Queen Jezebel Page 3

  The Admiral dismounted and embraced the weeping man.

  ‘My friend, you have allowed evil rumours to upset you. Look at my strong arm. Look at my followers. You must know that we can take care of ourselves. Go to the kitchens and tell them they are to give you a cup of wine. Drink my health, man, and be of good cheer.’

  He was led away, but he continued to mourn; and the Admiral, riding with his son-in-law to Paris, could not dismiss the scene from his thoughts.

  Having dismissed Charlotte de Sauves, Catherine de’ Medici gave herself up to reflection. She had no definite plans yet for the young King of Navarre, but she guessed that it would be well to have Charlotte working upon him as soon as he arrived; it would not be advisable for him to make a prior attachment which might prove a stronger one than that which she intended to forge. She was sure that Henry of Navarre was another such as his father, Antoine de Bourbon—a man to be ruled by women; and she was determined that the woman who ruled her, prospective son-in-law should be her spy. He must not be allowed to fall in love with his bride. That was hardly likely, since Margot would be as ungracious as she could, and Henry of Navarre, who had never lacked admirers, was not likely to fall in love with a wife who spurned him. But she could not trust Margot. Margot was a schemer, an intriguer, who would work for her lover rather than for her family.

  As she sat brooding, her son Henry came into the room. He came unannounced and without ceremony. He was the only person at court who would have dared to do that.

  She looked up and smiled. Tenderness sat oddly on her face. The prominent eyes softened, and the faintest colour shone beneath her pallid skin. This was her beloved son; and every time she looked at him she was irked by the thought that he was not her first-born, for she longed to take the crown from his brother and place it on that dark, handsome head.

  She had loved Henry her husband through years of neglect and humiliation, and she had called this son after him. It was not the name which had been given to him at his baptism; that was Edouard Alexandre; but he had become her Henri; and she was determined that one day he should be Henry the Third of France.

  Francis, her first-born, was dead; and when he had died she had wished fervently that Henry might have taken the crown instead of mad ten-year-old Charles. It was particularly irritating to reflect that there was a year between their births. Why, she had so often asked herself, had she not borne this son on that June day in 1550! If that had been so she would have been spared many an anxious moment.

  ‘My darling,’ she said, taking his hand—one of the most shapely in France and very like her own—and carrying it to her lips. She smelt the scent of musk and violet powder which he brought into the room. He seemed the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, in his exaggeratedly fashionable coat of mulberry velvet slashed to show pearl-grey satin; the border of his linen chemise was stiff with jewels of all colours; his hair was curled and stood out charmingly beneath his small jewelled cap; his long white fingers were scarcely visible for the rings which covered them; diamonds sparkled in his ears and bracelets hung on his wrists.

  ‘Come,’ she said, ‘sit close to me. You look disturbed, my dearest. What ails you? You look tired. Not too much lovemaking with Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf?’

  He waved a hand languidly. ‘No, not that.’

  She patted the hand. She was glad that he had at last taken a mistress; the public expected it and it pleased them. Moreover, a woman would not have the influence with him which was enjoyed by those frizzed and perfumed young men with whom he liked to surround himself. Renée de Châteauneuf was not the sort to meddle with what did not concern her and she was the kind Catherine would have chosen for her son. Yet she was a little worried about his love-making with Renée, because it tired him, and afterwards he would have to take to his bed for a day or two in sheer exhaustion while his young men waited on him, curling his hair, bringing to him the choicest sweetmeats in the palace, reading poetry to him and fetching his dogs and parrots to play their tricks and amuse him.

  He was a strange young man, this son of hers. Half Medici, half Valois, he was tainted in mind and body as were all the sons of Henry the Second and Catherine de’ Medici. They had had little chance from their births; the sins of the grandfathers—Catherine’s father as well as Henry’s—had fallen upon them.

  People said it was strange that a young man such as this Henry, Duke of Anjou, could have been that great general which the battles of Jarnac and Montcontour seemed to have proved him to be. It seemed impossible that this fop, this languishing, effeminate young man who painted his face, curled his hair and at twenty-one must take to his bed after making love to a young woman, had fought and beaten in battle such men as Louis de Bourbon, the Prince of Condé. Catherine, the realist, must admit to herself that at Jarnac and Montcontour Henry had been blessed with a fine army and excellent advisers. Moreover, like all her sons, he matured early and declined rapidly. At twenty-one he was not the man he had been at seventeen. Witty he would always be; he would always possess an appreciation of beauty, but his love of pleasure, his perverted tastes which he petulantly indulged were robbing him of his energy. It was certainly not the general who stood before his mother now. His lips were curled sullenly and Catherine thought she understood why.

  She said: ‘You should not concern yourself with the Queen’s pregnancy, my son. Charles’ child will never live.’

  ‘There were times when you said he would never have a son.’

  ‘Nor has he yet. How do we know what the sex of the child will be?’

  ‘What matters that? If this should be a girl, it does not alter the fact that they are young and will have more children.’

  Catherine played with her talisman bracelet which was made up of different coloured stones. On these stones were engravings said to be devils’ and magicians’ signs; the links of the bracelet were made of parts of a human skull. This ornament inspired awe in all who saw it, as Catherine intended that it should. It had been made for her by her magicians and she believed it to have special qualities.

  As he watched her fingers caress it, Anjou felt some relief. He knew that his mother would never let anyone stand in his way to the throne. Still, he thought it had been rather careless of her to let Charles marry, and he intended to let her know that he thought so.

  ‘They will not live,’ said Catherine.

  ‘Can you be sure of that, Mother?’

  She appeared to be studying her bracelet with the utmost concentration. ‘They will not live,’ she repeated. ‘My son, soon you will wear the crown of France. Of that I am sure. And when you do you will not forget the gratitude due to the one who put you on the throne, will you, my darling?’

  ‘Never, Mother,’ he said. ‘But there is this news from Poland.’

  ‘I confess. I should like to see you a King and that without delay.’

  ‘A King of Poland?’

  She put an arm about him. ‘I should wish you to be King of France and Poland. If you were the King of Poland alone, and

  that meant you would have to leave France for that barbarous country, then I think my heart would break.’

  ‘That is what my brother wishes.’

  ‘I would never let you stay away from me.’

  let us face the facts, Mother. Charles hates me.’

  ‘He is jealous of you because you are so much more fitted to be King of France than he is.’

  ‘He hates me most because he knows that you love me most. He would wish to see me banished from this country. He has always been my enemy.’

  ‘Poor Charles, he is both mad and sick. We must not expect reason from him.’

  ‘Yes. A fine state of affairs. A mad King on the throne of France.’

  ‘But he has many to help him govern.’

  They laughed together, but Henry was immediately serious. ‘Yet what if this child should be a boy?’

  ‘It could not be a healthy boy. Believe me, you have nothing to fear from your brother’s
sickly offspring.’

  ‘And what if he should demand my acceptance of the Polish throne?’

  ‘It is not yet vacant.’

  ‘But the Queen is dead and the King dangerously ill. My brother and his friends are angry because I refused to marry the Queen of England. What if they now insist that I take the crown of Poland?’

  ‘We must see that you are not banished from France. I would not endure that; and surely you do not believe that any such thing could happen if I did not wish it?’

  ‘Madame, I am as sure that you rule this realm as I am that you sit here.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Yet my brother grows truculent. My lady mother, forgive me when I point out that of late there have been others about the throne whose influence with him would seem to increase.’

  ‘They can be taken care of.’

  ‘Yet they can be dangerous. You remember my brother’s attitude concerning the Queen of Navarre.’

  Catherine remembered it very well. The King, like many people in France, had suspected that his mother had had a hand in the murder of Jeanne of Navarre, yet he had ordered an autopsy. Had poison been found, the execution of René, the Florentine poisoner and servant of the Queen Mother, would have been inevitable. Charles, believing his mother to have been involved, had not hesitated in his wish to expose her. She would not forget such treachery from her own son.

  ‘We know who was responsible for his attitude,’ said Catherine. ‘And once the cause is known it can be removed.’

  ‘Coligny is too powerful,’ said Anjou. ‘How long shall he remain so? How long will you allow him to poison the King’s mind against you . . . against us?’

  She did not answer, but her smile reassured him.

  ‘He is on his way to court,’ said Anjou. ‘This time he should never be allowed to leave it.’

  ‘I think that when Monsieur de Coligny comes to court, your brother may not be quite so enamoured of him,’ said Catherine slowly. ‘You talk of the Admiral’s influence with your brother, but do not forget that when the King is in any trouble it is to his mother that he has been wont to turn.’

  ‘That was once so. Is it so now?’

  ‘Coligny is wise. That righteousness, that stern godliness have had their effect on the King. But this happened because it did not at once occur to me that the King could be so bemused by his Huguenot friend. Now that I have learned the power of the Huguenot and the folly of Charles, I shall know how to act. I am going to see Charles now. When I leave him I think he may be a little less trustful towards his dear good friend Coligny. I think that when the mighty Admiral arrives in Paris he may find a cold reception waiting for him.’

  ‘I will come with you and add my voice to yours.’

  ‘No, my darling. Remember that the King is jealous of your superior powers. Let me go alone and I will tell you every word that passes between us.’

  ‘Mother, you will not allow me to be sent to that barbarous country?’

  ‘Did I send you to England? Have you forgotten my indulgence to you when you so ungallantly refused the Queen of England?’ Catherine burst into laughter. ‘You insulted her and she might have gone to war with us on that account. You know what a vain old baggage she is. I shall never forget that wicked suggestion of yours that if you married the Earl of Leicester’s mistress, it would be fitting for Leicester to marry yours. You are quite mischievous and I adore you for it. How could I endure my life without you near me to make me laugh? Was it not all but intolerable when you were away at the wars? No, my darling, I shall not allow him to send you to Poland . . . or anywhere else which is away from me!’

  He kissed her hand while she touched his curled hair, gently because he did not like it to be disarranged.

  Charles, the King, was in that part of the Louvre where he enjoyed being—the apartments of Marie Touchet, the mistress whom he loved.

  He was twenty-two, but he looked older, for his face was wrinkled and his skin pallid; he had not had eight consecutive days of health in his life; his hair was fine but scanty, and he stooped as he walked; he was, at twenty-two, like an old man. Yet his face was a striking one and at times it seemed almost beautiful. His wide-set eyes were golden brown, and very like his father’s had been; they were alert and intelligent, and when he was not suffering a bout of madness, kindly and charming; they were the eyes of a strong man, and it was their contrast with that weak, almost imbecile mouth and receding chin that made his face so unusual. Two distinct characters looked out of the King’s face; the man he might have been and the man he was; the strong and kindly humanist, and the man of tainted blood, bearing through his short life the burden which the excesses of his grandfathers had put upon him. Each week the trouble in his lungs seemed to increase; and as his body gave up its strength, it became more and more difficult for him to control his mind. The bouts of madness became more frequent as did the moods of melancholy. When, in the dead of night, he would feel that frenzy upon him, he would rise from his bed, waken his followers, put on his mask and go to the lodgings of one of his friends; the pack would catch the young man in his bed and beat him This was a favourite pastime of the King’s during his madness; and the friends he beat were the friends he loved best. So it was with the dogs which he adored. In his sane moments he shed bitter tears over the dogs which, in his madness, he had beaten to death.

  He was in a continual state of bewilderment and fear. He was afraid of his brothers, Anjou and Alençon, but particularly of Anjou, who had his mother’s complete devotion. He was well aware that his mother wanted the throne for Henry and he was continually wondering what they plotted between them. At this time he was sure that the pregnancy of the Queen was a matter which caused those two much concern.

  He was afraid also of the Guises. The handsome young Duke was one of the most ambitious men in the country; and to support him there was his uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, that sly lecher whose tongue could wound as cruelly as a sword; there were also the Cardinal’s brothers, the Cardinal of Guise, the Duke of Aumale, the Grand Prior and the Duke of Elboeuf. These mighty Princes of Lorraine kept ever-watchful eyes on the throne of France, and they never lost an opportunity of thrusting forward their young nephew, Henry of Guise, who, with his charm and nobility, already had the people of Paris behind him.

  But there were some whom the King could trust. Strangely enough, one of these was his wife. He did not love her, but his gentleness had won her heart. Poor little Elisabeth, like many another Princess sacrificed on the altar of politics, she had come from Austria to marry him; she was a timid creature who had been terrified when she had learned that she was to marry the King of France. What must that have suggested to her? Great monarchs like Charles’ grandfather, Francis the First, witty, amusing and charming; or Henry the Second, Charles’ father, strong, stern and silent. Elisabeth had imagined she would come to France to marry such a man as these; and instead she had found a boy with soft golden-brown eyes and a weak mouth, who had been kind to her because she was timid. She had repaid his kindness with devotion and now she had amazed France by promising to become the mother of the heir to the throne.

  Charles began to tremble at the thought of his child. What would his mother do to it? Would she administer that morceau Italianizé for which she was becoming notorious? Of one thing the King was certain: she would never willingly let his child live to take the throne. He would put his old nurse Madeleine in charge of the child, for Madeleine was another whom he could trust. She would fight for his child as she had tried to fight for him through his perilous childhood. Yes, he could trust Madeleine. She had soothed him through the difficult days of his childhood, secretly doing her best to eliminate the teachings of his perverted and perverting tutors—but only secretly, because those tutors had been put in charge of him by his mother in order to aggravate his madness and to initiate him into the ways of perversion; and if Catherine had guessed that Madeleine was trying to undo their work it would have been the
morceau for Madeleine. Often, after a terrifying hour with his tutors, he had awakened in the night, trembling and afraid, and had crept into the ante-chamber in which Madeleine slept—for he would have her as near him as possible—to seek comfort in her motherly arms. Then she would rock him and soothe him, call him her baby, her Chariot, so that he could be reassured that he was nothing but a little boy, even though he was the King of France. Madeleine was a mother to him even now that he was a man, and he insisted on her being at hand, day and night.

  His sister Margot? No, he could no longer trust Margot. She had become brazen, no longer his dear little sister. She had taken Henry of Guise as her lover, and to that man she would not hesitate to betray the King’s secrets. He would never trust her absolutely again, and he could not love where he did not trust.

  But there was Marie—Marie the dearest of them all. She loved him and understood him as no one else could. To her he could read his poetry; he could show her the book on hunting which he was writing. To her he was indeed a King.

  And then Coligny. Coligny was his friend. He never tired of being with the Admiral; he felt safe with him, for although some said he was a traitor to France, Charles had never felt the least apprehension concerning this friend. Coligny, he was sure, would never do anything dishonourable. If Coligny intended to work against him he would at once tell him so, for Coligny had never pretended to be what he was not. He was straightforward; and if he was a Huguenot, well then Charles would say that there was much about the Huguenots that he liked. He had many friends among the Huguenots; not only Coligny, but Madeleine his nurse was a Huguenot, and so was Marie; then there was the cleverest of his surgeons, Ambroise Paré; there was his dear friend Rochefoucauld. He did wish that there need not be this trouble between Huguenots and Catholics. He himself was a Catholic, of course, but he had many friends who had accepted the new faith.