by Jean Plaidy
He declared that she was no true Catholic. On the one hand she had conspired with them so that Antoine de Bourbon might be turned from the Reformed Faith; on the other hand she was at the same time plotting with Condé, and it was she who had encouraged the Huguenots to such an extent that they had resorted to war.
The Huguenots on their part declared that she had cheated them, that she was a deceitful and cunning woman; and that all the time she was speaking sweet words to them she was plotting against them with the Catholic King of Spain.
In vain did Catherine try to justify herself in the eyes of the Duke and the Cardinal, Antoine and the Spanish Ambassador. Those letters to Condé were not what they would seem, she assured them; they had been written in code. Oh, she admitted that they appeared to contain promises of help, but they were meant to convey something quite different. She became a little coy in her explanations. She had to admit that she cherished a fondness for the gallant little Prince of Condé.
The cold eyes of the Duke were murderous; the thin lips of the Cardinal curled; the Spanish Ambassador did not mince his words and was quite abusive, which alarmed her greatly, for this showed that he no longer considered her of any great importance.
Rumour was now circulating about her and Condé. People said that she was madly in love with him, and that she longed to marry him and make him the King of France at the expense of her children.
Catherine wondered at herself. She had been very reckless in her behaviour to this man, and that was unusual in her. But now that she saw herself and her children in great danger, she had no wish but to see Condé destroyed, with the Guises, Antoine and the rest. What a weak fool she had been to have felt the attractions of the gallant Prince in the first place! What was the excitement of love compared with that which came through wrestling for power?
She waited in terror for some dreadful fate to overtake her. The man who frightened her more than any other was the Duke of Guise. He could not be allowed to live. When Francis had been on the throne he had been the most important man in France, and he was rapidly regaining that position. But how difficult it would be to accomplish his death! It must be done, but not by poison. People would point to her at once if the Duke died of poison; they would whisper about the Italian woman and her poison closet. He must die, though. He was her bitterest enemy, and he now realised that he was not dealing with a weak woman, but a cunning one, whose sly twists and turns were unpredictable.
Meanwhile, the civil war was raging and Condé was triumphant. Orléans, Blois, Tours, Lyons, Valence, Rouen, and many other towns were in his possession. The Kingdom was split in two. The Catholics, in increasing alarm, sent appeals to the King of Spain.
What security was there for Catherine and her children? Neither Huguenot nor Catholic trusted her. She was hated now throughout the country as she had been at the time of the death of Dauphin Francis. She had been unfortunate, she assured herself. She did not realise that she had been cunning rather than clever, that she had misjudged those about her because she judged them by herself.
All over the country the Huguenots were gaining power. They marched on, singing their favourite song, which poked fun at Antoine de Bourbon, who had so recently been one of their leaders:
‘Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette …’
They despised Antoine, the turn-coat; they distrusted the Queen Mother. But while they mocked the one, they hated the other.
Outside the city of Rouen, Antoine of Navarre lay sick. He had been severely wounded in the battle for the city. For several weeks the Huguenots had held Rouen against the Catholic army which Antoine led. Even now while he lay on his bed in camp, he could hear the sound of singing inside the city’s walls:
‘Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette …’
They despised him; even though they knew he was outside their walls with a mighty army, they made fun of him. Antoine de Bourbon, L’Échangeur, the little quail who changed his coat to suit himself.
Antoine felt low in spirit. The pain from his wounds was intense; he lay tossing and turning. His surgeons were with him, one on either side of the bed, and he realised with a sudden flash of humour that it was characteristic of L’Échangeur that one of these was a Jesuit, the other a Huguenot.
Was this death? he wondered. Memories of the past would keep recurring. At times he wandered a little. Sometimes he thought the warm winds of Béarn blew upon him and that Jeanne was there, as she had been in the first days of their marriage, discussing with him some domestic detail.
There was a woman in the camp with him, a woman who had followed him and who was nursing him devotedly. She was at his side now, holding wine to his lips. He could smell the perfume she used; he was aware of her soft, yielding body under her rich brocade dress – La Belle Rouet. He took her hand and kissed it. She had really loved him after all; it was not because he was a King that she had borne his child. Why had Jeanne not come to see him when he was wounded? It was her duty to have come.
The sweat stood out on his face – the sweat of anger against Jeanne; tears filled his eyes because he had failed, had been unable to live up to the high ideal she had set before him.
The last time he had seen his wife was when at Saint-Germain she had come to see their boy. He had been on the point then – though she did not know it – of throwing away all that was promised him by the Spanish King, of giving up his place in the Triumvirate. Yes, he assured himself weakly, he had all but fled with Jeanne to Béarn. But then he had changed his mind – which was what must be expected of L’Échangeur; he had given orders that she should be detained in Vendôme.
She had defied him, he reminded himself. She had gone back to Béarn and had set about bolstering up the Reformed Faith there. She had sent help to Condé’s troops. Ah, his brother! What did his brother think of him now? Dearest Louis – they had been close. But religion, as so often happened, had broken the bonds of brotherhood, and they were fighting against each other now.
That was a mean revenge he had taken on Jeanne when little Henry had lain at the point of death at Saint-Germain. Louise had been taking care of the boy at that time. The little fellow had a very bad attack of the smallpox and when Jeanne had heard the news she had been frantic in her anxiety. She had begged Antoine and the Queen Mother to let her have her son with her. But Catherine had refused. She had said: ‘It is the only hold we have over the boy’s mother.’ But Catherine had allowed the child to be sent to the Duchess of Ferrara to be cared for, and that was all the satisfaction Jeanne received. Yet, had he insisted, he could have come to some terms with the Queen Mother; he could have arranged for the boy to be sent to his mother. There had been occasions when he had meant to, but when the Queen Mother had stated her wishes it had been easier to fall in with them.
Tears stung his eyes. He was depressed; he was in pain. His physicians told him that he was not mortally wounded. He would see the entry into Rouen.
‘Louise!’ he called; and she came to his side at once. ‘Let us have gaiety, music, dancing – or I shall go mad.’
She was glad to see the change in his mood. She called in the gayest of the men and women who had followed his army – his court friends. Louise lay on his bed beside him and put her arms about him. There was music and dancing and the latest court scandals were retold. He felt wretchedly ill, but with such distraction he could deceive himself into thinking that he was as much alive as any.
His physicians reasoned with him:
‘Monseigneur, you need rest. The wounds must be allowed to heal.’
‘Rest!’ he cried. ‘I don’t want rest. Rest makes me think, and I do not want to think. I want to hear laughter and wit. I want to see my friends dance. I want to hear their songs. Be silent, or I’ll have your tongues cut out. Let me live my life as I want to.’
So the distractions continued. He kept La Belle Rouet with him. ‘Why not?’ he cried. ‘My wife does not come to see me. A man must live. A man must love.’
‘Nay, Monseigneur,’ beg
ged his doctors. ‘Your state does not permit you.’
‘To the devil with you!’ cried Antoine. ‘I’ll find my own diversions.’
His army took Rouen. He declared his intention to be carried into the city on a litter, and he wanted Louise carried with him. He wanted to see the fun; he wanted to ask the Huguenots if they would sing Caillette now!
He was laid on his litter, but he did not see the inside of the town, for he fell into a deep fainting fit before he reached its walls.
When he recovered he found that he was back in camp.
Lauro bent his head down to him. ‘Monseigneur, your Majesty must prepare to meet your God.’
‘Is it so, then?’ said Antoine; and he began to tremble as the memory of his weakness came back to him. He wished the tent to be cleared of all but the doctors, the prelate and his mistress.
He opened his eyes and looked in bewilderment from one face to another. ‘I … I …’ He found it difficult to speak. ‘I … I am a Catholic by profession, but, now that my end is near …’
It seemed to him that Jeanne’s steadfast brown eyes were watching him, that she was smiling at him now. It was not my fault, Jeanne, he thought. I loved you. In the beginning, I did. If we had been humble people … if we could have lived there in Béarn … farming our land together, planting our mulberries, watching them grow, we should have been happy. I should have been the gay one; you the sober wife. You would have kept me beside you. But you were a Queen and you made me a King. The position was too tempting for me. I became greedy for more power. I did not know what I wanted. One moment I was sure, the next I was unsure.
At length he spoke: ‘Now that my end is near, my heart returns to the Protestant Faith.’
‘Repent,’ he was urged. ‘Think of your sins, Monseigneur. Repent that you may enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.’
He looked at the man who had spoken, and recognised him. ‘Ah, Raphael,’ he said slowly. ‘You have served me for twenty years, and this is the only time that you have ever warned me of my miserable mistakes.’
Then he began to think of his sins, to enumerate them, and to ask God for forgiveness.
‘Oh, Lord,’ he prayed, ‘if I recover, I will send forth Lutheran missionaries to preach the gospel throughout France.’
He heard someone whisper: ‘It is too late to talk thus.’
Ah yes. He understood. It was too late.
‘Jeanne,’ he moaned, ‘why did you not come? You should have made the journey that you might be with me.’
He did not die at once. His brother, the Cardinal of Bourbon, came to him, and Antoine begged him to ask forgiveness for him of that other brother, Louis, the Prince of Condé, whom he had loved so dearly before religion had come between them.
‘I will die a Huguenot!’ cried Antoine, thinking of Louis and of Jeanne. ‘It matters not whether people believe me to be sincere. I am resolved to die in accordance with the Confession of Luther.’
It was decided that he must be moved to more comfortable quarters, and one misty November day he was taken on to a boat and rowed down the Seine towards Saint-Maur. This was not wise, for the rocking of the boat was very painful to him, and when they carried him ashore he knew that his last moments had come.
The Guises had sent a monk to pray for him and, too weak to resist, Antoine listened to his prayers; and when they were over he murmured: ‘Amen.’
Because of this the Guises said he died a Catholic, and if he had declared himself a Huguenot when he was dying, well, that was only to be expected of L’Échangeur.
In her stronghold of Béarn, Jeanne received the news.
She stared stonily before her. It is nothing to me, she assured herself. I had finished with him. I hated him … at our last meeting, if not before. When he refused to let me have my son, I knew I could never feel any tenderness towards him again.
Nevertheless, it was not Antoine the turn-coat, the unfaithful husband, the cruel father, of whom she must think, but Antoine the gay Prince at the christening of King Francis, Antoine the lover in a silver galleon triumphantly seizing his love. It was Antoine, lover and husband, whom she must remember.
And the tears rolled down the cheeks of the widow of the King of Navarre.
Catherine was in residence at her favourite Castle of Blois. Life was a little more secure than it had been a few months ago. The towns which had been taken by the Huguenots were being slowly won back; she herself was no longer a prisoner of the Guises; for she had been their prisoner; she knew it and they knew it, although they had tried so hard to disguise this fact.
Now she had lulled them to a certain feeling of security, and she must keep them thus. She must act with greater caution. She had learned an important lesson, and as she had been learning through bitter lessons all her life, she was not likely to forget this one.
She was glad that Francis of Guise was busily engaged in warfare. She was happier with that man out of the way. At the moment he was fighting for Orléans. Who knew what would happen to him! France’s greatest soldier, yes; but Catherine’s greatest enemy.
Catherine’s thoughts turned from the Duke of Guise to her son Charles, the King,
Charles was growing up. He was only thirteen, it was true, but thirteen was a considerable age for a Valois King. They would have to marry him soon. Catherine smiled grimly. The boy still thought he was going to have Mary of Scotland. But perhaps his memories of her were growing dim by now. He was changing. One expected him to change. He could not remain static. He had to grow up. He was a strange boy, with many sides to his personality. There was a streak – more than a streak – of madness in him and it was widening as the years passed, the unbalanced fits were growing more frequent.
Yet he was clever. He could, at times, be eloquent, but he was too easily moved. She had seen his face work with emotion during a sermon or the reading of a poem which he thought particularly beautiful; she had seen his mouth twitch – though not with madness – and tears stream from his eyes. He himself wrote poetry, and he was modest enough to declare it to be worthless. Ronsard was one of his constant companions. He struck up friendships with his musicians – humble folk like that boy servant of the Duke of Bavaria, just a musician who had a gift for playing the lute; and the King of France would take him for his boon companion. Nor would the King be denied his pleasures; his brow would darken and he would frown, even at his mother, if called from his music and his poetry-reading. He would sit till long past midnight with the writers and musicians, and at such times he would be very happy. Then there would be no madness, only an aloof enchantment. Catherine would look in on him and his friends and find them all together, talking in low, earnest voices while the candles burned low; and he would turn to look at the intruder without seeing her, even though she was his mother, of whom, on all other occasions, he was deeply aware.
His tutors could do nothing with him at such times.
And then that mood would pass and he would be touched with black melancholy. Sometimes he would stay in his bed all day, and this was a sure sign that the madness was on him. Perhaps at midnight, he would be seized with a wild mood of hilarity, and he would awaken his friends – a different set of friends from the poets – and insist that they follow him; he would make them put on masks and carry lighted torches. It was alarming to see him at such times, his eyes glinting through his mask, his mouth working, the madness on him, the lust for violence. He and his friends would creep out of the palace and go to the apartments of one of their friends, whom they would thrash into unconsciousness. This was hardly a suitable pastime for the thirteen-year-old King of France, thought Catherine.
If there was not a flagellating party, he would hunt with such recklessness that none could keep up with him; he would thrash his horses and dogs with the energy which he used on his friends. A more harmless madness was that of imitating a blacksmith and hammering iron until he was exhausted.
Then he would return to normal; he would be gentle, loving, pliable; and it wo
uld invariably seem that when he had recovered he would have little remembrance of those terrifying bouts.
What should one do with such a son? Catherine did not have to wonder. She knew. She did not wish Charles to remain on the throne when Henry was ready to take it. Therefore she could look complacently on these fits of madness. Soon the periods of gentleness would grow less; and later they would disappear altogether. And then what would Charles the Ninth of France become? A maniac! Maniacs must be put away; they could not be allowed to breed sons. So much the better, since there was another waiting to take the throne of France.
Charles showed few signs of sexual perversion, in spite of his tutors. He was not voluptuous, nor inclined to amorousness. He was not like Margot – that minx who must be very closely watched – or young Henry of Guise, or that rough little Henry of Navarre. Those three would be lusty and lustful before long. No! He was not as they were; nor was he as his brother Henry. His passion for Mary of Scotland showed a lamentable normality in such matters; and it seemed that even expert tuition in perversion could not achieve the desired result.
Never mind! Charles was growing more and more unbalanced, and each fit of insanity left him weaker, not only in mind but in body.
Her thoughts of the King were broken up by the arrival of a messenger. She saw him ride into the courtyard, for the clatter of hoofs had brought her quickly to the window.
Something was afoot. Guise had taken Orléans. That must be the case, for those were the Guise colours down there. Well, she would feign great rejoicing, for it was very necessary that the Catholics should believe her to be of their faith. She must win back their respect, their belief in her as a good Catholic.