by Jean Plaidy
‘I but tested them, dearest Majesty, to find which was worthy of your palate.’
The sweet was popped into the royal mouth by the gentleman, whose hand was patted affectionately by his master.
Tenczynski murmured: ‘We would not tire your Majesty. If it is Your Majesty’s wish that we should proceed without you .
Henry waved his beautiful white hand. ‘That is my wish, my dear Tenczynski. Go to your council and when it is over come back and we will tell you of the wonderful ball we are giving tomorrow night.’
Tenczynski lifted his shoulders and laughed. ‘A ball . . . tomorrow night?’ he said.
‘A ball, my dear Tenczynski, such as you have never before seen. Now leave me, and when you return for my coucher I shall tell you all about it and what I shall wear.’
‘Your Majesty deserves the grateful appreciation of your subjects,’ said Tenczynski, bowing low.
When he had gone, Henry yawned. He decided to tease his young men by talking of the Princess of Condé.
‘To think I have not set eyes on her fair face for six long months!’
The young men were sullen; but they knew that he was teasing. They were not really distubred; nor was Henry really longing for the Princess. This was just a game they played between them.
‘Don’t sulk,’ said Henry. ‘And another sweetmeat. I am going to write to the Princess tonight.’
‘You tire yourself with writing to the Princess,’ said du Guast.
‘You are mistaken, my friend. I am stimulated by writing to the Princess.’
Villequier pleaded: ‘Leave it until tomorrow, dearest Sire, and talk about your toilette for the ball.’
The King was tempted irresistibly. ‘I shall be in green silk, and I shall be dressed as a woman. My gown will be cut low and I shall wear emeralds and pearls. And now . . . my writing materials, please. You may discuss together what you are going to wear, because I shall be rather cross if you do not surpass yourselves.’
They could see that he was determined to write to the Princess, so they brought the materials for which he asked. He sent for his jewelled stiletto and, when it was brought, he pricked his finger while the young men looked on in sorrow. Then he began to write to the Princess of Condé in his own blood, an affectation which delighted him.
‘When you read this letter, my darling, you must remember that it is written in royal Valois blood, the blood of him who now sits on the throne of Poland. Ah, I would it were that of France! And why? Because of that greater honour? No, my love. Because, were I King of France, you would be beside me.’
While he was writing du Guast entered the chamber; he was excited, but Henry did not look up. He thought the favourite’s jealousy had prompted him to interrupt the letter-writing on some small pretext.
‘Sire,’ said du Guast, ‘there is a messenger without. He brings great news.’
‘A messenger!’ Henry laid aside his love letter. ‘What news?’
‘Great news, Sire. From France.’
‘Bring him in Bring him in.’
When the man was brought in, he went to the King and knelt before him with a great show of reverence. Then, having kissed the delicate hand, he cried aloud: ‘Long live King Henry the Third of France.’
Henry lifted his hand and smiled. ‘So,’ he said, ‘my brother is dead at last . . . and you come from my mother. Welcome! You have other news for me?
‘None, Sire, except that the Queen Mother urges your return to France without delay.’
The King patted the messenger’s shoulder. ‘My attendants will give you the refreshments you deserve for bringing such news. Take him away. Give him food and drink. See that he is well looked after.’
When they were alone, Henry lay back, his arms behind his head, smiling at his young men.
‘At last!’ cried the impetuous Villequier. ‘That for which we have long hoped and prayed has come to pass.
‘I must return to France at once,’ said the King.
‘This very night!’ cried Villequier.
‘Sire,’ said the more sober du Guast, ‘that will not be necessary. The Poles know that they cannot detain you now. Summon the ministers and tell them what has happened. Make your plans to leave. You will be ready in a day or so. But to go tonight would appear as if you were escaping.’
Henry frowned on du Guast. He had already pictured himself and his companions slipping away, riding hard into France. He smiled on Villequier, for that gentleman’s suggestion pleased him.
‘They will try to detain me,’ he said. ‘You know how they love me. I have told them that there is to be a great ball tomorrow night, and they will not let me go until that is over.’
‘Give them their ball,’ advised du Guast. ‘Let it be a farewell ceremony. Explain to them that, although you remain the King of Poland, it is necessary that you go immediately to France to show yourself to the people and to arrange matters of state for which you, as their King, are responsible.’
‘But, my dear, you know I must live in France from now on. A King of France cannot live in Poland.’
‘They will not know this, Sire. It can be broken to them later on.
‘He is wrong,’ said Villequier, who was impatient to feel the soil of France under his feet. ‘We must leave for France at once . . . tonight. Does not the Queen Mother say so?’
‘I believe you are right, dear Villequier,’ said Henry. ‘Yes. That is what I shall do. Now, my dears, let us make our plans. Have horses saddled ready for us. After the attendants have left for the night, I will rise, hastily dress, and we will not lose a moment. We will gallop off to our beloved France.’
Du Guast said wearily: ‘Such dramatic action is not necessary, sire.’
Henry was peevish. He had grown completely self-indulgent during his reign in Poland. He enjoyed acting strangely and in a completely unexpected manner. He did not care how foolish he was he enjoyed astonishing himself as well as those about him. Du Guast, recognizing the mood, knew that it was useless to remonstrate.
‘I long for the civilization of France!’ cried Henry. ‘The only things I shall regret leaving behind me are the crown jewels of Poland.’
‘But they belong now to Your Majesty,’ said Villequier.
‘Whether you are in France or in Poland, you are still the King of Poland. Take the crown jewels with you, Sire.’
Henry languidly kissed Villequier on either cheek. ‘You have made me very happy, dear friend,’ he said. ‘I could not have borne to part with those jewels.’
They dispersed to make their arrangements, and when the time came for the coucher they were ready for flight.
Tenczynski presided over the ceremony while the Polish nobles stood about smiling with pleasure, as they always did in the presence of the King. Henry lay back in his bed and talked desultorily, for a while.
He yawned. ‘I declare I am tired tonight. I have been so busy all day with the preparations for tomorrow’s ball.’
‘Then,’ said Tenczynski, ‘we will leave Your Majesty to your slumbers.’
Henry closed his eyes, and the curtains about his bed were drawn. All left the bedchamber and there was quiet throughout the palace.
Half an hour later, as they had arranged, his young men, already dressed and booted, came quietly in. They, all assisted in the dressing of the King, and, taking the Polish crown jewels with them, they left the palace, made their way to where the saddled horses were waiting, and rode secretly out of Cracow.
It was exciting to imagine themselves pursued. They rode on with great speed but without much sense of direction, and when they had ridden for some hours, they found themselves on the banks of the Vistula and had no idea how they had reached it, nor which way they should go.
They looked at each other in consternation. It was not part of the King’s exciting plan that they. should be lost. let us ride into the forest,’ said du Guast. ‘We may find a guide.’
This they did, riding hard until they came to a woodcutter’s hut
, where Villequier, pointing his dagger at the man’s throat, insisted that he leave his family and guide the party to the frontier. The trembling man had no alternative but to agree, but it was two days and nights before the party reached the frontier. There Tenczynski was waiting for them with three hundred Tartars.
Du Guast could not repress a smile of triumph, for he had at least proved his point that this piece of dramatic play-acting would be useless.
Tenczynski dropped on his knees before the King. ‘I have followed you, Sire,’ he said, ‘to beg you to return to Cracow. Your subjects are plunged into sorrow because you have left them. Return, Sire, and you will find a great welcome waiting for you. Your subjects will be as obedient and loving as they have ever been.’
‘My dear Count,’ said Henry, ‘you must know that I have been recalled to my native land. The French crown is my birthright. Do not think, because I must hasten to France, that I shall not return to Poland . . . the land which I have grown to love. Just let me settle my affairs in France and I will be back.’
‘Sire, in France you will not find subjects as loving and faithful as Poland can offer you.’
‘Dear Tenczynski, you move me deeply. But do not ask me to return with you now. Just a little grace . . . that is all I ask. Do you think I shall be able to stay away from our dear Poland? You must go back to Cracow and take care of matters for me until I see you again. Rest assured, dear Count, that will be sooner than you believe possible.’
With great deliberation, Tenczynski pricked his arm with his dagger and let the blood drop on to a bracelet. ‘Here is my blood, Sire, on this ornament. Take it, I beg of you. It will be a constant reminder that my blood is yours should you need it.’
Henry pulled off one of his diamond rings and gave it to the Count in exchange for the bracelet. ‘Take this in memory of me,’ he said.
‘And may I tell Your Majesty’s subjects that you will soon be back with us, that this is just a short visit to France, Sire?’ ‘You may tell them that,’ said Henry.
Tenczynski wept while the Tartars looked on in bewilderment. Henry and his followers rode on across the frontier.
‘To our beloved France!’ cried the King. ‘Never again to set foot in that land of barbarians.’
But Henry found that, once he had left Poland behind him, he was in no great hurry to reach the land of his birth. Kingship brought many responsibilities which he was not eager to shoulder, and governing France was not going to be such a pleasant matter as pretending to govern Poland had been. He thought irritably of those tiresome Huguenots and fanatical Catholics who were always making trouble; he thought of the domination of his mother, the perversity of his brother, and the slyness of his sister. It was pleasant therefore to linger on the way.
In Vienna there was a great reception for the new King of France. He could not leave in a hurry after such a reception; it would seem so churlish. And beautiful Venice gave him a welcome which made that he had received in Vienna seem quite cool by comparison.
What joy it was to recline in a golden gondola rowed by eight gondoliers in Turkish turbans, while the Venetians looked on at the glittering figure adorned by French and Polish jewels!
He could not tear himself away from Venice. He was deeply susceptible to beauty; and to glide along the Grand Canal, to see the Venetian beauties wave to him from their lighted windows, to be with writers and artists once more, gave him an exquisite pleasure. How had he endured those months in a savage land? He allowed artists to paint his portrait; he wan- dered in the Rialto disguised as an ordinary citizen; he bought Perfumes such as he had not been able to buy since what he called in tragic tones ‘his exile’. He bought numerous jewels.
‘My dears,’ he said to his young men as he perfumed them with his new purchases and hung recently acquired jewels about their necks, ‘is it not wonderful to be once more in a civilized land?’
Urgent dispatches from the Queen Mother began to arrive. She had set out with her entourage and was waiting for him at the frontier. His people were eager, she wrote, to welcome their King.
He grimaced. He was not sure of the welcome he would receive in France. He could not forget those scowling French men and women who had lined the streets in the Flemish towns to shout insults at him and to bespatter him with mud and foul things.
But Catherine’s appeals could not be continuously flouted, and Henry knew that he must say goodbye to the dear people of Venice and push on to the frontier.
When at last Catherine met him she embraced him fervently.
‘My darling, at last!’
‘Mother! I have been unable to sleep these last days and nights in my longing to see you. The exile has been terrible dear Mother, terrible and tragic.’
‘It is over now, my darling. You are home. You are King of France.I do not need to tell you how I have longed for this day.’
She was studying him anxiously. He seemed to have aged six years in a little more than six months. It was so with these sons of hers. Their lives seemed to burn out quickly. They were mature in their teens and old men in their twenties. She was afraid that he would grow sickly as Francis and Charles had done.
She explained to him that she was admiring his healthy looks, for she knew that he could not endure criticism, particularly of his appearance. ‘You look younger than you did when you went away, my darling. You must tell me all about that terrible exile later.’
She had, she said, brought Alençon and Navarre with her. ‘They are kept under close supervision,’ she added. ‘I make them ride with me in my coach, and they always share my lodging. We must watch those two.’
She rode beside him during the state entry into Lyons. This is how it shall be from now on, she decided. I shall always be beside him, and together we shall rule France.
Lyons brought bitter, memories to Catherine. She recalled another entry into this city—oh, long ago!—when she, the Queen of France, had been deeply humiliated by the honour which had been done to the King’s mistress, Diane de Poitiers.
How different was this entry! She was happy now. Her son Henry would never treat her as her husband Henry had done. This was the happiest relationship of her life.
News was brought to Catherine, while the royal party rested at Lyons, that the Princess of Condé had died; Catherine was surprised to find how genuinely grieved she was at the thought of the sorrow this would cause Henry. She kept the news from him for as long as she could.
His way of showing his grief was typical of the King; he used it to increase the jealousy of his favourites. His heart was broken, he declared. Oh, what a cruel fate was this! He had been living only in the hope of reunion with his love. And after all those months of exile, he had lost her!
He shut himself in his rooms; he wore deep mourning—black velvet ornamented with diamonds; and diamonds, he said were not his favourite stones. He needed colour to set off his skin and eyes. ‘You see how I loved her, when I will wear nothing but these sombre garments because of her. Oh, my heart is truly broken.’
Catherine remonstrated. ‘My darling, you must not stay here. You have been away from Paris too long. There is your coronation to be considered. The sooner you are crowned King the better. I insist.’
He was playful. ‘You insist, dear mother. Ah, but I am the master now, am I not?’
And two months were frittered away before she could induce him to proceed, and then he would go no farther than Avignon.
Catherine quickly realized that those happy plans of sharing the throne with her beloved son had little hope of fulfilment. He consulted her less than he used to. She had always known that he was wildly extravagant, but never had he been so extravagant as he was now. He had always enjoyed doing what was unexpected; but previously his tricks had held a grain of humour in them; they seemed now to be all stupidity. She blamed his young men; she would have to break that influence as quickly as she could.
He had formed an attachment to a young woman whom that sly old man, the Cardinal of Lor
raine, had called to his notice. The Cardinal was trying to win the confidence of the King, Catherine assumed, so that he might dominate him as he had once dominated poor sickly little Francis. Louise de Vaudemont was a fair-haired young woman who belonged to the Lorraine family.
Henry took a half-hearted interest in the girl at first, for he was, he declared, still broken-hearted by the loss of the Princess of Condé; but after a while it occurred to him that he should have a mistress, and Louise de Vaudemont was as suitable as any. She was already the mistress of Francis of Luxembourg; thus she would not make too many demands on the King; she was therefore very worthy to step into the shoes of Madame de Condé. The Princess had had a husband; Louise had a lover; that was very convenient when love-making wearied a man.
He was not eager to leave Avignon. He wished to postpone his arrival in Paris, for he did not like his capital; he never rode through its streets without being aware of the antagonism of the people. They did not appreciate his beauty, nor that of his gentlemen. He had acquired Louise because he felt that it would please the people of Paris to know that he was sufficiently natural to love a woman. But he did not wish to think of Paris; be became petulant when anyone mentioned the city. ‘Avignon is a charming town,’ he would say. ‘Let us stay here awhile. We shall have plenty of time for Paris.’
He joined the new brotherhood of the Battus. ‘I wish my people to know,’ he said, ‘that I am a serious man, a deeply religious man.’ The Battus was a sect whose members dressed themselves in sacks, and, wearing masks, paraded the streets thrashing each other as they went; their feet and shoulders were bare and they carried lighted tapers and crucifixes as though they were doing a penance. Henry was enthusiastic about the Battus. All his young men must join. It gave one such a sense of spirituality, said the King; and it was heavenly to feel the lash on one’s shoulders. He had death’s heads worked in jewels all over his clothes; he had them worked in silk, even on his shoestrings.
