by Jean Plaidy
The Queen Mother was worried. Events were moving too fast and away from her control. She had reckoned without de Chantonnay. So he had offered to exchange Sardinia for Navarre! And that fool Antoine was actually dazzled by the prospect, foolishly believing Sardinia to be all that the Spaniard represented it.
If she were not careful, the Guises would have their niece back in France and the girl would be married to Antoine, for Louise had reported that he was wavering and showing more and more tolerance for the Catholic Faith.
She paced up and down her apartments. Was ever a woman so beset by enemies on all sides? Which way could she turn? To the Guises? To the Bourbons? To the Spanish Ambassador and that shadow which haunted her life, his grim master, Philip of Spain, her own son-in-law? Only for a little while could she turn to any of these, only for a little while walk along beside them in step. She was playing her own lonely game, a secret game; they must never guess what she was planning. She had to work alone, to keep her power, to keep the throne for Henry when the time came. And she doubted not that they were all working against her.
It was she who had, in a misguided moment, suggested Mary Queen of Scots for Antoine. How could she have guessed what such a suggestion would involve? She was beginning to wonder whether after all she was still a novice in this game of politics. She had made so many mistakes.
She must learn by these mistakes. She must prevent Antoine’s marriage with Mary Queen of Scots. What a dangerous alliance that would be! The Guises would not rest until they had Mary on the throne of France, and if Antoine became a Catholic they would wish to see him there too.
She had been foolish. She had shown too much favour to the Huguenots. So now the Catholic Party planned to set Antoine on the throne, with Mary Queen of Scotland as his Queen. What of her children – her little Charles, her darling Henry? These children might die. Others had quickly learned the secrets of those poisons which she and her followers had brought with them when they came to France. Was Charles weaker than he had been? Was Henry? It was typical of Catherine that she considered everyone to be as unscrupulous as herself, and that as her thoughts flew so often to poison, she should imagine that other people’s did also.
She was not sure which way to turn. But Jeanne of Navarre must be made to come to court. That much was obvious, for if anyone could prevent the divorce of Antoine and his wife, that one must surely be his wife.
She wrote affectionately to Jeanne. How were the dear little children? Did Jeanne not think that a match between her little Catherine, Catherine the Queen Mother’s own namesake, and Catherine’s own son Henry, would be a pleasant thing? ‘How it would bind us together!’ she wrote. ‘And then there is the match between my daughter Marguerite and your son Henry, which my husband decided on. We should discuss that together and, as you know, such discussions are difficult by letter …’
Then Catherine wrote once more to say that Jeanne must come north for the Council of Poissy.
‘My dear cousin, you know I am your friend. You know that these differences of faith, which have steeped our country in blood, distress me. I have thought it would be a good plan for members of both sides to get together, to discuss, to try to come to an understanding, this time without bloodshed; for what understanding was ever reached through bloodshed?’
When she had written the letters to Jeanne she summoned the Duchess of Montpensier to her, for, knowing this lady’s Huguenot sympathies, she felt she was the one to do what was required.
‘Ah, Madame de Montpensier,’ she said. ‘I am sending letters to the Queen of Navarre, and I think that you should write to her also. It is a very bitter subject, I know, but I am of the opinion that the Queen of Navarre should be made aware of it. It is my belief that if she were here she might be able to rescue that foolish husband of hers from his follies. Mademoiselle de la Limaudière grows larger every day with the King’s bastard. I do not like such things to be seen at my court, as you know. The King of Navarre is as devoted to the woman now as ever, and I think his wife should be told. There is another thing. I think that she should know that he is attempting to barter her kingdom for a worthless island. That man is foolish enough for anything. You are the Queen’s friend. Write to her and tell her of these things.’
‘I will write and tell her of the proposed exchange, Madame.’
‘You will also mention that the King’s bastard is spoiling Mademoiselle de la Limaudière’s slender figure.’
‘Madame, I …’
‘That,’ said Catherine, ‘is a command.’
The Monastery of Poissy at which the Council was held was not far from Saint-Germain; and to this monastery during those summer weeks came the important figures from the Catholic and Protestant movements. The Council was, as Catherine realised later, doomed to failure from the start.
When people were concerned with religion, they became fanatical. They would not give way. Endlessly they discussed the different tenets. What did it matter, Catherine wondered, how the sacrament was taken? Yet endlessly they must discuss and continually they must disagree on such subjects as the Ordination, Baptism, the Laying on of Hands.
Catherine, as she looked round at these great ones assembled in the monastery refectory, was thinking: Why do they fight each other? Why do they die for these causes, these stupid quibbles?
They were all the same: the crafty Cardinal of Lorraine and the mighty Duke of Guise; Calvin, who mercifully was not present; Théodore de Bèze; Michel de l’Hôpital, that fine Huguenot Chancellor to whose wise judgement she owed a good deal; Jeanne of Navarre and Eléonore de Condé; yes, they were fanatics, every one.
And what did she expect to come from the Council which she had arranged? Nothing – precisely nothing. They would never agree, these two factions. Nor did she wish them to; she only wished to let them think she hoped they would agree. For herself, she had no religion; for her there could only be expediency. But it was good, for her, that others should possess this fanaticism, since it made them vulnerable, while those who did not have to consider a faith were free to turn this way and that, to act not for what was right for their faith, but for what was to their own material advantage.
The excitement brought about by such a Council caused tension throughout the entire country. The Huguenots believed that the Queen Mother was, after all, on their side. Catherine, worried at the thought of what disaster might threaten herself and her family if Antoine turned Catholic and allied himself with the Guises, now began to show favour to the Huguenots. She wished to be sure of their support, although she realised that a section of the Huguenot community wished to eliminate the monarchy altogether and set up a presidency in its place.
However, the Huguenots were in Paris, Saint-Germain and Poissy in full force; and it seemed that those who rallied to that cause were almost as numerous as the Catholics.
Catherine therefore pretended not to notice that prêches were openly held even in the apartments of the palace itself; and when de Chantonnay, in a rage, pointed this out to her, she replied blithely that she had seen nothing of them.
Even the children were aware of the tension.
Catherine’s darling Henry was attracted by the Huguenot Faith. It was new, and novelty always appealed to the intellectual set to which Henry belonged. Henry was quick to sense his mother’s moods and to follow them; and she listened smilingly while he talked of de Bèze and his wonderful sermons.
There were quarrels in the children’s apartments, particularly between Margot and Henry. Henry would make his sister stand in a corner while he preached to her, repeating all that he could remember of de Bèze’s sermon. But Margot would not be intimidated.
‘I am a Catholic,’ she asserted stoutly. ‘I belong to the true faith. I and my husband-to-be will always support the true faith.’
‘Your husband-to-be is a Huguenot,’ retorted Henry.
That made Margot laugh scornfully, for she was as determined never to marry Henry of Navarre as she was to remain a Catholic.
‘My future husband is a Catholic.’
‘It may be,’ teased Henry, ‘that you do not know who your future husband is to be, Mademoiselle Margot.’
‘Indeed, I do know. We have arranged it between us.’
‘What is his name? Tell me that, for I think there is some mistake here.’
‘You should know. It is the same as yours.’
‘Henry. That is correct. He spent his early days in a peasant’s cottage and he drank a peasant woman’s milk. That makes a peasant of him.’
Margot tossed her head, throwing back her long black hair. ‘You think that I would marry that oaf!’
‘I think you will, for it has been arranged that you shall.’
‘His hands are unclean. His hair is unkempt. I would not marry a peasant, brother.’
‘As that peasant happens to be the future King of Navarre, you will, my dear sister.’
‘It is another Henry whom I shall marry.’
Henry laughed aloud. ‘Henry of Guise? I tell you, you will have to look higher than that.’
‘No one is higher than Henry of Guise. He is the highest man on Earth. His father is the greatest man in France.’
‘Treason!’ cried Henry.
Margot laughed. ‘Everybody is afraid of Le Balafré.’
‘Henry of Guise is your lover, Margot, and you should both be whipped. He should be banished, and you should be married at once to the peasant with the dirty hands and undressed hair.’
Margot smiled scornfully. ‘I would never marry Henry of Navarre. I hate him. He knows I do, and he hates me. How I wish that he had not come to court with his mother for this Council!’
‘You must become a Huguenot, for you are to marry a Huguenot.’
‘I will never become a Huguenot; nor will I marry one.’
Henry snatched her prayer-book and threw it into the fire.
‘I wonder,’ said Margot, her eyes blazing as fiercely as the flames, ‘that you are not struck dead for that.’
‘Do you? I wonder you are not struck dead for clinging to the old faith. If you do not change, I will have you whipped. I will ask our mother to have it done.’
‘She would not dare to whip me, or have me whipped, for such a reason.’
‘Do you think she would not dare to do anything she thought fit?’
Margot was silent, and Henry went on: ‘I will have you killed, for if your beliefs are wrong you deserve to die.’
‘Very well,’ cried Margot. ‘Have me whipped. Have me killed. I would suffer the worst that could happen to me rather than damn my soul.’
And so the quarrels went on – in the children’s apartments, in the monastery of Poissy, and throughout the tortured realm of France.
Jeanne, the deceived wife, the Queen possessed of a husband who was plotting against her, who was planning to give her kingdom away, had arrived in Paris with her two children, Henry and little Catherine.
When she had first heard the terrible rumours concerning Antoine, she could not believe them. She knew that he was weak, but for all his faults he had loved her. Theirs was to have been the perfect, lasting union. How could he have written those letters assuring her of his faithfulness if all the time he was indulging in a love affair with this Mademoiselle de la Limaudière, La Belle Rouet as they called her? Jeanne would not believe it. He had written only a short time ago to tell her that other women ceased to attract him. Surely he could not be so deceitful.
She was filled with horror at the idea that he could intrigue with Spain. This she would consider even more false than his conjugal infidelities, for with the woman he deceived only her, but with Spain he deceived not only her, but her children, since he was ready to throw away their heritage for his own aggrandisement.
She was bewildered, not knowing to whom to turn for advice and for the truth.
The Queen Mother had offered her apartments in the Louvre that she might be near her dear friend, and that she might often see those little ones whom she thought of as her own, for, said Catherine, she looked upon the bride-to-be of her son and the bridegroom-to-be of her daughter as her own children. But Jeanne had never trusted Catherine, and she preferred to take up her residence in the Palais de Condé.
Here fresh revelations awaited her. Eléonore, who had come to court for the Council of Poissy, received her sister-in-law.
They embraced, and as she looked into Eléonore’s face Jeanne realised that she also had her troubles. The forthright Jeanne plunged straight into the subject which was uppermost in her mind.
‘Eléonore, you can tell me if this is true: I have heard terrible stories. They say that Antoine is in love with a woman of the court.’
‘Oh, my dearest sister, alas, it is true.’
Jeanne’s eyes blazed. ‘I shall never forgive him for this. I hate philanderers! Is there not enough for us to do … our work … our cause …? And yet he deceives me. He brings our cause into disrepute at the same time. Oh, Eléonore …’
Jeanne covered her face with her hands; she was afraid she was going to weep. She hated to show weakness, but she was so wretchedly unhappy.
Eléonore put an arm about her.
‘Dearest Jeanne, I understand your troubles. It is better that you should hear all this from one who loves you and suffers with you. Antoine, you know, has become the lover of that court woman. Jeanne, my dearest, you must prepare yourself for a great shock. Antoine’s son was born a few weeks ago.’
Jeanne broke away from Eléonore’s embrace.
‘I hate him!’ she cried. ‘I did not know it had gone as far as this. He shall suffer for it. Oh God, to think this could happen to us! We were so happy, Eléonore. I knew that he liked gaiety … fun … pleasure … flattery, but I did not think this could ever happen to us. Oh, Eléonore, I am so miserable, so wretched.’
‘I sympathise, my dear,’ soothed Eléonore. ‘I too am unhappy at this time. You see, Jeanne, I suffer your humiliation – not only yours, but that of my own.’
Jeanne stared at her sister-in-law. ‘You mean that Louis also …?’
‘Louis too,’ said the Princess of Condé. ‘Mademoiselle de Limeuil is his mistress.’
Jeanne took Eléonore’s hands and pressed them against her breast. ‘And I so wrapped up in my own troubles that I do not think of yours, which are as great! Oh, Eléonore, if I could but be calm as you are!’
‘My dearest Jeanne, these husbands of ours are weak men, but we love them. We must forgive them.’
‘I shall never forgive Antoine.’
‘But you will see when you grow calmer that you must. There are your children to be thought of. We must overlook these lapses. There are more important things to be done than waste our energies on domestic quarrels.’
‘But I thought you and Louis were so happy. It always seemed so. As for myself and Antoine – oh, you sit there smiling calmly! You may forgive them; I never will!’
‘But you must. Our enemies have brought this about. They have laid the bait and our husbands have fallen into the traps. We must fight for them … with them.’
‘You may. I never will. I hate Antoine. Not only for his infidelity, but for his lies … his hypocrisy.’
‘Oh, Jeanne, my dearest sister, how well I understand, but …’
‘There are no buts.’ Jeanne laughed suddenly, but there were tears in her eyes. ‘You and I are different, Eléonore. You are a saint and I am … a woman.’
In the Palais de Condé Antoine faced the fury of his wife.
‘So, Monsieur, you have a son. I congratulate you. And what a charming mother! Chief harlot of the court, so I hear. What do you plan for this bastard of yours? The throne of Navarre, or the throne of Sardinia? I gather you have not yet made up your mind what to do with my kingdom.’
Antoine tried soothing her. ‘Now, Jeanne, my dearest wife, pray listen to me. Louise de la Limaudière? That is nothing. A lapse, I admit, but that is all. You are my wife, my dearest wife. It is our lives that are important. Y
ou have lived too much away from the court of France. Your little courts of Pau and Nérac … well, my dear, they are not the court of France.’
‘Evidently not, since in them we are old-fashioned and ungallant enough to respect our marriage vows.’
‘Why, Jeanne, I care for no one but you. Do you not see that?’
‘So then, it is your custom to give sons to women for whom you do not care?’
‘It was a lapse – a pardonable lapse. Any but you would sec that. I was away from you. I am a man.’
‘You are a fool! A conceited popinjay, as easily fooled by a harlot as by a Spanish Ambassador.’
‘Jeanne …
‘Sardinia!’ she cried. ‘That was a lapse, I suppose. A pardonable lapse!’
She looked at him, and it seemed to her that she looked at a stranger. There he stood, a man of forty-five – not a young man any more – old enough to have some sense, to know when and why people flattered him. His beard was getting grey, but his hair was frizzed and curled; his clothes were more extreme than those of anyone else at court. The sleeves of his coat were puffed with gorgeous satin, and his plumed hat was set with gems. He was conceited in the extreme. He was a fool, an arrogant fool, a deceitful husband; and she loved him.
She stifled the impulse to run to him, to remind him of the happiness they had enjoyed together, the joys of the simple life they had led in the despised courts at Nérac and Pau. Oh God! she thought. Then we were happy. I could have made him happy for ever if I had kept him with me, if they had not made him Lieutenant-General at the court of France, if he had never been important to these unscrupulous seekers after power. But how could this beautiful, elegant creature, who thought more of the line of his coat and the set of his hat than of high politics, how could he resist their flattery, which they would give him as long as they could use him?