The Italian Woman

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘Have you forgotten, Madame, the conversation you had with the Duke of Alva at Bayonne?’

  ‘Not a word of that, I beg of you. Such a plan would be useless if bruited abroad.’

  ‘It must be carried out, and it must be soon. Kill the leaders … every one. Coligny must die. The Queen of Navarre must die. They cannot be allowed to live. Madame, I hear you have means at your disposal. You have a known reputation in this art of removal. And yet the most dangerous man and woman in your kingdom – the most dangerous to yourself and your throne – are allowed to live and to build up an army to fight against you.’

  ‘But, my lord, Coligny is not here. He is in camp. The Queen of Navarre would not come if I asked her. I have despatched Coligny’s two brothers – Odet and Andelot – the latter in England. Was not that subtle? He dies suddenly, in that austere land. Of what – very few know. I had my friends in his suite.’

  ‘That was well done. But what use destroying the minnows when the salmon flourishes?’

  ‘We shall get our salmon, my friend, but in good time.’

  ‘His Most Catholic Majesty would ask, Madame, when is good time? When your kingdom has been wrested from you?’

  She put her head close to that of the Spaniard. ‘My son Henry is on his way to me. I will give him something … something which I know how to prepare myself. He shall have his spies in the Admiral’s camp, and before long, my lord, you will have heard the last of Monsieur de Coligny.’

  ‘I trust so, Madame.’

  After that conversation and another with her son Henry, Catherine waited to hear news of the Admiral’s death. She had given her son a subtle poison which would produce death a few days after it was administered. Her son’s Captain of the Guard had been brought into the plot, for he was on good terms with Coligny’s valet. A satisfactory bribe – and the deed would be done.

  She waited now for one of her visions. She wished to see Coligny’s death as she had seen that of Condé. But she waited in vain.

  Later she heard that the plot had been discovered.

  Coligny was a man of wide popularity, adored by too many; it was not easy to remove such a man.

  Catherine began to grow terrified of Coligny. She did not understand him. He fought with such earnestness; he drew men to him. He had some quality which was quite outside Catherine’s understanding; and for that reason she wished to have peace with him. And so she arranged for the Peace of Saint-Germain, in which, so that she might be at peace with this man whose righteousness was so alien to her, she gave way to many of his demands. She had to grant liberty of worship in all towns that were already Protestant; Protestants were to be admitted to office with Catholics, and on equal terms; four towns were to be handed over to Coligny as security for Catholic good faith – Montaban and Cognac as a bastion in the south, La Charité in the centre, and La Rochelle to guard the sea.

  The Huguenots rejoiced at all they had won, and Catherine felt at peace temporarily, so that she might turn her mind to domestic matters.

  Negotiations for the marriage of Charles were now in progress. That farcical attempt to make a marriage between Elizabeth of England and Charles was at an end, but Catherine did not abandon altogether the idea of a union with England. She would substitute another of her sons as suitor to the Virgin Queen in Charles’s place, and as no satisfactory arrangement had been made for Charles with Elizabeth of England, he should have Elisabeth of Austria.

  Charles studied the pictures of his bride-to-be, liking the pale beauty, the meekness of expression.

  ‘I doubt that such a one will give me much cause for anxiety,’ he said.

  The marriage gave Catherine little cause for anxiety also. It seemed very clear now that Charles would never produce healthy children; nor would marriage and its attendant excitements tend to lengthen the life of such a hysterical and unbalanced creature as this son; and so, on a misty November day in the year 1570, Charles the Ninth of France was married to Elisabeth of Austria.

  In the town of La Rochelle another but very romantic wedding was taking place. Jeanne of Navarre, preparing herself for the ceremony, thought with friendly envy of her dear friend Gaspard de Coligny, and prayed that he might acquire that rich happiness which he deserved. And he would, she was sure. He was made for such happiness. His first marriage had been ideal. His wife had worshipped him; and Coligny had been one of those husbands of whom women like Jeanne dreamed.

  He had suffered bitterly on the death of his wife, but his life was so full and busy, and there was, Jeanne knew, one thing in it which must always come before wife and family, before the consideration of his personal happiness; and that was honour, the long and weary fight for the cause which he believed, with Jeanne, was the only true religion for the French.

  It was a simple wedding, after the Huguenot fashion. And how noble was the bridegroom in the dignity of his years and that stern handsomeness that could only accompany a righteous and an honourable nature! Jeanne’s eyes filled with tears, as she compared this bridegroom with another – more handsome perhaps in a worldly way, in his gorgeous apparel, the fashionable court gentleman – Antoine! It was so long ago, but it would never be forgotten by her.

  Beside her stood her son, handsome with his dark hair and lively black eyes which were fixed on one of the women there in the church; his thoughts were not those which should come to a young man at such a time. The full, sensuous lips were curved into a smile. She tried not to think of him as the young philanderer, the lazy sensualist, but as a man of battle, the son who had sworn to serve the Huguenot cause as his mother and the great Gaspard de Coligny had taught him to do.

  The bride was young and beautiful, a widow, earnest and devout, laying such devotion at Coligny’s feet as he had received from his first wife; that devotion which, so effortlessly, he seemed to inspire in so many.

  She had come from Savoy, this Jacqueline d’Entremont; a widow of great property, for years she had been an ardent admirer of Coligny’s. He was a hero to her as he was to so many Huguenot ladies; she had told Jeanne that she had followed his adventures with enthusiasm, and each day her longing to serve him had increased. When she had heard of his wife’s death she had determined to comfort him, and against the wishes of her family and the Duke of Savoy, she had travelled to La Rochelle. Here she met Coligny himself and, so great was her love that he had after a little while found that he could not be indifferent to it, and later that he returned it.

  ‘May the Lord bless them both,’ prayed Jeanne.

  As for herself, she was growing old; she was now just past forty. She should not be so foolish as to feel envious of her friend’s happiness.

  And how pleasant it was, in the weeks that followed, to see the happiness of these two and to have some share in it. Friendship between Jeanne and Jacqueline grew as once it had grown between Jeanne and her sister-in-law, the Princess Eléonore of Condé.

  Then came the letters from court.

  These were letters from the woman who represented herself as a poor mother, anxious for the welfare of her country. Now that there was peace in this tortured land, she needed such a great man as Coligny to help her and her son to govern. Coligny must come with all speed to Blois, for she was most eager to consolidate this uneasy peace. The Queen Mother had succeeded in having the Spanish envoy, Alava, recalled to Spain, so there would be no awkward meeting of the Huguenot leader with the emissary of Philip of Spain. Would Coligny not come and help a poor weak woman? Would he not give that advice which was so sorely needed and might result in years of peace for his country?

  Coligny read the letters and was excited by them. An invitation to court from which for ten years he had been more or less an exile! What could he not do if he had the ear of the King and Queen Mother? He began to dream of war against Philip of Spain, of an extended French Empire.

  When he told Jeanne and Jacqueline what the letters contained, they were horrified. Jeanne was reminded of another occasion, when her Antoine had been called to co
urt.

  ‘It is a trap!’ she cried. ‘Can you not recognise the insincerity of the Queen Mother?’

  ‘My dearest husband, I beg of you, take care,’ cried Jacqueline. ‘Do not walk into this trap. They mean to kill you. Remember the plot which was foiled only just in time … the plot to poison you while you were in camp.’

  ‘My beloved wife, my dear good friend and sovereign, this is a chance which should not be missed.’

  ‘A chance for your enemies to kill you?’ demanded Jeanne.

  ‘A chance to put the case for the Huguenots before the rulers of this land. A chance to bring about the Reformation in France. This is a call from Heaven. I must go to court.’

  At length they knew it was useless to try to dissuade him, and the happiness of the bride was clouded with great misgiving. The Queen of Navarre felt resigned; no one, it seemed, understood the deadly quality of the Queen Mother as she did. Catherine was surely behind that plot to poison Coligny in camp. What fresh mischief was being planned in that tortuous mind concerning him?

  They would see; meanwhile Jeanne increased her prayers for the Admiral’s safety.

  With two hundred and fifty men, Coligny rode up the hill towards the Castle of Blois. He was conscious of the tension among his followers. They, like his wife and Jeanne and the people of La Rochelle, thought it folly to ride straight into the trap his enemies had probably prepared for him. He was anxious to calm their fears. There was no good purpose, he said, in looking for evil; when it was found, let them try to stamp it out, but until it was manifested, let there be trust.

  There was none to greet the party when they arrived at the castle, and this was ominous. Coligny called to a man who appeared in the courtyard, and asked that he might be conducted at once to the Queen Mother.

  When he was eventually taken to her, King Charles was with her. Coligny knelt at the King’s feet, but Charles begged him not to kneel. He embraced the Admiral with great friendliness, and lifted his eyes to the stern, handsome face.

  ‘I am glad to see you here, my father,’ he said, using that form of address which he himself had given Coligny during that earlier friendship of theirs. ‘We shall not let you go now we have got you.’

  There was no mistaking the honest intentions of the young King; he had always been fond of the Admiral.

  Catherine watched the pair closely. She greeted the Admiral with a warmth which completely disguised her hatred. Her smile seemed as frank as her son’s; and Coligny accepted the smile at its face value.

  They took Coligny to the apartments of the King’s brother Henry, Duke of Anjou.

  Henry was in bed; he was, so Catherine had explained to Coligny, slightly indisposed, and for this reason had been unable to greet the Admiral with the ceremony due to him. Henry was clad in a garment of crimson silk, and there was a necklace of precious stones about his neck, which stones matched those in his ears. The room was like a woman’s room; an odour of musk hung about it. Seated close to the bed were two of Henry’s favourites, very beautiful young men, their garments fantastically exaggerated and almost feminine, their faces painted, their hair curled. They bowed to the King and the Queen Mother, but the glances they gave to Coligny were insolent.

  Henry, languidly and with no attempt at sincerity, said that it delighted him to see the Admiral at court. He would be forgiven, he knew, for not leaving his bed. He was most indisposed.

  Coligny’s hopes were high.

  But that evening as he walked from his apartments to the banqueting hall, in a dimly lighted corridor he came face to face with the Duke of Montpensier. Coligny knew Montpensier for a firm Catholic and a man of honour. Montpensier made no secret of his hatred for the Huguenot cause, but his hatred of treachery was equally intense.

  ‘Monsieur,’ whispered Montpensier, ‘are you mad? To have come here in this manner is folly! Have you no idea of the sort of people with whom we have to deal? You are rash indeed to walk dark corridors such as this one alone.’

  Coligny said: ‘I am under the King’s roof. I have the King’s pledge for my safety.’

  Montpensier put his mouth close to Coligny’s ear.

  ‘Do you not know, man, that the King is not master in his own house? Take care.’

  Coligny thought, as he went down to the banqueting hall, that there might be much in what Montpensier said; but he felt that he had received a call from on high; and the Huguenot cause was dearer to him than his own life.

  The King was delighted to have Coligny at court.

  ‘Such a man as this,’ he told Marie, ‘I would fain be. He knows no fear. He does not care if assassins lie in wait for him. He would meet his death willingly, eagerly … if he thought it was God’s Will. Would that I were like Coligny!’

  ‘I love you as you are, my dearest Sire.’

  He laughed, and caressed her.

  ‘The Huguenots cannot be wicked,’ he said. ‘Coligny is one, and he is the noblest man I know. Ambroise Paré is the greatest surgeon in France, and he is one. I said to him, “Do you cure Catholics as well as Huguenots, Monsieur Paré? Or when you wield the knife, do you sometimes let it slip … when your patient is a Catholic?” And he said to me, “Sire, when I wield the knife, I do not remember whether my patient is a Catholic or a Huguenot. I do not think of faith at such a time. I think only of my skill.” And that is true, Marie. There is something fine about such men. I would I were like them. Must I spend my whole life longing to be like others? I should like to write verses as Ronsard does, to be a great leader as is my dear friend Coligny, to be handsome and brave and have many women loving me, like Henry of Guise; and I should like to have won great battles and be my mother’s favourite, as is my brother Henry.’

  His brow darkened at the thought of his brother. He hated Henry as he hated no other, for he knew that Henry hated him; he was wondering if a plot was being prepared by Henry and his mother, a plot to take the crown from him and place it on Henry’s head.

  Henry hated Coligny as much as Charles loved the man. Catherine had prevailed on Henry to receive Coligny, but Henry had sulked and pretended to be ill. Henry was obviously dangerous – dangerous to the King and to Coligny.

  Charles’s friendship with Coligny grew. He would not let the Admiral out of his sight if he could help it. Coligny talked to the King of his plans for a united France, in which he wished to include the Netherlands.

  ‘The Netherlands would then know peace, Sire, and if we made successful war on Spain we might bring the Spanish Indies under the French flag. There would be an Empire – an Empire in which men could worship as they pleased.’

  The King listened and applauded. He began to make concessions to the Huguenots. Coligny’s presence at court was making itself felt; so was his influence with the King. Some Catholics who had massacred Protestants at Rouen were executed. Coligny only had to request the King’s attention, and it was his. The Catholics of Paris were uneasy, while the Guises, during a temporary absence from court, planned the downfall of the Admiral.

  Catherine too watched the growing influence of Coligny over the King, but she was not disturbed. Little mad Charles was her creature; his tutors, still at their task, were her creatures; and she did not think any man – even such a man as Coligny – could undo so quickly all that she had done over the years. She wished to keep Coligny at court. She had no wish to kill him yet. She hated him; she was suspicious of him, and she would watch him closely, but at the moment he was more useful alive. He was, with Jeanne of Navarre, her greatest enemy; even so, his time had not yet come. For one thing, she liked the idea of this war with Spain. Coligny was a great leader, the very man to lead the French in such a war. He would be invaluable if the plan came to fulfilment. War with Spain! Victorious war! Oh, to be free from the fear of that man of gloom, the Catholic tyrant of Madrid. He was the biggest bogy in Catherine’s life, although so many miles separated them. And another reason why she was not ready to get rid of Coligny yet was that she was anxious to marry Margot to Henry
of Navarre. If she despatched Coligny, how could she ever lure Jeanne and her son to court? No! All honour must be done to Coligny until, through him, she had brought about this marriage of her daughter and the son of Jeanne of Navarre.

  Her son Henry was being a little tiresome over this matter of Coligny. She made excuses for him. It was so difficult for him, so recently at war with the man, to have him here in the palace, to see him fêted, made the confidant of the King. Catherine had neither the authority nor the influence over this spoiled and beloved son that she had over her other children. He sulked and clearly showed his enmity to the Admiral.

  So she must have Henry watched; she must spy on her darling; and she had discovered that he was in secret communication with the Guises, who were now at Troyes. They made no secret of their desire for the death of the Admiral; not only was he the leader of their enemies, the Huguenots, but they looked upon him as the murderer of Francis Duke of Guise, and this would never be forgotten nor forgiven.

  Catherine was hurt that her dearest Henry should be plotting with the Guises without telling her. She went to him one day and, when they were alone, very gently let him know that she was aware of this secret plan.

  Henry was surprised, but he smiled and, taking her hand, kissed it.

  ‘I had forgotten how clever you are, my mother.’

  Catherine flushed with pleasure. ‘My darling, if I am clever, it is due to my love for you. It is because I watch all your interests with the greatest care. What of this plot?’

  ‘But you know.’

  ‘Tell me. I should like you to tell me all the same.’

  ‘There is to be a fête, a sort of masque, a sham tournament. We are going to build a fort at Saint-Cloud. I am to defend it and we are to arrange that Coligny shall lead his men to the attack. A sham battle, you see. That is how it will start; and then, suddenly, it will cease to be a sham. We shall, at a given moment, fire to kill. We shall kill them all … every Huguenot among them. What do you say to that, my mother?’