Madame Serpent (37 page)

Catherine used her lids as hoods to hide her glittering eyes; she feared they might betray her hatred of this woman.

‘I doubt not, Madame,’ she could not prevent herself saying, ‘that you know the desires of the King’s mind as well as you know those of his body.’

How foolish that was, she realized at once.
But I am the Queen
, she thought weakly. Let her remember that.

Diane turned a shade paler, but gave no other sign of her anger.

She said calmly: ‘As Your Gracious Majesty knows, it has it has been my

constant care to devote myself to the King, yourself, and your children. That is why we are such excellent friends.’

That was like a queen talking to her woman. And yet, what could Catherine do? She must remember that every smile she received from her husband came by way of this woman; and now she believed herself to be once more with child, and this she owed to Diane. Her comparatively strong position at court had been given to her by Diane. However provoked, she must not forget that.

She lifted her eyes to Diane’s face. ‘Madame, as usual you are right. The woman’s mistake was to talk too much. I will see that she leaves the court immediately.’

‘That will be well,’ smiled Diane. ‘We must see that she lacks nothing, for we must not forget whose child it is she carries. Her indiscretion, though, makes her immediate banishment necessary.’

The interview was over. The little plot had failed. There might never have been a cleverly devised masque, a passionate Andromeda in pursuit of Perseus.

Henry was reassured that his mistress understood and forgave his brief

lapse. She was even glad that he had found a temporary solace. Their love was not to be considered as merely on a physical plane. Did they not both know this?

Henry enchanted by this explanation of his folly; he seemed more devoted, more in love with Diane than ever.

But Diane was not so forgiving to others as she was to her royal lover. The walk together of the Queen and the Constable in the gardens had not gone

unnoticed by Diane’s spies; and out of that walk had grown the masque; and was it not at the masque that Henry had been given as partner the Scots

governess? Diane felt she knew how to deal with the Queen; she knew equally well how to deal with the Constable.

To show how lightly she regarded this affair of the King’s, she deliberately reminded the court of that other lapse of his by bringing into the royal nursery Henry’s daughter by the Piedmont girl. She was a beautiful child, this daughter of Henry’s, and more like her father than any of Catherine’s children. Now fourteen, she was sweet-natured and charming. She was called Diane of France and was an example of what a girl could be when her education was supervised by the Duchess of Valentinois.

It was useless, Catherine realized, to fight for the King against such a one.

And there began again, when they were at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, the

misery of watching the King and his through the spy-hole in the floor.

———————

In September of the following year a significant event took place. This was the birth of another boy to Catherine. There was nothing very special, one might have thought, in the birth of another child; Catherine had had six already, and five were left to her. This was a boy, it was true― but she had two boys already.

Yet, there was something about this child which moved her deeply. Was it a likeness to his father? For one thing, he was a bigger, healthier baby than Francis, Charles, and dead Louis had been. Catherine knew, with that curious prevision of hers that this child was going to mean more to her than any of the others.

He was christened with pomp and ceremony such as had attended the

christening of other members of the royal family. His names were Edward

Alexander; but right from the first she called him Henry and he became known by that name.

‘It is because he reminds me so of his father!’ she said.

She tended to him more than she had any of the others and he did much to

soothe her. There was less watching through the floor, less spying generally, less mingling with the crowds in the city, than there had ever been before.

Young Henry compensated her in some measure for the pain the older Henry

caused her. She adored the child. It was to her he turned; he had cried when Diane took him into her arms. He did not stare wonderingly up into the King’s face, but he clung to his mother.

At last there was a second love in her life, this child who comforted instead of tormented, and who gave something in return for what he took, love for love.

TWENTY-THREE YEARS of marriage― and her love for her husband had not

abated. She was young yet― only thirty-seven― but she was beginning to grow fat; she had produced ten children in the last thirteen years; and she was still so passionately in love with Henry as she had been when a young girl.

Catherine knew― with that unerring instinct of hers― that there would be

no more children. This year she had given birth to twins― little Jeanne, who had died a few hours after her birth, and Victoire, who had lived a few months before she followed her twin. But between the births of the twins and the beloved Henry had been born to Catherine two other children. One was Margot, now three years old and as enchanting a child as young Mary Stuart; the other was Hercule, born less than a year after Margot. Catherine could rest from childbearing now. She had lost three children, but she had a goodly brood of seven, and four of them were boys.

She felt that she could congratulate herself on her children, though Francis, the Dauphin, caused both Henry and herself a good deal of anxiety. He had had a bad attack of smallpox, and on finally recovering was even more delicate than he had been before. Short in stature and not always very bright at his lessons, he was completely under the influence of the scheming little Scots Queen. He was thirteen, but looked no more than eleven; she was only fourteen, but she

appeared to be quite seventeen. Young Charles, who was six, adored her, jealous because she was to marry his brother; Charles had turned out to be quite a little musician; he liked to play his lute to Mary, and to read verses to her. She was willing to listen, the little coquette, always ready for adulation; and Heaven knew there plenty of that for Mary Stuart at the court of a France. The child’s airs and graces might have been intolerable but for her charm. They often
were
intolerable to Catherine― who was indifferent to charm, except in her two Henrys― but she bore with the girl, for she had decided that one day Mary Stuart should answer for her sins.

Catherine loved her daughters, Elizabeth and Claude, though mildly, for

they were pretty, charming girls. Young Margot, even at three, showed signs of becoming a stronger personality. Lovely to look at, and imperious already, she had easily won the hearts of Diane and her father; she was bolder with her mother than any of the others― except Henry― dared be. Catherine admired

her young daughter, but her great love was already given to young Henry.

He was five now, her beloved child― a Medici in every respect. He was

entirely hers. She had one great regret regard and that was that he was her third son, and not her first; she would have given much to have made him Dauphin of France. He was delightful; his beautifully shaped hands were
her
hands; his features were Italian; his eyes were the flashing Medici eyes. He was not, like his brothers, fond of the chase, though he rode well; Catherine had seen to that.

An ardent horsewoman herself, she insisted that all her children should learn how to manage a horse. It was not lack of courage that made him less eager for the chase and outdoor games. He preferred to shine intellectually rather than by physical prowess. His manners were gracious and charming.

Everyone noticed how she loved this child, for, as it had been with her

husband, where her love was concerned she threw caution away.

‘The. Queen loves the little Henry as she loves her right eye!’ it was said.

And it was true. When she embraced him, when she listened to his rather

lisping, delightful way of speech, when he showed off in his fine new jacket―

for he loved his clothes and was more interested in them than were any of the girls in theirs― when he brought his lap dogs for her to caress, she would think to herself: ‘Oh, my beloved son, you are all Medici. Would I could put you on the throne of France.’ h

When she thought of the future, she would see him, in her mind’s eye,

mounting the throne. Is it truth I see? she would ask herself; and be unable to discover whether what she had seen was a vision of the future or a picture conjured up from her own powerful desires.

‘If only he might be King!’ she would sigh; and then: ‘He
shall
be King!’

Her longing to see into the future increased, and when she heard reports of a certain prophet, she had him brought to court that she might question him.

This was a black-bearded Jew from Provence, a certain Michel de

Nostredame, but he had Latinized his name as did other scholars, and he was known as Nostradamus. He had been a doctor before he discovered his powers, and had studied at Montpellier at the same time as that quick-wit Francis Rabelais.

Catherine told him that she wished him to foretell the future of her children, and for this purpose she had him brought to the royal nurseries; and as the court was at Blois at the time, he lived there in the household of the royal children.

Many were the conversations she had with him. She grew to admire him for his knowledge and to respect him for goodness. He was a clever talker; she enjoyed his company.

He quickly realized that although she had engaged him to foretell the future of her children, it was the future of Henry in which she was most interested. He pointed this out to her and she agreed.

‘Leave the others and get to work on Henry’s future,’ she said.

He did this, and after some weeks he had news for her.

He pledged her to secrecy, for what he had to say he felt to be of great

importance. He was a man who hated violence; as a doctor he had faced death many a time in poor towns where he had worked among plague-stricken victims, wrapped in a tarred cloak and wearing a mask to protect him from infection; he was ready to face danger to save life; he loathed having any part in that which might take life.

Catherine met him in his apartment where he did his work.

‘It is of your son Henry I would wish to speak, if it pleases your Majesty.’

Catherine said nothing could please her more.

‘I beg of you, Madame, keep this matter to yourself. I have future. Your son Henry will one day wear the crown.

She was overcome with joy, and promised that she would tell no one what

she had heard. But when she was alone she began to think of the lives between.

Henry― beloved husband, whom she adored― was one, and the thought of his

being supplanted, even by young Henry, was agony to her. This love for her son was great, but it could not be compared with her love for her husband. Young Henry was but compensation for the loss of greater joys. But, she assured herself, the King is young yet; he is strong and healthy― far more so than any of his children many years before him.

It is not of the King I must think. It is of the future of my darling Henry.

Yet there was Francis to come before Charles and Charles before Henry.

What of them? They were young, only a few years older their brother. And

yet― Nostradamus had said that Henry should wear the crown.

She was obsessed with a desire to see into the future. She set the brothers Ruggieri working; they must find out if Nostradamus had really glimpsed the future or was merely telling her what he must guess she wished to hear. The brothers worked eagerly, delighted to find the Queen’s thoughts diverted from her husband’s mistress to the future of her favourite son.

They were able to tell her that they also believed young Henry would wear the crown of France.

Then, often her eyes would grow bright as they fell upon the pock-marked

face of Francis; and eagerly she would watch Charles toying with his food. Both these boys ate sparingly and were quickly out of breath.

———————

Catherine watched the children at their studies. They were growing up fast.

In the last year or so young Francis, as Dauphin, had had his own establishment; very soon now he would do what he wished to do more than anything else in the world: marry Mary Stuart.

How sick he looked. He could not last long. And yet― Nostradamus had

hinted that he would wear the crown; and the brothers had supported

Nostradamus. Perhaps he was not so sickly as he looked. He was not attending now; he was in that state of excitement which Mary always aroused in him. He was longing for his marriage; Mary was nothing loth, sickly as he was. She loved his adoration; it was so complete.

They were all in awe of Catherine― even Mary. She had but to turn her

brilliant eyes upon them and they would obey her.

She said sharply now as Mary was turning to whisper to Francis: ‘Now,

Mary, you will translate for me.’

Mary translated the Latin prose in her quick and clever way. The child was so alert, so brilliant that it was not easy to find fault with her. Francis and Charles watched her with great admiration.

Need they both adore her so blatantly, wondered Catherine. Was that how it would be all through her life? Catherine believed so. The child herself believed it. Flushed and excited, she quickly reached the end of the passage Catherine had set her to translate.

‘Bravo!’ cried Francis.

‘Silent, my son,’ said Catherine sharply. ‘There was a mistake.’

‘But no!’ cried Mary indignantly.

‘But yes!’ said Catherine, and she pointed it out.

Mary was angry; and Francis and Charles were angry with their mother.

Even Elizabeth and Claude were on Mary’s side, although more in awe of their mother than were the boys, so they did not show it.

‘You did well, Mary,’ said Catherine, ‘but not quite so well as you thought.

If you had gone more slowly, taken more care, you would have done better. It is well to remember that too much pride often brings disaster.’

The girl flushed and went through the passage again. This time she was

word perfect. There was no denying that she was a clever little thing.

‘Thank you. You elder ones may go now. I will hear Henry and Margot.’

But while she taught the younger children, she was aware of the older ones in a corner whispering together. Francis hung on Mary’s words, kept hold of her hand; all his yearning for her was in his eyes. And Charles was hating his elder brother, because he would have the honour of marrying Mary, and had Charles been born first, that honour would have been his.

Poor little Princess! thought Catherine. They were born to envy, to fear, and to hate. As for Mary Stuart, she was born to make trouble for those about her―

and mayhap for herself, for the child would have to learn that she was not quite so important to others as she was to herself.

Before Catherine now were her two best-loved children, for although she

sometimes thought that young Henry, with the older Henry, had all the affection she had to give, she could not help but be fond of this bright and beautiful little daughter of hers. It was such a pleasure to listen to her three-year-old

impudence, to contemplate her beauty and to remind herself that this little Margot was her daughter.

But her attention strayed again and again to the older children, and while she took Henry on to her lap and put her arm about Margot, and appeared to pay attention to them, she was really listening to the group at the window.

Mary was on the window-seat, while Francis sat on a stool, holding her

hand, which she allowed to lie limply in his while he gazed up at her. Charles was stretched out on the floor also looking up at her with rapt attention; while Claude and Elizabeth sat on stools close by.

Mary talking of religion, and Catherine frowned, for she considered the

subject unsuitable.

During the last years the blood of many had stained the land of France.

Henry had sworn, after the tailor’s death, that he would never witness another burning, but that had not prevented many from being thrown to the flames. The
Chambre Ardente
had been busy during those years; heretics filled the damp and mouldy Conciergerie and the cruel Bastille; their groans had echoed through the hideous
Salle de la Question
: thousands had been left to fight the rats and die of starvation in the oubliettes of the Great and Little Chatelot. Many had met horrible deaths by the wheel and wild horses; some had their flesh torn with pincers and molten lead poured into their wounds; some were hung to roast over slow fires. The tongues of these victims were cut out so that the spectators could not be moved by their hymns and prayers. And all of this been done at the King’s command in the name of Holy Church.

And now little Catholic Mary― primed by uncles, the de Guises― talked to

the Princes and the Princess of these things.

Catherine called them to her and they came defiantly. ‘It is not meet to speak of such things,’ she said severely.

‘Is it not meet to speak of what is, then?’ asked Mary.

‘I would have you know that it is not good manners to speak of what is not pleasant.’

‘Madame,’ said Mary slyly, ‘do you think it is not a good thing to rid our country of heretics?’

‘I said that it was not a subject for the lips of children. That is all that concerns you. Go, and remember I forbid you to speak of such matters.’

So they went, and Mary Stuart, as impudent as she dared be, began to talk flippantly of the newest dance, in tones of contempt which she meant the Queen to hear. It was irritating and worse still that the two boys and two girls should admire her for it.

Catherine had an impulse to take the insolent girl, throw her across a stool and whip the insolence out of her, and to do it before the others that they might witness her humiliation. Should she? No! It was not dignified for the reigning Queen of France to whip her successor.

———————

It was the hour which Catherine enjoyed more than any― that in which she

held her
cercle
. During this, it seemed to her as though she were the Queen in truth.

It was graciously allowed her by the King and Diane― a reward for a meek

and complaisant wife. She let it be known that she had instituted the
cercle
that she might receive men and women of the court and so become better acquainted with them; the talk must be of an enlivening and cultural nature and it was considered an honour to attend and a slight to be shut out of the Queen’s
cercle
.