by Jean Plaidy
went on the Queen.
Everyone applauded, for now everyone knew who Perseus was.
‘I could not take my eyes from you,’ continued Catherine, and watched the colour rush into Lady Fleming’s cheeks.
‘Your Majesty― is gracious―’ stammered the guilty creature.
‘The prize is yours, Lady Fleming.’
Catherine took a ring from her finger and slipped it on to the trembling one of her husband’s new mistress.
———————
The silly little governess was giving herself airs. It was noticed throughout the court.
It was already being whispered that the governess’s elevation was due to the absence of Diane. What was going to happen, it was discreetly asked, when Madame la Duchesse returned? Would Madame Fleming be sent away, or would the King find the redhead more suitable to his taste?
Mary Stuart, whose eyes were none the less sharp for being beautiful, had already whispered to young Francis that their governess was in love. Mary said they must trap her into an admission.
Catherine overheard them teasing the silly creature when she came into then nurseries one day.
‘I declare,’ said Mary, ‘you do not listen to us. Your thoughts are far away. I think they were with your lover.’
‘Hush. You must not say such things.’
‘But I will. I will. You must confess, must she not, Francis, that she has a lover.’
‘Indeed, she must!’ declared Francis.
‘Now come. It is lesson time. You seem to forget.’
‘It is you who forget to whom you speak. We ask a question― and demand
to be answered. Lady Fleming, please remember that one day Francis will be the King and I the Queen. When we ask questions we expect answers, and if you do not answer us― or treat us with the respect due to our rank, we shall― we shall―’ The saucy creature paused for a while; then she added ominously: ‘We shall not forget when we are on the throne.’
‘I will not be treated thus―’ said the stupid woman.
‘Have you a lover? Have you a lover?’ chanted Francis.
‘Well― and what if I have?’
‘Have you?’ demanded Mary.
‘Well― yes―’
Catherine turned away in disgust. It was time this folly was done with. Did not the silly creature understand that the only love affair she could enjoy with the King must be a secret one.
Then one day― as Catherine knew she would― Lady Fleming achieved her
own dismissal.
She confided in Madalenna.
Catherine went off into loud laughter when Madalenna reported this to her.
How like the woman to choose Madalenna!
‘She asked me if I could keep a secret,’ said Madalenna.
‘And you said you could. Yes, Madalenna. Then she told you that the King
visits her at night. And did you tell her that you knew; that you have been an unseen guest in their chamber; a witness to their lechery?’
‘I― said nothing of that.’
‘That was well. Come, Madalenna, waste no more time. What said she?’
‘I carefully noted her words that I might give them exactly as they were
said: God be thanked, she said. I am child.’
‘With child!’ cried Catherine. ‘She said that?’
‘She did, Madame. She said: It is the King’s child, and I feel honoured and happy about it. I am in such excellent health. I think there must be some magic in the royal blood to make me feel so well. ’
Catherine stood by the window looking out on to the gardens below. A
child. This was carrying that plan of Montmorency’s too far.
Watching the King closely, she believed he was fast tiring of the silly
creature. He was getting anxious; Catherine guessed that he was thinking of Diane. Never mind. He would hate having to confess his infidelity. Who knew, after her illness, Diane might not be quite so beautiful, quite so alert of mind.
Perhaps Montmorency’s plan had worked. Perhaps Lady Fleming had played
the part allotted to her well, and now it was the Queen’s turn to step in.
Diane was fast recovering, so came the news. Catherine must act quickly
before she returned to court. She must remember the lesson Diane had taught her at the time of the Piedmontese lapse. She must show the King that if he was in an embarrassing position his wife could help him as his mistress had often done.
She sought him immediately and found him with the children.
‘Henry, I would speak with you. It is a matter of some importance.’
‘I will join you in your apartment shortly,’ he said.
‘Oh please, Sire,’ said Mary, ‘do not leave us yet. You have been with us such a little while.
Catherine looked sharply at Mary. She was not so enamoured of the little
Queen as everyone else seemed to be. Beauty and grace were no compensation, in Catherine’s eyes, for that pertness and insolent manner.
You are ill-advised, my Queenlet, thought Catherine, if you think you may provoke me with impunity.
There was the insolent creature lifting her big beautiful eyes almost
coquettishly to Henry, imploring him to ignore his wife’s request.
Henry touched the golden hair lovingly. ‘Well, a few moments more; then I must hear the Queen’s business.’
Catherine swept out. Mary Stuart must be taught that she could not always behave thus. Already she had taken Catherine’s son and made him hers
completely. There was no one in the world for Francis now but his beautiful and beloved Mary.
The King was not long in coming to her, and Catherine made sure that they were alone before she spoke.
‘I have disquieting news, Henry.’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘It is Lady Fleming,’ she went on.
The King flushed. ‘The Scottish woman?’ he said.
Catherine nodded. She would not risk his displeasure letting him think she was aware of his secret meetings with the governess. He was a man who liked to keep his weaknesses hidden from prying eyes. Did he not wish people to believe that his relationship with Diane was a platonic one? What Catherine wished to imply more than anything was: You may trust me. I wish you always to know that you may rely on your wife.
‘She has whispered to one of my women that she is with child.’
Henry drew back as though she had struck him. It was obvious that he had
heard nothing about this new development in his little love affair.
He sought refuge in hauteur. ‘Catherine,’ he said, ‘the private affairs of a governess are no concern of ours.’
This was Henry at his least noble. He was in a position which he loathed, and because he could not rely on his wits to extricate him from a difficulty, he was an angry, rather petty Henry.
Yet thus Catherine loved him most tenderly.
‘She should be no concern of ours, admittedly,’ went on Catherine
smoothly, ‘but I gathered from my woman that the governess is with child by some personage of position in the court.’
‘She was discreet enough to mention no names, then?’ said the King with
obvious relief.
‘As yet,’ said Catherine, I think the scandal has not travelled far. I cautioned my woman to silence and I think will obey me.’
‘I like it not,’ said Henry, his mouth prim and tight, ‘that such matters should be bruited about the court.’
Catherine went to him swiftly and impulsively aid a hand on his arm. ‘My
lord husband, you may rely upon me to keep this matter where it belongs.’ Her eyes pleaded with him: can you not see that I would do everything you asked of me? Confide in me. Let me tell you of this overwhelming passionate love of mine. Let me have done with plots. Let me enjoy love with you.
But he was already turning away uncomfortably. ‘Yes,’ he said uneasily,
‘See to that, please, Catherine.’
He went out and she knew that the interview was a failure. This time, was it that she had not said enough? The head of Catherine de’ Medici was strong, but weak it became when her heart was involved.
———————
A few days later Diane sent a message to the King telling him that she was ready to return to court; and he himself rode to Anet that he accompany her.
The story of the Scotswoman was common knowledge now. While Diane
was away, the King must play, it was whispered. But was it not rather foolish to have chosen such a silly woman for his indiscretion? Now it would be seen what Madame Diane had to say about the matter. Was it the end of the King’s
devotion to his aging Duchess? Hardly! Since he rode to Anet to bring her back to court! But it must be remembered that the ravages of sickness could ruin an ageing woman’s charms. What an interesting situation: Diane returning with her royal lover, while the Scottish governess grew in importance― in her own eyes at least― as she grew in size.
The King returned to Paris with Diane. Though she was paler, and thinner, there were many who agreed she was as charming as ever; and moreover, the King’s devotion was obvious Wretchedly, Catherine, watching him more
closely than any, detected in his demeanour a remorse― a secret remorse― and she knew that his infidelity worried him greatly and that he had not yet
confessed it to Diane.
But what did that matter? Catherine had at last understood. She and
Montmorency had wasted their time. Nothing could come between the King and the Duchess. No brief love-affair with a red-headed governess, no scheming of a clever woman could break up this surely most enduring love affair in the history of France.
Still, Diane would have some discomfiture to bear; and Catherine, since she could not break the King’s devotion, must content herself with this.
Diane had lost none of her subtlety. It was to Catherine she came when she heard the news.
‘I hear that the Lady Fleming is to become a mother,’ said Diane.
‘I have heard it also, Madame,’ said Catherine mildly.
‘The woman is a fool,’ said Diane. ‘She talks too much. Did Your Majesty
know that the child is the King’s?’
‘I had heard that also. I fear it is a matter to grieve us both.’
‘When a stupid woman’s tongue begins to clack, it is a matter to grieve all concerned. I think you should insist on her banishment from court.’
‘I see,’ said Catherine. ‘Have you spoken of this to the King?’
Diane shrugged her shoulders as though to say she did not consider the
matter worth the King’s attention. How clever she was! So she was going to let Henry see that she did not consider this infidelity― occurring while she herself was unavoidably kept from him― of the slightest importance. It was the same attitude that she had adopted over the Piedmont incident. How easy it was to manage a lover when you did not love with a fierce desire, a burning passion that robbed you, calm as you habitually were, of all good sense.
Catherine said slyly: ‘The King loved this woman. Doubtless, that was why she gave herself airs.’
‘Madame, the brief attention of the King is no indiscretion.’
Oh, she was clever! She gave herself airs; but she had never been indiscreet.
‘The King may not give his consent to her banishment,’ said Catherine
maliciously. ‘It may be that he wishes to keep her at court.’
‘He longer wishes to keep her at court.’
The two women surveyed each other. Do as you are told! the uncrowned Queen of France was saying . The King amused himself because I was not here.
Remember that. You could not prevent his straying. That is understandable. But now I have returned, and the governess who diverted him for a little while may be sent away.
Catherine used her lids as hoods to hide her glittering eyes; she feared they might betray her hatred of this woman.
‘I doubt not, Madame,’ she could not prevent herself saying, ‘that you know the desires of the King’s mind as well as you know those of his body.’
How foolish that was, she realized at once. But I am the Queen, she thought weakly. Let her remember that.
Diane turned a shade paler, but gave no other sign of her anger.
She said calmly: ‘As Your Gracious Majesty knows, it has it has been my
constant care to devote myself to the King, yourself, and your children. That is why we are such excellent friends.’
That was like a queen talking to her woman. And yet, what could Catherine do? She must remember that every smile she received from her husband came by way of this woman; and now she believed herself to be once more with child, and this she owed to Diane. Her comparatively strong position at court had been given to her by Diane. However provoked, she must not forget that.
She lifted her eyes to Diane’s face. ‘Madame, as usual you are right. The woman’s mistake was to talk too much. I will see that she leaves the court immediately.’
‘That will be well,’ smiled Diane. ‘We must see that she lacks nothing, for we must not forget whose child it is she carries. Her indiscretion, though, makes her immediate banishment necessary.’
The interview was over. The little plot had failed. There might never have been a cleverly devised masque, a passionate Andromeda in pursuit of Perseus.
Henry was reassured that his mistress understood and forgave his brief
lapse. She was even glad that he had found a temporary solace. Their love was not to be considered as merely on a physical plane. Did they not both know this?
Henry enchanted by this explanation of his folly; he seemed more devoted, more in love with Diane than ever.
But Diane was not so forgiving to others as she was to her royal lover. The walk together of the Queen and the Constable in the gardens had not gone
unnoticed by Diane’s spies; and out of that walk had grown the masque; and was it not at the masque that Henry had been given as partner the Scots
governess? Diane felt she knew how to deal with the Queen; she knew equally well how to deal with the Constable.
To show how lightly she regarded this affair of the King’s, she deliberately reminded the court of that other lapse of his by bringing into the royal nursery Henry’s daughter by the Piedmont girl. She was a beautiful child, this daughter of Henry’s, and more like her father than any of Catherine’s children. Now fourteen, she was sweet-natured and charming. She was called Diane of France and was an example of what a girl could be when her education was supervised by the Duchess of Valentinois.
It was useless, Catherine realized, to fight for the King against such a one.
And there began again, when they were at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the
misery of watching the King and his through the spy-hole in the floor.
———————
In September of the following year a significant event took place. This was the birth of another boy to Catherine. There was nothing very special, one might have thought, in the birth of another child; Catherine had had six already, and five were left to her. This was a boy, it was true― but she had two boys already.
Yet, there was something about this child which moved her deeply. Was it a likeness to his father? For one thing, he was a bigger, healthier baby than Francis, Charles, and dead Louis had been. Catherine knew, with that curious prevision of hers that this child was going to mean more to her than any of the others.
He was christened with pomp and ceremony such as had attended the
christening of other members of the royal family. His names were Edward
Alexander; but right from the first she called him Henry and he became known by that name.
‘It is because he reminds me so of his father!’ she said.
She tended to him more than she had any of the others and he did much to
s
oothe her. There was less watching through the floor, less spying generally, less mingling with the crowds in the city, than there had ever been before.
Young Henry compensated her in some measure for the pain the older Henry
caused her. She adored the child. It was to her he turned; he had cried when Diane took him into her arms. He did not stare wonderingly up into the King’s face, but he clung to his mother.
At last there was a second love in her life, this child who comforted instead of tormented, and who gave something in return for what he took, love for love.
THE DREAM OF NOSTRADAMUS
TWENTY-THREE YEARS of marriage― and her love for her husband had not
abated. She was young yet― only thirty-seven― but she was beginning to grow fat; she had produced ten children in the last thirteen years; and she was still so passionately in love with Henry as she had been when a young girl.
Catherine knew― with that unerring instinct of hers― that there would be
no more children. This year she had given birth to twins― little Jeanne, who had died a few hours after her birth, and Victoire, who had lived a few months before she followed her twin. But between the births of the twins and the beloved Henry had been born to Catherine two other children. One was Margot, now three years old and as enchanting a child as young Mary Stuart; the other was Hercule, born less than a year after Margot. Catherine could rest from childbearing now. She had lost three children, but she had a goodly brood of seven, and four of them were boys.
She felt that she could congratulate herself on her children, though Francis, the Dauphin, caused both Henry and herself a good deal of anxiety. He had had a bad attack of smallpox, and on finally recovering was even more delicate than he had been before. Short in stature and not always very bright at his lessons, he was completely under the influence of the scheming little Scots Queen. He was thirteen, but looked no more than eleven; she was only fourteen, but she
appeared to be quite seventeen. Young Charles, who was six, adored her, jealous because she was to marry his brother; Charles had turned out to be quite a little musician; he liked to play his lute to Mary, and to read verses to her. She was willing to listen, the little coquette, always ready for adulation; and Heaven knew there plenty of that for Mary Stuart at the court of a France. The child’s airs and graces might have been intolerable but for her charm. They often were intolerable to Catherine― who was indifferent to charm, except in her two Henrys― but she bore with the girl, for she had decided that one day Mary Stuart should answer for her sins.
