by Jean Plaidy
Henry had an arm about each child.
‘Now you must tell me what you have been doing, my dear little ones.’
They chattered, gay and laughing. Mary, her big eyes seeming to grow
bigger, explained the perilous journey in detail, making the King laugh with her description of how they had foiled the English fleet. Diane, hugging Elizabeth, joined in their laughter; and Catherine suddenly realized that Mary Stuart was no longer a dignified little Queen; with the King and Diane she was just a six-year-old little girl.
There was no place for Catherine in that magic circle.
She crept away unnoticed, and went to the cradle in which lay little Claude.
The baby at least seemed glad to see her. She clucked and laughed as her mother bent over her. Catherine held up a finger and the baby’s eyes grew large as she stared at the jewel there. Then she reached for it, laughing.
‘You love your mother then, Baby Claude,’ murmured Catherine.
But she knew that Baby Claude would grow up soon; then she too would
turn from her mother to Diane― unless a miracle happened.
———————
The King grew more and more under the influence of Diane. He had created
her Duchesse de Valentinois and bestowed greater and richer estates upon her.
She was such a good Catholic that it was only right, thought the King, that the confiscated property of Protestants should be given to her, together with fines which the Jews were called upon to pay from time to time.
Brooding on her hatred, Catherine despised herself. Why did she not find
some way of killing Diane? What folly it was to love, for it was only her love for Henry which stopped her again and again from trying one of the poisons she had in her possession. Sometimes she felt that it would be worthwhile risking the perpetual hatred of Henry if she could free herself from the continual humiliation of witnessing his love for Diane.
But she knew her love for her husband was greater than her hatred for his mistress. That was the crux of her problem. While matters stood as they were, she had that period between having children when she could share her husband with Diane; at other times she lived on her imagination. But Diane dead, and her death traced to Catherine, might mean banishment― anything, in which case she would be robbed of Henry’s visits and those other intimacies which she enjoyed in her mind.
Sometimes she implored the Ruggieri to help her. They stood firm. No
matter how subtle the poison, they dared not risk it. They begged her to cling to reason. It was difficult; it was only her desire for her husband that saved Diane’s life.
Early the following year her son Louis was born, and in June of the same
year she had her coronation. The crown was placed upon her head, but it was Diane who wore the Crown jewels; and it was Diane’s head with that of the King which appeared on the medals.
Tired out by the celebrations which attended her coronation, she would lie in her bed and think yearningly of the King as she had seen him that day in his white armour covered by a tunic of cloth of silver, the scabbard of his sword encrusted with rubies and diamonds; with what dignity he had ridden his noble white charger, while over his head was held, by mounted men with frisky horses which pranced on each side of the King’s, a canopy of blue velvet embroidered with golden fleur-de-lys.
He had looked so noble, so kingly. No wonder people had cheered him.
Catherine clenched and unclenched her hands. If only― I will do it. I do not care what happens. I will not see him doting on her, all the time giving her what belongs by right to me.
Many times during the darkness of night she poisoned Diane in her
imagination; she saw herself sprinkling powdered white poison over the
woman’s food; she saw Diane turning the book whose pages were smeared with some deadly solution that would seep into her skin; she saw her drawing on gloves that had been cunningly treated by Cosmo and Lorenzo.
But with each morning, caution came hand in hand with common sense, and
although she could not part with an idea which was an obsession and belonged to her life as much as did her love for her husband and her hatred for his mistress, she knew that the time was not yet ripe.
———————
Contemplating the gaiety of the life at court, it seemed to Catherine that a colourfully embroidered cloth had been laid across something that was horrible, for the wars of religion were taking on a deep significance throughout the land.
The Chambre Ardente― a special chamber to deal with Huguenots― had been created by Parliament. Henry was less cruel than many about him and he did not wish to have his subjects tortured and burned at the stake, even though he was convinced that their misguided religious views might merit this punishment; but he was hemmed in by strong men and women who demanded punishment for
the heretic. These were the wily de Guises, grown more powerful since their niece, Mary Stuart, had arrived in France, the cruel Montmorency, and Diane herself.
Calvin was flourishing, and Protestantism was growing everywhere; there
were even some towns where the Reformers were in a majority; and where they were, as Diane did not hesitate to point out to the King, they did not refrain from persecuting Catholics. A firm hand was needed, said the Catholic party.
Protestantism must be ruthlessly suppressed.
Catherine, concerned with her own obsession, felt aloof from the
conflagration. She would state no opinions and favor none unless it were
beneficial to her to show favour. If the Protestants could help Catherine de’
Medici in her fight against Diane, then they should have her help; but if the Catholics could prove advantageous in the same cause, then Catherine was all for the Catholics.
Watch and wait for an opportunity to defeat Diane, should be her motto.
An opportunity did come her way, and she seized on it.
Henry was disturbed. It was all very well for his friends to tell him that the burning and torturing of heretics was a necessary duty. Even though Diane insisted on this, he could not feel happy about it. He would, he declared in unguarded moment, be prepared to hear what an ambassador from the Reformed party had to tell him. The man could come to him and have no fear, on the King’s honour, of being victimized for anything he might say on this occasion.
This announcement of the King’s threw Diane and her friends into a state of uneasiness. There were intelligence in the Reformed party; and the fact that the King had, without first consulting Diane, declared his willingness to hear their side of the case was in itself disconcerting.
Catherine was delighted. Could this mean a lessening of Diane’s power, an inclination in the King to think for himself? She was alert, wondering if there was any small way in which she could turn this matter to her advantage.
There were several prisoners awaiting torture and execution, the King had said; and he was agreeable that one of them should be sent to him that he might state his case.
A prisoner, thought Catherine. She guessed that Diane suggested that. Why, the King should have sent for Calvin or some such exalted member of the party.
But a prisoner. There was no doubt that the King was as much under the
influence of his Catholic mistress as ever.
So Diane, with her new relations, the de Guises, brought their man before the King. He was to be questioned in the presence of others besides Henry; indeed, there was a good gathering of ladies and gentlemen of the court seated about the King.
Catherine watched the wretched man who had been selected for cross-
examination. He was a poor tailor, a man of no education; but as Catherine cunningly surveyed him, it began to occur to her that Diane her friends had not been so clever
She felt that mad racing of her heart that was the only indication of her excitement. This tailor was a man of ideals; there was no mistaking the burning zeal in his eyes;
he stood before them unafraid, so sure that he was right and they were wrong. She was reminded at once of Montecuccoli and how such men could be used by others whose zeal was not for a cause but for their own power and the fulfillment of their desires. Such men as Montecuccoli and this poor tailor were made to be used by such as herself, the de Guises, Diane. But in this case, she was cleverer than Diane and the de Guises. Had she been in their place, she would not have brought a fanatic and an idealist to speak against them.
The tailor looked wretched in his ragged clothes, the more so because of the brilliant colours and the jewel-studded garments of the court. It was foolish to imagine such a man would be over-awed by splendid surroundings and costly jewels. To him there was no splendour but that of Heaven, to be attained only through what he believed to be the true religion.
He proved to be a man of some intelligence and he talked eloquently. It was easy to see that the King was not unimpressed. It was impossible, Henry was obviously thinking, not to admire spirit and courage, and these the man un-undoubtedly had, even though his religious views were to be regretted.
Catherine was trembling. She longed now to impose her will upon the man,
as she could do easily enough with such as Madalenna. There was within
Catherine a power which she did not fully understand. There were times when she would have a clear vision of something which had not at the time happened and which certainly would. It was a queer gift over which she had no control.
But this other gift of concentration which enabled her to make others do as she wished in certain circumstances, she felt she was more able to guide.
How stimulating it was to endeavour to work her will on others! Now she
wished the tailor to see her as the poor neglected Queen of France, humiliated by the haughty harlot in black-and-white. No doubt he thought of her as that, but at this moment, his mind was far from the relationship of the King with his wife and mistress. Catherine would bring his thoughts to this matter, because she desired to will him to make an outburst, before all these people, against Diane.
She caught the man’s eye and held it for several seconds. She forced herself to see herself through his eyes― the neglected wife, betrayed by a husband with an adulteress. She saw herself, if she had power, pleading for the Huguenots and Calvinists, helping those of the Protestant faith.
She felt the sweat in the palms of her hands; she was almost faint with the effort she had made.
Then Diane put a question to the tailor, and the moment had come.
‘Madame,’ he cried in ringing tones as he turned to the King’s mistress, ‘rest assured with having corrupted France and do not mingle your filth with a thing so sacred as the truth of God.’
The silence which followed this outburst lasted seconds, but it seemed
longer to Catherine. The King had risen. His face was scarlet. Diane had been insulted. Henry, who had humiliated his Queen in a thousand ways, would not stand by and hear a word against his mistress.
Everyone was waiting for the King to speak, holding her head high and
seemed haughtier than ever. Catherine, recovered from her mental strain,
endeavoured to look as shocked as any present that a humble tailor could so speak of the Duchess of Valentinois. The tailor stood defiant, unabashed, his eyes raised to the ceiling; he cared nothing, this man, because he believed that God and all the angels were on his side.
And while the King stood there, slow in his anger, struggling to find the words he needed to express his hatred for this man, two of the guards strode forward and seized the wretched tailor.
‘Take him!’ said Henry, through clenched teeth. ‘He shall be burned alive in the Rue Saint-Antoine, and I myself will watch him burn.’
The tailor threw back his head and laughed.
He called to the saints to witness the puny revenge of a dishonourable King who had promised that he might be allowed to speak freely. Did they think to hurt him through what they could do to his miserable body? He welcomed
death. He would die a hundred deaths for the true faith.
Catherine, as she watched the man carried out, knew that Henry was already ashamed of his conduct. This was the second time he had been publicly
humiliated through Diane. Would he realize this? Would he not feel some
resentment? Or was this just another of those petty victories which led nowhere?
———————
Catherine watched her husband pace up and down his room. Through the
open window they could hear the tramp of feet and the low chanting of many voices.
The wretched procession had almost completed its miserable journey
through the streets.
Catherine took her place beside the King at the window. He was already
regretting that he had sworn to see the tailor burn. He had no stomach for this sort of thing.
Catherine, ever inclined to indiscretion in his presence, wondered whether she should whisper to him: ‘It is through Diane that you suffer thus. You would not be standing at this window now to watch a wretched man perish in the
flames by your orders if it were not for her. She has brought you to this. Do you not see that if you would but listen to your Queen you need never suffer thus? I would never lead you to indiscretions such as this. I would never have let you humiliate yourself over the de Vivonne-de Chabot affair. Oh, my darling, why will you not be wise and love your wife so that she does not have to plot to humiliate you!’
But she would not again be trapped into betraying herself.
She said softly: ‘They are tying up the tailor now.’
‘Catherine,’ said Henry, ‘There is a strangeness about the man.’
‘Yes,’ she answered.
‘A look of― what is it― do you know?’
‘A look of martyrdom, Henry.’
Henry shivered.
‘They are lighting his faggots now,’ said Catherine. ‘Soon he will take his arguments to the Judgment Seat, I wonder how he will fare there.’
‘Methinks he sees us.’
Catherine drew back. From where he was placed, that he might be seen from the palace windows, the tailor could command as good a view of the King as the King could of him.
The tailor’s eyes found those of the King, and would not let them go. They stared at one another― the King in jewel-encrusted velvet, the tailor in his rough shirt.
Catherine watched the red flame as it crackled about the martyr’s feet; she saw the cruel fire run like a wild thing up the coarse shirt. She waited for the cry of agony but none broke from the tailor’s lips. Others groaned in their misery, but not the tailor.
The man’s lips were moving; he was praying to God; and all the time he
prayed, his eyes never left those of the King.
‘Catherine!’ said Henry in a hoarse whisper; and hand groping for hers; his palms were clammy and he was trembling. ‘He will not take his eyes from me, Catherine.’
‘Look away, Henry.’
‘Catherine― I cannot.’
Nor could he.
Catherine crossed herself. It was as though the tailor had put a spell on the King, for Henry wanted to run from the window, to shut out the sight of the tailor’s agony, but he could not; and he knew that, for the rest of his life, he would never forget the dying tailor.
But Catherine had almost forgotten the tailor, for Henry had turned to her for comfort; and it was her hand that he held. She was thinking, Out of small victories, large ones grow; a small miracle can be the forerunner of a great one.
Henry was praying silently for the protection of the saints; and all the time, he stood there staring, until with sudden crackling and roaring the faggots at the tailor’s feet collapsed, and the flames roared up and the martyr’s face was hidden by a wall of fire.
THE KING’S INDISCRETION
CATHERINE LAY at Saint-Germain. Another boy had just been born. This
was Charle
s Maximilian; and she had now three sons― Francis, Louis, who was more sickly than his elder brother, and Charles.
She should have been a happy woman, since that fertility for which she had once fervently prayed was hers; but her miserable jealousy persisted.
Only this morning, she had heard women talking beneath her window, and
getting up from her bed, she had gone to the window and crouched there
listening.
‘The King has gone to Anet.’
‘To Anet! At such a time! His place is here with his wife and new-born son.’
Catherine had imagined the lift of the shoulders, the sly smiles.
‘Oh yes, my friend, it is the custom, is it not, to be with his Queen at such a time? In all things deeply sensible to what is right and what is wrong. But when Madame de Valentinois beckons― ah then, it is another matter.’
‘Poor Queen Catherine! How sad she must be to find herself and her new
son so neglected!’
‘The Queen?―’ The voice dropped so low that Catherine could not hear.
And then: ‘Something― strange about the Queen. I do not think she cares.’
Catherine laughed grimly. Not care indeed! And something strange? Perhaps they were right there. But what a cruel thing when a Queen must be pitied by her women!
Deliberately, then, the woman of Anet had lured Henry from Saint-Germain
at such a time.
Catherine rose from her bed. Useless to remove the desk and rug and look
into the room below. Instead she prayed; she; she wept; she cried out bitterly; and the subject of her prayers was: ‘Holy Mother of God, show me a miracle!’
———————
Was this the miracle?
It was Madalenna who brought the news to her. ‘I have news, Gracious
Majesty. The Duchesse de Valentinois lies sick at Anet.’
Sick at Anet! Catherine’s heart began to beat more quickly. This was it. Her prayers were answered.
‘The King is at Anet, Madalenna.’
‘Yes, the King is with Madame la Duchesse, but it is said that she is very sick indeed.’
