The Italian Woman Page 8

  ‘Sire,’ said the man, ‘it has come to my ears that the King of Spain watches your actions. His spies are everywhere – even here in your own land. He knows your feelings for the new faith and he is therefore your sworn enemy. Be warned, my lord. Be cautious. Go to the court of France, as indeed you should, but not in the splendid fashion that you planned. Take only a few followers and go in secret, so that the spies of the King of Spain do not know that you have left Nérac.’

  The name of Philip of Spain was one which could terrify many – Antoine not the least. Spain had already annexed part of Navarre which it was impossible to regain, and Antoine lived in terror that one day the Spaniard would decide that the whole territory of Navarre should be his.

  It did not occur to Antoine to doubt the integrity of the messengers. Yet he knew that they had been sent from the court of France, and he might have asked himself if the Guises had, by chance, decided who should carry the message to him.

  He said a reluctant good-bye to Jeanne and set out northwards for Paris.

  CHAPTER II

  Dressed in a plain black gown and covered from head to foot in a black veil, Catherine paced up and down in her apartments of the Louvre. The room was lighted by only two wax tapers. The walls were covered with heavy black hangings; the same black cloth covered her bed and her prie-dieu.

  Her forty days and nights of mourning were over, and Catherine was beginning to realise more fully all that the death of her husband would mean to her; she found that she could look forward to the future with eagerness.

  There would be no more humiliation, no futile attempts to gain Henry’s affections. She would never again watch him make love to his mistress. Henry, who had caused her so much bitterness and humiliation, was now powerless to hurt her. She loved him; she had desired him; his death was a great tragedy; yet freedom was now hers.

  She looked back, but fleetingly, for it was not a habit of hers to look back, to those moments when she had watched her husband and his mistress together. She laughed suddenly, remembering that when people made love, wonderful as they might seem to one another, they could appear rather ridiculous to an unseen watcher; and when a woman of nearly sixty and a man of forty behave like young lovers, the unseen watcher – though jealous and tormented – might surely be forgiven a sly snigger. Had she then found a certain coarse amusement mingling with her jealous anguish? What did it matter? It was pointless to look back when there was so much to which she might look forward.

  Francis was now King, and Francis was only sixteen years old; he was not very clever, and he was suffering from some poison of the blood which meant that he was continually breaking out in sores. He had, in his formal address to his subjects, asked them to obey his mother. On all state documents he wrote: ‘This being the good pleasure of my Lady-Mother, and I also approve of every opinion that she holdeth.’

  Such deference was pleasing, but she had quickly realised that it was not so flattering as it seemed.

  How unfortunate it was that Henry and Diane should have married Francis to the Scottish girl! That girl now dominated Catherine’s dreams, for Mary made Francis obey her in all things; and her uncles, the Guises, cunningly saw that she obeyed them.

  How I dislike undutiful children! thought Catherine; and, for all his words, Francis was an undutiful son, since he did not obey his mother, but the Guises.

  Catherine hated the Guises, and they terrified her. Very clearly the arrogant Duke Francis and the sly Cardinal of Lorraine had shown her that they were the masters. She had tried to placate them while wondering how she could destroy them. She had vowed friendship for them; she had insisted that Francis issue a statement commanding obedience to the Duke and the Cardinal; and as she had done so, she had wondered how she could betray them. Longingly she thought, as she had thought in the days when Diane had occupied her mind, of the poison closet at Blois; but the people whom she wished to remove were so important, so well guarded, that she had to bide her time. She could only use the contents of her closet, and the fine art which she had gradually mastered, on those who were less significant. At the moment she must go warily, for if she were plotting against the Guises, she could be sure they were watching her very closely, and one false move on her part would be disastrous to her.

  She had already, she saw now, made a mistake by too prompt action. She had brought about the disgrace of her old enemy, the Constable Montmorency, insisting that the young King take from him the seals of office, and, thinking to ingratiate herself with the Guises, had suggested that they be given to them. Francis told the Constable that, in view of his years, these offices were too great a strain on him, but that he should remain a member of the Privy Council. The Constable had retorted hotly: ‘Being old and half in my dotage, my counsel can be of little use to you.’ And in great rage he had retired to the château of Chantilly. Catherine realised that she had made a dangerous enemy and that the course the ex-Constable would probably take would be to ally himself with the Bourbons.

  She could not make up her mind whether or not to make the Bourbons her friends at the expense of the Guises. She had chosen the Guises because Antoine de Bourbon had not been at court when she might have sounded him and thrown in her lot with him. She did not doubt that his prolonged absence might have been engineered by the Guises, but that did not endear him to her; she knew him for a weak and vacillating creature who could not make up his mind on such a simple thing as a journey to court. The Prince of Condé was gallant and attractive; she had always had a pleasant feeling for him; but she did not know enough of him to trust him as an ally in this dangerous game of politics which she was now about to play. Meanwhile, the Guises were at hand, and they seemed all-powerful; and through their niece, Mary of Scotland, they insisted that the young King should take their advice instead of that of his mother. And so, for the moment, Catherine had been forced to take the Guises as her allies.

  She drew aside the heavy curtains and looked out on the gardens. The young people were down there, and as she stood watching them, she drew from the observation that delight which watching others, when they thought themselves unobserved, always gave her.

  She frowned at those children of hers. There was Francis walking about the enclosed garden with his arm about his wife. Every now and then he would stop to kiss her passionately. He looked like a little old man from this distance. She laughed suddenly, reflecting that he was wearing himself out with the exertions of sport and being a husband. Well, when Francis had worn himself out there would be an end to the easy power of Messieurs the Duke and Cardinal. They would not find it so easy with young Charles. Or would they? But there should be no sly little wife to lure Charles from his mother. She would make sure that over Charles she would have complete domination.

  Now there was Charles, sidling up to Mary, trying to take her hand, looking at her in that wild, passionate way of his – his heart in his eyes. Silly Charles! He was no doubt begging that he might be allowed to play his lute to her or read some poem he had written about her. Catherine must stop this folly of her second son; by the look of young Francis, it might be that he was not long for this world, and, if he were not, Charles would have other things to think about than pursuing Francis’s widow. Francis’s widow should never become Charles’s wife.

  She must watch these children of hers, for they were very important. Now that her husband was dead, they were all-important. In them lay her future and all that she could hope for in this land of her adoption.

  Margot caught her eye. Margot was sprawling on the grass, and on one side of her was the little Prince of Joinville, son of the Duke of Guise, and on the other the Marquis of Beaupréau, the son of the Prince of Roche-sur-Yon. Margot’s wayward eyes went from the dark head of Beaupréau to the fair one of young Guise; and there they rested with a most unchildlike longing. Margot was talking; Margot was always talking, except in her mother’s presence. She jumped up suddenly and danced on the grass, lifting the skirts of her dress too high for decorum, wh
ile the two Princes tried to catch her and dance with her.

  Then into her apartment came her darling Henry, and with him was little Hercule. Hercule had lost his beauty since his attack of smallpox, for his skin was badly pitted; he would never again be known as ‘Pretty Hercule’. But Henry in contrast was growing more and more beautiful every day.

  She could not repress a fond smile at the sight of him. He had decked himself out in the most brilliant colours; but these colours, though dazzlingly bright, mingled perfectly, for her Henry was an artist. In his ears were sapphire earrings and it was these that he had come to show her. He was nine years old now, and those wonderful dark eyes of his were pure Medici. How ordinary the others seemed in comparison with Henry! They had no subtlety. Francis was foolish; Charles was hysterical; Elisabeth and Claude had been quite obedient girls; Margot, nearly eight years old now, was wild and in constant need of restraint; Hercule without his beauty was a petulant little boy, but Henry, her darling, was perfect. She thought even now as she looked at him: Oh, why was this one not my first-born!

  He had come to show her his new earrings. Were they not beautiful, and did she not think that sapphires suited him better than emeralds?

  ‘My darling,’ she said, ‘they are most becoming. But do you think little boys should wear earrings?’

  He pouted. Hercule watched him in that astonishment which was apparent on all the children’s faces when they saw the behaviour of Henry towards the mother whom the rest of them feared.

  ‘But I like earrings, Maman; and if I like earrings I shall wear earrings.’

  ‘Of course you shall, my pet; and I will tell you that if the other gentlemen do not wear them, the more fools they, for they are most becoming.’

  He embraced her. He would like a necklace of sapphires, he said, to match the earrings.

  ‘You are a vain creature,’ she told him. ‘And you have been perfuming yourself from my bottles, have you not?’

  Henry was excited. ‘This perfume of yours is the best you have ever had, Maman. This smell of musk enchants me. Could Cosmo or René make some for me?’

  Catherine said she would consider that, in a way which he took for consent. He began to dance round the room, not boisterously as Margot danced, but gracefully, and with the utmost charm. After that he wished to recite to her the latest poem he had composed; and when she heard it, it seemed to Catherine that it compared very favourably with the best of Ronsard.

  Ah, she thought, my clever son, my handsome little Italian, why were you not my first-born?

  She took him into her arms and kissed him. She told herself, as she had so many times before, that she would use all her power to advance this beloved son. She was as necessary to him as he was to her.

  But he wanted now to escape from her, to go to his own apartment and write poetry; he wanted to look at his reflection in his new Venetian mirror and admire the fine garments and the earrings he was wearing.

  She let him go, for he was petulant if detained; and when he had gone she felt a distaste for her other children, who were not like Henry.

  She did not wish to keep Hercule with her, so she sent him into the gardens to tell his sister Marguerite to come to her at once. Hercule looked startled, for when Margot was not called by her pet name which Charles had given her, it usually meant that she was in disgrace.

  ‘And,’ went on Catherine, ‘you need not return with her. You may stay in the gardens.’

  Hercule went out, and Margot lost no time in obeying her mother’s summons.

  The little girl stood before Catherine; she seemed quite different from the gay little coquette of the gardens. She curtsied, and her great dark eyes betrayed her fear; Margot was always afraid when summoned to her mother’s presence.

  She came forward to kiss her mother’s hand, but Catherine withheld the hand in displeasure.

  ‘I have been watching you,’ she said coldly, ‘and I have found your behaviour disgraceful. You roll on the grass like the lowest serving-girl, while you attempt, in your foolish way, to coquette first with Monsieur de Joinville and then with Monsieur Beaupréau.’ Catherine gave a sudden laugh which terrified Margot. Margot did not know why her mother frightened her. She did know that this was going to mean a beating, probably from her governess; but there had been many beatings, and Margot had a method of moving out of range of the rod; it was a technique of her own invention which she had taught the others. It was not the beating which frightened her; it was her mother. She was terrified of this woman’s displeasure. She had said that it was like displeasing God or the Devil. ‘I believe,’ Margot had said, ‘that she knows in her thoughts what we do; I believe that she sees us when she is miles away from us, and that she knows our thoughts. That is what frightens me.’

  ‘You are not only foolish,’ went on Margot’s mother, ‘you are wanton and wicked. I would not answer for your innocence. What a pleasant thing is this! Your father so recently dead, and you see fit to sport in the gardens with these two gentlemen.’

  Margot began to cry at the mention of her father; she remembered suddenly so clearly the big, kindly man with the silvery hair and the understanding smile; she remembered him as a man she thought of first as father, then as King. She could not think how she could have forgotten him when she was trying to make Henry jealous of silly young Beaupréau. Perhaps it was because when she was with Henry of Guise she forgot everything but that boy.

  ‘You, a Princess of France … so to forget yourself! Go and tell one of the women to find your governess and send her to me.’

  While she waited for the governess to arrive, Margot tried to tell herself that this was nothing; it would merely mean a beating; but Margot could not stop herself trembling.

  ‘Take the Princess away,’ said Catherine to the governess. ‘Give her a good beating and see that she remains in her room for the rest of the day.’

  And Margot, trembling still, went from her mother’s presence; but as soon as she was in the corridor with her governess, all her old spirit came back to her; her tears stopped suddenly and she looked slyly up at the poor woman to whom the beating of Margot was a greater ordeal than to Margot.

  And in the apartment, with the rod in her hand, the governess tried in vain to catch the small, darting figure; there were not many strokes that found their target on the lively little body. Margot’s red tongue popped out now and then in derision, and when the governess was completely exhausted, Margot danced about the apartment, studying her budding beauty, wishing Henry of Guise was there to admire her.

  Having despatched Margot, Catherine sent an attendant down to the garden to have Charles brought to her.

  He came in trepidation, as Margot had done. He was nine and seemed moderately healthy; it was only after his hysterical fits came upon him and his eyes became bloodshot and there was foam on his lips that he seemed feeble.

  ‘Come here, my son,’ said Catherine.

  ‘You sent for me, Madame.’

  ‘I have been watching you in the gardens, Charles.’

  Into his eyes there came that same haunted look which she had seen in Margot’s. He, like his sister, was terrified of the thought of his mother’s watching eyes.

  ‘What were you saying to Mary, Charles?’

  ‘I was asking if I might read some verses to her.’

  ‘Some verses … written by you to Mary?’

  He flushed. ‘Yes, Madame.’

  Catherine went on: ‘What do you think of your sister Mary? Come, tell me. And tell me the truth, Charles. You cannot hide the truth from me, my son.’

  ‘I think,’ said Charles, ‘that there never was a more beautiful Princess in the whole of the world.’

  ‘Go on. Go on.’

  ‘And I think my brother Francis is fortunate above all others because Mary is his wife.’

  Catherine took his wrist and held it firmly. ‘That is treason,’ she said quietly. ‘Francis is your King.’

  ‘Treason!’ he cried, trying to start back.
‘Oh no. It is not treason.’

  ‘You cherish unholy thoughts about his wife.’ She kept her voice low as though that of which she spoke was too shocking to be spoken aloud.

  ‘Not unholy,’ cried Charles. ‘I merely wish that I might have been my father’s eldest son, and that I might stand in Francis’s place – not for the throne, but that Mary might be my wife.’

  ‘These are wicked, wanton thoughts, my son. These are treasonable thoughts.’

  He wanted to contradict her, but her eyes were fixed on him and he found that he was speechless.

  ‘Do you know, my son, what happens to traitors? I will take you down to the dungeons one day and there I will show you what is done to traitors. They are tortured. You cannot understand torture, but perhaps, as you harbour traitorous thoughts against your brother, it would be a kindness to show you these things.’

  Charles cried out in terror: ‘No; please do not. I could not … I could not look. I cannot bear to see such things.’

  ‘But it is as well that you should know, child, for even Princes may suffer torture if they are traitors to their kings.’

  His lips were moving, and she saw the flecks of foam gathering upon them; his eyes were wide and staring, and she saw the pink veins beginning to show in the whites of them.

  ‘I will tell you what happens to traitors,’ she went on. ‘It should be part of your education. In the dark dungeons of the Conciergerie – you know the Conciergerie, my son – prisoners are kept. They scream in terror. They would faint, but they are not allowed to faint. They are brought round by means of herbs and vinegar. Some have their eyes put out; some lose their tongues or have their ears lopped off. Some suffer the water torture, others the Boot. Those who betray kings suffer more terribly than any others. Their flesh may be torn with red-hot pincers, and molten lead, pitch, wax, brimstone … such things are poured into the wounds …’

  Charles began to scream: ‘No … no! I won’t go there. I won’t be tortured. I won’t … Maman … you will not let them take me … ?’