by Jean Plaidy
One of his pages came in to tell him that his mother was approaching, and Marie began to tremble as she always did when she contemplated an interview with the Queen Mother.
‘Marie, you must not be afraid. She will not harm you. She likes you. She has said so. If she did not, I should not allow you to remain at court. I should give you a house where I could visit you. But she likes you.’
Marie, however, continued to tremble.
‘Page,’ called the King, ‘go tell the Queen, my mother, that I will see her in my own apartments.’
‘Yes, Sire.’
‘There,’ said the King to Marie, ‘does that please you? Au revoir, my darling. I will come to you later.’
Marie kissed his hands, relieved that she would not have to face the woman whom she feared, and the King went through the passages which connected his apartments with, those of his mistress.
Catherine greeted him with a show of affection.
‘How well you look!’ she said. ‘I declare the prospect of becoming a father suits you.’
The King’s lips tightened. He was filled with numb terror every time his mother mentioned the child the Queen was carrying.
‘And how well our dear little Queen is looking!’ went on Catherine. ‘I have to insist on her taking great care of herself. We cannot have her running risks now.’
Charles had learned to dread that archness of hers. The Queen Mother was fond of a joke and the grimmer the joke the better she liked it. People said she would hand the poison cup to a victim with a quip, wishing him good health as she did so. This trait of hers had led some people to believe that she was of a jovial nature; they did not immediately see the cynicism behind the laughter. But Charles knew her better than most people, and he did not smile now.
Catherine was quick to notice his expression. She told herself that she would have to keep a close watch on her little King. He had strayed much further from her influence than she had intended he should.
‘Have you news for me?’ asked the King.
‘No. I have come for a little chat with you. I am disturbed. Very soon Coligny will arrive in Paris.’
‘The thought gives me pleasure,’ said Charles.
Catherine laughed. ‘Ah, he is a wily one, that Admiral.’ She put the palms of her hands together and raised her eyes piously. ‘So good! Such a religious man! A very clever man, I would say. He can deceive us all with his piety.’
‘Deceive, Madame?’
‘Deceive indeed. He talks of righteousness while he thinks of bloodshed.’
‘You are mistaken. When the Admiral talks of God he thinks of God.’
‘He has discovered the kindness of his King—that much is certain—and made good use of Your Majesty’s benevolence.’
have received nothing but benevolence from him, Madame.’
‘My dear son, it is not for you to receive benevolence, but to give it.’
The King flushed; she had, as ever, the power to make him feel foolish, unkingly, a little boy who depended for all things on his mother.
‘I have come to talk to you of this man,’ said Catherine, ‘for soon he, will be here to cast his spells upon you. My son, you have to think very clearly. You are no longer a boy. You are a man and King of a great country. Do you wish to plunge this country into war with Spain?’
‘I hate war,’ said the King vehemently.
‘And yet you encourage those who would make it. You offer your kingdom, yourself and the persons of your family to Monsieur de Coligny.’
‘I do not. I want peace . . . peace . . . peace . . .’
She terrified him. When she was with him he would remember scenes from his childhood when she had talked as she had now, dismissing all his attendants; on those occasions she had described the torture chambers and all the horrors which had been done to men and women who were powerless in the hands of the powerful. He could not shut out of his mind the thoughts of blood, of the rack, of mangled, bleeding limbs. The thought of blood always sickened him, terrified him, drove him to that madness, when, obsessed by that thought of it, he must see it flow. His mother, more easily than those Italian tutors whom she had set over him, could arouse this madness in him. When he felt it rising and while some sanity remained with him, he must fight it with all the strength he possessed.
‘You want peace,’ she said, ‘and what do you do to preserve it? You hold secret councils with a man who wishes for war.’
‘No! No! No!’
‘Yes. Have you not held secret meetings with the Admiral?’ She had risen and stood over him; he could see nothing but her heavy face with those glittering, prominent eyes.
‘I . I have had meetings with him,’ he said.
‘And you will hold more?’
‘Yes. No . . . no. I won’t.’ He looked down, trying to escape from those hypnotic eyes. He said sullenly: ‘If I wish to hold meetings with any of my subjects I shall do so.’
There spoke the King, and Catherine was secretly perturbed by this show of strength. He had made too many friends among the Huguenots. At the earliest possible moment Coligny must be killed, and Téligny would have to follow, with Condé and Rochefoucauld. But Coligny was the most dangerous.
She changed her tone and, covering her face with her hands, she spoke with sadness. ‘After all the trouble which I have taken to bring you up and to preserve your crown—the crown which Huguenots and Catholics alike have tried to snatch from you—after having sacrificed myself for you and run a thousand dangers, how could I ever guess that you would reward me so miserably? You hide yourself from me—from your own mother!—in order to take counsel of your enemies. If you intend to work against me, tell me so, and I will return to the land of my birth. Your brother too must escape with me, for he has spent his life in preserving yours, and you must give him time to fly from those enemies to whom you are preparing to give the land of France.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘Huguenots who, while they talk of war with Spain, want only a war in France—the ruin of our country so that they may flourish on those ruins.’
‘You would never leave France,’ he said.
‘What else could I do? As for you yourself, when they had you in the torture chambers, when they had left you to rot in a dungeon, or, worse still, disposed of you in the Place de Greve .
‘What do you mean?’
‘You cannot imagine they intend to let you live?’ She lifted those large eyes to her son’s face. Although he did not believe she would ever leave France, although he knew that his brother Anjou had never been devoted to anything but his own ambitions, he was hypnotized by this strange mother of his, as he had been so many times before. Realizing that her son was no longer the pliable boy, Catherine did not intend to press her point too far; at the moment she only wished to plant distrust for the Admiral in her son’s mind.
She took his hand and kissed it. ‘Dearest son, know this: everything I say and do is for your good. I do not ask you to exile the Admiral from court. Indeed no. Receive him here. Then it will be easier for you to discover his true nature. Ah, he has bewitched you. That is understandable. He has bewitched many before you. All I ask is that you should be wary, not too trusting. Am I right, my son, in asking that this should be so?’
The King said slowly: ‘As usual you are right. I promise you I will not be too trusting.’
‘And if, my dear son, you discover that there are traitors about you, men who plot against you, who work for your death and destruction?’
The King was biting his lips and there were flecks of red in the whites of his eyes. ‘Then,’ he said savagely, while his fingers pulled at his jacket, ‘then, Madame, rest assured that there shall be no mercy for them . . . no mercy . . . no mercy!’
His voice had risen to a shriek, and Catherine smiled, certain that she had gained her point.
The Duke of Alençon had finished a game of tennis and had retired to his apartments to brood moodily on his future.
He was a very dissatisfied young man; he could imagine no worse fat
e than his—to be born the fourth son of a King. There were few who could hold out any hope of his mounting the throne, and he ardently desired to do so.
He was sullen because he believed life had been unfair to him. As Hercule, the youngest of the royal children, he had been such a pretty boy, so spoilt, so pampered—except by his mother—but when he was four years old, he had caught the smallpox, and that delicate skin of his had become hideously pitted; he had not grown so tall as his brothers; he was squat, thickset and swarthy; it was said at court that he was a true Italian, which meant that the French did not like him. But which of his brothers did they like? Sickly Francis? No, they had despised him. Did they love mad Charles? Certainly they did not. And would they love the perfumed, elegant Henry? No. They would hate him more than any. Then why should they not love Francis of Alençon? They had changed his name from Hercule to Francis when his eldest brother had died. He had been delighted at the time, Francis was a King’s name. But his mother had maliciously said, with that cynical laugh of hers, that Hercule was not a suitable name for her little son. He hated her for that; but then he hated her for so many things. Well, then, why should the people of France not take another Francis for their King?
He thought of the marriage with the English Queen, which they were proposing for him, and such thoughts made him very angry. He could not bear ridicule and he knew that courtiers often smirked behind their hands when the subject of his marriage was discussed. The Queen of England was an old woman, a virago, who amused herself by playing tricks on those who came to woo her. She should play no tricks on him. And why should he, a young man of eighteen, be married to a woman of thirty-nine?
One day he would show them all what he would do. They would cease to treat him as a person of no importance then. One day they would have a surprise. He had his friends who would follow whither he led.
He looked from the window of his apartment towards the Tour de Nesle; he let his eyes wander to the three towers of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. He saw the people crowded together, Huguenot and Catholic. There was much roystering in the streets and many a secret counsel in the palace; yet he, the King’s brother, the son of Henry the Second and Catherine de’ Medici, was kept outside the excitement, because he was considered too young and of too little importance!
And as he stood there he saw a cavalcade come riding through the streets. Another great personage come to attend the wedding of his sister. He called to one of his attendants: ‘Who is this riding into the city?’
‘It is the Admiral de Coligny, sir. He is a fool to come riding into Paris thus.’
‘Why so?’
‘He has many enemies, sir.’
The Duke nodded. Yes, there were plots against the Admiral, he doubted not. His mother would have discussed that man when she was closeted with his brothers; but she never discussed her plots with him. He bit his lips until the blood came. He was treated as a child—the youngest son who could never come to the throne, little Hercule who had become Francis because Hercule was the name of a strong man; and he was not even handsome because his skin was so hideously pitted. His mistresses told him he was more handsome than his brother Henry, but that was because although he was the youngest he was still the son of a royal house. He had many mistresses; but any man in his position might have the same number. He was squat and ugly; he was of no importance; and when his mother called him ‘her little frog’ she did not mean to be affectionate. She despised him and had no place for him in her schemes. She wanted him safely out of the way in England.
He laughed aloud at that fool of an Admiral who was riding straight into a trap. He hated the Admiral—not for political or religious reasons—but merely because he was tall and handsome and of great importance.
He saw that the Huguenots in the city had formed a procession about the Admiral and his men, marching along beside them as though to protect them. Catholics stood about sullenly; some shouted abuse. It would take very little to start a conflagration which would lay waste the entire city of Paris.
They were crazy to have arranged this marriage and, arranging it, to have brought together in the capital so many of the Huguenot faith. But . . . were they? Was this the result of some plan of his mother’s?
His brothers would know. Henry of Guise too would doubtless know. All men of importance would know. But they kept Francis of Alençon completely in the dark. It was more than a Prince of the Blood Royal could be expected to endure.
He bit his lip afresh and tried to imagine that those shouting voices called for a new King, and that that King’s name was Francis.
As soon as he was in the presence of the King, Gaspard de Coligny knew that his enemies were working against him. The King’s attitude towards him seemed to have changed completely. When the Admiral had last seen Charles, the young man had embraced him warmly, dispensing with all ceremony. ‘Do not call me Majesty,’ Charles had said. ‘Do not call me Monseigneur. Call me Son and I will call you Father.’ But here was a different monarch. The golden-brown eyes had lost their warmth; they were coldly suspicious. Henry of Guise and his uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, were at court, and they were enjoying the favour of the Queen Mother. Yet, during the ceremonial greeting, Gaspard thought he caught a hint of apology in the King’s eyes; but the Queen Mother stood beside her son, and although her greeting might be warmer than that of any other present, still the Admiral trusted her less, and he was sure that the animosity which he sensed emanated from her.
The Admiral came fearlessly to the purpose of his visit: the question of aid for the Prince of Orange and war with Spain.
Catherine spoke for her son. ‘You have been long in coming to Paris, Monsieur l’Amiral. Had you come earlier you might have been present at the military council which I called together to settle this question of war.’
‘A military council, Madame?’ said Coligny aghast. ‘But of what members did this council consist?’
Catherine smiled. ‘Of the Duke of Guise, of the Cardinal of Lorraine . . . and others. Do you wish to hear their names?’ ‘That is my wish, Madame.’
Catherine mentioned the names of several noblemen, and all of them were Catholics.
‘I understand, Madame,’ said Coligny. ‘These councillors would naturally suggest that we should not keep our promises. Such men would never support any expedition of which I was the leader.’
‘We were not, Monsieur I’Amiral, considering a question of leadership; we but considered the good of France.’
The Admiral turned from the Queen Mother and knelt to the King. He took Charles’ hand and smiled up into his face.
Catherine, watching closely, saw the faint flush under Charles’ pallid and unhealthy skin; she saw the affection in his glance. Charles was only free from this man’s influence when the latter was away from court. There was real danger here. The Admiral must not, on any account, be allowed to live many more weeks. Whatever disaster followed on his death, he must die.
‘Sire,’ Coligny was saying, ‘I cannot believe that you will break your promise to the Prince of Orange.’
Charles said very quietly and in a voice of shame: ‘You have heard the result of the council’s deliberation, Monsieur I’Amiral. It is to them that you should address your reproaches.’
‘Then,’ said Coligny, ‘there is nothing to be said. If the opinion contrary to mine has won the day, that is the end. Oh, Your Majesty. I am as certain as I kneel here that if you follow the advice of your council you will repent it.’
Charles began to tremble. He put out a hand as though to detain the Admiral; he seemed as though he were about to speak, but his mother’s eyes were on him and he lapsed completely into her power once more.
Coligny went on: ‘Your Majesty must not be offended if I, having promised aid to the Prince of Orange, cannot break my word.’
Charles flinched and Coligny waited; but still the influence of Catherine was greater than that of the newly arrived Admiral, and although Charles seemed once more about to speak, n
o words came.
‘This,’ added Coligny, ‘will be done with my own friends, my relations and servants, and with my own person.’ He turned to Catherine. ‘His Majesty has decided against war with Spain. God grant that he may not be involved in another from which he cannot retreat.’
Coligny bowed and took his leave.
There were letters waiting for him in his apartments. One said: ‘Remember the commandment which every Papist obeys: “Thou shalt not keep faith with a heretic”. If you are a wise man you will leave the court at once. If you do not, you will soon be a dead one.’
‘You are in acute danger,’ wrote another. ‘Do not be deceived by the talk of marriage between the Queen of England and the Duke of Alençon. Do not be beguiled by this marriage of Marguerite and Navarre. Get away as quickly as you can from that infected sewer which is called the Court of France. Beware the poisoned fangs of the Serpent.’
‘You have,’ said another, ‘won the regard of the King. That is sufficient reason for your death.’
He read through those letters, and as the dusk crept into his apartment, he found that the least rustle of the hangings set his heart beating faster. He touched the walls gingerly with his fingers and wondered whether here, where the wood was uneven, there was a secret door. Was there a hole up there among the ornate carving of the ceiling through which an eye watched him? Any moment might be his last.
Charles was soon under the spell of the Admiral. Since Gaspard had come to court, Charles felt bolder, less afraid of his mother. He kept Gaspard with him, and there were many interviews at which none but the King and the Admiral were present. But Catherine was aware of what took place at those interviews. There was a tube from her secret chamber adjoining her apartments which was connected with the King’s, and by means of this she was able to hear most of what took place. It was enough to alarm her.
The proposed war with Spain was continually under discussion, and the King was wavering. ‘Rest assured, my dear Admiral,’ he had said, ‘that I intend to satisfy you. I will not budge from Paris until I have utterly contented you.’
