by Jean Plaidy
Catherine laid a hand on his arm, restraining him; she came close to Margot.
‘Your brother has escaped,’ she said. ‘And you, I dare say, have not forgotten our conversation of yesterday?’
‘No, Madame,’ said Margot, her eyes innocent. ‘I am as astonished as you are.’
‘Do not lie to me!’ cried the King.
‘God forbid that I should lie to my King. But I do.not think Your Majesty should be unduly disturbed.’
‘Not disturbed! He has escaped once more. He has gone to gather an army which he plans to lead against me.’
‘Nay, Sire; I was to some extent in my brother’s confidence, and this much I know: his one desire was to carry out his plan for the Netherlands. If he has escaped it is to do this. And that, as Your Majesty must agree, would further your own greatness.’
Margot cast down her eyes while Catherine studied her daughter. ‘Clever Margot!’ thought Catherine. Of course she had helped her brother to escape. Of course she was guilty. But she certainly knew how to be calm in the face of danger; she knew how to think quickly and how to say the right thing. It was a fact that she had, to a certain extent, succeeded in mollifying her brother by reminding him of that dream which had been Coligny’s and enchanted them all, the dream of a French Empire. If Anjou had escaped because he wished to fight for his country against another, and not to plunge his own land into civil war, then his flight was no real calamity.
‘Let your sister retire to her apartments,’ said Catherine. ‘We shall soon discover whether she has spoken the truth; if she has, all will be well. If not, we shall know how to act.’
Margot had been right when she had said that Anjou had wished to escape from the court that he might carry his war into Flanders. News came of certain successes which he had gained there. The Protestants had readily made him their leader; gleefully he had accepted the role and, in his grandiloquent manner, had promised them his devotion, declaring that he would do all in his power to help them regain their liberty. The Flemings rallied to him, declaring their belief in him. Catherine waited—not without scepticism—for results. The Flemings had suffered great cruelty at the hands of the Spaniards and had been without a leader. Could her weak, conceited son bring them the victory to which greater men had been unable to lead them? Catherine had not such a high opinion of Anjou’s abilities as he himself and the Flemings seemed to have. There was nothing to do but await news; and meanwhile there was a good deal to worry her at home, the chief cause for anxiety being the mignons.
They strutted about the court; they were everywhere; they held all the important posts; there were always a few of them at the side of the King to advise him, to turn him against his mother.
In the past, when Catherine wished to humiliate the Bourbons, she had called in the aid of the Guises, and when she had desired to act against the Guises, she had turned to the Bourbons; and, in the present crisis, as the most natural enemies of the mignons were the Guises, she sent for Henry of Guise.
While she waited for him she thought a good deal about him. He had not been so much in her thoughts of late as there had been so much to occupy her; but now she was struck by the thought that these Guises had been very quiet lately. It was not like those troublesome people to stand aside. What was it that demanded so much of their attention? The Catholic League? Catherine wanted to laugh at the thought. Henry of Guise was like all the rest—a fanatic. While they strove to keep their place on Earth, they were thinking of another in Heaven. That was where they failed. All the skill of which one single person was capable was required to achieve power and to keep it. Catherine could think of a long list of people who had failed for the simple reason that they had thought too much of Heaven and not enough of Earth; and at the head of that list would be the name of Gaspard de Coligny. So, Monsieur de Guise was occupied with his Catholic League, through which he hoped to preserve the Catholic faith in France—so much so that he was content to stand aside while others ruled the country.
But what of that? Her concern now was the elimination of the mignons.
Guise knelt and kissed her hand.
‘We have seen little of you lately,’ said Catherine. ‘That does not please me. My dear Duke, perhaps it is because I grow old that I grow sentimental, but I was about to say that I look upon you as one of my children.’
‘Your Majesty is kind.’
‘Well, were you not brought up with them? Many are the times when I have watched a quarrel between you and my sons . . . a little friendship between you and my daughter. Ah, but the days of childhood are past. You and I, you know, are of the same mind about many things. Perhaps that is why I feel tender towards you; for it is a fact that we feel tender towards those who think as we do.’
‘To what things does Your Majesty refer?’
‘Chiefly religion. I am as good a Catholic as you are.’
‘I rejoice to hear that,’ said the Duke not without a trace of sarcasm.
‘It would be a matter for rejoicing if we could say the same for the whole nation, eh, Monsieur?’
‘Ah, yes.’
‘But there is this war in Flanders . . .’ Catherine lifted her shoulders expressively.
The Duke’s eyes flashed. ‘It would seem, Madame, that there are some in high places who give their support to the enemies of Catholicism; and the enemies of Catholicism, I have always maintained, are the enemies of France.’
‘Monsieur, speak low. There was a time when I had some say in the affairs of this realm. That is so no longer. There are certain gentlemen who rule the King, and those who rule the King rule France.’
Guise nodded his assent and went on: ‘Madame, I can say this to you in confidence, and you will understand that no treason is meant: the friends of the King are turning the people against him.°
Catherine took a dainty kerchief from the pocket of her gown, and flicked her eyes. ‘Monsieur de Guise, you are right. Would I could get some patriot to remove these gentlemen! Is there not some way?’
‘Madame, I feel sure that if there was, Your Majesty would be more likely to know of it than I.’
Catherine gave no sign of having understood this insult.
‘Were I a man,’ she said, ‘I should know what to do.’
‘Madame,’ persisted that most arrogant of young men, ‘your skill is known to be greater than that of any man.’
She smiled. ‘You are too kind. I am a mother who has watched over her children—perhaps a little too jealously, a little too anxiously. I was left a widow, Monsieur, with young children to care for. What can I do? Can I challenge these .
I must say it . . . these traitors to France?’
‘Not with the sword, Madame,’ admitted Guise.
‘Assuredly I cannot. But others could. You realize that these men are working against France . . . and the League?’
‘I do,’ said Guise.
‘Monsieur, forgive me, but I am astonished that you have allowed them to live so long.’
‘Madame, what would be the reaction of the King to the death of his . . . darlings?’
‘Grief, of course; but it is necessary to take a dangerous toy from a child, Monsieur, even though for a time the child weeps bitterly. It is for his good in the end.’
‘Let us consider this matter carefully,’ said Guise.
Catherine smiled. She guessed that she had won her point. She had seen his expression when she had mentioned the League. He was wondering whether this meant that Catherine had realized the importance of the League. If she had, and she considered that it was likely to become as great as he intended it should, she would doubtless have decided to throw in her lot with it, for it was ever her desire to be on the side of the most powerful.
He found it difficult to hide his emotion. That scar of his was like his father’s in more ways than one. The eye above it watered when he was under the stress of any emotion. Ah, Monsieurle Balafré, thought Catherine, that scar has done you much service in the streets of Paris, but it is apt to betray yo
u to those who would read your thoughts.
She sat at her window, looking out on the spring evening, and wondered how long a time would elapse before Guise took action.
She did not have to wait long.
Early on that morning which followed the day she had spoken to Guise, she heard shouts below her window while she lay in bed. Her woman came to tell her that there was a crowd making its way towards the palace. It appeared that someone was being carried.
‘A duel, I suppose,’ said Catherine, smiling to herself. ‘Jesus, why do they not choose a more reasonable time to settle their quarrels!’
‘It must be some important gentleman, Madame, to judge by the crowds.’
Catherine did not rise with any haste; and it was during her lever that the King rushed into her apartment as though he were demented. He had carelessly thrown on his clothes, and his tear-stained face was pallid.
He flung himself at her knees and, leaning his head against her, wept bitterly.
‘My darling, my darling, what has happened?’
‘Madame, terrible tragedy! Scoundrels have set upon my friends. It is too terrible to speak of. I shall die of grief. Quick! Dress quickly, I beg of you. You must come to my poor Caylus. I fear for him. I fear he will not live. Paré is with him but tremble. Maugiron is dead. Oh, I thank God those wicked murderers have not escaped.’
‘My dearest,’ said Catherine, ‘go back to poor Caylus. I will come to you as quickly as I can. He will wish you to be at his side.’
The King nodded and hurried back to Caylus.
Catherine heard the story from the women whom she had sent out to discover it.
Three gentlemen of Guise’s suite—Messieurs d’Entragues, Riberac and Schomberg—had been loitering near Les Tournelles at dawn, when three of the mignons—Caylus, Maugiron and Livarot—had strolled by.
‘Only those three?’ questioned Catherine.
‘Yes, Madame?
She was irritated. It should have been Epernon and Joyeuse, of course.
Riberac had shouted an insulting remark at the mignons, who, thinking it came from some members of the Paris mob, and having grown accustomed to such insults from that quarter, were inclined to ignore it; but when more remarks followed and it was realized that they came from noblemen, it was impossible to disregard them. Moreover, one of the gentlemen, d’Entragues, was approaching with a drawn sword.
‘Are you too lady-like to fight, then?’ he asked mockingly. At this, Livarot—the best swordsman of the three mignons—had his sword out of the sheath and the fight started. The duel was a desperate one, for, realizing that they were fighting for their lives, the mignons lost their languid ways and proved themselves to be fair fighters. Maugiron had been killed outside Les Tournelles; Schomberg also lost his life. Riberac had received such wounds that it was hardly likely he would recover; Caylus, as the Queen Mother knew, was in a very bad state.
Catherine hurried along to her son’s apartments, where he had installed the wounded Caylus. Catherine felt reassured when she looked at the man. Surely those wounds must be fatal.
‘This is terrible,’ she said. ‘Oh, my poor son, my heart bleeds for you as freely as this poor gentleman’s wounds, for I know how you love him.’
The King took her hand and she was happy, since in his trouble he had turned to her. It was pleasant too to reflect that he was not the least suspicious of her. Once I have rid him of these accursed men, she thought, he is mine.
Caylus lingered on for a few days, during which the King rarely left his bedside; Henry wept continually, imploring his darling not to die, begging his surgeons to save the life of one whose welfare was dearer to him—so he declared—than his own. But nothing could be done to save Caylus.
There was a good deal of satisfaction for the King in the fact that the Guisards, Riberac and Schomberg, had both lost their lives. Two Guisards for two mignons was a fair enough exchange. This proved a lesson to all that a mignon, when roused, could put up as good a fight as most men.
While he wept for his dying friend, the King swore revenge on the man he knew to be behind the affray. His mother begged him to keep such threats to himself.
‘Are you a supporter of Guise then, Madame?’ demanded the King.
‘I support one man and one man only, as you should know; and it is in my fear for him that I beg him to be silent. Take your revenge on the remaining Guisard, this d’Entragues, if you must; but as you value your life, do not suggest for one moment that Henry of Guise was behind this affair. Do not talk recklessly of what you will do to that man.’
‘So then I must stand aside and let him plot to kill my friends?’
‘My dear son, have you not yet learned, in spite of all that I have told you, that when you plot against the great you must do it in secret?’
‘Madame, I swear to you that I will never forgive the man responsible for this.’
‘I understand, my son; but remember, I beg of you, who that man is. Remember the position he holds in this country—particularly in Paris—and keep your thoughts to yourself. We are one, my darling. Your good is my good, your wishes mine.’
Believing her to speak the truth, he embraced her warmly.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I could not reign without you.’
Then there were real tears in Catherine’s eyes, for this was one of the rare, happy moments of her life.
Caylus died and the King tenderly took from his darling’s ears those earrings which he himself had given him; he had the hair cut from his dead friend’s head and put with that of Maugiron in a jewelled case, that he might, he said, look at it in the years to come when he mourned the friends he would never forget.
A month or so later another of the mignons, Saint-Mesgrin, was assassinated by masked men as he left the Louvre and night.
The fury of the King was intense. He wept in his mother’s arms. Guise was suspected of arranging this murder, but at length Catherine persuaded the King to give no sign of his suspicions that this was so.
About this time yet another assassination took place. This happened during a ball and in full view of the guests. The murderer on this occasion was Villequier, a man who had once been a great favourite of the King’s—one of the mignons who had accompanied him to Poland. Catherine herself- had removed Villequier from the King by marrying him to a member of her Escadron Volant, who had received orders to lure her husband from the King’s side. This the lady had done so successfully that—as it was necessary for her as a member of Catherine’s band to continue the duties such membership demanded—her husband had become jealous; and there, before the whole court, he plunged his dagger into her breast.
There was hardly a day when a duel was not fought in the streets of Paris. Travellers were more unsafe on the roads than they had been a few years previously. Life had become cheaper as food became dearer. Catherine became faintly disturbed that others should hold life as cheaply as she had always done.
Anjou’s promises to the Flemings had come to nothing. Philip of Spain had countered those fine promises of the arrogant little Duke by sending into Flanders Alexander Farnese, the great Duke of Parma, with an avenging army. Since Anjou had been looking for easy victory, he had no desire to face Parma; he therefore decided to let the Flemings look after themselves, and, assuring himself that he had won the laurels of a great general already and could be content with that, he returned to France.
Catherine now had the King’s confidence once more. The mignons who remained seemed once again more interested in clothes, jewels, cosmetics and lap-dogs than in politics. The Guisards had done their work well.
There had been one or two risings in different parts of the country; Margot was once more agitating for permission to return to her husband; Navarre had said he would receive her and her mother; and it seemed desirable that Catherine should travel to Nérac, ostensibly to return her daughter to her husband, but in reality to quell any rebellion in the provinces through which she would seize the opportunity to t
ravel; at the same time she could interrogate Navarre himself and ascertain, in the King’s name, how matters stood in Béarn.
Margot, delighted at the prospect of a journey which should prove exciting, made her preparations with zest; Catherine made hers with less enthusiasm, but with equal care. She decided that she would take Charlotte de Sauves with her in case it was necessary to revive that old passion; but since she must have a spy in close contact with Navarre, and it might well be that he would not wish to renew that old liaison, she also took among her women a charming girl known as La Belle Dayelle. This girl was a Greek who, with her brother, had managed to escape from Cyprus eight or nine years before, when Cyprus had been taken from the Venetians by the Turks. Catherine had been struck by the girl’s charm and had arranged for her brother to be taken into the service of the Duke of Anjou—Alençon, as he had been at that time—while she took Dayelle into hers. With her beautiful almond-shaped eyes, this girl was enchanting, and her exotic beauty set her apart from the French women. A good reserve, thought Catherine, for Navarre—just in case he was tired of his old love.
Margot lay back in the litter which she had designed herself. Such a litter had never been seen before; but Margot was determined to impress her subjects who had never before seen her. The pillars were covered with scarlet velvet, and the lining decorated with gold embroidery. Devices in Italian and Spanish had been cut on the glass and worked on the lining; these dealt with the sun and its powers, for Margot had not forgotten that one of the court poets, who had been enamoured of her, had likened her, in her beauty, her wit and her charm, to the sun of the court of France.
But Margot was not merely content to lie in her litter and think of the effect her beauty and magnificence would have on her subjects. She must amuse herself during the journey. She considered the men who were accompanying her and her mother: the Cardinal of Bourbon and the Duke of Montpensier, both kinsmen of her husband’s; the one was, too old, the other too fanatically Catholic to make a good lover. There was Gui de Faur and the Sieur de Pybrac. She stopped there, for although Pybrac was a serious young man, he was quite handsome. He was perhaps too serious to contemplate becoming Margot’s lover, but why should she not enthral him, lure him from his seriousness? It was absurd for such a young man—when he was tolerably handsome—to think that nothing’existed beyond his work as her Chancellor.
