Queen's Ransom (20 page)

We soon came across more signs of trouble: refugees from a village where Catholics had been attacked, and then the village itself, burned out, with bodies lying in the street, and three times we were stopped at roadblocks.

The first two were manned by officers of the government’s Catholic army. The officers were impressed by my letter of introduction from Queen Elizabeth and let us pass. But it was a different story at the third block, which was unofficial, made of a couple of tree trunks thrown down across a woodland track, and manned by six unshaven and extremely aggressive Huguenot mercenaries.

Although most of us were English and, therefore, should have been regarded as friends, we came near to being hanged then and there as “spies,” although it wasn’t at all clear what we were supposed to be spying on. But although the six were armed and murderous, we outnumbered them by almost two to one and when the situation began to look dangerous, our escort drew their swords and attacked.

It was fortunate that all the women were riding their own mounts, and, therefore, not encumbering any of the men. We hung back out of the way as the fight raged till Ryder suddenly emerged from the melee, caught my eye, jerked his head toward the trees and mouthed: “Now!” I saw what he meant and swiftly herded Helene, Dale, and Jeanne into the woods, past the block, and back to the track on the other side.

Presently, breathless and bloodstained, the men rejoined us. Three of the enemy were dead and the others had run for it. But we had had two casualties of our own. One was Jenkinson’s man Deacon, the one Jenkinson had said could fight like a leopard. His feline agility had not saved him this time. The other was Searle. Deacon had been killed outright. Searle was still alive, and we tried to help him, but he had been run through, and he died while Jenkinson and Ryder were trying to examine the extent of his wound.

We did not want to linger there, but we took a few moments to lay the enemy bodies out with some semblance of decency. No doubt they would have been relieved at their post before long; their own comrades would see to them. We all helped. Helene was coolheaded about it. Jeanne said to her that this was not work for a young girl, but Helene merely replied that they were only Lutherans, after all. I turned away before I said something unfitting in the presence of the dead. Our own two casualties we placed across their horses and led them on, intending to get well away and then find a secluded place where we could bury them.

Two miles farther along the road we came on another burned-out hamlet, but one in which there were a few survivors who had got away and hidden in the woods during the attack. One was the village priest. His church had been fired along with the houses—“but consecrated ground is still consecrated,” he said, when we asked him if we could use his churchyard.

He was not young, but for all his gray hairs and the white cataract over one eye, he was tough. We had found him organizing the other survivors into putting roofs back onto a couple of houses to provide shelter. We said we had been the victims of Huguenots and Helene was wearing a silver crucifix that was visible when her cloak swung open. I suppose he took it for granted that all of us were Catholic. At least, he didn’t ask, and we didn’t enlarge. The men of our party dug a single big grave in the churchyard and there Deacon and Searle were laid together.

The priest recited a burial service for them. I found it moving. I hardly knew Deacon and I hadn’t liked Searle, but they were human beings, with lives and no doubt with loves. I cried for them, and when I saw that Blanchard, too, was weeping, I felt more kindly toward my father-in-law. He had his human side, it seemed. There were tears in the eyes even of hefty Stephen Longman. Longman, who could kill a man by hugging him, was actually an amiable soul and his heavy-boned face was attractive in its way. I had gathered that he and Deacon had been friends as well as comrades.

No, a hateful journey altogether though Blanchard and I were on better terms by the end of it. But the innkeepers were suspicious of foreigners and we were often inadequately fed and tired from restless nights on thin pallets. The only good thing was that we saw no sign of Jenkinson’s pursuers. I was more thankful than I can say when we arrived in Paris at last.

If anyone had asked me, I would have said the court of Queen Elizabeth was a place of formality and protocol, and that Elizabeth was the most regal of queens.

Compared to Catherine de Médicis, queen mother of France and regent, until the young King Charles, who was still only a boy of eleven, should reach years of discretion, Elizabeth was as easy to approach as a stallholder on market day.

We began by going straight to the English ambassador, Nicholas Throckmorton. He was thin of face, with sharp blue eyes and a fair, pointed little beard, which reminded me somewhat of Cecil’s, and a tired air. We found that he knew the proper procedures and was willing to put them into operation for us, but he thought there might be some delay.

“I am a Huguenot sympathizer,” he said frankly. “I do my best but I am not popular with Queen Catherine.”

With such a person as the ambassador, I had been frank about the real nature of my message. This, too, made him doubtful. “I’m not sure how welcome an offer of mediation from Elizabeth will be. Still, you have your orders. Though you are a Lady of the Presence Chamber, you say? An unusual choice for a royal messenger, surely?”

A Lady of the Presence Chamber is nothing much in the court hierarchy, and isn’t usually chosen even to transmit conventional messages. I explained, however, that Elizabeth particularly wanted an unobtrusive messenger, and he accepted this with a nod of understanding.

“Queen Elizabeth knows the value of making contact with other rulers. She never misses an opportunity,” he said in tones halfway between respect and indulgence. “You were coming to France, and represented such an opportunity, no doubt.”

He found us lodgings in an official residence, sent word through the official channels that he wished to present us to Her Majesty Queen Catherine, and told us next day that we had been lucky. The queen was at the palace of St. Germain, to the west of Paris, and we could be received in two days’ time. However, there were things that we must know . . .

He then explained the details of the ceremony surrounding presentations such as ours. They were incredible. We were rehearsed beforehand as though learning the steps of an intricate dance. We would be greeted by such and such officials. We must speak here, be silent there, curtsy or bow to such an extent in one place, to another extent in another, and not at all somewhere else; do this, avoid that . . .

I remembered my first presentation to Elizabeth, and how I was overwhelmed by what now seemed like very simple instructions. I wondered what would happen at the French court if one made a mistake. Would the culprit be instantly conducted to the royal menagerie and thrown to the lions?

Jenkinson was still calling himself Van Weede and keeping out of the light so those who were to be presented numbered only three: myself, Helene, and Luke Blanchard. Accompanied by Throckmorton, and escorted by the ambassador’s retainers, we set off on the appointed day, traveling by hired boat down the Seine, all of us dressed in our best. My overgown had the usual hidden pocket but all I had in it was my purse. Lock picks and dagger I had of course left in my discarded traveling gown. I was going into the presence of royalty. Queen Elizabeth’s letters I now carried openly, in a little embroidered pochette.

The Seine is a winding river. It meanders so much on its westward journey from Paris to the sea that there are places where it flows directly north. St. Germain stands beside it at such a point, on a plateau on the western bank, with a little town below. To the north lies a deep forest, which occupies all of a great loop of the river.

The residence was beautiful, and interesting, too: a modernized fortress. The lower story of St. Germain, with its thick walls and small windows and the tough-looking towers at the corners, had obviously been built to withstand a medieval siege. But between the towers, from the first floor upward, was a modern palace with airy windows and handsome balconies, obviously built for times of peace and gracious living. The effect, combined with the sheer size of the place, was one of immense power and great sophistication. Used though I was to Elizabeth’s palaces, this made me nervous. My father-in-law clearly felt the same. “What a place,” he said uneasily.

The procedure went smoothly, however, though it was tedious. We were admitted, handed over to an usher, guided across a courtyard and in at another door, and then received by a new official. After that, we went through a series of marvelously decorated galleries and anterooms, changing escorts several times on the way and often having to wait for the new escort to appear. Throckmorton reminded us when to do this or say that in accordance with protocol. After an hour or so, we arrived at Queen Catherine.

She was seated regally at the far end of a long room adorned with the most remarkable tapestries I had ever seen. Their themes were mostly biblical, but they pulsed with color and some of the figures were extremely voluptuous. The room was lit by windows but also by lamps and candles and there were dozens of gilded lamp stands and wall sconces in convoluted, sensual designs. Smooth golden curves pleaded with you to brush a palm over them, fluted patterns begged to be explored with the fingertips, and everything glittered as though freshly burnished.

The room was full of people, including about forty court ladies, most elaborately dressed. The restrained good taste of Douceaix and Marguerite Blanchard was not the fashion here. I had brought a special gown for the occasion, all blue damask and silver embroidery, with a moderate farthingale and a silver-edged ruff. I had thought it fine enough and tasteful enough to turn heads anywhere. Amid the spreading farthingales and swishing trains of the Paris ladies, and their bouffant sleeves and the shoulder puffs that rose up to their ears, I felt like a maidservant. Even Helene fitted in better than I did, since she was young. For her, the maidenly white and silver chosen by Marguerite had an appropriate air.

Well, it was too late now to do anything about it. With Throckmorton, we walked along a carpeted aisle through the midst of the crowd, to make our obeisance at the foot of Catherine’s dais, and then to rise and kiss the fleshy hand that she held out to each of us in turn.

It was oddly reminiscent of my first introduction to Elizabeth and yet very different. Catherine de Médicis was utterly unlike her English counterpart, and not only because she was in her forties and was married with children, whereas Elizabeth was in her twenties and still unwed. They were women of completely different types. There was something faerie about Elizabeth but there was nothing at all magical about Catherine de Médicis.

Elizabeth needed full formal skirts in order to fill a throne up; Catherine’s skirts were bunched at the sides because Catherine herself occupied almost every inch of the wide seat. Elizabeth was pale, her features fine. Catherine was swarthy, her greasy skin dotted with huge pores, her nose and lips thick, and her eyes bulgy.

She wore purple, much adorned with gold embroidery, and here, too, there was a curious contrast with Elizabeth. For formal audiences, Elizabeth had a very ornamental wardrobe, but with her, they resembled the defenses of a citadel, and that was as it should be, for those who knew Elizabeth also knew how aware she was of her youth and delicacy, how conscious of being vulnerable.

Catherine’s splendor, on the other hand, was aggressive. It said:
I am the ruler of France. Beware.

I did beware. Catherine de Médicis had a reputation for being both subtle and unsentimental. She was known in some quarters as the serpent queen. I was here as Elizabeth’s representative, and as I looked into Catherine’s prominent eyes, I felt inadequate.

I also felt a little unwell, although the reason was actually a relief. I had woken that morning to find that this last encounter with Matthew had left no aftermath. There would be no child, or miscarriage, this time. But now I was out of sorts and there was a dragging pain in my stomach.

We had been announced, but Nicholas Throckmorton was now enlarging on the introductions. He was being obsequious. I saw that it was true that Catherine de Médicis didn’t greatly care for our Protestant ambassador. Helene was curtsying again and Catherine, glancing pointedly away from Throckmorton and looking at Helene’s silver crucifix, was saying what a pleasure it was to welcome such a lovely and obviously pious young girl to her court. The courtiers ranged on either side of her throne murmured in agreement. None of them knew Helene, I thought sourly. I wondered whose taste was reflected in the voluptuous tapestries and the opulent gold wall sconces and would have wagered that it wasn’t Catherine’s. They probably represented the influence of her husband’s famous mistress, Diane de Poitiers.

I was wearing, deliberately, Elizabeth’s ring. When it was my turn to take the royal fingertips in mine and touch my lips to them, I made sure that Catherine had a chance to see it.

“That is a fine ring, Madame,” she said. I could not tell whether she knew its significance or not. Between physical discomfort and intense nervousness, I must have looked ill at ease, for suddenly she smiled at me. “No need to be afraid. All guests are safe in our court, and we honor all messages from our dear sister of England.” Her eyes met mine steadily, and I saw suddenly she was telling me without words that she had recognized the ring. “You are bringing a message to us, are you not?” she said.

Her voice, speaking French with a strong Italian accent, was a melodious contralto, and although her teeth were in a sorry condition, her smile had unbelievable charm. I smiled back, and would have opened my pochette, except that a young courtier was instantly beside me, holding out his hand for it. “If that is a letter, you must give it first to me. I will give it to Queen Catherine when I am sure it is harmless. That is the rule.”

The voice was vaguely familiar. I looked up and found myself gazing into the odd-colored eyes and the sharp, cold face of Seigneur Gaston de Clairpont, whom I had last seen at Le Cheval d’Or in St. Marc.