Queen Jezebel

by Виктория Холт

  ‘No, Monsieur, she cannot; but she can be sensitive of her dignity, of her honour.’

  You think too much of dignity and honour. Come, do not sit there brooding. I would like to see you gay, as you were in the ballroom. You should not brood over a few kisses. You should not wonder whether I love too much these little friends of mine.’

  ‘I was not wondering that,’ she said.

  ‘What then? What did you wonder?’

  ‘When you last bathed.’

  He let out a bellow of laughter. ‘Bathed!’ he shouted. ‘Bathed! We do not bathe in Nérac.’

  ‘Nérac’s King certainly does not.’

  She rose and walked away from him, looking superb, with her train of velvet sweeping behind her, and the flash of her eyes matching that of the diamonds in her hair.

  ‘We should get ourselves children,’ said Navarre. ‘Here we are . . . a King and a Queen . . . and no heir to offer Navarre. It cannot go on. I have many sons, many daughters; and not one heir to the throne of Navarre.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I agree,’ she said,’that that is a necessity.’

  She was silent for a while. She did not believe that she could bear children. She thought of all the lovers she had known. . . and never a sign of a child from any of them. Henry of Guise was the father of a large family; and as Henry of Navarre had just said, he too had many children; but by Margot, who had had a thousand opportunities, not one had been conceived. Still she was young, and they needed an heir. She sighed, but made no attempt to hide her distaste.

  ‘Yes,’ she repeated at length, ‘it is a necessary duty. But first I must ask you to grant me a favour.’

  ‘Anything!’ he said. ‘Anything you ask. What is it?’

  ‘You will see. You need not look dismayed. I shall not ask you to change your faith again. No. But this is the smallest favour.’

  She went to the door and called to one of her women. Navarre watched them, whispering together. Margot’s great attraction lay in her impetuous actions. The woman went away and Margot returned.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I am impatient. What is this favour?’ ‘Simply this. It is that before you come nearer to me you will allow my woman to wash . . . at least your feet.’

  He stared at her. ‘You call that a favour!’

  ‘I should not have asked any such favour of you, had I not been afraid that the odour of your feet would make me faint.’

  He was angry. He thought of the ready surrender of the little Fleurette, who was so like her name; the thought of the eagerness of the boulangère. And this woman dared to tell him that he should wash his feet before he approached her!

  ‘Madame,’ he said, biting back his fury, ‘must I once more remind you that this is not the Louvre?’

  ‘Alas,’ she said, ‘you need not remind me. There is too much to remind me already.’

  The woman had come in. She set the gold basin on the floor and stood waiting.

  ‘If,’said Margot, ‘you would rather the duty was performed by one of your gentlemen, please say so.’

  For a few seconds Navarre was speechless. Then he turned to the woman. ‘Get out of here,’ he said.

  She did not wait. She fled instantly.

  Margot stood, drawn up to her full height, the velvet gown like a sheath of scarlet flame that enveloped her, her eyes flashing scorn, her lips mocking. You are dirty! said those eyes. You offend me.

  He was half inclined to tear the scarlet velvet from her, to force himself upon her; but his anger was short-lived, like all his emotions, and it was already failing.

  He stooped, picked up the bowl, and threw it at the hangings. Then he began to laugh.

  ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘shall I perfume myself? Shall I repose on black satin sheets? Shall I bathe in asses’ milk? Shall I become as one of the mignons of the King of France?’ He began to mince about the room. ‘Oh, smell my feet! Are they not enchanting? This new perfume comes from René, the Queen Mother’s poisoner.’

  His anger had not entirely left him and he turned on Margot. ‘Madame, I would have you know that I am the King in this realm. If I do not wish to wash my feet, then unwashed feet shall be the order of the day. You will like my unwashed feet, as you like your brother’s scented ones. Madame, here in Béarn, we are men, not popinjays! Do I ask you to give up your baths . . . your milk baths that make your skin so white? No, I do not! Then I beg, of you, do not ask me to follow a decadent fashion of your brother’s crazy court.’

  ‘I only ask it,’ said Margot, ‘if you wish to come near me. The dirt and sweat of your body is so precious to you, I do not ask you to part with it . . . so long as you do not bring it near me.’

  ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘the price you ask is too big a one for something which I do not greatly care whether I possess or not.’

  And with that he left her and went to Dayelle. Margot was pleased. She retired to her private apartments and sent one of her women with a message to du Luc, who had had the gallantry, the chivalry, to bring the manners and customs of the Louvre to Nérac.

  * * *

  During her stay in the dominions of her son-in-law, Catherine felt a return of her old strength. Her rheumatism worried her, but her spirits were better. She had come in order to discover what Navarre was doing in his realm so far from the court of France; to see what resources he had at his disposal; to set her Escadron loose among his ministers that they might worm out their secrets; she had come ostensibly to make peace between the King of Navarre and the King of France, to call at Nérac a council of Huguenots and Catholics, and to make one more attempt to settle their differences. She fancied she had had some success. Like a chameleon, she changed colour according to her immediate background. Here, in the Huguenot stronghold, her sympathies were for the Huguenots. She even learned to speak in the simple phraseology which these people favoured, suppressing the extravagant, flowery language which was the fashion at the court of France. There were times when this would become too much for her sense of the ridiculous, and she would shut herself in her apartments with her women, where they would amuse themselves by talking what she called ‘le langage de Canaan’, exaggerating the puritan speech, introducing into it a touch of ribaldry which would set Catherine laughing until the tears ran down her cheeks. But the next day she would greet the Huguenots calmly and, without a twitch of her lips, address them in their simplified form of language as though it came as naturally to her as to them.

  Were these people beginning to forget the rumours they had heard of her? Were they beginning to trust her? The massacre of St Bartholomew was like a black shadow behind her. Could they ever forget it?

  Margot was now deeply involved with Turenne. Ah, if Margot could be induced to pay more attention to politics than love, what an ally she would have been! Turenne was—next to Navarre—the most important man at the court of Navarre. He was the nephew of Montmorency and Navarre’s kinsman and chief counsellor. He was an amorous man and, but for his preoccupation with Margot, Catherine could have set one of her Escadron to seduce him. Never, thought Catherine, did a Queen possess such a perverse daughter.

  The months went by, and during them Catherine thought continually of the King of France; there were times when her longing to be with him was intense and her only solace was to express her feelings in her correspondence. To her trusted friend, Madame d’Uzes, whom she had left at the court as her spy, to keep her informed of the King’s actions, she wrote: ‘Give me news of the King and Queen. I envy you the joy of seeing them. I have never been so long without that happiness since he was born; for when he was in Poland, it was only for eight months, and now already seven and a half have gone and it will be full two months before this boon is granted me.’

  The meetings of Huguenots and Catholics continued and some agreement was reached. She had Navarre’s assurance that he wished to keep his wife with him; and Margot had said that she would stay in her husband’s kingdom. So now Catherine was ready to return to Paris.

&
nbsp; Navarre was satisfied by the agreement he had made with the King of France through the Queen Mother. Huguenots and Catholics were now more or less of equal standing in France; nineteen towns had been made over to the Huguenots. Catherine was leaving, and that delighted him, for he neither liked nor trusted his mother-in-law; she was taking Dayelle with her, and Dayelle had been a charming mistress, but he had for some weeks had his eye on a frail and delicate creature—a Mademoiselle de Rebours, who seemed different from any woman he had loved before, as he usually chose them for healthy looks which matched his own. No, he had few regrets when he contemplated the departure of the Queen Mother.

  As for Margot she was so deeply absorbed in her love affair with the handsome Turenne that she had forgotten her longing for Paris. And so, unregretted, Catherine began her journey northwards.

  But her troubles were not over. There had been an attempted rising against the crown in Saluces, a town of some importance because of its position on the borders of France and Italy. A certain Bellegarde, who was the Governor of the dominion of Saluces, had descended on the capital town and fortified it against the French.

  Catherine was travelling through Dauphine when she heard this news, and she summoned Bellegarde to her there; but he ignored the summons; she then ordered the Duke of Savoy to bring the man to her; and after an irritating delay of weeks, during which her desire to see the King made her both uneasy and depressed, the man was brought to her.

  With the Cardinal of Bourbon at her side, she received Belle-garde and the Duke of Savoy.

  She talked sadly to them of the virtues of the King, of all he had done for his subjects; she spoke of the shock it was to her to discover that there were those who did not appreciate his goodness. She wept a little. She brought out her favourite fiction: ‘Who am I but a weak woman? What can I say to you? How can I deal with traitors?’

  Bellegarde was so overcome by her tears and her eloquence that he wept with her; but when she asked him what he intended to do about the dominion of Saluces, he talked at length of the religious differences between the people of that town and the court of France, and he stressed his opinion that the will of the people must be taken into account. He could not be held responsible for what had happened, he told Catherine; the people had simply chosen him as their mouthpiece because he was their Governor.

  ‘Monsieur,’ said Catherine, no longer the weak widow, have come to settle this matter and nothing more. I shall not leave this town—nor shall you—until you have sworn an oath of allegiance to the King. If you will not do so . . .’ She shrugged her shoulders and gave him the full force of one of those quiet smiles which had never failed to terrify all those on whom they were bestowed.

  The outcome of his interviews with the Queen Mother was that Bellegarde, in the presence of the council, vowed his allegiance to the King. But Catherine was not satisfied with this man’s conduct. She kept him surrounded by spies, and nothing he said or did was allowed to go unnoticed.

  ‘I do not trust a man who has betrayed his King,’ she said to the Cardinal of Bourbon. ‘It is never wise to do so.’

  She certainly did not trust Bellegarde. He died quite suddenly one night. There had seemed nothing wrong with him on the previous day and he had eaten a hearty supper and drunk his share of wine.

  Catherine was now free to go back to her son.

  She shed real tears of joy when once more she held his scented body in her arms.

  * * *

  It did not take Catherine long to realize that while she had been away time had not stood still at the court of France; and she began to wonder whether she could not have been better employed by staying at court than effecting a peace between Huguenots and Catholics and patching up a marriage, the parties of which were two such feckless and immoral people that they had no more hope of achieving happiness together than had the Huguenots and Catholics.

  She was greatly disturbed by the activities of one man about whom she feared she had not thought sufficiently during the months she had been absent. It was never wise to forget the existence of the Duke of Guise.

  The Catholic League, she discovered, had grown enormously since she had left Paris. It was spreading its roots all over the country, and offshoots were springing up in most towns. It was supported by Spain and Rome. What was the object of this League? Not quite what it professed, she was sure. It was reputed to be endeavouring to bring comfort to the multitude, but Catherine suspected that its real object was to bring power to one man.

  She had found that the extravagances of the King were as great as ever. Joyeuse and Epernon were now his chief darlings. Joyeuse was but a simpering fool; but she was not sure of Epernon. Henry had made gifts to his friends of hundreds of his abbeys, and these places were now mainly in the hands of people who should have had no connexion with them at all. The Battus paraded the streets with their fantastic processions; and the King’s banquets had become more preposterously extravagant.

  Catherine was terrified, too, of what her younger son, Anjou, would do next; and when Queen Elizabeth declared to Simiers, who was now in England trying to persuade the Queen to a French marriage, that she would not marry a man whom she had not seen, Catherine felt it was a Heaven-sent opportunity to rid France of the mischievous youth; and, if Elizabeth would be so benevolent as to keep him, she should have the sincere gratitude of his mother.

  Anjou, looking for fresh adventures, was not averse to making the journey, and so, one day in June, he crossed the Channel and landed in England.

  Catherine, with the aid of her spies, followed that most farcical of all courtships. She knew that Elizabeth was as shrewd as she was herself, but that the Englishwoman was possesed of many feminine qualities with which Catherine was not burdened. Catherine laughed to contemplate that other Queen, whose vanity she believed was her most powerful characteristic. She knew of the coquetting with Leicester, who, in despair of ever marrying the Queen and becoming King of England, had recently married the Countess of Essex in secret. Simiers and his spies had, on Catherine’s orders, brought this about by assuring Leicester that the French match was further advanced than he knew, and that he had no prospect of marrying the Queen, since she had decided on the Duke of Anjou.

  As for her son’s method of courting the woman who was forty-six while he was only twenty-five, she left that to him; he was, after all, very experienced in the ways of making love.

  So Anjou went in disguise to Greenwich Palace, asked permission to see the Queen, and when it was granted—for she was well aware who her visitor was—threw himself at her feet murmuring that his admiration rendered him speechless.

  Elizabeth found this method of approach romantic and enchanting, although it set her countrymen jeering at French habits and customs. She confided to her ladies—and this was brought back to Catherine—that he was far less ugly than she had been led to believe. His nose was big, admitted the Queen of England, but all the Valois had big noses, and she had not expected his to differ very much from those belonging to other members of his family; if his skin was pitted by the smallpox, she was prepared for that; he was small, it was true, but that merely made her feel tender towards him. She liked his fancy manners; he was bold, but she liked his boldness; and he could dance more daintily than any English courtier.

  Catherine knew that the red-headed Queen was making secret fun of her suitor, just as her subjects did. In the streets young gallants and even apprentices would affect mincing manners as they walked, deliberately provoking the onlookers to laughter; these young men had taken to exaggerated fashions, copied, they said, from ‘Mounseer’—as they called Anjou—and his pretty entourage. Catherine knew that once Anjou realized that he was being made fun of, he would be furious; but apparently the dry-humoured English had managed to keep this from him.

  The Queen petted him as she might have petted a monkey; she made him appear with her in public; she called him her ‘little frog’.

  She knew, of course, that her actions were being watc
hed. She was coquettish and vain enough to wish to be courted by the quaint ‘Mounseer’, but at the same time she had an eye for the advantages and the disadvantages of such a match. A Protestant Queen of forty-six to marry a Catholic Prince of twenty-five! It was not the most satisfactory match she could have made, but as long as her ministers dissuaded her, she was ready to view it with favour, simply because she wished to keep the young man gallantly dancing attendance on her as long as possible.

  Catherine had seen a copy of the letter the great Sir Philip Sydney had written to the Queen concerning this marriage. It was daring, and as she read it, Catherine wished she could have asked Sir Philip to dine with her. He would not long have survived that meal.

  Most beloved, feared, most sweet and gracious Sovereign. How the hearts of your people will be galled—if not alienated—when they shall see you take a husband, a Frenchman and a Papist, in whom the very common people know this, that he is the son of that Jezebel of our age—that his brother made oblation of his own sister’s marriage, the easier to make massacre of our brethren in religion. As long as he is Monsieur in might and a Papist in profession, he neither can nor will greatly shield you; and if he grow to be a King, his defences will be like Ajax’ sword, which rather weighed down than defended those that bare it.’

  This letter the Queen of England received, and Catherine understood that she seemed to consider it with the utmost seriousness. But a man of Lincoln’s Inn, a certain Stubbs, who had dared to make a written protest, who had insulted the young suitor by calling him ‘unmanlike and unprincelike’, was very severely punished by having his right hand cut off; and this fate also befell the man who had published what Stubbs had written.

  Catherine studied the printed matter which had cost these men their hands. ‘This man is a son of Henry the Second,’ it ran, ‘whose family, ever since he married Catherine of Italy, is fatal as it were to resist the gospel and have been one after the other as a Domitian after a Nero. Here is therefore an imp of the crown of France to marry with the crowned nymph of England.’