The Italian Woman Page 15

  How was Antoine faring at court? Of what indiscretions was he guilty? How could he – light-hearted, flippant, weak as water – deal with such a sly one as the Queen Mother?

  The letters were affectionate. Catherine called Jeanne her ‘dear sister’. Jeanne must come to court, for Catherine longed for a sight of her. ‘Come, my good sister, and bring your little ones with you, those darlings whom I think of as my own. I have a plan which I should like to discuss with you. It concerns your Catherine, my little namesake. Do not forget that I am her godmother. I would like to arrange a match between her and my little Henry. Such an alliance, dearest sister, would render our union indissoluble. You could not have a more affectionate and sincere relative than myself …’

  This, from the craftiest woman in the world! What did it mean? What could it mean?

  Those were days of great uneasiness at Nérac.

  Little King Charles had a new friend. This man had frequently come to the palace since the death of Francis, and now had apartments there.

  Such a man, thought Charles, I should long to be.

  To be with Gaspard de Coligny, the Admiral of France, was a pleasure; with this man Charles did not feel frightened or bewildered, and this in itself was a strange thing, for the Admiral was a great man, a far greater man than either of the King’s tutors.

  They walked together in the grounds of the palace; they rode together. People said: ‘The King and the Admiral are the greatest of friends.’

  Charles talked to the Admiral of the greatest fear in his life – the fear of horrible torture and death.

  ‘One should not fear death, Sire,’ said the Admiral, ‘for after death comes the life everlasting, the life of joy if it has been preceded by a good and honest effort here on Earth.’

  ‘But, Admiral, if one has committed sins …’

  The Admiral smiled. ‘The sins of a boy of ten years could not be great ones. I think it would be easy to obtain forgiveness for them.’

  ‘I have asked for the intercession of the saints.’

  ‘There are some of us who appeal to God direct, Sire.’

  The New Faith! It was exciting to hear of it; and there was nothing wrong in hearing of it, because his mother, it was said, had given her support to it.

  How pleasant it was to listen, not only to the Admiral’s talking of the New Faith, but to hear him tell of battles he had fought, and of how, when he was a prisoner in Flanders, he had seen what he called ‘The Light’! How happy the King felt after these sessions, how stimulated, for when he was with the Admiral, although they often talked of wars and bloodshed, these things were different when spoken of by this man who doubtless knew more of them than did Charles’s tutors and his mother.

  To fight for a cause you believed in was a glorious thing. Honour mattered more than life; and should you die most miserably, then there was nothing to fear, for, if you died for the right, you were received into Heaven, and there all was good, all was peace. So said the Admiral.

  Charles longed to confide his hopes in this man as well as to tell of his fears, but he remembered his mother’s injunctions to speak to no one with regard to his beloved Mary.

  The Spanish Envoy, watching this friendship between the King and Coligny, wrote home to his master in great anger. The Guises watched and waited while they prepared to put an end to this state of affairs.

  Mary Stuart was in despair. To the French court had come men from Scotland, her native land, to claim their Queen. Scotland was a foreign land to her. She had known that she was the Queen of Scotland, but she accepted the Queen of Scots as her title as she accepted that other, Queen of England; she had never thought of it as anything but a title. And now from Scotland had come men to take her there.

  They terrified her, these men from Scotland. They were strangers, foreigners – tall, fair-haired and dour. They were not delighted, as she was, with the court of France; they found it shocking. The beautiful clothes, the dainty manners, the charming gallantry between ladies and courtiers – they thought these things wicked, scandalous. They despised the lilting French tongue and they refused to speak it.

  Why did not her uncles thwart the plans of these men? To whom could she turn? A little while ago she had only to express the smallest wish and there were many to hurry to gratify it, to count themselves honoured to serve her who, they all agreed, was the most enchanting of princesses.

  And now there was no one to help her. She knew why. The Queen Mother had decided that there was no longer a place for her in France.

  Mary had wept until she had no tears; she had shut herself in her apartments, declaring that she was too sick to appear. Someone must help her. She had not realised when Francis died – and that had been a great tragedy to her – that this greater tragedy must follow. She had thought that so many people at the French court loved her that they would never let her go.

  There had been many noble gentlemen who had worshipped her with their eyes; the poet Ronsard had written his verses especially for her. They would have died for her, so she had believed; and now she was to be sent away from them, to a cold and miserable land where there was no gaiety, no balls, no gallants, no poets – only dour men such as these who had come to France, to disapprove of that gaiety and beauty of hers which the French had loved.

  She could not believe that it could happen to her – the Queen of France, the pampered Princess. She thought of her arrival in France, of Francis’s father, King Henry, on whose knee she had sat and who had loved her, and whom she had loved; she thought of the attention which had been paid to her by Diane de Poitiers, and in those days Diane had been virtually Queen of France. She thought of the fun of playing with the royal Princes and Princesses, of having lessons with them and showing everyone how much more clever, how much more charming she was than they. For years she had thought of this land as her home, and that she would never leave it. How could anyone be so unkind as to let her go? She had loved Francis – oh, not as madly as he had loved her – but adequately. It had been so pleasant to be adored, and she had been truly sorry when he had died; but she had not thought that his death would mean her banishment from the gay land to which she felt she belonged.

  There was, however, a ray of hope. Little Charles loved her. Naturally, one did not think of a little boy, not yet eleven years old, as a husband; yet betrothals – even marriages – were arranged between youthful kings and queens.

  There were visitors to her apartments – those who came to condole – but she had a feeling that none of them really cared. Her brothers-in-law Henry and Hercule came; but they were too selfish to care what happened to her. Hercule was too young to appreciate her beauty, and Henry had never cared very much for the beauty of women. Margot made a show of crying with her, but Margot did not care and would be glad to see her go, for the selfish creature looked upon Mary as a rival. Margot knew what it meant to be admired, for although only eight she was a true coquette, and she wanted the admiration of the men who admired Mary to be directed to herself; so while she said that it was very sad and that she had heard that Scotland was not a very pleasant place, she was smoothing her dress and patting her lovely black hair, and thinking: When Mary has gone, I shall be the most beautiful Princess at court.

  As for Charles, she was not allowed to see him.

  Why did not her uncles arrange for her a marriage to the new King of France? They neglected her now, and she saw that the attentions which they had showered upon her such a short while ago had not been for herself, their little niece whom they loved, but for the Queen of France, whom they wished to use in order to rule her husband.

  She was sick with fright. There was not only the wretchedness of leaving a land which she had come to regard as her home; there was not only the nostalgia which she would feel, she knew, for the rest of her life if she were sent away; there was the perilous sea voyage to be faced, and her terrifying relative who sat on the throne of England had not guaranteed her a safe passage. She was afraid of the red-headed vir
gin of England, and well she might be, for some said that she, Mary, had more right to the English crown than the bastard daughter of Anne Boleyn.

  While she was occupied with these gloomy thoughts, the door of her apartment opened so silently that she did not hear it, and her mother-in-law must have stood watching her for some seconds before she was aware of her presence.

  ‘Madame!’ Mary sprang off her bed and bowed.

  Catherine was smiling, and the very way in which she stood there, the very way in which she smiled, told Mary that she herself, so recently the petted Queen of France, was of no importance now in the eyes of the Queen Mother.

  ‘My child, you have spoilt your beauty. So much weeping is not good for you.’

  Mary cast down her eyes; she could not meet those under the peaked headdress.

  ‘You must not grieve so for poor Francis,’ said Catherine maliciously.

  ‘Madame, I have suffered sadly. First I lost my husband, and now … they are threatening to send me away from here.’

  ‘Poor Mary! Poor little Queen! But in your great grief for your dear husband, leaving France will not seem so very important to you. I think that God gives us these blows, one following another, in order that we may become hardened to bear them. To leave France – which I know you love – when Francis was alive would have been a tragedy for you. But now, in the shadow of a greater tragedy, it will seem as nothing, for how much more you must have loved Francis than your adopted country! That is so, is it not, my daughter?’

  ‘I loved Francis dearly, yes. And, Madame, I think that, if I were allowed to stay here, I could still, in time, find some happiness in France.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Catherine lightly. ‘Then what a pity it is that you must leave us!’

  Mary went on her knees and took Catherine’s hand. ‘Madame, you could let me stay.’

  Now that Mary could not see her face, Catherine let her expression change. This was the girl who had called Catherine de’ Medici ‘Daughter of Merchants’, had dared to slight her because she had seen others do it. She had taken her cue from Madame de Poitiers. Well, it had not been possible to take revenge on that woman, but on Mary it would be. Not that Catherine cared greatly for revenge for its own sake. If it had been politic for Mary to have stayed in France, she would have forgotten past slights and humiliations. But now she could settle old scores and help her schemes of power politics at the same time. She could allow herself to get full enjoyment from this little by-play. This girl had dared to spy on her!

  ‘I let you stay?’ said Catherine. ‘You over-estimate my power.’

  ‘No, Madame. You are the Regent of France. All power is yours.’

  ‘My dear, I share it with the King of Navarre; and then there is the Council; and the King, though a boy, has his say in affairs.’

  ‘Then I must speak to the King. He will understand. He will help me.’

  ‘The King is indisposed. I could not have him disturbed. As you know, his health is not of the best.’

  ‘Oh, Madame, have you no pity? You would send me from France … from my native land?’

  ‘Nay, child. It is the land of your adoption, as it is mine. I doubt not that when you, a little girl of six, heard that you were to leave your home and sail across the seas to France, there to be brought up among strangers, I doubt not that you shed many tears. Well, this is such another upheaval in your life. In a year’s time you will be laughing at these tears. You will be loving the mists of your native wilderness as you love our snows and sunshine.’

  ‘Madame, I shall never love any land but France.’

  ‘And you a Queen of Scotland!’

  ‘And a Queen of France, Madame.’

  ‘And a Queen of England!’ said Catherine with a malicious laugh. ‘Your cousin in England is not going to be very pleased with you for using that title!’

  ‘You know it was at the wish of your husband, the King, and of my husband. I did not wish it.’

  ‘Yet you seemed very proud, nevertheless – very proud of it. Poor Mary! They are no longer here to answer to the virago of England for their sins. But I am sure she will forgive you and love you.’

  ‘She will hate me. She has always hated me. She has refused me safe passage to Scotland.’

  ‘Doubtless your charming ways will stand you in good stead with her as they did with me. You know how your pretty ways have endeared you to me. I have no doubt that Elizabeth of England will learn to love you as I have.’

  Catherine wanted to laugh aloud. She was well aware of the red-headed Queen’s feelings towards this girl, this Queen whose existence was a threat to her hold on the throne of England. How would Elizabeth have reacted had she found the girl spying on her? Mary would not have got off so lightly as she had with Catherine. She would have had her head off by now.

  ‘Be of good cheer,’ soothed Catherine. ‘You will grow to love your little kingdom. You will be able to think of us, and we shall think of you.’

  ‘Madame, the little King Charles loves me. If I go, he will be broken-hearted.’

  ‘Nonsense. He is only a child.’

  ‘He is old for his years. He used to say that if his brother Francis had not had the good fortune to marry me, he would have asked to be allowed to do so.’

  ‘He is a precocious boy, that one. Thinking of marrying at his age!’

  ‘It was his love for me.’

  ‘You will no doubt find many to love you … in Scotland. And any alliance, as you will see, between you and King Charles is out of the question. You have been the wife of his brother. It would be … immoral. You remember what happened when a King of England married his brother’s widow. Ask Queen Elizabeth to remind you. She will remember.’

  Mary cried out: ‘Will you not have pity on me? I beg of you … I implore you … do not send me away.’

  Catherine began to walk up and down the apartment. She let herself think back over the past. She saw this girl as a child at her Latin lesson; she remembered the curl of the haughty lips, the whispered words: ‘Daughter of Merchants’. She remembered the girl who had quickly learned how wise it was, how diplomatic, to seek the favour of Diane de Poitiers and to treat with indifference the real Queen of France. She remembered also the anguish she had suffered because of her husband’s love affair with the Lady Fleming, who had been this girl’s governess. But for the coming of the little Scot she would not have had to endure that.

  But away with revenge! What did it matter? It was just something to enjoy like the melons of which she was so fond, or a chine of beef which made her mouth water at the very thought of it, or a goblet of rare wine. Revenge was an ephemeral pleasure. The real reason why Mary must go was because, if she stayed and was married to Charles, those arrogant uncles of hers would be in power again, and that situation – against which Catherine had fought with all the means at her disposal, even unto speeding her son along that road to death – that intolerable situation would be re-created.

  Mary was indeed a little fool to expect such favours.

  ‘There, my child. Calm yourself. You will be Queen of Scotland, Queen of your native land. I hear the scenery is charming, and that Monsieur John Knox awaits you. I am sure you will have a very lively time. As for your cousin of England, I am sure you have as little to fear from her as from me. Now bathe your eyes. I will send you a lotion to brighten them.’ Catherine turned to the door. ‘Rest then, and enjoy your last days in France.’

  And so, a sorrowing girl rode north to Calais. To her it seemed that the procession was like a funeral cortège. She wept bitterly and continually, and the last she saw of the land she loved was through eyes swollen with grief.

  She had had one short interview with the distracted King, who had wept with her and begged her to stay and be his wife in spite of his mother, for he loved her. But even as he had talked she had seen the madness in his eyes, and she knew that she could no more hope for help from him than from Queen Catherine.

  She had said farewell to her powerful
uncles after begging them to let her stay.

  ‘I will live simply,’ she had cried. ‘I will be merely the dowager Queen of France. I have my dowry of Poitou and Touraine. I will live in France as a simple lady. I will give up everything … only do not send me to that wild country. Let me stay here … in my home.’

  But the uncles had conferred with one another. They were not yet fully cognizant with what had happened at court. There were too many intrigues being conducted. The Queen Mother had seemed like a harmless snake coiled up in sleep, and now she had raised her head and shown her fangs, and those fangs, they knew, were poisonous. They assured Mary that if they could arrange a marriage for her, this should be done, for she could be sure they had her welfare at heart. Let her look upon this as a visit to Scotland, for it was right that she should occasionally visit the country of which she was Queen. Very soon, they doubted not, she would be returning to France for as brilliant a marriage as her first one.

  ‘King Charles would marry me now,’ she said.

  ‘He is too young yet. Later … we may arrange it. Trust us, niece.’

  ‘Make it soon, I beg of you. Make it soon.’

  They assured her that they would. They kissed her fondly, and then she was forced to set out with that miserable cortège.

  Although it was April, the weather was bleak, for spring came late that year.

  ‘The whole countryside mourns with me,’ said Mary Queen of Scots. ‘Oh, Holy Mother of God, how I dread this voyage! I dread it more than death.’

  And as they went aboard the ship which was to carry her across the grey, heaving sea, away from the land where she had known such joy, to the land where she was to know great sorrow, she remembered not the last hours of her husband, the tender smiles of the poet Ronsard, the adoration of young King Charles, but the cold, snake-like stare of the woman who could have spared her this agony of exile. She knew now that the woman to whom she had been so indifferent in the past was not the colourless creature she had imagined her to be. She knew now what people meant when they called her Madame le Serpent.