The Italian Woman

by Виктория Холт

  ‘What would be discussed with me, Admiral?’

  ‘We shall ask for the dismissal of the Guises, who hold so many offices; we shall ask for the redistribution of offices; the convocation of the States General. All this would be in the true interest of the Crown.’

  ‘Ah, Monsieur l’Amiral, when I see poor people burned at the stake, not for murder or theft, but for holding their own opinions, I am deeply moved. And when I see the manner in which they bear these afflictions, I believe there is something in their faith which rises above reason.’

  ‘Our people look to you for help, Madame,’ pleaded Coligny. Madame de Mailly cried out: ‘Oh, Madame, do not pollute the young King’s reign with bloodshed. That which has already been shed calls loudly to God for vengeance.’

  Catherine looked at Madame de Mailly coldly. ‘Do you refer to what took place when my husband was on the throne?’

  Madame de Mailly fell on her knees and begged the pardon of the Queen Mother.

  Catherine looked from Madame de Mailly to Coligny. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘your meaning is this: many suffered at my husband’s command, and you think that because of this a terrible death overtook him.’ Catherine laughed bitterly. ‘You would warn me, would you not, that if there are more deaths, more suffering, I may suffer? Ah, Madame, Monsieur l’Amiral, God has taken from me him whom I loved and prized more dearly than my life. What more could He do to me?’

  Then she wept, for it pleased her to appear before Coligny as a weak woman, and both the Admiral and Madame de Mailly comforted her. But as she wept Catherine was asking herself whether or not it would be wise to agree to this meeting with the Protestants. She decided that it would, for she need commit herself to nothing while she learned their secrets.

  So she promised that she would see any minister whom the Reformed Church cared to send to her; and Coligny and Madame de Mailly retired very well satisfied with the interview.

  When Catherine was alone she thought continually of the Protestants; that led her to Condé; she contemplated his attractiveness, and his weakness. She thought of Antoine and Jeanne; Condé and his Eléonore. And when her women came in for her coucher she thought how lovely some of them were. There were two among them of outstanding beauty; one was Louise de la Limaudière and the other Isabelle de Limeuil.

  She said, when she had dismissed all but the most beautiful of her attendants: ‘Do you remember how in the days of my father-in-law Francis the First, there was a band of ladies, all charming, all good company, great riders, witty, the pick of the court?’

  They had heard of Francis’s Petite Bande, and they said so.

  ‘I have such a band in mind. I shall gather about me ladies of charm and elegance, ladies who will do as much for me as Francis’s did for him. Beauty, daring, wit, these shall be the qualifications; and it shall be deemed as great an honour for a lady to enter my Escadron Volant as it was to be a member of Francis’s Petite Bande.’

  * * *

  The court had moved to the Castle of Blois on the advice of Ambroise Paré, the King’s surgeon. Francis’s poison of the blood was particularly severe at this time, and it was thought that the climate of Blois, milder than that of Paris, might be good for the King.

  During these uneasy days, Catherine felt herself to be most unsafe. The meeting with the Protestant ministers which she had planned had not taken place, for the arrangements had come to the ears of the Cardinal of Lorraine and he, in his arrogant way, together with his brother, the Duke of Guise, had made it very clear to Catherine that she could not serve two masters. If she wished to throw in her lot with Coligny and the Protestants, she would immediately and automatically become the enemy of the Guisards. And Catherine – with Francis on the throne, and Francis’s wife, subject to those uncles of hers, in command of the King – could not afford to offend these men.

  If the matter had ended there it would not have been important, but the persecutions of the Protestants had increased. The terrible sentence that he should be burned at the stake had been carried out on du Bourg, and many had watched him die in the Place des Grèves.

  The Protestants were murmuring against Catherine for having failed to keep her promise. The French, of whatever class or party, were always ready to blame the Italian woman.

  Catherine chafed against her inability to get what she wanted; but the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duke of Guise had followed the court to Blois. They were on the alert. Catherine knew they watched her closely.

  Only the children seemed unaware of the tension. The King knew nothing of what was going on about him. He was only concerned with his happiness in his married life. Mary was happy too, as long as she could dance and chatter and be admired; it seemed wonderful to her to be the most beautiful of all the Queens of France, to be courted and petted by her two formidable uncles.

  Charles was not happy, but then how could he be? His tutors bewildered him by the strange things they taught him. He still longed to be with Mary, the Queen and wife of his brother; he wanted to write poetry to her and play his lute to her all day long.

  Henry was happy with his dogs and those members of his own sex whom he chose for his playmates; these were all the pretty little boys of the court, not the big, blustering ones, like Henry of Guise, who were always talking of fighting and what they would do when they were grown up; Henry’s friends were clever boys who wrote poetry and read poetry and liked fine pictures and beautiful things.

  Margot was happy because Henry of Guise was at Blois. They would wander together along the banks of the Loire and talk of their future; they were determined that one day they would marry.

  ‘If they should try to marry me to anyone else,’ said Margot, ‘I shall go with you to Lorraine and we will rule there together; and perhaps we shall one day take the whole of France and I will make you King.’

  But Henry scoffed at the idea of there being any opposition to their marriage.

  ‘Say nothing of this to anyone yet, dearest Margot, but I have already spoken to my father.’

  Margot stared at him. ‘About us?’

  He nodded. ‘My father thinks it would be a good plan for us to marry.’

  ‘But Henry, what if the King … ?’

  ‘My father is the greatest man in France. If he says we shall marry, then we shall.’

  Margot thought of Henry’s father, the mighty Duke of Guise, Le Balafré, with the scar on his face which somehow made him more attractive because he had received it in battle. There would be many who would agree with his son that Francis of Guise was the greatest man in France; and if he could give her his son Henry in marriage, Margot herself was prepared to believe it.

  And so the little lovers wandered through the castle grounds, talking of the future and the day when they would marry, swearing fidelity, assuring each other that no one should be allowed to stand in the way of their ultimate marriage.

  Francis, Duke of Guise, called a Council at the Castle of Blois. He was grave, but his eyes sparkled as they always did at the thought of adventure; for there was nothing that delighted Francis more than a battle – the bloodier the better.

  ‘Mesdames, Messieurs,’ he said, addressing the Council, which consisted of the young Queen and the Queen Mother as well as the King, the Cardinal of Lorraine and the leading figures of the court, ‘I have news that a plot is afoot. My spies in England have brought me word of this. The King is in danger. A military rising is being planned, the motive of which is to kidnap the King, the Queen, the Queen Mother and all the royal children. These traitors plan that if the King refuses to become a Protestant, another King will be set up to take his place. At the head of these traitors, as you will guess, are the Bourbon brothers. There has been correspondence with Elizabeth of England, who promises them help. Every care must be taken of the King. We must guard the castle.’

  After this revelation all were confined to the castle. There were no more ramblings along the banks of the Loire for Margot and Henry of Guise. They did not car
e; they were happy as long as they were together; and both were of the kind to enjoy the thought of danger’s being near to them. Not so Francis and his brother Charles. Charles’s fits became more frequent, and he would cry out in his sleep that he was being murdered; he was terrified, on retiring, lest an assassin should be hiding in the hangings of his room. He was becoming more and more nervous. His mother watched him with calculating eyes; it seemed to her that his tutors were having some effect upon him; she was not displeased.

  But at present she must turn her thoughts from her children to the bigger issue – the war between the Catholics and Protestants – in which she would not become involved, unless she might effect, by her intervention, a favourable advantage to herself. Sometimes she laughed at the fervency of the people about her. She was the only one who cared not a jot whether Catholics or Protestants got the upper hand, as long as they were subservient to the will of Catherine. Her religion was neither Catholic nor Protestant; she would fight for no cause but that of keeping the Valois Kings on the throne of France, and the Valois Kings under the control of the Queen Mother.

  So, while listening to the plans of the Guisards, she was busy formulating her own.

  Secretly she sent for Coligny. She had betrayed him once, but she felt that by sending out distress signals she could fool him again. Like most straightforward men, there was little subtlety about Coligny. She wrote to him that she had heard the English were about to attack a convoy of French ships. Now, although Coligny might be in league with England against the Guises and the Catholics, in such a man as he was honour demanded that he must always fly to the help of France; so he came at once to Catherine when he received the message from her. Catherine received him with tears, told him that she was a weak woman completely in the hands of the Guises, and begged him to stand by the King.

  ‘The cause of all this trouble,’ said the Admiral, ‘is the family of Guise. The only remedy, Madame, and the only way in which a terrible civil war can be avoided is by an Edict of Tolerance.’

  Catherine declared that everything in her power should be done to bring this into being; and because it seemed imperative to her to win the confidence of the Protestants, which she had lost when she failed to keep her word with regard to the meetings near Rheims, she issued a decree; it was a decree to stop the persecution of the Protestants; it gave them freedom to worship and contained a promise of forgiveness to all except those who had plotted against the royal family.

  Catherine felt that she had handled a delicate situation rather well; but when, a few days later, Francis of Guise was ushered into her apartments, and the man stood before her, his scarred, handsome face set and determined, those glittering eyes watching her cynically, that cruel mouth smiling a little, she began to realise the mighty force she had to pit her wits against, and her uneasiness returned.

  Francis said: ‘Madame, we are leaving Blois immediately. I can give you thirty minutes in which to prepare yourself.’

  ‘Leaving Blois!’

  The eyes flickered and the one above the scar watered a little, as it did when Francis was experiencing strong emotion.

  ‘Danger, Madame, to the King, yourself and the royal children.’

  ‘But,’ she retorted, ‘the danger is past. The Edict …’

  ‘Your Edict, Madame,’ said the Duke with unmistakable emphasis, ‘will not help us to fight our enemies. We leave Blois for the safety of Amboise. I cannot leave the King exposed to danger.’

  She realised the power of the man, and that wonderful self-control of hers was ready to meet this situation as it had met many more in the past. She, the Queen Mother, would accept the humiliation of bowing to the will of the Duke of Guise, for, she assured herself as she prepared to leave Blois, it would not last for ever.

  * * *

  Francis the King was very frightened. Why could they not leave him alone? He wanted nothing but to be happy with Mary. He did not ask much – only that he might ride with her, dance with her, give her fine jewels, hear her laughter. It was so pleasant to be a young husband in love; so frightening to be a King. There were so many who wanted to rule France: his mother, Monsieur de Guise, the Cardinal of Lorraine, Antoine de Bourbon, Louis de Bourbon … If only he could have said: ‘Very well, here is the crown. Take it. All I want is to be left at peace with Mary.’

  But that could not be done. Unfortunately, he was the eldest son of his father. Oh, why had dearest Papa died? Why had there been that terrible accident which had not only robbed him of a father whom he loved and who had made him feel safe and happy, but had put a crown on his head!

  And now there was fresh trouble. Here at Amboise they had been kept like prisoners. The Cardinal sneered at him; the Duke ordered what he should do. Oh, that he might be free of Mary’s uncles! Men sought his life, he was told. He must be wary. They had caught some men in the forests surrounding Amboise, and these men had said they would talk to none but the King. He had been lectured and drilled as to what he must do. His mother had told him; the Guises had repeated their instructions. He was to give these men a crown piece each and be jolly and friendly to them while he asked sly questions and found out who had sent them to Amboise.

  He knew that while he talked to the men, his mother would be listening through a tube which connected her room and his. He knew that the Cardinal would be concealed somewhere or other and that, if he made a false step or failed to get what they wanted, he would have to face the scorn of the Cardinal, the anger of the Duke, and, worse still, the coldness of his mother, which he dreaded more than anything.

  The men were brought in; they bowed low over his hand.

  He tried to appear bluff as he had been coached, but it was no good. ‘Fear not, my good men,’ he said shyly; and he thought that by the sound of his voice it was they who should be telling him not to fear.

  He gave them the money.

  ‘Tell me, what were you doing in the forests?’

  They smiled and exchanged glances. They liked his youth and his shyness. What was there to fear? If he was the King, he was only a poor, delicate boy.

  ‘We came to rescue you, Sire,’ they whispered. It was apparent that the boy was uneasy; it seemed obvious that he would be nothing loth to escape from the rule of the Guises. With his stammering shyness he had won their confidence, and in a little while they were telling him that they had been sent from Geneva and that very shortly their leaders would join them.

  The King hoped they would succeed; it was a genuine hope, for he could imagine nothing worse than the captivity he now endured under the control of the Duke and the Cardinal.

  ‘Fear not, Sire,’ whispered the leader of the men. ‘There are forty thousand men on the way to your help.’

  They thanked him for his graciousness; they kissed his hand with affection, it seemed; and Francis was very sorry for them and longed to warn them that they had been overheard.

  They were taken as they left the castle, and for weeks afterwards their heads – with those of many others who had been rounded up in the forest – adorned the crenellations of the castle.

  * * *

  All the children, except Hercule, were summoned to the balcony. They dared not refuse to obey the order. They must sit with the ladies and courtiers while they watched the massacre of Huguenots in the courtyard.

  Francis felt sick; he could not endure it. Mary covered her face with her hands. Charles watched in horror; later he would go back to his tutors, who would talk of what had happened until he would scream and fall into one of his fits. Margot turned pale; it hurt her to see young and handsome men cruelly pinioned, pale from the dungeons, bleeding from the torture chambers. Margot could not bear to look at the blood, and there was blood everywhere. She wanted to scream: ‘Stop! Stop!’ Her brother Henry looked on with indifference; he did not care about anyone but himself and his pretty friends. But Henry of Guise was thrilled by the spectacle; he always took his cue from his father, and the massacre of Huguenots was organised by the Guises; theref
ore it was right.

  Francis of Guise exchanged approving glances with his son, the hope of his house. Henry’s eyes showed how he adored his father, and there was contentment and understanding between those two. But the Duchess, Henry’s mother, disgraced them all by covering her face with her hands and weeping.

  ‘What ails you?’ asked the Queen Mother, herself calmly watching the spectacle.

  ‘This piteous tragedy!’ cried the Duchess of Guise hysterically. ‘This shedding of innocent blood … the blood of the King’s subjects. Oh, God in Heaven, terrible days are before us. I have no doubt that a great disaster will fall upon our house.’

  Duke Francis angrily led his wife away, and Henry was ashamed of his mother.

  Later, as the massacres continued day after day, the Duke grew more cruel, as though in defiance of anything Fate could do to him. Everywhere was the sickening stench of blood and decaying flesh; when the children went about the grounds they would be faced with the sight of men’s bodies hanging from the battlements. They watched men, fresh from the torture dungeons, tied in sacks and thrown into the Loire.

  Neither Catherine nor the Guises attempted to stop the children’s witnessing these terrible sights. Duke Francis knew that his son Henry would be hardened by them as he wished him to be hardened; Catherine knew that her Henry was quite as indifferent to the sufferings of others as she was herself. As for the rest of the children, it was to the Guises’ advantage as well as that of Catherine that the King and his brother Charles should be weak, and it was in fact Francis and Charles whose nerves were racked by the horrors.

  The bloody days went on and it seemed to the children that their beloved Amboise had taken on a new aspect. They thought of the dismal dungeons in which foul things were done; the beautiful battlements could not be dissociated from ghastly corpses which had once been men; the sparkling river was now the grave of many.