The Italian Woman Read online

  So the Queen of France had been set to spy on the Queen Mother!

  There could be no greater indignation than that of the spy who knew herself to be spied upon.

  Catherine was in the audience chamber when Antoine and Condé came to pay their respects to the King. The Guises were lounging against the wall, and Mary was with them.

  Antoine bowed low over the King’s hand; he was too humble. Francis, in accordance with his orders, and aware all the time of the fierce eyes of the Duke and the sneer of the Cardinal, ignored Antoine, though he was very sorry for him and hated to be churlish to the uncle of whom he was fond.

  Then came Condé.

  If the Guises despised Antoine, they feared Condé. Condé was cool and arrogant, showing by his demeanour that, although his life was in danger, he did not forget that he was a royal Prince.

  The newcomers went through the traditional address while all courtiers and attendants stood by, tense and waiting.

  Then Catherine spoke to Condé. It was an uncharacteristic and impetuous action, but some hidden emotion which she had not fully examined forced her to take it. They were planning to murder Condé, and she wanted to help him to escape; and this was not merely because she wished to use him against the Guises. It was something more, something inexplicable. Was there just a faint tenderness in her eyes as they rested on the gallant Prince?

  Condé, alert, knowing himself to be in acute danger, turned to the Queen Mother. Had he one friend, he wondered, in this nest of vipers?

  ‘Monsieur de Condé,’ said Catherine, ‘there are matters which I would discuss with you before the investigation as to your guilt in the Amboise plot takes place. Pray step along to my privy chamber now.’

  The Guises were alert, regarding the Queen Mother with suspicion.

  Condé bowed low, his charming face creased in a smile; his eyes said that his journey, his fears, his dangers were worth while if they brought him an interview with the Queen Mother, whom, while he respected her as a Queen, he admired as a woman.

  The Guises made no attempt to stop this strange and sudden action of the Queen Mother, and they allowed her to lead Condé to her apartments; but once they had left, quick action was decided on, and it was in the private apartments of the Queen Mother that Condé was arrested.

  Condé looked startled when they took him. He was not sure what the friendliness of the Queen Mother meant, and Catherine felt a thrill of triumph. She had the Prince guessing as to her intentions towards him; and that was a position into which she liked to thrust all those with whom she came into contact.

  So Condé was in the dungeons and Antoine was confined to the palace, more or less a prisoner.

  How ridiculous she had been, thought Catherine, to contemplate any man with tenderness when the struggle for power was more intense than it had yet been!

  Condé had been removed from the dungeons of Orléans to those of Amboise and condemned to death.

  His sorrowing wife had journeyed to Orléans, and she had begged the Cardinal of Lorraine to let her see her husband; but this request the Cardinal had brusquely refused. He and his brother did not like the wives of Condé and Navarre. They were strong women, both of them; upright, moral women, not the kind to interest the Cardinal. He knew what havoc such women could cause. He dismissed Eléonore with threats.

  The woman was indefatigable. She even, by stealth and trickery, achieved an audience with the young King, and it had not taken her long to have that little fool weeping with her and assuring her that he felt her sorrow as keenly as she did. But the Cardinal had arrived in time and saved Francis from any great folly.

  It was at Catherine’s instigation that Condé was removed to Amboise; and here she allowed herself the pleasure of frequent visits to him.

  Those hours were some of the most enjoyable she ever spent; for Condé, though he knew himself to be a condemned man, did not brood on this melancholy fact; he was as gallant and charming as he would have been at a masque, and he enjoyed the sinuous conversation of the Queen Mother; it amused him to speculate as to whether she was friend or foe.

  As for Catherine, while she sat back on the stool which had been brought for her, and the faint light from the grating shone on the handsome face of Condé, she told herself that she would not let him die. Somehow she would prevent that. This she conveyed to him at great length; he believed her and a very tender friendship was born between them. She was not an old woman. She had never indulged in excesses and she was well preserved and healthy. The widow of a King might mate with a Prince, and if birth were considered, this Prince was of higher rank than she was. The Prince of Condé and the Queen Mother could rule France together.

  They were charming fancies, but, like soap bubbles, they could burst and be nothing at all.

  Yet it was amusing to ponder and chatter, to make statements which were full of ambiguities, to arouse hopes in the Prince’s heart that she would achieve his freedom and give her hand to him. Eléonore? Catherine wanted to laugh aloud at the thought of the meek Princess. A saint, some said. Well, saints were not for this world. Let them get into the next, where they belonged. It would be easy. René or Cosmo? Hitherto murders had gone unnoticed, but she supposed that if such a person as the Princess Eléonore of Condé died, and later the Queen Mother married the Prince of Condé, there would be a renewal of that tiresome gossip which she remembered from those long-ago days when Dauphin Francis had died after drinking a cup of water brought by his Italian cupbearer. That death had made Catherine Queen of France … and people had talked. She did not want such talk, yet. Later, when she was secure, all-powerful, she would snap her fingers at the gossips. But at the moment she must remember that it was necessary to disguise the appearance of craft. She must not forget the wise teaching of Machiavelli.

  Meanwhile, it was pleasant to talk to the Prince; such a gallant man was not meant to be a faithful husband; but if he were ever married to the Queen Mother he would have to be a faithful husband, for she would endure no more Dianes. There should be no more watching her husband and his mistress together.

  And when she recalled that torture, she had less zest for the game she was playing with Condé.

  She left him in his dungeon, puzzled and bewildered, vainly trying to understand the strange friendship offered him by Catherine de’ Medici; and in the rooms above his dungeons Catherine sought to mould the other brother to her will.

  Antoine was easy to handle. It did not need the full force of her cunning to handle this little popinjay. Vain, vacillating, his earrings gleaming in his ears, he walked beside the Queen Mother, who put her arm through his and called him her brother, while she told him she wished to be his friend.

  ‘My dear brother of Navarre, you must not blame me for what has happened to the unfortunate Condé. Rest assured that I did everything in my power to help you both. It was the King who desired this, and kings – though young – must be obeyed.’

  All knew that little King Francis had not a will beyond that of his mother and his wife’s uncles, yet Antoine found it agreeable to believe in the friendship of the Queen Mother.

  ‘My lord, I have many burdens on these poor shoulders. I fear that my son will not live long.’

  ‘Madame, this is sad news.’

  ‘Alas! But not unexpected. Have you not noticed how this terrible sickness of his gains on him? My poor Francis, he has not many days left to him. But a tragedy to some could be a blessing to others. You love your brother; and it is this son of mine who has sworn that he shall die for the part he played in the Amboise plot.’

  Antoine felt a pulse throbbing in his temple; he wished Jeanne was here at Amboise with him; then he could have asked her to help him unravel the meaning of Catherine’s advances. But no! Jeanne was suspicious of Catherine. She would say, ‘Draw back. Beware. When the Queen Mother tries to win your approval of some scheme, never give your consent to it, no matter how attractive it may seem.’

  Catherine pressed his arm; her face was close
to his; he looked into the prominent eyes and tried in vain to read what was behind them.

  She went on slowly: ‘If Francis died, then my son Charles would be King of France, and he is such a young boy to have greatness thrust upon him. Boys of tender years cannot rule a great country, particularly when that country is split by two religious factions. If Charles came to the throne, my lord, there would be a Regency, and you, as a Prince of the Blood, would be expected to play a big part. You know my little Henry and my Hercule are younger than their brother Charles; and the next in succession would be yourself, and after you, Monsieur de Condé.’ She gave a sudden laugh. ‘I would not care to be the one to have charge of Charles unless his mother were at hand to help me. He is often sick … sick in the mind, I mean … and at such times none but his mother can manage him. What a tragedy it would be for my son and those who tried to lead him … if any but I, his mother, attempted to do that!’

  She had removed her hand from his arm. She stood before him, her arms folded across her black gown. She looked unearthly in the cap which she had favoured since the death of her husband, with its point resting on her forehead. Antoine felt himself shudder. There were strange threats in her eyes, and he remembered the mysterious deaths of some people who had come into contact with her. He thought fleetingly of Dauphin Francis, who had died, some said, to make her way clear to the throne.

  ‘What is your will, Madame?’ asked Antoine.

  And she answered in a manner which seemed straightforward to him: ‘That if there is to be a Regent of France, I shall be that Regent. Oh, do not imagine that I am ignorant of your powers, of your wisdom. Far from it.’ She put her face close to his and he heard her laugh again. ‘I should give you the post of Lieutenant-General and all edicts would be published in our joint names.’

  ‘I see,’ said Antoine slowly.

  She put her fingers to her lips, and she made of the gesture something almost obscene, unholy. ‘A secret, my dear Antoine; a secret, my brother. The Guises would not be made happy by these plans, for, believe me, they are not anxious to see my son Francis in his grave, whither, I fear, this weakening of his blood is leading him.’

  ‘No, Madame,’ said Antoine.

  ‘Well, do you agree?’

  Antoine’s natural indecision came to his aid. ‘It is too important a matter to settle quickly. I will think of this, and rest assured that as soon as I have made my decision I shall lose no time in passing it on to you.’

  The white hands – her one real beauty – were laid once more upon his arm.

  ‘My friend, do not make the mistake of delaying too long. I am a poor, lonely widow with little children to look after. If I can find no succour from the House of Bourbon – which House it is most proper that I should ask first – there would be no alternative but for me to beg help from the House of Lorraine. My lord, the heads of the House of Lorraine would go … to God alone knows what lengths … to take from a Prince of Bourbon that honour of Lieutenant-General which I have just offered you.’

  Antoine bowed. He felt as though he had been offered the poison cup in order to speed his decision to bend to her will.

  Her face was expressionless, but surely her words meant: ‘Make me Regent of France on the death of the King. For yourself accept the Lieutenant-Generalship … or death.’

  Long after he had left her, Antoine’s body was clammy with the sweat of fear.

  Catherine was in the King’s apartment. Francis was lying on his bed exhausted. Mary stood up and addressed the Queen Mother.

  ‘Madame, Francis is very tired. He wishes to sleep.’

  Catherine smiled smoothly. ‘I shall not tire him. Rest assured that I know more of the nature of my son’s indisposition than any, and best know how to treat it. I wish to speak to him, and I will ask your Majesty to leave us alone for a little while.’

  ‘Madame …’ began Mary.

  But Catherine had lifted a white hand. ‘Leave us … for ten minutes only. You will, I am sure, have much to say to your uncle, the Duke. You see, Francis and I wish to be alone.’

  ‘But Francis said …’

  Francis was feeling ill, and although he wished to please his wife in everything, he was aware of the domination of his mother.

  ‘If you wish me to go, Francis, I will,’ said Mary.

  ‘Certainly he wishes it. It is just a little motherly talk, dear daughter. The Duke was asking for you. I should go along to his apartments.’

  Mary hesitated for a moment before she bowed and retired.

  ‘Why, she is a little jailer!’ cried Catherine. ‘I declare she did not want to leave her captive alone with his own mother!’

  ‘It is because she wishes to be with me, to care for me when she knows I am not well.’

  ‘Of course. Of course. Do not rise, dear son. Lie still. What I have to say to you can be said while you rest. You are looking ill to-day. I must get a health potion for you. Cosmo will mix you something; although I am beginning to wonder whether René’s draughts are not more useful. Excuse me one moment.’

  She went to the door and opened it. Mary stood there.

  ‘Ah, my dear daughter,’ said Catherine with a smile, ‘do not stand about in the corridors. They are draughty and bad for your health. Moreover, Monsieur de Guise awaits you. Do not disappoint him.’

  Catherine stood watching the discomfited Mary walk very slowly and with some dignity along the corridor and up the staircase to the Duke’s apartments.

  Catherine shut the door and went back to the bed.

  ‘You are disturbed, my boy. Something worries you. Tell your mother.’

  ‘Nothing worries me, Mother.’

  ‘They try your strength too much … these uncles of your wife. Why, what you need is to go away to the quietest of your castles and there rest or walk in the green fields with your wife beside you. You need rest from state duties; you need rest and play.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Francis fervently.

  ‘I shall see that this is arranged. Your mother will see that you enjoy such recreation.’

  ‘If only it were possible!’

  ‘I promise you rest, my son.’ She laid her cool hands on his hot head. How it was throbbing!

  He lifted his eyes to her face as he had done when he was a little boy. ‘Maman, there are pains … pains in my head … in every part of my body.’

  ‘Francis … my little one!’

  ‘And oh, Maman, I am so tired. Could I not go away … just with Mary … and the smallest of trains? Could you not arrange that?’

  ‘I will arrange your departure, my son. But first tell me what it is that worries you. Tell Maman. What have these uncles been hatching up for you? You hate them, do you not? It is from them you long to escape.’

  ‘Maman, the Duke is a very fine gentleman. There is no greater man in France.’

  ‘Ah yes. Le Balafré is a very great man. Ask the people of Paris. He is a hero to them. They do more homage to him than to you, my son.’

  ‘Yes; he is a very great man.’

  ‘And the Cardinal, he is also a very great man. Mary says so, does she not?’

  ‘The Cardinal …’ Francis began to tremble, and Catherine put her lips to his ear.

  ‘It might be, my son, that I could help you. Tell me what it is that they have been hatching up for you?’

  Francis swallowed and pressed his lips together. She had not been mistaken, then. She had heard something of this, but the tube failed her again and again, carrying to her alert ears only scraps of conversation; but Francis’s demeanour had betrayed his agitation and that he had no liking for this newest plot of Mary’s uncles.

  ‘It is something to do with Antoine de Bourbon, is it not?’

  He opened his eyes wide and stared at her. ‘Maman, how could you know? Why … none knows.’

  ‘There are many things which you cannot yet understand, my son. One day you may understand. Suffice it for the present that I know.’

  ‘Maman … some say th
at you are in league with … things beyond this world.’

  ‘My son, many strange things are said of your mother. They are going to kill Antoine. That is it, is it not?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And how are you, my poor sick boy, to take a hand in this?’

  ‘It is to happen naturally. He is to threaten me, and I am … in a fit of rage … to strike at him with my dagger. When I lift it, the Duke and the Cardinal with the Maréchal de Saint-André, who will be close at hand, will rush in and do the rest.’

  ‘And how will you get our poor Antoine to strike you, Francis? He loves you. He would never commit such a dastardly action.’

  ‘I am to abuse him and make him angry, to strike him if necessary. He will think I am alone, but a boy, and weak …’

  ‘My poor boy! And you will do this?’

  She stroked his tumbled hair from his forehead.

  ‘Madame,’ he said. ‘Madame, my mother, the Bourbons seek to undermine our house. They wish to take the throne from us.’

  ‘My poor Francis,’ she whispered. ‘Poor Antoine … weak, defenceless, helpless. What a terrible thing it is to wear a crown!’

  There was a footstep outside the door.

  Catherine whispered: ‘Obey your conscience, son, but tell no one that your mother knows of this diabolical plot to murder your kinsman … a Prince of the Blood.’ Mary had come into the room. ‘Au revoir, dear son. Ah, here is your charming wife. Mary, sit beside him. He misses your bright presence. He has been telling me how much you do for him. You have been so quick. Did you find your uncle, the Duke?’

  ‘He was not in his apartments, Madame.’

  ‘Was he not?’ Catherine rose and placed her hands on Mary’s shoulders. She kissed first one of her flushed cheeks, then the other. ‘Thank you, my dear, for all you have done for our dear little King. May the saints preserve you!’

  Mary bowed, rigorously correct, as always with Catherine. Catherine smiled at the lovely bowed head.

  Spy! she thought. It shall not be long before you find it impossible to spy on me, for you shall not remain at the court of France.