by Jean Plaidy
Navarre joined the order. He enjoyed thrashing the King and his favourites, but managed to avoid being beaten himself. ‘Chacun à son goût!’ said the incorrigible Navarre.
The Cardinal of Lorraine also joined the order, for he wished above all things to enjoy the favour and confidence of the King.
Catherine watched their antics in dismay.
It is nothing, she assured herself. He has waited so long. Now his triumph has gone to his head. He will tire of this folly soon, and then he and I will rule together.
Catherine was sitting at dinner when, suddenly and without warning, the knowledge came to her that the Cardinal of Lorraine was dead.
She paused in the act of carrying a goblet to her lips and said calmly: ‘Now we may have some peace, for the Cardinal of Lorraine is dead, and folks say that he was the one who prevented it.’
One of her women said: ‘Madame, I saw the Cardinal but two days ago. It was in a procession of the Battus. He was walking barefoot and his shoulders were uncovered. He was well enough then.’
‘He is dead,’ Catherine persisted. ‘He was a great prelate.’ She smiled slyly. ‘We have suffered a grievous loss.’ She saw Madalenna’s eyes upon her and and she drew the woman closer to her, whispering: ‘Today has died the wickedest of men, the saints be praised!’
At that she dropped her goblet and stared before her. ‘Jesus! she cried. ‘There he is. There is the Cardinal!’
Madalenna’s teeth were chattering. ‘Madame,’ she whispered, ‘we see him not.’
Catherine sat back in her chair. She was calm as she said: ‘It was a vision. I have had such now and then in my life. I doubt not that this day we shall hear of the death of that old man.’
Her women could not forget the incident. They talked together of it in awed whispers. They remembered the occasion on which she had told them of the death of the Prince of Condé at Jarnac and the victory of her son on that field, when, though miles away, she had seemed to see it all pass before her eyes while it was happening.
‘The Queen Mother is not quite human,’ they said. ‘That is what terrifies us all.’
Later that day, when news was brought to Catherine of the Cardinal’s death, she said: ‘You bring no news to me. I saw him as he left this Earth on his way to Paradise.’ And to herself she added: ‘To Hell more likely, if such a place there be.’
That night a heavy storm arose and, as Catherine lay sleepless in her bed, she could not shut out of her mind the memory of that man who had dominated her son, King Francis the Second, and made that boy’s life miserable to him. She remembered so many incidents from the past, the sly, deadly remarks of the man, his lecherous eyes, his shrewd determination to advance his house, the cowardice which had made him wear a suit of mail under his Cardinal’s robes. She remembered how, of all the men in France, he had been her greatest enemy; a wicked man, a man of contrasts, a man of the Church who was ready to pay great rewards to any man or woman who could think of some new method of interesting his erotic tastes, who could cap any quotation from the classics, who excelled at repartee, and the more risqué it was, the more it was to his liking. She thought of how, during the last years, when he must have known that he was approaching death, he had looked at her with a new affection, seeing in her one whom he considered so wicked that beside her he felt innocent. She imagined him, standing before God and saying in that sly clever way of his: ‘Yes, I did that, and I am guilty of that . . . but my Lord God, consider that greater sinner Queen Catherine, and you will see that I am a novice in sin.’ This imaginary scene made her laugh aloud.
But as the storm buffeted the walls of the château, and it was impossible to shut out the sound of the wind and the incessant beating of the rain, a terrible fear gripped her and she thought that the Cardinal stood in her bedchamber. She touched her bracelet and repeated the words of a protective charm which René had taught her; but even when she shut her eyes she could see the long, sly face of the Cardinal with those finely chiselled features which, before depravity had set their mark on them, had been so beautiful; she saw the eyes with the dark bags beneath them; she saw the thin lips moving. And she thought: he wants to take me with him. He wants me to stand before the Judgement Seat beside him. He wants to say, ‘Compare us. Here is the wickedest woman who ever lived. You cannot see her, scarlet with her sins, and think so badly of me!’
It was a ridiculous fantasy; she did not believe in that Judgement. But she could not forget the Cardinal, and it seemed to her that he was there in the shadow of the hangings at the foot of her bed.
At length she could bear the strain no longer and called to her women. They came, surprised.
‘Light candles,’ she said. ‘The Cardinal is here. The lights and your company will drive him back to Hades.’
They stayed with her for the remainder of the night.
At last the King agreed to leave Avignon for Rheims.
‘You must be crowned King of France as soon as possible,’ said Catherine.
One of the greatest days of her life was approaching, she assured herself: the day her darling was to be crowned King of France. She had not time for whimsical fears and she had ceased to think about the Cardinal of Lorraine, although for a few nights after his death she had kept her women about her bed until dawn. That man who had been called Le tigre de. la France, the leech, the bloodsucker, the enemy of God, was soon forgotten; although immediately after his death, tales had been whispered about his passing. The Huguenots declared that the great storm which had burst over them on the night of his death had been stirred up by witches at their Sabbat, so that they might carry his soul away to eternal torment. They said also that he was greatly perturbed while he was dying, and aware of the evil spirits about his bed who were waiting for his soul to be released. The Catholics had a different story to tell. To them the storm represented God’s anger with a country that did not appreciate a good Catholic such as the Cardinal had always been; God had taken him, since his country did not appreciate him. They said that when he had died he had spoken with the tongues of angels, two of whom had stood at the head of his bed and two at the foot to take charge of his soul.
‘It would be interesting to know who finally won the man’s black soul,’ said Catherine cynically, ‘the witches or the angels. But I have no doubt that he will cause a bloody conflict in Heaven or Hell as he has throughout France. Enough of him! Let us leave him to his rest or his torment, for he is gone, and it is with those who remain that we must concern ourselves.’
And so to Rheims, where Henry startled his mother by declaring his intention to marry without delay.
Catherine was horrified. ‘If you wish to marry, my son, we will find a bride worthy of you. But negotiations must take place. First there is your coronation to be taken care of.’
‘I intend to marry two days after my coronation.’
‘That . . . that is impossible.’
‘With me,’ said Henry in his new arrogance, ‘very little is impossible. Certainly not marriage.’
‘Henry, my love, I do not think you understand the dignity of your position. As King of France . . .’
‘As King of France, I, and I alone, will decide whom and when I will marry. Louise is eager to become my Queen and I see no reason for delay.’
‘Louise!’ cried Catherine in horror.
‘We are in love,’ said Henry, patting his curls.
She looked at him in astonishment. What had happened to him during those months he had spent in Poland? She was wondering with dismay whether he was tainted with that madness which had tormented poor Charles.
‘You are the King,’ she protested. ‘You must have a marriage worthy of you.’
‘I must marry and have children, Mother. Why, if I were to die tomorrow, Alençon would mount the throne. Such a calamity must never be allowed to fall upon France.’
‘You must have children, yes . . . but you must also marry in accordance with your rank.’
He took her hand a
nd lightly kissed it. ‘My rank is such,’ he said, ‘that any raised up by me appear exalted. The marriage will take place immediately after the coronation. The people will be pleased.’
Catherine saw the petulant droop of his lips; she knew that he was defying her to attempt to frustrate him. She was unable to arouse fear in him, as she had been able to to do so effortlessly in her other children. She must not despair; she must try to rule by cunning. Why should she not? She had done so successfully before. But how alarming it was to discover this irresponsibility in him, for, in a person of his position, it amounted almost to madness.
The coronation did not go smoothly. He showed his annoyance at the way in which the crown was placed on his head. It hurt him, he said aloud; and he shook his head pettishly so that it almost fell off. He must learn to control his temper in public, thought Catherine. What had those Poles done to him? They had changed him. He must not behave before his French subjects as he obviously had before those barbarians. To the Poles he had been a glittering oddity; to the French he was a ridiculous pervert. Catherine’s fears grew with every manifestation of the strangeness of her son. The people were saying now that the incident regarding the crown was an evil omen. ‘Did you see the way it all but fell off his frivolous head? He’ll not reign long. That was a sign. A sign that need not cause us much concern.’ This was bad; a King should be popular, at least during his coronation. Henry was angered by the sullen ,attitude of the people. The Poles had been so proud of him; what was wrong with the French that they could not also be?
And immediately after the coronation the startled population was informed that he was to marry without delay.
His behaviour now became preposterous and it was obvious that he had become so arrogant, so conceited that he did not care what his people thought of him. He insisted that the Church should waive its customs, and that the wedding should be celebrated at night. ‘For,’ he explained, ‘we need to dress in daylight, and it will take the whole of the day to arrange our jewels and dresses.’
The Church was angry; the people were shocked. He had not only made this sudden decision but he had chosen as a wife a woman who was known to be the mistress of Francis of Luxembourg. The French were already beginning to despise this painted, perfumed King who did not seem to be able to make up his mind whether he was a man or a woman.
He committed a further indiscretion by summoning Francis of Luxembourg to his presence.
‘My cousin,’ he said to this young man, and he said it before so many that the story was carried through Rheims to Paris and circulated throughout France, ‘I am about to marry your mistress. In exchange I give you Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf, who was mine. You shall marry my mistress and I shall marry yours, for that is a very piquant situation, I think, which amuses me and will amuse my people.’
Francis of Luxembourg, completely taken aback by the proposal, bowed low and said: ‘Sire, I am indeed glad that my mistress is destined for such honour and glory. I beg you, however, to dispense with my marrying Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf.’
Henry frowned, ‘Why so? Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf was good enough for me. She is, therefore, good enough for you.’
‘That is so, Sire,’ said the discomfited gentleman, ‘but I would beg time to consider a step which, Your. Majesty will agree, is an important one.’
‘I cannot give you time,’said the arrogant King, ‘I insist that your marriage to Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf takes place at once. I wish there to be two speedy marriages. It is a romantic and saucy situation which pleases me, and will make my people understand the man who is their King.’
Henry was married with great pomp to Louise de Vaudemont, but Francis of Luxembourg was missing from his apartments a few hours after his interview with the King; and later it was discovered that he had fled with all speed to Luxembourg.
Henry shrugged his elegant shoulders; he was too busy with his new clothes and the entertainments he was planning to think very much about his kinsman’s flight. But the people were shaking their heads in disgust and asking themselves what lay ahead for a country with such a King on its throne. ‘Have we finished with one madman, only to set another in his place? They are vipers, these Valois. What can you expect? Remember who their mother is!’
And from coronation and marriage in Rheims came Henry to his capital city, there to indulge in more orgies, more processions of the Battus through the streets.
The Parisians watched the antics of their King with sullen eyes. It seemed to them that nothing but evil could come from the domination of such a man as Henry the Third, who would rule them with the Italian Jezebel at his side.
The King continued his frivolous existence unaware of the storms which were rising all about him. Catherine watched him with apprehension and offered advice which he pretended to act upon and then allowed himself to forget. He had his special young men always about him; the people of Paris had begun to call them his mignons. There were four whom he seemed to favour more than any others: du Guast, Caylus and the Dukes of Joyeuse and Epernon. They scarcely ever left the King’s side; they enjoyed his confidence and shared his pleasures. Catherine often heard them laughing together as they planned some ludicrous amusement or discussed the new styles in clothes and jewels or told each other of the antics of their lap-dogs.
All over Paris the people were becoming restive. Two cold summers in succession had caused a famine in wheat. The Huguenots, as ready with their assurances that God was on their side as the Catholics were that He was on theirs, declared this to be a result of the massacre. One ill which could, without doubt, be attributed to the massacre was the plague of wolves which harassed the countryside; they had been attracted by so much carnage and looked for more. The Huguenots had been clever and industrious merchants and France was missing the prosperity they had created. Epidemics were raging through the land; lepers roamed the countryside, spreading their terrible afflictions; and still there was perpetual strife between the remaining Huguenots and the Catholics.
Moreover, the King needed money, and declared he must have it. He and his favourites had planned many amusing entertainments, but these would be expensive. The people were heavily taxed now; and in particular, the people of Paris murmured against the King; they were on the spot and they saw the extravagant processions; they glimpsed the expensively dressed guests, the lavish banquets that took place in the palace of the Louvre.
They had never hated any as they hated this King and his mother; but it was Catherine whom they blamed for the King’s misdeeds, as they would continue to blame her for all the ills which befell France. The King they despised; his mother they feared and loathed.
The people of Paris were hungry, and when they were hungry they were reckless. Lampoons were scrawled on walls; coarse jokes about the King and his mother, Alençon and Queen Margot, were circulated. France was simmering on the point of revolt, and this showed itself in small eruptions. Once the carriage in which Catherine and Margot were travelling was stopped by students, who ordered the two women to alight; realizing that it would have been dangerous not to obey, they did so, when obscene remarks were shouted at the Queen Mother, and some students thrust their hands into the bodice of Margot’s gown. Only the haughty demeanour of the two Queens prevented more rough handling; and displaying a dignity which eventually overawed the young rioters, they stepped calmly into their carriage: which was driven speedily away. On another occasion the King stopped to see the fair at Saint- Germain, and he found the place full of students burlesquing the mignons in long chemises with grotesque frills made of white paper. They minced through the town, calling each other ‘mignon’, stroking and petting each other. Those mignons who were with the King wept with anger, and the only way of pacifying them was to place the students under arrest. Catherine arranged that they should be quickly released; but she was alarmed by Henry’s irresponsibility.
The citizens shouted after the King when he appeared in the streets, and even when he rode in a procession. �
��Keeper of Four Beggars!’ was the favourite gibe, and this was used particularly when he was in the company of his four especial favourites.
The people jeered: ‘He dresses his wife’s hair. He chooses her clothes. Who is this Henry the Third? Is he a man or a woman?’
‘Concierge du Palais!’ yelled the children, imitating their elders.
The wits amused themselves by inventing stories of the King’s ridiculous behaviour; others talked continually of the Queen Mother’s villainy. The city was realizing that it hated the House of Valois, and no member was spared vilification. Alençon and Margot, it was said, were guilty of incest. Margot took new lovers as frequently as she took her meals. She had ‘a hundred different dresses in her wardrobe, all costing a fortune; and she kept special flaxen-haired footmen simply that she might use their hair for making wigs.
‘How long shall we allow these vipers to rule us?’ grumbled the people. ‘How long shall we allow them to make us poor with their extravagances?’
And so the rumble of coming disaster rose and died away to rise again. There was perpetual strife between Huguenots and Catholics, who hated each other almost as much as they hated the royal family.
August came, hot and stifling. The filth in the streets of the towns and the stench from the gutters kept people behind doors. Beggars grew in numbers; they lay sprawled on the cobbles, diseased and dying; and the pickpockets did good business in the market-places. Outside the town robbers abounded, and murders were committed for the sake of a few francs.
In. August came the anniversary of a day which would never be forgotten.
Every year—for years to come—Huguenots would lie awake on the night of the 23rd and listen for the sound of the tocsin, remembering those lost ones, trembling at the thought that they might be called upon to share the fate of those martyrs.
In Paris some Catholic joker had spread panic among the Huguenot population by chalking crosses on the doors of several well-known Huguenots’ houses. Men sharpened their swords and saw that their guns were in readiness. It was an unhealthy time of the year.
