Queen Jezebel Read online

  ‘You are a fool,’ said Catherine. ‘You do not know what he plans for you.’

  ‘He is my friend and I trust him. Whatever happened, the Huguenots would never harm me. He is their leader and he loves me as a son.’

  ‘He has bewitched you with his fine words.’

  Retz said: ‘Sire, you are misled by this man. He would sacrifice you if the need arose. You remember what I told you of atrocities committed by Huguenots against Catholics. Let me remind you . .

  ‘There is no need to remind me. You may go, Comte. I have matters to attend to.’

  The Comte hesitated, but the King was eyeing him sternly. Catherine signed to Retz to go, and when he had left, Charles turned to Catherine.

  ‘You also, Mother,’ he said; but Catherine was not going to be dismissed as easily as that.

  ‘My dear son,’ she said, ‘I must speak to you of certain matters which are for your ear alone and which I would not discuss even before a faithful servant like the Comte de Retz. News has been brought to me—news of which you should be made aware at once.’

  ‘And this news is?’

  ‘Of a Huguenot plot to murder you.’

  The King shrugged his shoulders impatiently. ‘I have seen the Admiral. I know that he wishes me nothing but good. Would he allow such a plot to be made?’

  ‘Yes, he would; and he is the ringleader. I see that you do not believe your mother who has worked so assiduously for your good. Perhaps others may be able to impress you.’ She pulled a bell rope and when an attendant appeared, asked that Bouchavannes should be sent to her.

  ‘Bouchavannes?’ said the King. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘A good friend to Your Majesty, and one who, at great peril to himself, took a post in the Admiral’s house, that he might watch your interests. He will tell you what he heard while he was there.’

  Bouchavannes entered.

  ‘Ah, Monsieur,’ said Catherine, ‘I have brought you here that you may tell the King in person what you have discovered in the house of his enemy.’

  Bouchavannes kissed the King’s hand while Charles scowled at him.

  ‘Speak, man,’ growled the King.

  ‘Your Majesty, there is a plot against your life. The Huguenots under the Admiral are about to rise. It is for this reason that they are here in Paris. They plot to take your family, to kill your mother, your brothers and sisters, in most brutal fashion. Yourself they will keep in confinement. They will tell the people that they are offering you a chance to keep the throne if you become a Huguenot. They will torture you; they will say it is to make a Huguenot of you, but it will not matter if you do change your religion, for they do not wish you to reign. They propose to set up their own King in your place.’

  ‘It is a lie!’ cried the King.

  ‘I can only say, Sire, that this is what I heard in the Admiral’s house where there were constant meetings and councils. I listened at doors. I kept my eyes and ears open . . . for love of Your Majesty and the Queen Mother who has always been my friend. Your Majesty, be warned in time.’

  The King’s fingers were twitching. ‘I do not believe a word of this.’ He turned to his mother. ‘Ring for the guards. I will have him arrested. I will confront him with the Admiral and we will see if he can tell his lies then. Ring! Ring! Or shall I do it myself?’

  Catherine signed for Bouchavannes to leave them; she herself restrained the King, but he struggled in her grasp and she was alarmed. He was not strong, but his strength seemed to grow when his mad moods were on him, and she noticed with dismay that one was threatening now. She must keep him balanced on the side of sanity that she might terrify him utterly and so make sure of his obedience to her wishes.

  ‘Listen to me, my son. You give in too easily. Horrible death awaits you. That is true. The good God only knows what diabolical torture they are planning for you. All we know is this: it will be more terrible than that meted out to ordinary men. It is not every day that they have a King to torture. Oh,, my darling, do not tremble so. Here, let me wipe the sweat from your poor brow. You must not give in. Do you think your mother will allow them to hurt her son, her little King?’

  ‘How . . . could you stop them? They will kill you too.’

  ‘No, my son. All these years since the death of your father, I have fought the enemies of our family. I . . . single-handed, a weak woman. Your brother was King until he died, poor boy; then you were King, and for twelve years I have kept the throne for you in difficulties and against odds such as you cannot yet understand. When my history is written it will be said: “There was a woman who lived for her sons alone. There is the most devoted mother the world has ever known, for in spite of plots and treachery, in spite of the suspicion of her own children, she won their rights for them, and she held their rights; she sacrificed her life for them.” That is true, is it not, my son? Have you not been King since the death of your brother Francis? And that in spite of all the wicked men who have sought to dethrone you!’

  ‘Yes, Mother, it is true.’

  ‘Well then, will you not listen to your mother now?’

  ‘Yes, Mother, yes. But I cannot believe that Coligny would be treacherous towards me. He is such a good man. He is so brave.’

  ‘He is a good man according to his lights as a Huguenot. He is undoubtedly brave. But he is not your man, my son. To his enemies we know he is ruthless, and you, perforce, are his enemy.’

  ‘No! I am his friend. He loves me as a son. He would not lie to me when it might well be that he is about to face his God.’

  ‘He would think he did right to lie for the sake of his faith. That is his way, my son. It is the way of them all. Oh, be guided by your mother. Do not let them drag you from your family. Do not let them take you to the torture chambers, stretch your poor limbs, mutilate your dear body. I would not let Bouchavannes tell you of all the things they threaten to do to you.’

  ‘You know then! You . . . you must tell me.’

  ‘It is better not to know, my son. If you are determined to sacrifice yourself and your family for the Admiral, then for the love of God do not ask me to tell you of the tortures they are preparing for you. Have you ever seen a man roasted to death over a slow fire? No. You could not face it. Have you ever seen flesh torn with red-hot pincers and molten lead poured into the wounds? Nay! You could never bear to see such things.’

  ‘They have said . . . they will do . . . these things to me!’

  She nodded.

  ‘I do not believe it. Men like Coligny . . . Téligny . . . my dearest Rochefoucauld!’

  ‘My darling, the mob takes matters out of the hands of such men. When the mob rises the leaders must give them a free hand with the prisoners. Do you remember Amboise and the executions there? I made you look on, did I not, because I wished you to know of such things. You and your brothers and sisters looked on and saw men’s limbs cut off . . . saw them die a hundred deaths . . . quick and slow.’

  ‘Do not speak of it!’ cried the King.

  He had flung himself down. He was biting his fists and she saw the saliva foaming at his lips. She did not want him to lose complete control, for then he demanded blood. She must keep him in a state of terror as he was at such times when he hovered between sanity and madness.

  ‘Charles, control yourself. It is not too late. You have many friends. I have called some of them together. They are waiting to see you now.’

  He stared at her with wide bewildered eyes.

  ‘Your friends, my dear son,’ she said, ‘Those who would stand between you and the horrible fate these traitors are preparing for you. Pull yourself together, my dearest. We must fight this and we will emerge triumphant. Do you think your mother would let them hurt her boy? Already she has laid her plans against your enemies, and your friends are ready to help her. These traitors make plans; but the real friends of the King also make plans. Come, my darling. Get up.’ She stroked his cheek with her fingers. ‘There, that is better, is it not? Your mother, who has always protected
you, has protected you now, and when I take you to the council who are now waiting for you, you will see gathered together the great men of France, all ready, with their swords at their sides, to fight the traitors who would harm their King. You will be heartened, dear son, by what you see. Will you come to the meeting now?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘And will you believe what I and my friends have discovered as a result of working unfalteringly for you?’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Come, my darling. We will rid you of that spell which your enemies have laid upon you.’ He was faltering and she went on. ‘It is difficult, I know. The Admiral has some magic to help him. He stooped at that moment when the shot was fired. His devils were at his elbow, you see. They are with him now. But we will fight them with magic of our own, my son; and you know this: there is some magic in a mother’s love for her son, in the loyalty of good friends. That is good magic, and evil spirits are afraid of good.’

  She was leading him to the door. He was now hypnotized by her as he had been so many times during his childhood. He did not trust her; she terrified him; but he had to follow her; he had to obey.

  In the council chamber the first person he noticed was Henry of Guise.

  Guise bowed low. ‘I have returned, Sire,’ he said, ‘hearing that Your Majesty had need of my sword.’

  His brothers and his uncles were there. They each had a few words to say on their loyalty to the King. They had risked his displeasure, they assured him, solely that they might be at hand if needed.

  The King saw that the members of the council were all Catholics. They talked of the plot against the King and the royal family which, so they said, had been discovered by their spy. They talked of the need for immediate action; they but asked the consent of the King.

  Charles looked round at the group of men and wanted to fling himself on to the floor and give way to the paroxysm that he felt was so close. He wanted to lose consciousness of reality, in his mad, fantastic world. He did not know how long he would be able to restrain himself. He felt the mad pumping of his heart; it was difficult to breathe. And as he stood there, he thought of the stern yet kindly face of the Admiral, of the last words he had spoken to him: ‘Beware of your evil genius . . .’

  And there, close to him, stood this evil genius . . . his own mother, her eyes large, the largest things in the room . . . so large that he could not escape from them; and as he looked at them he seemed to see there all the horrors of which she had talked to him; it seemed to him that he was not in this room, but in the torture chambers; they had taken off his clothes; they were putting him on the rack; and the torturer was bending over him. The torturer had the stern and noble face of Gaspard de Coligny.

  He heard his own voice; it sounded faint, but that was only because of the pounding of the blood in his head which made such a noise; he knew that he was shouting.

  ‘By the death of God, since you have decided to kill the Admiral, then I consent. My God . . . but then you must kill every Huguenot in France, so that none is left to reproach me with that bloody deed after it is done!’

  He was aware of his mother’s triumphant smile. He turned from her. He was trembling violently and the foamy saliva spattered his velvet jacket.

  He stared at Catherine. His evil genius! ‘This is your wish!’ he said. ‘To kill . . . kill . . . kill!’ He ran to the door of the chamber. He shouted: ‘Kill . . . kill then . . . kill them all. That is it. Death . . . blood . . . blood on the cobbles . . . blood in the river . . . Kill them all, for that is what you wish.’

  He ran sobbing to his apartments while the councillors looked from one to another in dismay. They had rarely seen even the King in such a sorry state.

  Catherine turned on them sharply. ‘Gentlemen,’ she said, ‘you have heard the command of the King. There is little time to be lost. Let us make our plans.’

  And so discussion went on in the council chamber.

  ‘Monsieur de Guise, it is only right that to you should be left the destruction of the Admiral, his suite and all his noblemen in the quarters about Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois.’

  ‘Madame, you may safely leave my father’s murderer and his followers to me and mine.’

  ‘Monsieur de Montpensier, you should make yourself responsible for the suite of Condé.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Montpensier, ‘what of the young Prince himself?’

  Guise said: ‘Did not the King say, “Kill every Huguenot”? Why should you wish to exclude the Prince of Condé, Monsieur? Every Huguenot was the King’s command; and by that is included Condé, Navarre, Rochefoucauld and all Huguenots.’

  Catherine was silent. Here was an old problem. She looked at them, these Princes of the House of Guise and Lorraine. They were full of arrogance and ambition. Henry of Guise was already in command of Paris; what if all the Bourbon Princes were destroyed? Why, then there would be no one between the House of Valois and the House of Guise and Lorraine. The men of Valois were not strong; they did not enjoy the rude physical health of the Guises. She had only to compare Henry of Guise with the mad King, or even with her own Henry, beautiful though he was. Even her beloved Henry could not compare with Henry of Guise for virility and strength of body. The Guises were irrepressible; they were natural leaders. Even now this Henry of Guise was ready to take over the management of the massacre as though he had been its instigator. Remove the Bourbons, and the House of Guise and Lorraine would know no restraint whatsoever.

  She decided then that Navarre and Condé must not die.

  The Duke of Nevers, whose sister had married the young Prince of Condé, had no wish to see his brother-in-law killed. Catherine glanced at him and with a look encouraged him to plead for young Condé, which he did with eloquence.

  Catherine said: ‘Let us give Condé and Navarre the chance of changing their religion.’

  ‘That,’ said Guise, ‘they will never do.’

  ‘In that case,’ she promised him, ‘they must go the way of the others. But I insist that they shall be given the chance to change. Now to more practical matters. What shall the signal be? Let the bell of the Palais de Justice give the signal. You must all be ready when it is given. l suggest it shall be when the first sign of dawn is in the sky. How many men can we rely on in Paris?’

  An ex-prévôt answered her. ‘Twenty thousand at this time, Madame. Later we could call in thousands more.’

  ‘Twenty thousand,’ repeated Catherine. ‘They would all be ready to follow the Duke of Guise?’

  The Duke reassured her that this would be so.

  He gave instructions to the prey& who was then in office. ‘Monsieur le Charron, it will be necessary to close all city gates so that none may leave or enter. There must be no movement of boats on the Seine.’

  Catherine, visualizing revolt, insisted that all the artillery should be moved from the Hôtel de Ville.

  ‘Later, Monsieur le Charron,’ she said, ‘you will learn where it is to be placed.’

  Le Charron was aghast. He had come to the council expecting to discuss the dispatch of a dangerous enemy, and now he found himself confronted with a plan for wholesale murder. Catherine saw his hesitancy and it terrified her. She had caught her son’s fears. This was, she knew, the most dangerous period she had yet lived through. One false move and the tables could be turned; it might be herself, her sons, the royal House of Valois, who were massacred in place of the Huguenots.

  She said sharply: ‘There will be no orders given until the morning; and, Monsieur le Charron, all traitors to our Catholic cause need expect no mercy.’

  ‘Madame,’ said the terrified le Charron, ‘I am at your command.’

  ‘That is well for you, Monsieur,’ she said coldly, but she was shaken.

  They went on with their plans. Each Catholic should wear about his arm a white scarf, and there should be a white cross in his hat. Everything must be planned to the minutest detail. There must be no false moves.

  Finally the council br
oke up and the nerve-racking period of waiting began.

  It seemed to Catherine that the night would never come. She did not believe she had ever before experienced such fear. Up and down her apartment she paced, her black garments flowing about her, her lips dry, her heart pounding, her limbs trembling, while she sought in vain that calm which she had maintained in the course of so many dangerous years.

  All those in the secret were awaiting the signal, but first there was a night to be lived through, a night of suspense and fear. Guise and his family with their followers were in their hôtel waiting for the hours to pass. Instructions had been given to trusted friends. But who could still be trusted? She had seen the revulsion in the face of le Charron, the prévôt. Could le Charron be trusted?

  Never had time passed so slowly for the Queen Mother. This was the most critical, the most important night of her life. It must be successful. It must put an end to her fears. It must convince Philip of Spain that she was his friend, and in such a way that he would never doubt her again. He would know she was keeping a promise which she had made long ago at Bayonne. But would the dawn never come?

  What could go wrong? The prévôt could be trusted. He was a man with a family; he could be trusted not to put them in danger. A Catholic never betrayed Catholics to Huguenots. She rejoiced that, for the time being, she and the Guises were allies. She could rely on them. There was no greater hater of Huguenots than Henry of Guise, and there was nothing he wished for more than the death of the Admiral. All those who, she had feared, might not be trusted, knew nothing of the venture. Alençon was in the dark. He had flirted with the Huguenot faith—oh, just out of perversity, for that youngest son of hers was as mischievous as Margot. Margot herself had been told nothing of what was to take place, because she was married to a Huguenot and seemed to be on better terms with him since her marriage than she had been before; and Margot had previously shown that she was not to be trusted. There was nothing to fear . . . nothing . . . nothing. But the minutes would not pass.