King Henri’s horse slowed to a walk and the reins fell slackly from his fingers.
‘The king is hurt,’ said one of the nobles.
‘By a wooden lance?’ another commented. ‘King Henri can take many a blow like that without quitting the field.’
Then I heard Duncan Alexander say in a serious tone, ‘There is a piece of wood sticking out of his visor.’
Catherine de’ Medici had already left her place, and even the normally composed Diane de Poitiers stood up.
Mary clutched at my arm.
The king’s head slumped on his chest, and he would have fallen from his horse had not his equerries caught him. They laid him on the ground and removed his helmet. A long splinter of wood protruded from his right eye. Blood poured from the wound, staining the sand red around the fallen king.
Chapter 13
KING HENRI WAS carried into the Palace of the Tournelles in agony.
Nobles and courtiers streamed after the procession, some silenced by shock, others shouting incoherent suggestions. But his wife, Catherine, displaying her worth as the king’s consort, took charge. Issuing commands, she summoned the most experienced doctors to think how best to remove the piece of broken lance that had pierced his right eye and penetrated his brain.
I went into the king’s bedchamber with Mary and Francis. In one corner, standing beside a table, were a group of doctors and a barber surgeon. They were studying a row of severed heads with splinters of wood protruding at various angles from their eye sockets. The surgeon was in the process of sawing off the top section of one head to reveal the brain inside.
Mary put her handkerchief to her mouth.
‘Well?’ Queen Catherine, who’d been pacing the floor, rounded on them. ‘What are your conclusions? How are we to proceed?’
The doctors shuffled their feet, spread their hands and wouldn’t meet her gaze.
‘My husband, the king, has a piece of wood in his eye that must be removed, else he will not live!’ The queen’s voice was husky with pent-up emotion. ‘You must find a safe method of doing this.’
‘We have tried to simulate his majesty’s condition’– the surgeon indicated the inside of the skull he was working on – ‘but the situation requires extra study.’
The king’s personal physician agreed. ‘There is insufficient information as to where the damage has been done.’
‘Further harm might be inflicted by trying to ease the splinter out,’ said another doctor.
And here was the crux of the matter. If the king died in his present state, then it would be from wounds caused by someone else, the hapless Captain Montgomery. But if he died due to the doctors’ ministrations, then they could be held responsible for killing him. It was clear even to those with no medical training that this was a hopeless case, but Catherine de’ Medici was refusing to accept that her husband was doomed.
‘You need more heads for experiment?’ she demanded.
Immediately the doctors nodded in agreement – anything to put off the moment when they had to move the bloodied splinter within the king’s head.
Catherine hurried to the door leading to the outer chamber and called for the constable in charge of the Bastille prison. ‘More!’ she addressed herself to this old man. ‘We need more heads of executed prisoners to simulate the king’s wound in order to find out how to save him.’
‘I brought you the heads of all I have,’ he replied.
‘There must be others who are shortly awaiting execution.’
‘There is one prisoner due to be executed tomorrow.’
‘Do it today.’
The constable had lived a long time and served under Henri’s father; he was not to be bullied. ‘The prisoner is a high-ranking noble awaiting his wife, who is travelling to see him before he dies. She should arrive by nightfall with their new-born son. King Henri gave express permission that this visit was to be allowed.’
‘Execute him now!’ the queen shouted in his face. ‘Bring me his head within the hour. And any other who is awaiting execution,’ she added.
The constable stood his ground. ‘Apart from this wretched man there are no prisoners in custody who have been sentenced to death.’
‘Well then, choose one that has offended our person most and have him beheaded.’
‘Begging your pardon, majesty . . .’ The constable spoke slowly. ‘I do not understand. Do you mean I should behead someone who has committed a minor offence?’
‘I don’t care what they have done!’ the queen shrieked. ‘They may have spat in the street or failed to fly a flag on a holy day.’
The constable folded his arms. For a second it seemed as though he might disobey the queen. Then he looked beyond her into the room where the king was propped on his pillows. His gaze encompassed Francis, the king-to-be, fidgeting and nervous at the bedside, and, almost visibly, the thought passed through his head: with Henri gone, the true power in France would rest with Catherine de’ Medici.
‘Bring me a death warrant and I will have the king sign it.’ As the constable still hesitated, Catherine, her face contorted with rage, stabbed a finger at him. ‘Tell whoever resists my order that I might decide to use them as model and stick a splinter through their eye deep into their brain without the benefit of first removing their head!’
As the constable left, another man entered the outer chamber. I retreated quickly as the queen went forward to greet the Count of Cluny.
‘You have brought something to ease the king’s suffering?’
‘I have, majesty – a powerful opiate I prepared with my own hand. A teaspoonful will dull the pain.’
The queen took the leather bottle the count gave her and went to offer it to the king, holding it to his lips that he might swallow a few drops. ‘I have something for you, beloved,’ she comforted him. ‘This will give you rest while your doctors find a way to help you.’
‘I am beyond help,’ the king groaned. ‘Were I commoner or king there is nothing can be done. Such a trifling accident to end my time on this earth.’
‘Accident?’ Catherine choked on the word. ‘Carelessness, I’d say, on the part of your opponent.’
‘Blame not the Scot,’ Henri whispered. ‘Blame not good Captain Montgomery. Blame not the Scot.’
But, like a maddened lioness, the queen needed to vent her fury. Bidding the priest resume the communal prayers, she went to the window and beckoned the count to her. Using the drone of voices as cover, she said to him, ‘I thank you for this healing potion and for any other service where you might give aid . . . for there are vermin within our palace. You hear what I say: vermin.’
‘I hear you, majesty, as I have heard you in the past.’
She gave a curt nod. ‘So deal with it as you did before.’
I too heard her and, remembering how the queen had throttled her pet monkey, took the earliest opportunity to slip away to warn Captain Montgomery. In the corridor of the annexe that led to his quarters, I almost bumped into Duncan Alexander. He was standing in close conversation with the man in the short blue cloak I’d seen him signal to during the joust – the same man who’d persuaded Captain Montgomery to ask the king to be excused from jousting for a third time.
Duncan jumped back when he saw me. ‘Jenny! You shouldn’t be in this area of the palace.’
‘Why are you here then?’ I asked.
There was an awkward silence while the man in the blue cloak looked me over in an interested manner. He was shorter than me but well built, with reddish-brown hair, a short beard and moustache . . . and the boldest eyes I’d ever come across.
‘Oh, I do like her spirit,’ he drawled in the accent of the Scottish Borders. ‘You might introduce me, Duncan, so that I can be ready should you ever tire of her company.’
I blushed at his familiarity. Duncan responded by giving him a rough shove. ‘Get on with it, James. Lives depend upon your speed.’
‘Who is that person?’ I asked as the man swaggered off down the co
rridor.
‘James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell.’
The infamous Bothwell! A womanizer and argumentative warlord who prowled his Border lands fighting with anyone who got in his way.
‘And before you say anything about him, Jenny, I am aware of Bothwell’s reputation. What is less well known is that he’s one of the most loyal men on earth and has pledged allegiance to the Scottish crown and Mary’s mother.’
‘You have sent him to warn Captain Montgomery to leave the court.’ I said this as a fact rather than a question.
‘The captain is best away from here’ – Duncan took my arm to walk me to the royal apartments –‘as we also should be.’
‘What made you send word to tell him?’ I wondered how Duncan knew the queen’s intentions as he hadn’t been in the room when she’d spoken to the Count of Cluny.
He laughed. ‘A blind cat can see that Catherine de’ Medici will hold everlasting hatred for the man responsible for the death of her husband, even though it was an accident. It’s only fair that Captain Montgomery should be informed that the king will soon die, and that when he does she’ll need someone to blame. Her ire will be all the greater to avoid acknowledging that perhaps she herself may have had a hand in it.’
‘The queen!’ I exclaimed. ‘It is inconceivable that she wanted her husband dead.’
‘She may have contributed to the accident by distracting his concentration with her dire warnings,’ said Duncan. ‘Also the king has suffered dizzy spells these last weeks and he might have ridden gently to finish off the day of celebration. But her behaviour at the lists goaded him into a full gallop to prove his courage. I had Bothwell speak to Captain Montgomery to advise him to stand down, but by that time it was too late.’
‘So you don’t believe in prophecy?’
‘I seek a practical cause for everything.’ Duncan appeared amused. ‘I thought you studied scientific books?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ I recalled the divination session I’d witnessed with the queen and her soothsayer, Ruggieri. ‘I know those who have seen strange images in mirrors called up by prophets.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Duncan was smiling broadly now. ‘The magic mirror trick.’
‘Are you so sure it is trickery?’
‘These so-called prophets work by suggesting strongly what you might want to hear and see. They induce a certain mood in their audience, sometimes using pungent scents or offering strong wine as refreshment.’
Queen Catherine had eaten food and drunk wine in the tower that night! By telling her what she should see, had Ruggieri induced her to imagine what he said was there? It could be so, given her emotional state, combined with the alcohol she’d drunk and the smoke from the incense clouding the room. Except . . .
‘That does not explain the sound of the baby crying,’ I said.
‘What baby? Where?’ Duncan regarded me curiously.
‘In the queen’s tower.’ The words were out before my brain caught up with my mouth.
‘Ah!’ Duncan breathed. ‘You were there that night. I thought I smelled your perfume when I was climbing the stairs.’
I recovered from my confusion. ‘And so were you,’ I accused him. ‘You admit that you were consulting with Catherine de’ Medici in secret?’
‘I wasn’t in the tower to conspire with the Medici woman.’ He looked at me intently. ‘Were you?’
‘Me! You think that I might ally myself with her?’
‘If not, then why were you there?’
‘I – I was interested in the prophecies, for they mentioned Mary’s name. Why were you there?’
‘For the same reason,’ he replied.
We stared at each other. And then suddenly there were footsteps in the corridor. The sound of soldiers’ boots. A flash of alarm crossed Duncan’s face. ‘That’s the escort party for Captain Montgomery. Pray Bothwell got to him in time.’
‘We are trapped here,’ I said in fear, ‘and could be arrested on suspicion of helping him escape. There’s no other reason we might be in this corridor at this time.’
‘Oh, I can think of one.’ Duncan grinned, then grasped me forcibly round the waist and, pulling me towards him, crushed my body against his in a tight embrace. One of the approaching soldiers whistled. I barely heard it, for Duncan’s mouth was on mine, his lips half open, pressing down, and my body was betraying me by responding.
The soldiers marched past. We staggered apart, I in shock, not only at Duncan’s wild advance but at my own reaction.
‘Forgive me, Lady Ginette, for that gross intrusion, but I thought it the only way to avoid us being implicated.’
I had no chance to reply, for Duncan grabbed my hand in his and we ran away together, only slowing down when we’d returned to the main part of the palace.
‘So’ – he continued our conversation as though we’d never been interrupted – ‘you heard a baby cry that night in the queen’s tower?’
My heart was racing, and not just with the exertion of running, but I decided I could be as cool as he. ‘Indeed I did. Ruggieri mentioned the queen’s dead child and I distinctly heard a baby cry.’
‘A bird outside the window?’ Duncan suggested. ‘A seagull can make a noise like that.’
‘It was night. And anyway, it would be very coincidental for that to occur just when it was needed.’
‘Perhaps Ruggieri himself made the sound, like a court jester who can throw his voice and make it appear to come from elsewhere.’
‘Maybe,’ I said, not wholly convinced. ‘But it did sound like a baby crying.’
By this time we were at the king’s apartments. Duncan touched my sleeve. ‘Best we’re not seen entering the chamber together. I’ll take my leave of you here.’
And once again, like a will o’ the wisp, he was gone.
One of Diane de Poitiers’ ladies stood in the outer chamber. She’d been sent to beg that her mistress might have a moment with the king, at least to say farewell. Queen Catherine was leaving the king’s bedroom to eat some of the food laid out on sideboards. The woman seized her chance and prostrated herself before her. ‘My mistress begs to serve your majesty in these difficult times in any way she can.’
Catherine de’ Medici narrowed her eyes, inspecting this representative of her rival as a snake might its intended victim. Her tongue flickered. ‘There is no service that I deem your mistress capable of performing for me, be it the lowliest task of a scullery maid. But tell her it would serve her well if she left my court.’
An hour or so later I took Mary away so that she might also have some supper and change her clothes. The Maries were waiting for us in our rooms with all the latest news.
‘Diane de Poitiers is already gone from court,’ Marie Seton told us, ‘begging mercy for any wrong she may have done.’
‘She’s returned the jewels that King Henri gave her,’ said Marie Livingston, who minded Mary’s jewellery and had an interest in such matters.
‘My mother has directed me to write Diane de Poitiers a merciful letter,’ said Francis, who was resting on a couch, taking refuge with Mary in order to stay out of Catherine’s way, ‘but mention in it that she might still merit punishment for exerting malign influences over the king.’
‘Your mother instructed you to do this?’ said Mary in surprise.
‘It will be to keep Diane biddable,’ Marie Fleming suggested, ‘and because the queen wants the Château of Chenonceau from her with as little trouble as possible.’
‘It’s the most beautiful château in all France,’ said Marie Beaton.
‘Although my mother grieves for my father, she revels in the fact that she now has power over her former rivals and enemies,’ Francis explained.
‘I do not question your mother’s motives.’ Mary went and knelt beside her husband. ‘It is only that, my love, when you are crowned King of France, no one can tell you what to do.’
There was a silence as the listeners were sharply reminded that, despite her sweet nature, Mary Stuart ha
d been crowned Queen of Scots in her infancy and schooled all her life in the absolute rights of an anointed monarch.
Catherine de’ Medici strove in vain to save her husband.
More severed heads were maimed until the king himself, in a lucid moment, called for an end to further experiments.
‘I have spoken with my doctors,’ he told his wife when she begged him to reconsider. ‘There is sepsis in my brain. My feet and hands are swollen beyond recognition and I am losing my bodily functions of movement, sight and speech. Soon my mind will follow.’
He reached his hand out to her. ‘Late did I come to loving thee,’ he said, ‘but know that I did, as best I could.’
At these words, which she’d waited a lifetime to hear, Catherine broke down completely.
‘Now bring our children,’ King Henri commanded. ‘Let me look upon their sweet faces one last time.’
Mary carried the smallest infant in her arms as the king gave them all his last blessing and bade them not forget him. Then he called his eldest son to him separately to give words of advice and instruction on looking after the kingdom.
Francis left his father’s bedchamber haggard with fright and apprehension. He ran to Mary, crying, ‘Papa is dying. What shall I do?’
‘We will pray.’ She led him to the kneeler below the crucifix on the wall of her room. ‘King Henri was a good king and God will welcome him into Heaven.’
‘I have no anxiety over my father’s fate.’ Tears trickled from Francis’s eyes. ‘It is myself that I fear for. They will make me king and I won’t know what to do.’
Mary put her arms around her husband’s thin shoulders. ‘With God’s grace we will rule together, husband dear. Do not fret.’
Francis went to lie down, and so I knelt with Mary for a while at her prie-dieu. I joined her in praying for King Henri, for we held him in affection and honour. He had welcomed us into his household and family, and we were deeply sad that he would soon pass away. Mary’s faith was strong, more complete than mine. She knew that I read the writings of the Reformers and had even looked at some of these herself, but she would never abandon the old religion.
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