by Jean Plaidy
‘My dear child, my obedient daughter! You married most reluctantly, did you not? Ha! I remember how you refused to make the responses at the ceremony. That was a very brave thing to do. And he was so close, was he not, the man you loved? Well, now I have decided that you shall live in torment no longer. You shall have Henry of Guise for your husband.’
Margot was stunned by this revelation. ‘Madame . . . I . . . do not see how that can be. I . I am married to the King of Navarre. Henry of Guise is married to Procien’s widow . . .’
‘Then you shall be “unmarried” and . . . marry each other!’
Catherine waited for the joyful tears, the expressions of gratitude; instead Margot’s face had become cold and hard.
‘Madame,’ she said, ‘I am married to the King of Navarre, and that marriage took place against my will; but now it would be against my will to . . . as you say . . . “unmarry” him.’
‘Oh come, Margot, your rank as Queen of Navarre is not such a good one. How will you like going with him to that miserable little kingdom when the time comes? There are some Duchesses who are in positions superior to some Queens . . . and the Duchess of Guise would be one of them.’
‘That may be so,’ said Margot, ‘but Henry of Guise does not please me, and I would not marry a second time against my wishes.’
‘This is sheer perversity!’ cried Catherine angrily. ‘You to talk like this! You who have made a spectacle of yourself over that man!’
‘You are right, Madame,’ said Margot coolly. ‘But one grows out of one passion and into another. I have grown out of love with Monsieur de Guise, and nothing would induce me to marry him; and since you have told me that nothing but your desire for my happiness prompts you to make this suggestion, there is no more to be said. For, quite simply, I am not in love with Monsieur de Guise. Have I your leave to retire now?’
‘It would be advisable for you to do so,’ said Catherine grimly, ‘before you tempt me to do you some mischief.’
When Margot left her she sat in furious silence. She found it impossible to believe that Guise and Margot were no longer lovers. They had been so ever since she could remember. Was a woman ever before cursed with such a family? The King had turned against her; Alençon she had never liked nor trusted; Margot was too clever, too shrewd—a little spy, not averse to working against her family; only Henry could be trusted.
She instructed one of her spies to watch Margot and Guise very closely. It was true that they had ceased to be lovers. In the course of these investigations Catherine made a discovery which resulted in her sending for Charlotte de Sauves. She was very angry with that young woman.
‘Madame,’ she accused, ‘you seem to be very friendly with the Duke of Guise.’
Charlotte was startled, but Catherine was quick to sense a certain smugness. ‘I did not know that Your Majesty would frown on such a friendship.’
Catherine stroked one of the charms on her bracelet. So this was the explanation. Guise was indulging in a love affair with Charlotte, and Margot was piqued and jealous.
She said sharply: ‘There must be no love-making with the Duke, Charlotte. If there were, it would displease me greatly. I can speak frankly to you. The Queen of Navarre is greatly enamoured of the Duke.’
‘Your Majesty . . . that is no longer so. I understand that the Queen of Navarre has declared that she no longer feels friendship towards the Duke.’
‘Because you have been playing tricks, I suppose.
‘Oh no, Madame; she gave him his congé before he looked my way. Monsieur de Guise is of the opinion that she has become enamoured of the King of Navarre.’
‘Margot and Guise must make up their quarrels,’ said Catherine. ‘As for you, Madame, you will keep away from the Duke. There must be no love-making.’
‘Madame,’ said Charlotte slyly, ‘I fear your command comes too late.’
‘You sly slut!’ cried Catherine. ‘I thought I had given you instructions regarding Navarre.’
‘But only to attract him, Madame. That was all; and there was no word in Your Majesty’s instructions regarding Monsieur de Guise.’
‘Well, you have my instructions now.’
Charlotte looked at Catherine from under those thick eyelashes of hers. ‘Madame,’ she said, ‘it will be necessary for you to instruct Monsieur de Guise, for I fear that, no matter how I tried to avoid him, I could not succeed. It would therefore be necessary to give him Your Majesty’s personal instructions. Otherwise I fear there could be no stopping what has already begun. Monsieur de Guise would take orders from none . . . except, of course, Your Majesty.’
Catherine was silent, thinking angrily of the arrogant Duke. How could she say to such a man: ‘Your affaire with Madame de Sauves must stop immediately!’ She could imagine the haughty lift of the eyebrows, the courteous remark which would imply that his affaire was no concern of hers.
She laughed suddenly. ‘Go away,’ she said. ‘I see that this matter must take its own course. But, in future, Madame, you will ask my permission before you enter into such a liaison.’
‘Madame, never fear that I shall offend again.’
Catherine sat back, thinking of Charlotte de Sauves. It was galling to think that that sly little harlot’s love affairs could turn the Queen Mother from a line of policy which she had intended to adopt. But such things could happen occasionally. Catherine therefore decided that there was nothing to do for the moment but to shelve the idea of ‘unmarrying’ her daughter.
Civil war between Catholics and Huguenots had broken out again, and an army under Anjou was sent to besiege the Huguenots’ stronghold of La Rochelle.
With the Catholic army were Guise and his uncle, the Duke of Aumale; and Catherine felt comforted to think of those two supporters of her beloved son, for Catherine—even as far as Henry was concerned—had a habit of looking facts in the face, and it was hard, even for her, to believe that Henry, with his effeminacy and his unstable ways, had really the character of a great general. It was true that the credit for Jarnac and Mont-contour had gone to him; but would he have succeeded but for those brilliant soldiers who had shared the campaign? As the Prince of Valois, brother of the King, and the most illustrious general in the army, he had received the credit; but Catherine knew that credit did not always go to those who most deserved it. It pleased her though that he should take the glory and so win the approval of the people. To him should go the honours of the victory which must surely come about at La Rochelle. Guise and Aumale were great men of battle; and Guise could inspire—effortlessly as his father had done—that blind devotion which led men to victory.
It was, therefore, rather amusing to send with the army those two converts to Catholicism, Navarre and Condé. It was a situation tinged with that special brand of irony which amused Catherine; and to think of those two ‘converts’ fighting against their one-time friends delighted her. Alençon was also sent with the army, for it was time that young man won his spurs, and the adventure should keep him out of mischief for a time.
She had high hopes of the early surrender of La Rochelle, but in this she was disappointed. The recent massacre had strengthened the determination of the people in that town, with the result that the heroic few were able to stand up to superior numbers. The besieging army was more disturbed by the spirit of the people within the walls of La Rochelle than harassed by the missiles of war which flew from the battlements; and it was as though those gallant people were on the offensive instead of, as was obviously the case, in such a precariously defensive position.
Guise and Aumale had the additional problem of keeping the peace in their own camp. In view of the difficult task of subduing La Rochelle, it had been folly to allow Navarre and Condé to accompany them, for neither of these had any heart for the fight. Condé, who had had some reputation as a fighter, seemed lethargic and useless; while Navarre was lazily cheerful, spending too much time with the women who had followed the camp.
As for Alençon, he was actually a m
enace. Truculent in the extreme, anxious always that he should receive his share of adulation which his close relationship to the King demanded, he was utterly conceited and no help at all.
All day long the sound of singing could be heard from behind the walls of La Rochelle—the singing of hymns. It seemed that religious services were being conducted continually. The superstitious. Catholics were unnerved, and as the siege dragged on, they became more so. The news circulated that great quantities of fish had been caught off the shores of La Rochelle and that the Huguenots took this as a sign that God intended to preserve them.
Guise persuaded Anjou that the best thing to do was to attack the town and take it by force of overwhelming numbers before the besieged had completed their preparations for its defence; this idea that God was on the side of the Huguenots must not be allowed to demoralize the Catholic army.
Anjou agreed, and there followed that historic attack in which a few Huguenots triumphed over the great Catholic army through sheer determination not to surrender and an unwavering belief that they were receiving Divine help. Those who took part in the attack never forgot it. The citizens had hung a hawthorn on the ramparts to remind the Catholics of their contempt for that hawthorn which had flowered in the Cemetery of the Innocents—flowered at the Devil’s command, said the Huguenots.
The fight began, but the city’s walls stood firm; and the women themselves mounted the towers and poured boiling pitch on the soldiers below. And as soon as there was a lull in the fighting, the citizens of La Rochelle could be heard singing praises to God.
‘Let God arise, and let His enemies be scattered; let them also that hate Him flee before Him . . .
‘Like the smoke vanisheth, so shalt Thou drive them away; and like as wax melteth at the fire, so let the ungodly perish at the presence of God . .
To the superstitious men below, this was terrifying; particularly as it seemed to them that the walls of La Rochelle had stood more assault than a city’s walls could, without Divine assistance.
And so the battle for La Rochelle was a defeat for the Catholic army, and the walls of the city continued to stand firm against all attack. The Catholics counted their dead and wounded to the sound of triumphant singing within the city’s walls.
Alençon swaggered into his brother’s tent and, throwing himself unceremoniously on to Anjou’s bed, began to taunt him with the loss of the battle.
‘Here’s a pretty state of affairs!’ mocked Alençon. ‘A great army defeated by a few men and women behind city walls. I tell you, brother, the mistake was yours. You were too noisy in your preparations. I should have smuggled men into the city somehow. I should have sent spies among them.’
‘Fool!’ cried Anjou. ‘What do you know of battle? Would you have given your spies wings to fly over the city’s walls?’
‘I would ask you not to call me “Fool”, brother, but to remember to whom you speak.’
‘Have a care lest I put you under arrest, Monsieur,’ said Anjou coldly.
But Alençon would not heed him. He was the brother of the King, just as Anjou was, and he had been neglected too long.
‘Brother,’ he teased, ‘you are more successful at court than on a battlefield. You choose your men for their beauty rather than for their military ability.’
‘Your lack of beauty, brother, is not the only reason why I do not confide in you,’ said Anjou languidly.
Alençon was sensitive about his shortness of stature and pock-marked skin. He flushed angrily and began to shout, calling his brother a conceited popinjay who looked more like a woman than a man.
Anjou said: ‘If you do not remove yourself in ten seconds I will put you under arrest.’
Then Alençon thought it better to go quickly. He knew that his mother would approve of anything that Anjou planned for him; and he would certainly find himself a prisoner if he were not careful.
As he came out of his brother’s tent, he encountered Navarre, who seemed to be lounging about outside. Navarre smiled in a sympathetic fashion, and Alençon was ready to accept sympathy from anyone at that moment.
‘You heard?’ demanded Alençon fiercely.
‘It was impossible not to. The insolence! He forgets that if he is a Prince of Valois, so are you.’
‘It is pleasant to know that some remember it,’ muttered Alençon.
Navarre smiled at the little figure beside him. There were many who thought Alençon rather ridiculous, but Henry of Navarre knew that since the massacre he himself had been in a very precarious position, and a man as wise as Henry of Navarre, when in such a position, does not despise friendship.
‘My lord,’ said Navarre, ‘they would be fools to forget it when it is possible that one day you may be King over us all.’
The thought pleased Alençon; and coming from Navarre, who was after all a king—if somewhat eclipsed at the moment—it was doubly pleasant.
‘I am many steps from the throne,’ he mused smiling.
‘Not so. The King’s son did not live . . . nor would any child of his, I am thinking. And when the King dies . .
‘There is my arrogant brother whom you so recently heard insult me.’
‘Yes. But he is hardly likely to produce progeny. And then . . .’ Henry of Navarre administered a Béarnais slap on the back which almost knocked Alençon off his feet; but the little Duke did not mind such boisterous behaviour when accompanied by words which were so gratifying. If one could forgive the crude manners of a provincial, he thought, he is not such a bad fellow, this Henry of Navarre.
They walked in friendly silence for a few paces.
‘And so,’ continued Navarre at length, ‘your time will come. I am sure of that, my lord Duke.’
Alençon looked up into the shrewd face of his kinsman. ‘You are happier now that you have become a Catholic?’ he asked.
Then Henry of Navarre did an astonishing thing. He closed one eye and opened it swiftly. There was something worldly about Navarre, something experienced, which made Alençon long to be like him. Alençon chuckled. He knew that Navarre was hoodwinking such people as the King, Anjou and the Queen Mother in just the way which he, Alençon, longed to do. He found himself returning the wink.
‘So . . . you are not truly Catholic?’ he asked.
‘I am Catholic today,’ said Navarre. ‘Who knows what I may be tomorrow?’
Alençon laughed conspiratorially. ‘I myself have been attracted to the Huguenot faith,’ he ventured.
‘It may well be,’ said Navarre, ‘that, like me, you intend to be a Huguenot-Catholic.’
Alençon laughed with Navarre; and then they began to talk of women, a subject which Alençon found almost as exciting as Navarre did.
They were very quickly the best of friends. Navarre showed that right mixture of respect for a man who might be a King one day, and camaraderie for a fellow who he recognized as just such another as himself.
Those were uneasy weeks before La Rochelle. Anjou and Guise noticed the growing friendship between the mischievous pair and wondered what it foreboded; Condé and Navarre, encouraged by Alençon, who was now their recognized ally, threatened to desert. The army seemed about to disintegrate when Catherine and the council in Paris decided it was time to make peace. The King of Poland had died, and Anjou had been elected by the Poles as their new King; it was therefore necessary to recall him to Paris without delay. So the town of La Rochelle must be left in peace for a spell. The Huguenots were promised liberty of worship and the right to celebrate marriages and christenings in their own houses if no more than ten people were present. The war had come to another uneasy pause.
Riding to the hunt, Catherine watched her son, and asked herself how much longer he could be expected to live. His lung complaint had grown so much worse that he was continually out of breath. He blew his horn more frequently than was necessary, and such a strain on his lungs, Paré had warned him, should be avoided.
But when Charles was in one of his violent moods he never thought
of what was good or bad for him.
He cannot live much longer, thought Catherine.
However, the position was alarming although there was one bright side to it. Charles’ son had died, as she had guessed he would. From the day of the child’s birth she had known she could safely leave it to its fate; but, strangely enough, he had a healthy son now by Marie Touchet, and the Queen was pregnant again. What if the Queen were to produce a healthy child as Marie had done! Then on the King’s death there would have to be another regency—and worse still, an end to her darling Henry’s hopes of the throne. She would never allow that to come about.
‘My son,’ she said, knowing full well that comments on his health could irritate him when he was in certain moods, ‘you tire yourself.’
He turned angry eyes upon her. ‘Madame, I am the best judge of that.’
He was at the beginning of one of his violent moods. She, who knew him so well, could see it encroaching on his sanity. In a short while that whip of his would descend on his horse, on his dogs and on his huntsmen as they happened to come within his range. She saw the foam on his mouth and heard the familiar hysteria in his voice.
‘What is the matter with you all?’ he shouted. ‘My horse slackens speed. My dogs seem asleep, and my men are a lazy good-for-nothing lot. By God!’ Down came the whip on his horse’s flank.
Catherine watched, smiling a little. That is well, she thought. Beat the creature to madness. May it bolt and throw you, and let that be an end to your madness and you, for I am heartily sick of you, and it is time Henry was King.
He caught her eyes fixed on him, and fearing that he might have read her thoughts she said quickly: ‘Hé, my son. Why do you get so angry with your dogs and horses and these poor men whose delight it is to serve you, while you are over-meek with your enemies?’
‘Over-meek!’ he cried.
‘Why are you not angry with those wretches in La Rochelle who are causing death and suffering to so many in your army?’
The King’s brow puckered. He said: ‘Wars . . . wars . . . It is all wars. It is all bloodshed in this land.’ He glared at Catherine and began to shout. ‘And who is the cause of it all? Tell me that.’ He shouted to his men: ‘Tell me! Who is the cause of this, eh? You . . . you tell me. Who is the cause of all the misery of this land? Answer me. Have you no tongues? We will see . . . we will see . . . and if you have, we will have them out, since they appear to be no use to you.’ He lifted his whip and slashed his dogs. ‘Who is the cause of all our misery, eh?’ Then he turned his fierce, mad eyes again on his mother. ‘We know!’ he cried. ‘All know. My God! It is you . . . you, Madame . . . you are our evil genius. You are the cause of it all.’
