by Jean Plaidy
‘But can that be so? Her own son?’
‘Her own son! What of poor little Francis the Second? What of poor mad Charles? They’ll tell you that she sent those two to the grave before they need have gone. Many have received her Italian poisons—son, daughter, cousin . . . what matters it to her? She is evil . . . this Queen Jezebel of France.’
But Catherine sincerely regretted the sickness of her son and was, in fact, frantic with anxiety. Anjou dying! What would happen if Henry were to die? These children of hers did not seem to be able to grow to maturity. Henry himself had aged far beyond his years. If Henry died, Navarre would be next in succession. It was true that Margot would be Queen of France, but could she trust Margot? Could she trust Navarre?
The people in the streets were fools to think she would poison this son. They did not understand her. They did not know that her murders were not real murders; they were merely eliminations of tiresome people who stood in the way of the power of the house of Valois—nothing more! There was no personal feeling in the killing of those who must be removed. Had she murdered that woman who had caused her years of humiliation and torture during the lifetime of her husband? No! Diane de Poitiers had gone free simply because, when Catherine would have been able to murder her, Diane had ceased to be of any importance.
Catherine felt herself to be a sorely misunderstood woman. But the slander of the streets had never hurt her. Why should she bother herself with it now? Could she be feeling this faint resentment because she was growing old, because she sometimes felt weary of the continual struggle to hold the power she had won?
Her thoughts went at once to her old enemy, Philip of Spain. How would he react to the death of Anjou? What would he do to prevent the Huguenot King of Navarre’s becoming the King of Catholic France? She was sure he would do something. The Netherlands were not causing him so much anxiety now as previously. Parma had done good work for his master; and a few months ago the Prince of Orange, that bulwark of all Protestants, had been assassinated. Thus Coligny’s daughter Louise, who had married the Prince after the death of Téligny, had lost both her husbands in violent circumstances. Coligny’s wife, Jacqueline, was still in prison, where she had been since the murder of her husband. Catherine must watch those Huguenots. She must watch Philip of Spain. Poor Anjou had been ineffectual in life, but his death was going to make him the important figure he had always longed to be.
The news came that Anjou was dead. His poor Valois constitution had not been able to throw off the inflammation of the lungs. Anjou dead . . . and Henry of Navarre was heir to the throne of France. The whole of Europe was alert. A Protestant King of France was going to alter the balance of power. England prepared to send help to the Netherlands under Leicester; and in spite of the loss of the beloved Prince of Orange, the Netherlanders were filled with new hope. Philip of Spain had turned an anxious eye towards Paris and was calling his council meetings. He was looking to the one man in France who, he knew, would never allow a Protestant to rule; and Henry of Guise, the leader of the Catholic League, was fast becoming the most important man in France.
Catherine waited apprehensively. She held long and secret councils with the King; but the King was in no mood for business, for he had recently had a new collection of monkeys and parrots sent to him and was deciding which friends should share them with him. There were his dogs to claim his attention; there were his mignons to amuse him and charm his time away. Epernon and Joyeuse were rivals in his affections now, and if he gave Joyeuse a present, he must cap it with a more extravagant gift to Epernon; and that only resulted in increasing Jealousy on the part of Joyeuse. Epernon had been given the Colonel-Generalship of France; Joyeuse had therefore to be made Admiral of France; then Epernon must have the government of Metz, Verdun, and Toul. And so it went on. The richest men in France were Epernon and Joyeuse; and if Joyeuse were the richer one day, on the next Epernon must be.
Joyeuse, back from Rome, wanted to be married. He asked for a rich wife, a woman who could bring him honour. ‘You have a wife, dearest Sire; and you know it is my aim to be as like you as possible.’
The King was amused. His darling should have a wife; and his bride should be the Queen’s own sister, who could bring him a very large dowry.
Joyeuse clapped his hands with glee and, with the King and the other mignons, began planning the wedding festivities. These were to last for two weeks and they were going to cost a fabulous sum. That was unimportant. The people of Paris loved festivities, and it was well known that people must pay for what they liked.
So the people looked on at the wedding of Joyeuse; and after Joyeuse was married, Epernon must be married too.
The King was at his wit’s end to provide an equally rich wife for darling Epernon; as for his wedding festivities, coming so close to those of that dear wretch Joyeuse, he really did not know how he was going to provide such a show and so prevent Epernon’s being hideously jealous. He managed it partly by rifling the Municipal Treasury; and he thought of a very good way of adding to the proceeds of that robbery; he put up the price of judgeships. He and his darlings laughed together. For a King there were always ways and means of finding money.
The Battus loomed into prominence once more. The King and his mignons organized processions through the streets. It was such fun, after the ceremonies in their gorgeous jewelled garments, to parade in sacks. They had white sacks which were so much more charming to look at than the sacks previously worn; and these white sacks looked delightful with skulls embroidered on them.
The King was enthusiastic. It did show the people—after those really extravagant weddings of the two darlings—that the King and his friends were a very religious band of young men at heart.
Catherine tried remonstrating as she watched uneasily. She knew that all eyes were on Paris now. Elizabeth of England watched; William of Nassau watched from Holland and Zeeland; Henry of Navarre waited slyly, as one who could afford to wait; Philip of Spain was on the alert; and Henry of Guise was at hand. Had the two latter exchanged secret communications which had not come into the Queen Mother’s hands? she wondered.
The ridiculous ceremonies went on; there were bursts of extravagant feasting; the shivering Parisians looked through the windows of the Louvre and saw the King in a woman’s gown of green silk; they saw his mignons dressed as court ladies.
Paris looked on, silent and sullen, while revolution quivered in the air of that city.
CATHERINE, THROWING OFF THE RIGOURS OF HER INCREASING YEARS, trying to ignore the nagging pain of her rheumatic limbs, for the first time being careful of what she ate—for too many years she had shown little restraint where those foods which she loved were concerned—bestirred herself to fresh energies. Disaster was near. Her power might at any moment be snatched from her. She realized that during the last few years she had followed will-o’-the-wisps; she had travelled about the country making peace, removing her enemies, keeping the crown safe—so she had thought; and because one man had seemed to lose his ambition, to have been content with his place in life, she had ignored him; and thus he had been free to continue with his secret work and, like some underground creature, he had tunnelled beneath the very foundations of her power, so that instead of its being on firm ground, it was ready to totter. She should have known that the most ambitious man in France would never lose his ambition. She should never have allowed her attention to be diverted from Henry, Duke of Guise.
What did he plan? His League was now the most powerful force in France. Insidiously it had grown, and in silence, while the attention of those who should have watched it had been cunningly directed to minor dangers. And the League was working against the King.
Catherine looked back on the years of her son’s reign. The clever though effeminate young man he had been in his teens had changed. The better side of his nature had been suppressed, so that now, apart from those moments when he displayed his wit and an unexpected grasp of affairs, he seemed nothing but a decadent fop. His health
was poor, his constitution weak; and there was a strain of cynicism in him which seemed to indicate his belief that his life could not be a long one and that he intended to use it exactly as he pleased for that reason. He had disappointed his mother, and she had allowed herself to be hurt. There had been times when she had let her love for an ungrateful son override her love of power. She should have been wiser and remembered a bitter lesson which another beloved Henry had taught her years ago; and she thought now of those years of misery and humiliation, of the wasted torture of watching her husband and his mistress through a hole in the floor; so much unhappiness had been the result of self-inflicted wounds. She was surprised that she had not learned how futile that line of conduct could be, for evidently she had not learned this lesson, since, with this Henry as with the other, she had allowed her emotions to intrude into her plan for living. Emotion should have had no part whatsoever in the life of Catherine de’ Medici.
But that was over now; yet it had taken the threat of disaster to show her the folly of her ways. She loved her son, but it was more important to keep her power than his affection. If necessary, she might have to work against him.
Events had been moving out of her knowledge. Where were her spies? They had doubtless done their best, but the Guises’ spies were better. Hers had helped her to discover one thing, however—that Henry of Guise had dared to communicate with Spain as though he were already the ruler of France.
That old fool, the Cardinal of Bourbon—brother of that greater fool, Antoine de Bourbon, who had made such a laughing-stock of himself at her court years ago—was to take the throne on the death of Henry. Henry was a young man still and the Bourbon was an old one, so what was in the minds of the Guises? What other secret documents had passed between the Duke of Guise and Philip of Sapin? Did Philip really think that Guise intended to stand by and let the Cardinal take the crown? Perhaps Guise wished to rule through the Cardinal. There was a great advantage, as she could have told him, in being the power behind the throne.
The Cardinal was sixty-four. How could he be expected to outlive Henry, unless . . . But she would not let herself believe that it was possible for them to be planning to destroy her son; she must forget that she was a sick and ailing woman, for she had much to do.
The Bourbon, an ardent follower of the Guises, such a good Catholic, had agreed to ignore the prior right of his nephew, Henry of Navarre, and to take the throne himself; he had sworn that when he was King he would forbid heretical worship.
Catherine summoned Guise to her and demanded to know why he had communicated with the King of Spain without the knowledge and consent of his King.
Guise was arrogant—more arrogant than ever, she thought. It was evident that he knew more of what was happening than she did. His manner, but for his aristocratic bearing, would have bordered on the insolent.
‘Madame,’ said Guise, ‘France would never tolerate a Huguenot King, and should the King die without heirs—which God forbid—the Huguenot King of Navarre would feel he had a right to the throne unless the people of France had already chosen their new King.’
She gazed at him in thoughtful silence. The sunlight which came through the embrasured window, shone on his hair, turning it to gold and silver. He was taller than any man at court and that spareness of his gave him a look of added strength; the scar on his cheek but augmented the warlike look. She was not surprised that a man of such presence should have the people of Paris at his feet. The King of Paris! they called him; and one would have been a fool not to realize that, when he talked of the future king of France, he was not thinking so much of an old Cardinal in his sixties as of a handsome Duke in his thirties.
Then she said: ‘You presume to negotiate with a foreign power without consulting the wishes of your King, Monsieur!’
‘The King occupies himself with other matters, Madame. There was the wedding of Joyeuse, which was followed by the wedding of Epernon. I did approach the King, but he was discussing the garments he would wear at the weddings and he told me he was too busy to talk of anything else.’
What insolence! What arrogance! she thought; but she was aware of a slight feeling of pleasure. Had he been her son, how different everything would have been! She made up her mind then; she was going to walk in step with the arrogant Duke . . . for a little way at least. It was, after all, the only wise thing to do. Matters had gone too far from her control for her to be able to ignore him; and if she could not show herself to be his enemy, she must appear to be his friend.
‘Ah well, Monsieur,’ she said, ‘you are right when you say that the people of France would never tolerate a Huguenot King.’
‘Madame, it delights me that you approve my action.’ He bent and kissed her hand.
‘My son,’ she said, looking at him tenderly. ‘Yes! I call you son. Were you not brought up with my children? My son, these are bad days for France. The King delights in his pleasure, surrounded by frivolous young men. But France has no place for frivolous young men at this hour. You and I must work together . . . for the good of France.’
‘You are right, Madame,’ said Guise.
For the good of France! she thought, as she watched him retire. He is clever enough to know that I shall work for the good of the Queen Mother, while he works for the good of Monsieur de Guise.
‘Holy Mother of God!’ she muttered. ‘Nothing that man does in future must escape my notice.’
Margot was not happy in Béarn. Life had become very dull. Her husband had taken her back, but he had let her see that he had been in two minds about it.
He was still devoted to La Corisanda, who was by no means the stupid little creature La Fosseuse had been; and he had decided that Margot, though still the Queen of Navarre, should realize that it was the King who ruled.
‘You have changed,’ she told him, ‘since you have taken a step nearer the throne of France.’
‘Nay!’ he answered. ‘I am the same man. I still do not wash my feet.’
‘That is no concern of mine,’ she retorted.
‘I am glad that you have learned some sense,’ was his answer, for I do not intend that it shall be any concern of yours.’
She was furious.
He made it quite clear that there would be no resumption of their intermittent conjugal relationship; he told her carelessly that he had taken her back solely because the concessions her brother had offered, if he would do so, were very necessary to him. She was bored as well as furious; she was restive, looking for new adventures, and none of the men of her husband’s court pleased her.
News had come that the Pope had excommunicated Navarre as a heretic, and that release was offered to any of his subjects from their oath of fidelity; moreover, Navarre was, by edict of Rome, denied the succession to the French crown.
Navarre’s eyes blazed with wrath. He cursed the Pope; he cursed the Duke of Guise; and he cursed the Queen Mother. He was seriously perturbed, as he knew that the Pope’s edict would carry great weight in France. He raged against his uncle, the Cardinal of Bourbon, who had, he declared, betrayed him.
Margot listened, not without sympathy.
‘I am my father’s son!’ he cried. ‘I am heir to the throne of France. My uncle deceives himself if he allows the Pope and the Guises to convince him he is right. Ventre Saint Gris! If I had the old man here I’d lop off his head and throw it over the battlements. It is a conspiracy. The Guises have done this, and your mother is behind them.’
‘I do not believe that my mother agrees with this,’ said Margot.
‘She is continually with Guise in council. That is the news we get from Paris.’
‘Even now you do not know my mother. She may seem to agree with the Guises; she may applaud all that is said by Philip of Spain and the Pope of Rome; but you may depend on it, she has made her own plans, and while there remains one of her children to sit on the throne, she will never willingly stand by and see any other take it.’
‘Ah,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘I see
you have your eyes on the throne, Madame.’
She returned the smile. They were allies. They must be, for their interests ran together.
Navarre became more energetic than he had ever been before. Not only did he publish his protests throughout France, but he had them posted in Rome and on the very doors of the Vatican.
This forthright action astonished all, and even the Pope secretly expressed admiration for the young man. This boldness of his, said the Pope, made it all the more necessary for him to be most closely watched.
Margot was not content merely to play the part of consort to the young man who seemed to be growing in importance now that the might of Spain, Rome, and France was directed against him. She must have excitement; she could not endure being bored. She took to the pen and wrote long letters to her friends at the French court; her mother wrote to her kindly and affectionately, and Margot replied. It was easy for Margot to forget the past and all that she had suffered at those maternal hands. She began to send accounts of all events of importance at her husband’s court.
Any correspondence with Catherine de’ Medici seemed, to the friends of the King of Navarre, a dangerous procedure, and one of his gentlemen decided to tell him that his wife was acting as the Queen Mother’s spy in Béarn.
The enraged Henry of Navarre determined, now that so much was at stake, to be increasingly watchful, and had one of Margot’s couriers arrested just as he was leaving Nérac for Paris. This man, a certain Ferrand, was brought into the King’s presence and, greatly daring, even as he stood before him, managed to throw quantities of paper on to the fire. These roared into such a blaze that they were burned before they could be recovered. The remaining letters were taken from him, but these proved to be only love letters from Margot and her women to lovers they had known in Paris.
After he had laughed at these revealing epistles, Navarre had Ferrand arrested, and during painful cross-examination, Ferrand told the King that the Queen was planning to poison him because of the insulting way in which he treated her.
