The Italian Woman Read online

  He flicked a cobweb off his fine coat. This dungeon disgusted him. He could smell the sweat of others who had lived here before him; now and then he was aware of the unmistakable odour of blood, for his cell was not very far from those shambles they called the torture-rooms. Death awaited him, and his time was short. The Queen Mother had not visited him recently. Had she turned back once more to his enemies, the Guises? They were more useful friends just now than the Bourbons could be.

  His thoughts went to Eléonore. One of his jailers, whom he had managed to charm, had told him that she had been to Orléans when he had been there, in the hope of seeing him. Dear sweet wife, the best of mothers! He knew he was unworthy of her.

  He was melancholy to-day because he was bored. He needed continual excitement, and now there was nothing to do but await death. Death! He had never thought of it seriously before, although he had courted it a hundred times. Could this be the end, then, of the Prince of Condé? Was this the finale of that tragi-comedy which his life had been, the end of his grandiose schemes for sitting on the throne of France? He was ambitious, and because he had been born near the throne, it had, all his life, stood there before his mind’s eye as a possible acquisition.

  What was happening above him? He looked at the dismal ceiling of his cell; he looked at the wall down which the moisture trickled. When it was dark the rats came and looked at him hopefully; yet not far from this spot the noble Loire flowed by in sunshine.

  One of his jailers passed by the table. He whispered so that the other jailer could not hear: ‘Monsieur, King Francis is dead. Your life is saved!’

  Condé stared before him, too full of emotion to speak. He thought of the river and the buds on the trees just beyond his prison; he pictured the tears in his wife’s eyes and the smiles on the faces of his children. King Francis was dead, and it was King Francis who had condemned Condé to death. Condé went on thinking of all those things which he had believed he would never see again.

  In his impetuous way, Antoine wrote openly to his wife of what was happening at court:

  MY DARLING, – How our fortunes have changed! How delighted you would be to see the position of your husband here at court! The Queen Mother consults me in all things. Why did you ever think that she was not friendly towards us? She is going to urge that the images of the Virgin be taken from the churches. My dear wife, you can picture the consternation in some quarters. The Spanish Envoy, Monsieur de Chantonnay, is furious. He reports this to his master, and one can imagine with what effects! The Queen Mother will shortly pledge herself to full toleration of the Reformed Faith. Think what this means, my love, and what we have achieved. I know you think I should have insisted on sharing the Regency; but, my dear one, I am Lieutenant-General, and that post, I do assure you, is not a small one. I would rather work with the Queen Mother as my friend; and surely, in view of all she has done for our Faith, you cannot deny that she is our friend?

  I must tell you that my dear brother Louis is well and free. How could the brother of the Lieutenant-General remain a prisoner? No! There was nothing to do but free him. He was noble, as you can guess. The King’s death meant that it was possible for the Queen Mother to release him, for she says that it was by the will of King Francis that he was made a prisoner – so naturally, with the King’s death, our brother was released. But, as I say, he was proud, and at first he would not accept release until his honour was cleared. Is that not like our brother? He was, however, removed to a better lodging than the dungeon he had been occupying at Amboise and at length the Queen Mother arranged for his name to be cleared. She has a very friendly feeling towards Louis, as he has towards her. Ah, my dear wife, at last we Bourbons are getting that respect which is due to us. You would have wept to see Louis and his family together on the day he joined them. The two boys and the little girl threw themselves at him, and all those about them wept, as did Louis and Eléonore, with those little ones. They are now all happy together, and all goes well with the House of Bourbon.

  I was glad to hear you had decided to plant the mulberries along the meadow slope where we used to play Barres. Ah! How I remember those games of ours!

  I hope my little comrade son is in good health, and also our dearest little daughter. Commend me to them.

  I will end my note in assuring you that neither the ladies of the court nor any others can ever have the slightest power over me, unless it be the power to make me hate them.

  Your very affectionate and loyal husband,

  ANTOINE.

  When Jeanne read this letter she felt uneasy. What was happening at court? She knew Antoine too well to believe that he could be making a real success there. How was the Queen Mother using him? How long would this benevolence of hers last towards the new faith?

  Moreover, was he not a little too insistent on his fidelity? Should that have been necessary if they were all she believed them to be to each other?

  Little Charles, the new King, did not know whether to be proud or frightened of the new honour which was his. It was startling to find that wherever he went, men and women smiled on him, bowed low to him, treated him with such ceremony as seemed odd when he was reminded that he was only ten years old.

  He had to attend many solemn meetings; there were proclamations and declarations to be signed. It was certainly bewildering, when you were ten years old, to find that you were the King of France.

  But he had nothing to fear; his mother told him so; for all he had to do was obey her. That was easy, since he had done that all his life. But there were others round him besides his mother. There was his Uncle Antoine, who was very important now; his mother had explained that Uncle Antoine was now Lieutenant-General of France, which meant that, with her, he was the ruler of France until he, little Charles, was old enough to take on that immense responsibility.

  Then there were the great Guises. They were very angry because Francis had died and he was now the King. They seemed subdued at present, but Charles was terrified of their watching eyes which never seemed to leave him.

  There were his tutors, Monsieur Birago and the Comte de Retz. They had opened up a strange world to him, and it was very interesting to learn so much about life. They wanted him to be more like his brother Henry. He wished he could be, because his mother would have liked him better if he were more like her favourite; but it was difficult to be what you were not. He tried hard, but those tutors of his liked such strange things; they showed him pictures which embarrassed him; they said it was great fun beating each other on the bare flesh. That seemed very strange to Charles as it was what people did when they were angry, or as a punishment. But the Italian tutors said: ‘There is much you have to learn, Sire. This is a different sort of beating.’

  It seemed a mad world if such was the accepted behaviour. He did not understand them; sometimes he would grow hysterical listening to them; he would have one of those screaming fits during which he did not know what he was saying; then they would have to soothe him with the special drink his mother prepared for him.

  He wondered whether these attacks had become more frequent because of his tutors or because he was getting older; and whether they had something to do with the additional strain of being a King.

  But there was one glorious thing which, he realised, being a King may have made possible: marriage with Mary. Dear Mary! She was very unhappy now. She was enduring the traditional forty days’ seclusion which all the Queens of France must face when they lost their husbands. She was shut up in her apartments at Fontainebleau, and these apartments were hung with black; Mary herself would be in black from head to foot, but that would only make her look more beautiful than ever; her lovely fair hair and glowing skin would show up more against sombre black than they had against her jewelled wedding gown.

  Mary was nineteen and he was only ten. That was a great difference, but there had been greater differences between the ages of husbands and wives.

  He had watched his brother Francis. How he had hated to be King, and ye
t, because Mary was his wife he had been often happy.

  I should be happy too, thought Charles, if I could have Mary for my wife.

  He broached the subject to his mother.

  ‘Now that my brother Francis is dead – God rest his soul – and his wife is a widow, she will be wanting a husband and I shall be wanting a wife.’

  The expression on his mother’s face did not change. She said: ‘That is true, my son.’

  And he was suddenly happy; he saw that what she had called his unholy thoughts about his brother’s wife were forgotten, for indeed Mary was no longer his brother’s wife; she was his widow.

  ‘Go on,’ said Catherine.

  He was afraid to look at her; he was so overwhelmed by the thought of all the happiness that might be his that he could scarcely find words to speak of it.

  ‘I thought, dear Maman, that it might be my task to soothe Mary’s grief for the loss of Francis,’ he said eagerly.

  He was quite unaware of the fury behind that quiet smile.

  So, after all that his tutors had done for him and to him, thought Catherine, he still hankered after Mary; and once let him make this desire known to Mary’s uncles – in any case, they probably knew of it already – and they would do everything they could to arrange the little King’s marriage with their niece; and then the position of the Queen Mother would be that intolerable one she had endured for the last two years – relegated to impotence while the Duke and the Cardinal reigned through Mary and Charles as they had through Mary and Francis.

  Catherine thought: I would see you dead first. And she said: ‘I do not think, my son, that Mary would wish to have her thoughts taken from her grief just yet. It would be unseemly to talk of it while she mourns her husband.’

  The boy was eager. ‘Yes; I do see that. She must mourn her forty days and nights. But they will not last for ever, and …’

  Catherine laid a gentle hand on her son’s shoulder and smiled into his eyes. ‘My son, my dearest little King, you know your happiness is all that I desire.’

  He buried his head in her lap as he had done when he was a little boy. ‘Oh, Maman, you will let this be, then?’

  ‘Everything that can be done shall be done. Do not doubt that, my son. But do not forget your dignity as a King. Charles, my dearest boy, you are watched and there will be many to criticise your actions. You must walk with the utmost caution now that you are a King. You must do everything that dear Papa would have had you do.’

  Charles’s eyes filled with tears at the mention of Papa, whose death had been the greatest grief of his life.

  ‘Papa,’ went on Catherine, ‘would not have you think of your own pleasure when your brother is so recently dead.’

  ‘No, Maman. I did not …’

  ‘Ah, but my darling, you did. Did you not? You must not lie to me, you know.’

  ‘But I love Francis. He and I were … the best of friends.’

  She lifted a finger. ‘And yet you so want Francis’s wife that, while he is yet scarcely cold, you can think of taking her! Ah, my son, growing up, loving women, being a King – such matters are fraught with danger. Do not think that because you have become a King that you are no longer in danger. Terrible things have happened to kings. One day I must tell you of these things.’

  His hands began to twitch and pull at his jacket – the well-known signs of hysteria.

  ‘But I will not do these things. I will not put myself in danger.’

  ‘You have your mother to look after you. And, Charles, do you realise how fortunate you are to have a mother whose one thought is the welfare of her children?’

  ‘I do realise that.’

  ‘Then you will remember that you are a child yet, and that wise children are guided by their parents. Papa is with me in all I do. I feel him near me … guiding me. You would want to do what Papa and I know to be wise?’

  ‘Yes, Maman.’

  ‘That is a good boy; that is a wise King. You must be wise, for if you are not, terrible things will happen to you. Kings have been murdered ere this.’

  ‘No, Maman, no! Do not tell me. I know … I know these things are, but do not speak of them or I shall have bad dreams to-night, and when I have these dreams …’

  She embraced him.

  ‘We will not speak of them, but you know, do you not, my son, my little King, that you must be very wise? You have been guilty – ah, yes, I fear you have been a little guilty – of infidelity to your brother, your dead brother. What if Francis did not understand and came down from Heaven to haunt you?’

  ‘He would not come to haunt me. I love Francis. I have always loved him.’

  ‘And you loved his wife …’

  ‘Not … not … only as a sister.’

  ‘And you want to marry your sister?’

  ‘Only after a time when Mary has recovered from her grief and I have recovered from mine.’

  ‘Listen, Charles. Go carefully. Not a word of your intentions towards your sister-in-law to anyone. You would not find many to understand as I understand.’

  ‘No, Maman.’

  ‘There might be some who would be angry. Now, remember. Why, if this were to reach Mary’s ears … or those of her uncles, what would they think?’

  Charles smiled a little slyly, she thought. ‘Oh, I do not think Monsieur the Duke and Monsieur the Cardinal would mind very much. Mary would be the Queen of France if she married me.

  Catherine said firmly: ‘Now, take heed of this very carefully. If the people of France knew of your evil thoughts concerning your brother’s wife, if they knew of your unholy intentions, they would rise against you. And one day when you walked abroad a man would come up to you and … you would think he was a friend until you saw the knife gleaming in his hand. Then you would cry out as you felt the cold steel pierce your heart. The pain, my son, would be terrible. I will tell you …’

  ‘No, no! I know. You are right, Maman. I must tell no one. I will say nothing.’

  Catherine put her fingers to her lips. ‘Swear to me, my son, swear you will be wise and say not a word of this to Mary and her uncles. This is our secret. No one else whatsoever must know of it. And if at any time you feel inclined to speak, remember cold steel … in your heart … just about … there. You would swoon with the pain, for it is unbearable, but your swoon would not last and you would wake to your agony … dreadful agony … and the sight of blood on your clothes, and all about you … the stench of blood in your nostrils … your own blood.’

  Charles was shaking with fear. ‘I will not tell. I will not tell.’ He caught her hand. ‘But later … later, you will help me? You must let me have Mary for my wife.’

  She put her lips to his forehead. ‘I shall do everything in my power, everything for your good.’

  He knelt and kissed her hand; she felt the trembling of his small body, the tears on her hand; and, smiling, she thought: I will see you dead before I put that spy back on the throne.

  Jeanne was worried. The news from the court of France was too good to be true.

  Was it possible that the Guises could have become so weak that they bowed to the greater power of the Bourbons? What of the Queen Mother? How was it that she had suddenly become the dearest friend of Antoine and Louis de Bourbon? How was it that Coligny and the Huguenot leaders were being received at court? Something strange and unhealthy was afoot.

  But she was far from the court of France, and she felt that it was better for herself and her family – and perhaps most of all her husband – if she remained where she was, safe in her own province, at the head of an army which was ready for any emergency that might arise.

  She had had long discussions with her religious advisers, and it seemed to her that now the time had come for her to announce her complete conversion to the Reformed Faith.

  There was nothing to stop her, and with a new King on the throne of France this seemed as propitious a time as any.

  She was convinced that the Protestant Faith was the true one, a
nd she wanted the whole of France – and Spain – to know that from henceforth she would support this Faith with everything at her disposal.

  This might be a test as to whether the court of France was sincere in its new tolerance. If the Catholic Guises were really in decline, she felt she would soon know, and that this public avowal of hers would enable her to know the sooner.

  Before departing for Nérac, where she intended to stay well fortified, awaiting fresh news from her husband, she went formally to the Cathedral at Pau and there attended Holy Communion in accordance with the Reformed ritual.

  Jeanne of Navarre was now acknowledged as one of the leaders of the Huguenots; she was standing side by side with the brothers Coligny and with her husband, Antoine, King of Navarre, and his brother, Louis de Bourbon, the Prince of Condé.

  This caused rejoicing among the Huguenot population throughout France. Jeanne was recognised as a staunch leader, even though her husband was suspect. With Jeanne and the Condés and the Colignys, the Huguenot Party felt itself rich in the right sort of leaders, and it seemed to them that a new liberty was beginning to dawn in the political sky. The Huguenots now began to give themselves airs, to become arrogant in their new importance. There were stones of Huguenot atrocities carried out against Catholics. The wheel seemed to be slowly turning.

  There were many rumours circulating about the Queen Mother. It was whispered that she was gradually becoming converted to the Protestant Faith and that she would have the royal children brought up in that religion.

  But what had happened to the Guises? Was it possible that the death of one sickly little King and his replacement by another, even younger and almost as sickly, had brought about the eclipse of such men?

  Letters began to arrive at Nérac for Jeanne, and when she recognised the hand in which they were written, a smile of contempt curved her lips. She would never believe in the sincerity of Catherine. She had seen that quiet smile given to Diane de Poitiers; she had noted the meek expression which seemed to say: ‘Stamp on me. Humiliate me. I like it.’ Then she remembered that message which had been sent to Diane when King Henry, Catherine’s husband and Diane’s lover, lay dying: ‘Return all his gifts. Hold nothing back. I have noted every one.’ All the cunning in the world was hidden behind that expressionless face, and because it was successfully hidden, it behoved one to be the more wary of it.