquet court and was every bit a sportsman.
He had commanded all to forget, while he played, that he was the King; and it was a sight to watch him while men about him discussed the faults quite openly; and when he had finished the game, he would join in the discussion; none was afraid to win a game from the King, because he bore no malice for this, and was delighted to play with men of greater skill than his own.
In the evenings there would be feasting and dancing. It was not wise, said the King’s advisers, that the court should be less brilliant under Henry than it had been under Francis, one must know that the court of France was still the court of France― rich, luxurious, arrogant if need be. Perhaps though, the dancing was a little more stately, the etiquette a little more severe.
And afterwards Henry would be conducted to his apartments for his state
coucher. Poor Henry! He must undress in the presence of his courtiers while the chamberlain made sure
that the bed was properly made; and when he was settled, the usher must bring him in the official keys of the palace and put them under his pillows.
Only then was the King left in peace to make his way to his mistress’
apartments. Life was more difficult for Henry than it had been for Francis.
Francis had cared nothing for propriety. He would have ordered his courtiers to put ten women to bed with him if he so desired. But Henry must be sure that he had been left for the night before he could rise and go to his mistress.
How Catherine loved him― for his primness, for his greatness, for his
desire to do good! Life was indeed strange when it forced her to give all the affection she had to this man who was so unlike herself in every way.
On this night of early summer he came to her apartment which adjoined his own. How stern he looked! So determined to do his duty! They had two children now; she laughed to herself slyly because he did not know that before the year was out, they would have a third. Yesterday, she had all but fainted when sitting in her circle, and only her iron control had kept her sitting, smiling in her seat.
She was not one to give way to ailments, and she was able to ignore the
sickening faintness. She must ignore them, for if she did not, the rumours would start. The Queen was enceinte once more! And then goodbye to Henry for many months. Goodbye to love― or what did service as love.
Henry was sad because he had recently attended the obsequies of his father, and death would have a saddening effect on one as sensitive as Henry. He had decided to have the bodies his brothers, Francis and Charles, interred in state at St. Denis at the same time as that of his father. It had been an extravaganza―
that State burial; no expense had been spared.
The three coffins, each adorned with a recumbent effigy of its’ occupant, were borne outside the walls of Paris to Notre Dame des Champs. The people of Paris had lined the streets to watch the solemn cortège.
Many sons, Catherine was thinking as she watched her husband, would have
rejoiced, would have said: ‘My father is dead, my elder brother is dead; and because of this, I am the King.’
But not Henry.
He spoke of the funeral as he sat by the bed. He always chatted awhile
before he snuffed out the candles. He was regular in his habits; and he wanted these visits of his to seem natural; he did not wish to hurt her feelings by letting her guess that all the time he was with her he was longing to depart.
He never gave any sign, by word or look, that he was longing for an
announcement from her. He was so courteous; it was small wonder that she
loved him. But alas, he was so easy to read and it was impossible for one as astute as she was to be deceived.
So he would chat awhile, playing nervously with bottles on her table, then join her, and afterwards chat again and leave her. The interludes were almost always precisely of the same duration. She laughed to herself― painful, bitter laughter.
How many little Valois would people their nurseries before he decided they need get themselves no more? How long before that happy dream was
realized― Diane, old and wrinkled, or better still, dead; and the King visiting his Queen not for duty’s sake, but for that of love?
‘You are sad, Henry,’ she said.
He smiled; his smile was shy, boyish, charmingly congruous in one who was fast turning grey.
‘I cannot forget the burial,’ he said.
‘It was very impressive.’
‘My father― dead. And my two brothers carried off in the prime of their
lives.’
She was not eager to speak of his brothers. Did he, even now, when he
thought of Francis, think also of her? Suspicion was hard to disperse; it could persist through the years.
‘Charles was no friend to you, Henry.’
‘You are right. As I watched the cortège and grieved for my brothers, Saint-André and Vieilleville were beside me. They remarked on my grief and Saint-André begged Vieilleville to tell me something that happened many years ago at Angoulême. Then Vieilleville told me. He said, Sire, when owing to the folly of La Châtaigneraie and Dampierre, the last Dauphin, Francis and yourself fell into the Charente? I did remember this and I told him so. He then told me how the news that my brother and I were drowned was carried to my father, who was overwhelmed with grief; but in his own apartments my brother Charles was so seized with joy that he was overcome by it. And when he heard our lives had been saved he was overtaken by a severe of fever which experienced doctors attributed to sudden transition from great
joy to deep sorrow. Truly Charles was no friend to me.’
She raised herself on her elbow. ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘if he had lived and had married the niece or the daughter of the Emperor, he would have been a
dangerous enemy to you.’
‘That is so.’
‘Therefore, you should not be sad. King Francis is dead, but he did not die young, and he had his full measure from life! France never had a better king than you will make, Henry. I pray young Francis will be exactly like his father when on that day, which I trust is far, far in the future, he will take his place on the throne.’
‘You are a good and loyal wife, Catherine,’ said the King.
That made her happy. I shall win him, she assured herself. I have but to remember to go cautiously.
But how it was to be careful when she was with Henry. With everyone else
she was clever and cunning, but in her state of tremulous excitement which her husband aroused, caution deserted her.
She could not resist speaking of Madame d’Etampes, who had hastily left the court, but whose fate was still undecided.
Desperately, Catherine wanted Anne to be left in peace. Not that she cared for Anne; she cared for none but― Henry. But if she could plead successfully for Anne, Diane was not allowed to wreak her vengeance on her enemy, what triumph!
You are a good and loyal wife! Those words were as intoxicating as the most potent French wine.
‘I was thinking of your father, Henry, and that poor misguided woman
whom he loved. He begged of you to spare her. You will respect your father’s wishes?’
Immediately she knew she had been wrong to speak.
‘You are ill advised to plead for such a one,’ he said. ‘I have learned this concerning her: she was as great an enemy to me as ever my brother Charles was. He, with her help, was arranging with young Philip of Spain to attack me when reached the throne. My brother promised to make her Governess of the Netherlands if he married the Infanta. In return for this, she was helping him with money.’
‘I― see.’
‘You see that, being ignorant of what is passing, you should not plead for my enemies.’
‘Henry, had I known that she was guilty of this infamy― had I known that
she had conspired against you―’ In her agitation, she rose from the bed and would have come to stand before him; but as she did so, and stretched for her robe, the dizziness overcame her, and valiantly as she tried to hide it, it had not passed undetected by the sharp eyes of King; for after all, he was continually looking for the very symptoms she was trying to hide.
‘Catherine, I fear you are not well.’
‘I am very well, Henry.’
‘Allow me to help you to bed. I will call your women.’
‘Henry― I beg of you― do not disturb yourself. A faintness― nothing
more.’
He was smiling down at her solicitously almost. ‘Catherine― can it be?’
His smile was tender now, and how handsome he looked! He was pleased
with her; and she longed now, pathetically, to keep his pleasure.
No finesse. No subterfuge now. She wished only to please him.
‘Henry, I think it may be. You are pleased?’
‘Pleased! I am delighted. This, my dear, is just what I was hoping for.’
She was so happy that his irritation with her had turned to pleasure, even if this did mean her fertility released him from of visiting her instead of his mistress.
———————
The uncrowned Queen of France! Surely this was one of the most enviable
positions in the land for a practical and ambitious woman to hold. What a happy day for Diane when Francis the King had commanded her to befriend his son!
She received Henry in her apartments, which were more splendid, more
stately than those of the Queen.
‘How beautiful you are!’ he said as he knelt and kissed her hands.
She smiled, fingering the jewels at her throat. A short while ago, they
belonged to Anne d’Etampes, presents from Francis. Diane wished Anne could see her wearing the gems.
Regally, Diane dismissed her attendants that she might be alone with the
King. They sat together in one of the window seats, he with his arm about her.
‘Excellent news, my loved one,’ he said. ‘Catherine is enceinte.’
‘That is wonderful. I had thought there was a look about her of late.’
‘She all but fainted, and I guessed.’
Diane nodded. Sly Catherine had tried to withhold the news. Diane laughed.
Poor, humble little Queen. How much happier it was to be the sort of Queen she herself was! How pleasant to be able to be sorry for the real Queen of France!
Henry had no secrets from Diane. He said: ‘She tried to plead for Anne
d’Etampes.’
Diane was immediately alert.
‘My dear, how foolish of her!’
Diane was smiling, but she was disturbed. She pictured the placid face of the Queen― the dark eyes were mild, but was the mouth inscrutable? Surely
Catherine would never dare to intrigue with Diane’s old enemy. Diane turned her face to the King and kissed him, but whilst he embraced her, her thoughts ran on. To rule a King needed more caution, more shrewdness than to rule a Dauphin. Henry was sentimental and he had promised his father on the latter’s death-bed to protect Anne d’Etampes. Diane recalled now with what fury she had heard the news that Henry had sent a kind message to Anne on her
retirement to Limours when Francis died; in it he had hinted that she might return to court. He had promised his father; he insisted. He was a good man, though unsubtle; but he was also a grateful lover, a man to remember his
friends. Anne de Montmorency was already back in favour, and there was a man Diane must watch lest he receive too much favour; but for the time,
Montmorency, who had his own score to settle with Anne d’Etampes, was Diane’s ally.
Dear, simple Henry! It was but necessary to show him how Francis’s
mistress had plotted against Henry with his Charles for him to see that he was justified in releasing himself from any death-bed promise he had made to a man ignorant of the woman’s duplicity. Anne’s property was confiscated, her
servants sent to prison; and her husband, been eager enough to profit from her relationship with Francis, now accused her of fraud, and she was herself sent to prison.
Diane felt that Anne d’Etampes was paying in full for those insults she had directed against the Grande Sénéchale of Normandy. And now― this meek little Catherine must take into her silly head to plead for the woman.
She would, of course, have to learn her lesson. She must realize that she could only be allowed to retain her position as long as she submitted to the uncrowned Queen.
‘I trust,’ said Diane later, ‘that you informed the Queen of the perfidy of Madame d’Etampes in conspiring with your enemies against you?’
‘I told her of this. I fancy she was distressed. She declared herself surprised.’
Well, she might, thought Diane. She would have to be made to realize that it was solely through the clemency of the King’s mistress that his wife was
allowed to bear his children.
———————
Diane couldn’t help feeling that it was again necessary to teach Catherine a lesson. She was beginning to think that the Queen’s new standing had gone to her head. After all, reasoned Diane, the woman was but a Medici, descended from Italian tradesmen; Diane herself was a great lady of France, with royal blood in her veins. Yes, Catherine must understand that she owed her position to Diane; and, moreover, that her success in retaining it depended on Diane.
Catherine would learn a lesson more thoroughly, Diane was sure, if it were given in front of others. Therefore she chose a moment when there should be many august witnesses of the Queen’s discomfiture.
Diane began asking the Queen if she would at some time be kind and
gracious enough to show her the plans she had made for the alterations to the castle of Chenonceaux.
‘Why Madame!’ replied Catherine, ‘I should be delighted to show them to
you. Of course, you understand that I have not the gifts of my gracious father-in-law, and my plans, I fear, leave much room for improvement.’
‘Madame, I should be glad to see them.’
Guy de Chabot, that stupid, reckless man who had once before shown
himself to be Diane’s enemy during the scandal concerning himself and his stepmother, said: ‘Is Madame la Sénéchale thinking of improving on the plans of our gracious Queen?’
‘That may be so, Monsieur de Chabot,’ said Diane coldly, for the man’s
manner was insolent. He had shown himself a fool once before; she was sure that he was ready to do so again. He should realize that he was already in the King’s bad graces; he could not help himself by showing a lack of respect towards the King’s mistress.
Diane turned from him to Catherine.
Catherine said: ‘I had thought of altering the southern façade and building the nine arches which Thomas Bohier projected― was it thirty years ago?’
Catherine glowed. She could not help it. Chenonceaux was one of her
enthusiasms; it had given her so much pleasure to plan reconstructions when she had been smarting under humiliation. She was trapped, as she could be by her emotions into speaking too glowingly.
Marguerite, who was very clever and able to talk interestingly on most
subjects, joined in. There was something kind about Marguerite, and she was glad to see the in the usually pale face of the Queen. Montemorency added his judgments; but artful de Guise guessed what was coming and remained silent.
Catherine said: ‘One of these days I shall start work on Chenonceaux; I shall invite all the greatest artists to help. I shall have the gardens laid out with flower borders; and I shall have ornamented grottoes and fountains.’
