by Jean Plaidy
If only I could join, Catherine would think. Not only would it show Henry that his father, who despises him, is fond of me, but I should have many happy days in which to forget my melancholy.
She realized that she was becoming increasingly anxious to show Henry that she was not dull and stupid, that she was worthy of some notice. Indeed, she was piqued by this young husband of hers Not that she should have cared. He was of no account. The King had nothing but contempt for him, and Catherine was not surprised, considering the way he would and stammer when spoken to and had hardly a smile for anyone.
Why should she care? She kept telling herself that it was not his regard she sought. Let him escape to Anet whenever he could; she did not care.
In such contempt did the King hold his son that he would not give him a
separate establishment even now that he was married. Catherine did not mind that. It meant that they must share household with the other young Princes and Princesses. And a grand household it was― far grander than anything Catherine had ever known before― with its hosts of officials, chamberlain’s equerries, pages, doctors, surgeons, ladies and gentlemen, stewards, and pages. Still, it was expected that Henry should have an establishment of his own.
Catherine was much less lonely living with the other young people than she would have been in a household of their own. She was growing quite fond of them all. Young Francis, a delicate boy, was gentle in his manners and kind to the little stranger; his clothes were very sober in cut and colour, and he preferred drinking water to wine. The two Princesses, Madeleine and Marguerite, were quiet little girls, but eager enough to be friends with her. As for young Charles― his father’s favourite― she secretly disliked him. He was too
boisterous and found it immensely funny to play rather unpleasant practical jokes on the members of the household. Catherine had found a dead rat in her bed on one occasion; and on another a pail of icy water had fallen on her head when she entered a room. She bore these tricks with good humour; she did not wish to offend one so beloved of the King, and she gathered that she had not fared badly at the hands of young Charles. She had heard that one of the women of the household― a pious creature― had, on going to her bed at dusk, found a man there, naked and dead. Catherine’s quiet acceptance of the tricks played on her was such as to make the young Duc d’Angoulême feel that she was not a worthy subject for his, and she was very quickly left in peace.
She wondered how quiet, sensitive Henry could be the brother of such a one.
She was, even more than she realized, bringing Henry increasingly into her life, by continual comparisons with others. She made up her mind, time and time again, to tell her husband of the love she had had for her cousin in Italy; but she never did.
Three important events took place in that first year. The first of these was her election to the Little Band. An excellent horsewoman, she knew she could qualify in that respect, and she decided to tell Francis of her desire.
Most humbly, she begged for an audience in private, and when she stood
before him she became overcome with fear and wanted to run away. Francis
watched her with amusement.
‘You must forgive, Sire,’ she blurted out. ‘I am afraid I came to you
thoughtlessly. Please give me leave to retire.’
‘Indeed, you shall have no such leave until I hear what is on your mind.’
‘I dare not.’
‘I know. It is that husband of yours. Foy de gentilhomme! It is no use coming to me, little Catherine. It is true that I sired him. Yes my dear, I am responsible for that dark deed! But do not ask me make a man of him, for it would grieve me to deny you anything, and in asking that you would ask the impossible.’
‘Sire,’ she said, ‘it was not of Henry I wished to speak, but of myself.’
‘Ah! A happier subject, my little one!’
‘I am a good horsewoman, I believe, Sire. You yourself complimented me.
It was this that gave me temerity―’
‘Well, well?’
‘On occasions, with a light remark, I have had the great honour of seeing a smile appear on your face. I― I think I have pleased you―’
She felt now as though she were outside the scene, as though she were
watching a play in which the actors were the King of France and his little daughter-in-law. She had made the play, had written the dialogue; because she understood the character of the King and the character that the King believed his daughter-in-law to possess, she had written some very good dialogue.
She knew, she said, that she was not beautiful; but in her relationship to him, he would not look for beauty in her. In short, she was asking a great favour, while all the time she knew that it was to be refused her.
‘But, Sire, when I watch you ride off with La Petite Bande, I so yearn to be with you that I am heartbroken until I see you return.’
She knelt and buried her face in her hands, begging the King to give her
leave to depart. She had been over-bold. He must forgive her, for if he did not, her life would be wretched. It was only his smiles that she lived for. She longed to win them so much that she had been tempted into this indiscretion.
Though she kept her face hidden, she knew exactly how he would be
looking. This was new― this platonic love, this admiration which amounted almost to worship and adoration. Francis was always attracted by novelty. He had experienced the complete devotion of a mother; he still enjoyed the
adoration of a sister; women, women everywhere to count it an honour when his lustful eyes rested upon them― Anne among the others; but he knew enough of these mistresses of his to realize that he could never be certain of their devotion.
Not if he died this night he could say with certainty, ‘Two women loved me.
One was my mother; one was my sister.’ He felt that he might add to that, ‘My little daughter-in-law was also fond of me.’
He lifted her and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘My darling,’ he said, ‘it was good of you to open your heart to me thus.
Why, you shall have a special place in my Petite Bande. It shall be your task to ride beside me, to amuse me with your talk and tell me your secrets. How like you that?’
She kissed his hands, and she laughed with him because she was so happy.
This was a piquant situation such as he loved. So original, so amusing― to have his little daughter, for whom he was indulging in a platonic love affair, among his courtesans!
So Catherine rode in the Petite Bande. But this did nothing to endear her to her husband. Her friendship with his father seemed to make him more
suspicious of her than ever.
But Catherine seemed to grow up quickly among the King’s ladies. She
heard chatter of the private parties that were enjoyed in the King’s apartments; she heard of things which she had never known existed; and her thoughts, as she listened, would go unaccountably to Henry; and she could not stop imagining Henry and herself at these parties.
The second upheaval of that eventful year caused a deep alarm in
Catherine’s heart. Suddenly and mysteriously, Pope Clement died. For the man she cared nothing. How could she care? She looked upon him as the destroyer of her happiness. But for his ambitions, she would have been Ippolito’s wife; and together, she and her cousin would have ruled the city of Florence. But she was diplomat enough to know that Clement was her only powerful relative, and that the King of France had agreed that she should marry his son because of the benefits such a marriage would bring to France. But, alas! The dowry was not yet paid in its entirety; and what about those tempting jewels― Naples, Milan, Genoa? A new Pope would snap his fingers at the ambitions of the Medici.
People whispered about her. It angered her that they did not think it
necessary to keep their voices low when she was near. ‘Here is a fine matter!’ it was said. ‘Our King has been fooled. Where is the fine dowry,
where the Italian provinces which alone made possible this marriage between a Medici girl and a Valois Prince? Here is our King’s son saddled with a marriage which can only demean himself and France.’
Catherine’s thoughts were muddled. Was she truly alarmed? She hardly
knew. It was fortunate that she could show a calm front. What would happen to her now? Would the marriage be dissolved? Would she be sent back to Italy?
‘If you are,’ said a voice within her, ‘and if your marriage is dissolved, you will be free. You can return to Rome. And Ippolito will be there.’
Oh joy! To be with Ippolito once more, to be free to love. She would not
have to live with a husband whom she did not love. No more of that furtive intimacy that he made so clear was solely for the begetting of children. ‘How happy,’ she murmured, ‘should I be to say goodbye to you, Henry!’
But, alas! Ippolito was a Cardinal. He could not take a wife. Nonsense!
Ippolito could break away from the Church if he wished.
She waited, uncertain of her desires, while fresh news came from Rome.
There was rejoicing throughout the Eternal City― throughout all Italy― at the death of one who had made himself despised and hated. Each night, it was said, the grave of Clement was raided by the mob, who desecrated his body, and in their hatred of him did all manner of vile things which they had longed to do to him while he lived. Only the intervention of Cardinal Ippolito de’ Medici had prevented an enraged populace from dragging Clement’s body on a hook
through the City.
Oh, Ippolito, dearest Ippolito, thought Catherine. How like you to protect, in death, the man who, in life, made you unhappy, who wrecked our lives, when he kicked aside our love for his ambition!
And thinking thus, she grew angry with Ippolito. He was not strong enough, she thought. He allowed us to be parted.
The third incident of importance did not seem such at the time it took place.
She had no great liking for the Dauphin, but she had always sought to please him, and he had grown to like her mildly. One day he sought to honour her, and being in need of a new cupbearer he thought to please her by selecting a young Italian whom she had brought with her in her suite. Count Sebastiano di
Montecuccoli was a handsome and very patriotic young man whose earnestness had pleased Catherine, so that she was glad now to hear that he had been
selected for favour.
‘I am deeply grateful for the honour you do my countryman,’ she told the
Dauphin.
Then she dismissed the matter from her mind.
―――――――
A lovelier spot than that on which Diane’s castle of Anet stood could not be found in the whole of Europe. Past its high stone walls flowed the Eure, and beyond it stretched out the gently sloping vineyards. Diane, under Henry’s guidance, was doing everything humanly possible to make the place all that huntsmen could desire; she had enclosed a small but thick forest in which wild beasts were preserved; her stables were acknowledged to contain some of the best horses in the country; the castle itself combined luxury with comfort, and to Henry it was home.
He was growing up. He was past sixteen, and out of this idyllic friendship that had begun on the day of his first encounter with his beautiful benefactress, passion was beginning to grow.
As for Diane herself, she was fond of the boy. She looked upon him as she might have looked upon a delicate plant which, after a doubtful start, had blossomed into unexpected beauty. He was her creation. She had pruned away the awkwardness until dignity had developed in its place; quiet he was, for she could not cultivate where there was no root; but she had taught him self-confidence; she had made him conscious of his royal standing. He was deeply grateful to her.
She had been quick to sense the change in his attitude toward herself. Once she had been a goddess, a saint in a stained-glass window; now she was the perfect woman. He had become a husband since the first days of their
friendship, but nearly two years of married life, while doubtless it had made him aware of love and passion, had not taught him to love his wife.
Diane had known for some time that this was a problem she had to face.
expecting him to arrive at Anet on this day. Soon she would hear the horns of the huntsmen who would ride with him. She would see him, at the head of his attendants, come clattering into the courtyard, colour in his usually pale cheeks, his eyes bright with eagerness at the thought of seeing her.
She was fresh and perfumed from her bath. This odd habit of taking
frequent baths alarmed her women. They thought that the baths contained some magic which kept her young; it amused Diane to see the fearful way in which they poured out asses’ milk and emptied it away when the bath was over. They asked themselves how any woman could, without the aid of magic, preserve a perfect figure such as Diane possessed, after the birth of two children. It was no use telling them that exercise did that for her. They would not believe it. Diane was up with the dawn, when she rode for two hours in the fresh morning air; after that she returned to her couch, where she read until midday, thus
preserving not only an elasticity of body, but of mind. Diane said she lived by regular habits which she had proved to be good; those about her said she lived by magic.
As a practical Frenchwoman, she now knew that the time had come for her
to make a decision. Henry was yearning to be her lover, but the suggestion that he should become so, must, as all suggestions between them, come from her.
She was by no means a sensual woman, and she did not feel the desire for a lover; she had been a faithful wife to her middle-aged husband, and she felt it no great hardship to live without him. Her horror at the King’s advances had been genuine; but now she could calmly consider those of his son.
She was more fond of Henry that she was of anyone also, even her own
daughters. He was so dependent upon her; he adored her so naїvely. Would, she wondered, physical contact lessen or strengthen the bond between them? This step from the stained-glass window to the bedchamber needed a good deal of consideration. One thing was certain: Henry was in need of love, physical love.
If Diane did not give it, would he look elsewhere? If he did, and if he found it, Diane’s rule would necessarily decline. There were many people who thought the Italian girl colourless; Diane was not so sure. It might be that the girl preferred to keep in the background than make blunders. It was not folly which would lead her to act thus, but wisdom.
What was she to do? She was fond of the boy; she had come to regard him
as important in her life. Was she to lose him to his wife or a possible mistress?
Moreover, for all his modesty, he was the King’s son― a person of some
consequence in the court. Diane needed influential friends at court.
Mademoiselle d’Heilly was growing in importance― she had now been married to the Duke of Etampes to give her standing and respectability at court and she had always hated Diane. The woman was loved devotedly by the King; Diane
must be loved in the same devoted manner by the King’s son. No! She could not risk losing Henry; he was too important to her both practically and emotionally.
She said to her woman: ‘Madeleine, do I hear the sound of horses’ hoofs?’
‘I think you may, Madame. I heard the horn full five minutes ago.’
Diane was smiling as she went to the window. She saw him ride into the
courtyard at the head of his party. Yes, he was indeed a noble youth. He leaped from the saddle and called to his grooms with that air of authority which had grown from her coaching, and which he seemed to put on when he came to
Anet.
A page came in. ‘Monsieur d’Orléans is here, Madame.’
‘Tell him he may come to me here.’
She was lying on the couch when he came in. She dismissed her attendants.
He knelt and kissed her left hand, and with h
er right, she touched his hair. It was thick and dark. She caressed it lightly, and he lifted his head and looked at her, so that she saw he was filled with emotion.
‘I had thought you would be here earlier,’ she said. ‘It seems long since you came.’
‘I rode hot-foot,’ he answered. ‘Never have miles seemed so long.’
‘You look at me oddly, Henry.’
‘You are so beautiful.’
She laughed lightly. ‘I am glad I find favour with you, my dearest friend.’
He kissed her hand again; his lips were hot and he was quivering with his passionate desire for her.
Marriage had indeed changed him. She thought: how is he the little Italian?
She was faintly jealous of the child, envying her her youth and her status as his wife.
She said: ‘I think of you often, my dearest. Henry, I think I am a little jealous.’
He lifted his head to stare at her, not understanding; he was always slow of understanding.
‘Jealous,’ she said, ‘of Catherine.’
He flushed and looked quickly away from her. She liked his shyness,. How
much more appealing it was than his father’s practiced ways!
She went on: ‘I am an old woman, Henry, compared with you. It makes me
sad that I should be so old and you so young.’
He stammered: ‘You― you could never be old. You are perfect. Age? What
is age? How I wish I were of an age with you! I would gladly throw away those years which separate us.’
She took his face between her hands and kissed him. ‘How adorable you are, my Henry. You see, I think of you as mine. But I must not.’
‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why― should you not?’
‘You must not come to Anet as you have been doing, my dearest. You see―
we are friends; that is all. Always I shall think of you as my dearest friend. But now you are no longer a boy. You have a wife―’
‘But what has she to do with our friendship?’
‘Everything, Henry. You have a wife― and you visit me. How can we