Madame Serpent

by Jean Plaidy

  Diane answered coolly, since the moment could no longer be delayed: ‘It is my sincerest hope that you will grace Chenonceaux with your presence

  whenever it is your desire to do so.’

  Catherine stopped to look at Diane. Only by the faintest flicker of her

  eyelids did she betray her feelings. She smiled while she forced herself to hold her hands to her side and not rush forward to slap the serene and charming smile off the face of her enemy.

  This was cruel, bitter humiliation. Diane had known of her love for

  Chenonceaux; deliberately she had trapped her into betraying her enthusiasm, her longing to claim the claim the place as her own; then, before all these people, she had shown that her desires were as nothing beside those of the woman who was the real Queen of France.

  Never, thought Catherine, have I hated quite as much as I do now. Not even when I have watched her at Saint-Germain through the hole in the floor.

  ‘So―’ began Catherine, and hated herself because she hesitated, aware as

  she was of the sly, laughing eyes of Francis de Guise, of the consternation in those of Marguerite, of the sympathy of de Chabot.

  ‘The King has been good enough to bestow upon me the castle of

  Chenonceaux,’ said Diane. ‘The gift is in recognition of the valuable services rendered the State by my late husband.’

  It was impossible not to admire the way in which Queen Catherine calmly

  went on discussing Chenonceaux after congratulating Queen Diane on the

  acquisition of what was, in Catherine’s mind, one of the most charming

  residences in France.

  Indeed, thought Diane, the Italian woman learns her lessons with grace.

  Catherine was thinking: one day, every score shall be settled. You shall escape nothing, Madame.

  ———————

  ‘Monsieur, you are downcast today.’

  Guy de Chabot found that, in this dance where one’s partners changed

  continually, it was his turn briefly to dance with Queen Catherine.

  He inclined his head. ‘I am,’ he answered, ‘and I hope my condition does

  not give offence to Your Gracious Majesty.’

  ‘We would prefer to see a smile upon your lips.’

  He put one there.

  ‘And not a forced one,’ she said.

  Now they must come closer in the dance and she took advantage of this to

  whisper to him: To not be downcast. There is a way out, Monsieur.’

  Guy de Chabot looked straight into the eyes of the Queen, and he felt that he had never really looked at Catherine before.

  Her lips were smiling, her eyes serene; and yet, he thought, there is

  something about her― something lurking there, something as yet not fully

  developed, something of the serpent―

  But what a fool I am. Anxiety, fear of death is making me fanciful.

  He did not understand her meaning and his blank expression told herself.

  ‘You fear de Vivonne,’ she whispered. ‘Do not. There is a way out.’

  Now they were not so close, and it was impossible to whisper. De Chabot’s heart beat faster. It was true that he was afraid. He was not a coward, but he supposed that any man seeing death staring him in the face, feared it. He must face de Vivonne in mortal combat, for he had been challenged and had given the consent which King Francis, for the sake of Anne d’Etampes, had denied. De Vivonne was the best swordsmen in France and to fight him was to fight with death.

  There were times when one could swagger, pretend one did not know the

  meaning of fear; but this quiet Queen caught something in his face which he did not realize he had shown.

  I am young, he thought; I do not wish to die.

  What a gay adventure it had seemed, loving the King’s mistress, as many

  had before him, and some after. And now she, so beautiful, completely

  desirable, was languishing in prison and he was challenged to a duel which meant certain death.

  And suddenly, unexpectedly, here was the Queen to him that she knew a

  way out. But what way out little Catherine show him? It was the wish of the King, and King’s powerful favourite that he should die. How Queen save him?

  The Queen had very little more power than he had. Why, only a short while ago he had seen Madame Diane humiliate her cruelly over this matter of

  Chononceaux. And yet, suddenly, he had been made aware of the power of the Queen. He could not help it, but it made him shiver slightly, even while it filled him with hope. It was like being suddenly in a dark place by someone he had not known was near him. It was the Queen who had spoken to him; yet it was not the Queen’s mild eyes that looked at him but the of a serpent, calm, patiently waiting for the moment poisonous fangs could be plunged into an enemy.

  He had no opportunity of speaking to her for a while. He must continue in the dance, and now he had another saucy-eyed girl who regarded him with

  favour. He was very handsome, this de Chabot; and the fact that all believed he was not long for this world seemed to add to his purely physical charm. But just now he could think of nothing but the Queen.

  He had wondered at her meekness over the affair of Chenoniceaux. He

  remembered now how unnatural he had thought it, for a wife and Queen, to

  accept insult so mildly. But was she so mild? He felt that for a moment she had lifted a veil and shown him some secret part of Queen Catherine. He understood it; it was perfectly clear. The King and Madame Diane had decided he should die. He had been the lover of their old enemy; he had given the King, when he was Dauphin, some uneasy moments; he had swaggered about the court

  challenging him who had dared cast a slur on his honour and that of his

  stepmother, knowing full well that those who had done so were Dauphin Henry and his mistress. Now he was asked to pay for that folly. But what if, contrary to expectation, it were not de Vivonne who was victor in the combat, but de

  Chabot. What a surprise for the crowd who would come to see him die. What embarrassment for the King and his mistress. Diane had been prime mover in this affair. Might it not be that the King be so discomfited that he would feel resentment against her on whom he now doted? Yes, de Chabot could see how the Queen’s mind worked. And if she could turn defeat into life, what joy!

  He did not see her in the dance again, but later that evening he had occasion to pass close to her. He looked at her pleadingly and he did not look in vain.

  ‘Tomorrow evening. Masked. The house of the Ruggieri on the river.’

  He inclined his head.

  It was with apprehension and hope that he went to keep his appointment. It was difficult not to run through the streets of Paris. It was necessary to wrap himself in a sombre cloak that would cover his extravagant court garments; he would doubtless return after dark, and he had no wish to encounter a party of rogues. Moreover, she had said, ‘Masked’. It would not do for any to discover that de Chabot was meeting the Queen at the house of her astrologers.

  A new thought struck him. What if this meeting had nothing to do with the combat? He was attractive; he had been much sought after. Surely this could another love affair. With Catherine de’ Medici! He felt cold suddenly, wishing himself back in the palace.

  Impossible, he thought. But was it? It was said that the Queen was

  neglected as soon as she became pregnant, that it was at Madame Diane’s

  command that the King gave her children. People laughed.

  ‘What a mild little thing is this Queen of ours. The Italian creature has no spirit.’ And yet, for a moment at the dance, when he had looked into her eyes, he believed he had seen a different woman from her whom the court knew. Could it be that she had no plan of helping him, that she desired him as a lover just as many had before her?

  He stopped. He had come to the river; he saw the house of the Italian

  magicians, and for
some minutes he could not take the necessary steps which would lead him to the front door.

  He thought he heard the whispering of a crowd. ‘Remember Dauphin

  Francis―’

  He did not know the Queen. No one knew the Queen. Yet for a moment he

  had thought those beautiful dark eyes were cold and implacable like the eyes of a serpent.

  He understood why the King could not love his wife. Had de Chabot not

  been a man who knew he could, unless a miracle happened, shortly die, he

  would have turned and gone back hastily the way he had come.

  Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and deliberately walked on to the house of the Ruggieri.

  ———————

  Paris sweltered in midsummer sunshine whilst its gothic towers and spires reached towards the bluest of skies. By the great walls of the Bastille and the Conciergerie the people trooped; they came along the south bank of the Seine, past the colleges and convents, while down the hill of St. Genevieve students and artists, with rogues and vagabonds, came hurrying. They were intent on leaving behind them the walls of the capital, for quite close to the City at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, one of the grandest shows any of them had ever seen was

  being prepared for their enjoyment.

  Tumblers and jugglers performed for the crowd; ballads― gay, sentimental, and ribald― were sung; some of these songs were written in ridicule of the fallen favourite Madame d’Etampes, who, it was believed, was destined for execution; none dared sing now the songs that very lady had set in circulation concerning Diane de Poitiers. No! Diane had risen to a lofty eminence. Let us glorify her, said the people. Madame d’Etampes has fallen from grace; therefore let us stamp upon her. If she had appeared among them, they would have tried to stone her to death.

  Death was in the air. The people were going to see a man killed. They were going to see rich red blood stain the grass of the meadow and looking on with them would be the King himself, the Italian woman, and that one who was the real Queen of France, although she did not possess the title― in short, Madame Diane de Poitiers; there would also be the great Anne de Montmorency and

  others of the King’s ministers; in fact, those names were known throughout the land.

  Small wonder that the people of Paris had turned out in their thousands to witness the mortal combat between two brave and gallant gentlemen.

  De Chabot and de Vivonne were the two protagonists. Why did they fight?

  That was unimportant, but it was for some long-ago scandal that de Vivonne, whom everyone expected to win, was taking over the King’s quarrel; and that de Chabot, the lover of Madame d’Etampes before she had fallen in disgrace.

  All that July the crowds waited in the fields surrounding that one wherein the combat was to take place. Bets were taken; pockets were picked; men and women lay about on the grass, amusing themselves in sundry ways whilst they waited.

  And as the sun rose high, the gallants and brightly-clad ladies began to take their seats in the pavilion, which was decorated with cloth of gold and cloth of silver spattered with the lilies of France. There was Montmorency himself; the Guise brothers, the Cardinals, the Bishops, the Chamberlain― all the high officials of the court; and with them the ladies-in-waiting to the Queen.

  On either side of the field were the tents of the combatants. In de Vivonne’s tent― so confident was he of victory― had already been prepared a banquet to celebrate his triumph. He had borrowed the finest plate from the richest

  households of the court for this occasion; soups, venison, roast meats of all varieties, sweets and fruit, and great butts wine, it was said, were in that tent; indeed the appetizing odours were floating out to the crowd. Everyone’s hope of victory with de Vivonne. De Vivonne was the King’s man; and it was believed that de Chabot had no stomach for the fight.

  How delighted was the crowd with the glittering yet sinister sight which met its eyes. Just below the seat in which sat grim-faced Montmorency were five figures, all masked, all draped in black. These were the executioner and his assistants. When de Chabot was slain, it would be their lot to drag him to the gibbet as though he were a felon. It was a glorious and wonderful show― well worth waiting for. There was not a peddler, a prostitute nor a conjurer, a merchant nor a student in that vast crowd who would not have agreed to that.

  Now the royal party was stepping out, so the show was all but due to begin.

  The heralds blew several fanfares on their trumpets, and now there appeared the royal group led by good King Henry. The crowd cheered itself hoarse. They loved the King― though, declared some, sighing for the magnificence of the most magnificent of kings, he was not such a one as his father had been. But others, who were too young to remember the charm of Francis, thought that none could he better than their good and virtuous King who was so faithful to his mistress.

  And here she was beside him, just as though she were his wife and Queen in name. And there again it showed the depth of his love for her, since in all other matters he would have the strictest etiquette observed. She, with him,

  acknowledged the cheers of the crowd, smiling graciously, beautiful in her black-and-white which made her look so pure and lovely that the coloured

  garments of those surrounding her seemed suddenly garish.

  And then― the Queen. The crowd was silent. No cheers for the Italian

  woman. Perhaps they applauded the King and his mistress so heartily because of their dislike for the Italian woman.

  ‘Dauphin Francis!’ was hissed among the unforgetful crowd.

  Catherine heard this. But one day, she thought, they will shout for me. One day they will know me for the true Queen of France in every respect.

  It was the old hope of ‘One Day’.

  She could feel the child within her. Here I sit, she thought, pale-faced and quiet, with never a thought, some may imagine, but of the child soon to be born.

  Little do they know that I wait not because I was born patient, but because I have learned patience. Little do they know that they would not be gathered here to witness this mortal combat but for the fact that in the first place, I set the matter in motion.

  She smiled graciously and laid her hands on her pearl-studded stomacher.

  Madalenna leaned towards her. ‘Your Majesty is well?’

  ‘Quite well, I thank you. A little faintness. It is to be expected.’

  In the crowd they would have noticed the gesture, for there was little they missed; they would have seen Madalenna’s anxious query.

  ‘You see,’ Catherine wished to say to her subjects. ‘He has his mistress, but I shall bear his children. I alone can bear him kings and queens.’

  The herald of Guinne, his silken tabard shimmering in the hot sun, stepped forward and blew a few notes on his trumpet. There was an immediate stillness in the air while the crowd waited for the announcement.

  ‘This day, the tenth of July, our Sovereign Lord the King granted free and fair field for mortal combat to Francis de Vivonne assailant and Guy de Chabot assailed to resolve by arms the question of honour which is at issue between them. Wherefore I make known to all, in the King’s name, that none may turn aside the course of the present combat, aid nor hinder either of the combatants on pain of death.’

  As soon as the herald ceased to speak, a great cheer went up. The excitement was intense, for the combat was about to begin.

  De Vivonne came from the tent accompanied by his second― one of

  Diane’s protégés― and friends numbering at least five hundred strong. They wore his colours― red and white― while before the hero of the day was carried his sword, shield, and banner on which was the image of St Francis. With this company, before which drummers and trumpeters de Vivonne walked all round the field to the cheers of the people. When he had done this, he went into his tent while de Chabot with his second, but with far fewer supporters in black-and-white, did the same.

  Next came the ceremony of testing the
weapons to be used which, as

  assailed, Guy de Chabot was to choose. This gave rise to a good deal of

  controversy, and arguments ensued while the afternoon wore on. The heat was intense, but Catherine scarcely felt the discomfort. This, she had determined should be a day of triumph for her. Today, Henry was going to feel a little less pleased with his Diane than he had ever been before. Catherine did not expect to win her husband from his mistress on such an issue, but it would be such affairs as this, piled one on top of the other, that would eventually, she was sure, turn him from his mistress to his waiting wife.

  Diane was leaning forward in her seat, frowning at the delay. What was the trouble? Diane wished the affair done with; her enemy lying dead, a lesson to all those who dared flout the King’s mistress.

  Madame, thought Catherine, there is, I hope, a great surprise awaiting you.

  This trouble over the weapons was the beginning. What joy it had been to

  wrap herself in a shabby and all-concealing cloak and keep the appointment she had made with Monsieur de Chabot at the home of the astrologers Ruggieri. It was not de Chabot who had chosen the weapons that would used today; it was Catherine. De Chabot had spent hours taking lessons at that house from an Italian fencing-master.

  Ha! laughed Catherine to herself. There is much we Italians can do which these French cannot. We know better than they how to remove people who stand in our way!

  How pleasant now to sit back languidly in her seat and to know why there

  was this dispute about the weapons, while Diane leaned forward, not

  comprehending, wondering, as did the restive crowd, why the spectacle did not proceed.

  De Chabot declared that he wished to fight on foot, with armour, shields, and two-edged swords, and with short daggers of the old-style― the heavy and hampering kind. De Vivonne was nonplussed by this choice, and for the first time was uneasy.

  Diane’s frown had deepened. It was for Montmorency, who for the day was

  Master of the Ceremonies, to give judgment. And there he sat, the grim-faced old fool, determined to be just.