by Jean Plaidy
‘Here is a good beginning!’ chuckled the executioner. ‘Lily-livered
Florentines! They paint pretty pictures, but they faint before the torture begins!
Better speak up, boy, and save our King another moment in this cell.’
There must be a wait, the doctor said, before the wedges were driven in, for it would take several minutes before the circulation was normal. Francis brought his chair closer to the young man and talked to him not unkindly.
‘We know, Count, that you acted under instructions. You are a foolish
young man to suffer for those who should be where you are now.’
‘I have nothing to say, Sire,’ said Montecuccoli.
But Francis continued with the attempt to persuade him to speak until it was declared time to drive in the first of the two wedges.
‘On whose instructions,’ said the tall man in black, ‘did you give the
Dauphin poison?’
Montecuccoli shook his head; he would not speak.
One of the men was ready at the Count’s knees, the other opposite him at his ankles; the cases in which the legs had been placed were so tightly bound that they would not give. There was a sickening crunch as the bones were crushed to make room for the wedges.
Montecuccoli swooned.
They brought him round with vinegar and asked the question again. The
third and fourth wedges were driven in, and Montecuccoli knew, as his pain-crazed brain sought to cling to reason that he would never walk again.
‘Speak, you fool!’ cried the man in black. ‘You’ve had the Question
Ordinary. It’ll be the Extraordinary next. Speak. Why shield your masters?’
The physician was bending over him, nodding in his grim and silent way.
The Count was young and healthy; the continuation of the torture would, he thought, very likely not kill him. He could be questioned to the limit today; if that failed to wring an answer from him, the water torture would be tried later.
Montecuccoli’s mind had one thought now; it was to save his tortured body more pain. He was reminding himself as he seemed to sway between life and death that he had achieved that which he had set out to do. Thanks to him, France would have a Medici Queen. If he implicated her, he would have killed and suffered in vain. Yet these people would not believe him innocent! They had found poison in his lodging; that, and the fact that he was an Italian, was sufficient to mark him as guilty in their eyes. He dared not implicate Catherine and Catherine’s astrologers, but if they persisted in the greater torture he did not know how he could endure it, for what he had suffered so far was the Ordinary Question― the driving in of four wedges only. The Extraordinary would be the driving in of four more. He yearned to be a martyr; he yearned to die for Italy; but how could he endure this continued agony? His body was weak with
suffering; he could feel his resistance weakening also.
The King had folded his arms and was sitting back; he did not take his black eyes from the Italian’s face.
The men were ready with the fifth wedge.
The King held up his hand. ‘Speak!’ he said gently. ‘Why suffer this? You will speak in the end.’
Montecuccoli opened his mouth. He sought for words, but nothing, for his
brain was numbed.
The King shrugged his shoulders. The man was ready with the first wedges
of the greater torture.
Agony― horror― pain engulfed the Count. If only it were death, he
thought.
Then he raised his hollow eyes to the bright ones of the King and began to talk.
―――――――
Catherine, alone in her apartment, felt ill with anxiety. They were torturing Montecuccoli. What would he say? How could he, suffering exquisite torture, stop himself from implicating her? What when they took Cosmo and Lorenzo
Ruggieri? Those two― clever as they were― could never endure torture.
Confessions would be wrung from them as well as from the Count.
They would blame her. The whole country was ready to blame her. What
would they do to the Dauphine who had inspired murder?
What a fool this man was! What a stupid, blundering fool! Did he think to kill the Dauphin and have no questions asked? She had not meant him to kill the Dauphin. It was not ambition that had prompted her to speak to him. She saw now how easily he had misunderstood. The fool, to think he could so lightly remove the heir to the throne of France.
And now― she was Dauphine; if she passed through this trouble, she would
be Queen of France. A miracle indeed! But it had gone wrong somewhere. She had asked for love and she had been offered a crown.
Already they were suspicious of her. From Duchess to Dauphine through the mysterious death of the King’s eldest son! They were whispering of her,
watching her, suspecting her, only waiting for the condemnation which they felt must come, once the Italian Count had been put to the torture.
What would they do to her? Of a surety she would be banished from France.
They would not keep an Italian murderess in their country.
Oh, Montecuccoli, you fool! You and your silly martyrdom! Where will that take you now? Where will it take me?
She looked at her pale face in her mirror. If I lost Henry now, she thought , I should pray for death; for in truth, I do not care to live without him.
―――――――
The court gathered together for a great spectacle. All highest in the land would be present. Stands were erected the royal pavilion was hung with cloth of gold.
Catherine, in her apartments, heard the shouts outside her window. She
dressed herself with great care. Her dress was studded with pearls; her corsage rich with rubies. How pale she was! Her thick skin, beautiful in candlelight, looked sallow in the glare of the sun. She had changed in the last few weeks and the change was there in her face. It was subtle, though; none would see it but herself. There was craft about the lips, hard brilliance in the eyes. She realized what agonies she had suffered when she had heard Montecuccoli had been
arrested, what terrible fears had beset her when she had heard they were
torturing him. But the saints had been merciful to Catherine de’ Medici. They had put wisdom into the mind of the suffering man. He had invented a good story that was not too wild to be convincing; and so he had saved Catherine. He had told the King and his torturers that he had taken instructions from Imperial generals, and that they had had their instructions from a higher authority. He had even given the names of the Imperial generals. That was clever, for how could the French touch Spanish generals! He had also said that his instructions were to poison all the sons of the King and the King himself. Very clever. Montecuccoli was not such a fool.
But the people of France still believed her to have been involved in the
Dauphin’s death. She was an Italian with much to gain, and that was good
enough grounds, in their eyes, for murder. Yet I am innocent of this, she assured herself. I never thought to remove poor Francis.
She could hear the trumpeters now, and Henry came in to escort her, for on a ceremonial occasion such as this, he could not sit with his mistress. He looked noble in his splendid garments but he frowned at his wife and she sensed his uneasiness.
‘The air is thick with rumour,’ he said, and his glance seemed distasteful as it rested upon her. ‘Would my brother were alive!’ he continued with great feeling. ‘Why should those have wished to destroy my family?’
Catherine went towards him eagerly and slipped her arm through his. ‘Who
knows what plans are afoot?’ she said.
‘They are saying the Italian lied.’ Now he would not look at her.
‘They will always say something, Henry.’
‘I would my father had not arranged this spectacle. Or I that you and I need not be present.’
‘Why?’
He t
urned to her. He looked into her dark eyes that seemed to have grown
sly, secretive. She repelled him today more than she usually did. He had thought he would get used to her; he had even begun to think that he was getting used to her, but the mysterious death of his brother he did not want even want to look at her. He did not understand her; and how could he help knowing that her name figured largely in the whispering scandal now circulating through Paris, through Lyons, through the whole of France? She was queer, this wife of his. She, who was calm and self-contained in company, was an entirely different person when they were alone. Now, when shortly they must see a man suffering a horrible death, her eyes gleamed and twitched with eagerness as she plucked his sleeve.
He did not understand her; he only knew that when he was with her, he was filled with a nauseating desire to escape― from the clinging hands, the pleading eyes and the lips, too warm and moist, which clung over-long to his flesh.
‘Why?’ he repeated impatiently after her. ‘You know why. You and I stand
to gain so much by my brother’s death. Had he lived, I should have remained a Duke, you a Duchess; now, the poisoned cup is being prepared for us, we shall be King and Queen of France one day.’
She said in that low, husky voice which she reserved for him: ‘I have a
feeling that my husband will one day be the greatest King France has ever known.’
‘He would have been happier if he had been born to kingship, and had not to step into his murdered brother’s shoes!’ He turned abruptly; he was afraid that what was whispered about her was true! He found, to his horror, that he could believe it. ‘Come!’ he said coldly. ‘Let us not be late, or there will be my father’s anger to face.’
They took their places in the glittering pavilion. Catherine knew that all eyes were on her; and in the hush that followed, she heard the faint rustling of silk and brocade, and whispering of voices.
Diane sat with the Queen’s ladies, upright, haughty, magically beautiful, so that Catherine’s control threatened desert her, and she felt like crumpling into tears. It was not that she should be so old and yet so beautiful. What chance had a young girl, inexperienced in the ways of love, against such a one? Oh, Montecuccoli, she thought, you have given the promise of queen-ship when what I wanted was to be a beloved wife and mother!
She moved closer to the jewelled figure of her husband. Was it her fancy, or did he move slightly away from her? His went to Diane, and now he was the devoted lover whom Catherine wanted for herself.
I hate her! she thought. Holy Mother of God, how I hate her! Help me―
help me destroy her. Send a blight to destroy that bright beauty; send humiliation to lower that proud head― Kill her, that the one I love may be mine. I wish to be a Queen and a well-loved wife. If this could happen to me, I would give my life to piety. I would never sin again. I would lead a blameless life free from even venial sins. Holy Mother, help me.
Oh, Henry! Why do I, so carefully nurtured, so balanced, s controlled, why do I have to love you so madly when you are enchained by that sorceress!
The heralds were trumpeting, and everyone was rising in his or her seat for the ceremonial entry of the King and Queen. Francis looked weary. He was
mourning both the death of his son and the devastation of Provence. Catherine, watching him, that he would not be influenced by the whisperings concerning herself.
She sat back now, for the wretched prisoner was being carried out. Could
that be handsome Montecuccoli! He was unrecognizable. He could not walk, for both feet had been crushed to pulp in the cruel Boot. His once clear brown skin was yellow now; in a few weeks they had changed him from a young to an old man.
Catherine was quick― and greatly relieved― to see that he had retained that noble and fanatical air. Bruised, bleeding and broken he might be, but he wore his martyr’s crown. She had not been mistaken in her man. He knew what
terrible death waited him, but he was resigned; perhaps he felt that his greatest torture was past. Four strong men were leading out four fiery horses; they needed all their strength and skill to hold the animals. Catherine’s mind switched back to a scene in the Medici Palace when she had sat with her aunt and the Cardinal watched the death of a faithful friend.
She had shown no emotion then. It had been important that she showed
none. Now, it was far more important.
Each of the Count’s four limbs was attached to a different horse.
Now― the moment had come. Young girls leaned forward in their seats,
their eyes wide with expectation and excitement; young men caught their breath.
There was a loud fanfare of trumpets. The horses, terrified, galloped in four different directions. There was a loud cry like that of an animal in the utmost agony; then a deathlike silence only by the thudding of horses’ hoofs. Catherine stared at the horses galloping wildly about the field, attached to each a gory portion of what had been Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli.
She was safe. Montecuccoli could not betray her now. And the Dauphin
Francis was dead and in his place was Henry, before whose Italian wife shone the throne of France.
THE LOVE CHILD
THREE WOMEN who watched the horrific spectacle knew that from now on
their lives would be different.
Anne d’Etampes left the pavilion feeling apprehensive, ten years she had ruled the King of France and, through him, France. There was no one in the land more important than herself; even men such as Montmorency and the Cardinal of Lorraine, if they wished to enjoy the King’s favour, must first seek that of his beloved Duchess. The most beautiful woman of the court, she was also one of the cleverest. Francis had said of her that among the wise she was the most beautiful, among the beautiful the most wise. She saw her power now, hanging by a thread; and that thread was the life of the King.
The King and the new Dauphin, it would be said, were different as two
Frenchmen could be; but in one important point there was a similarity. Francis, all his life, had been guided by women; in truth, he had been ruled by them, but so subtly that he had never realized it. In his youth there had been his mother and later his sister; their rule had been overlapped by that of Madame de Chateaubriand, who, in her turn had been ousted by Anne herself. These four women had one quality in common; they were all clever; Francis would not
have tolerated them if they had not been. So much for Francis, And Henry? He was of a different calibre; there had been no loving parent and sister in his childhood; instead, there had been Spanish guards to jeer at him. But the woman had appeared at the right moment, a woman who had those very qualities which delighted the father― beauty and wisdom; and more completely under the sway of a woman than Francis had ever been, was young Henry in the hands of Diane de Poitiers.
There was more in this hatred of Diane and Anne for each other than mere
jealousy. They were each too clever to care that the other might be considered more beautiful, except where beauty could be counted as a weapon to gain the power they both desired.
The more intellectual of the two women was Anne. Writers and artists of
the court were her close friends, and they, like herself, were in the new faith which was beginning to spread over the continent of Europe. Anne passionately wished to see the Reformed Faith brought into France. She had many with her; all the ladies of the Petite Bande, for instance, and they were most influential in the land; then there was her uncle, the Cardinal of Melun, and Admiral Chabot de Brion.
The admiral was more than a supporter, for, believing in the equality of the sexes, Anne saw no reason why, since Francis was to unfaithful her, she should remain faithful to him.
Diane, the enemy of the Reformed Faith, had sworn to fight against it.
Montmorency, now the closest male friend of the Dauphin allied with his young friend’s mistress. The Cardinal of Lorraine supported Diane, with three of his nephews, young men of great en
ergy and ambition: these were Francis, Charles and Claude, the sons of the Duke of Guise. With such adherents, Diane could feel strong even against the influential woman of the court.
So Anne, thinking of these matters, wondered afresh what mischievous
enemy of hers had, by proxy, slipped the poison into the Dauphin’s cup.
But there was nothing to be done but wait and watch, and lose no
opportunity of ousting her rival. The Dauphin was young; the woman was old; and the little Italian was not without charm.
Try herself as she might, Anne could not help but see herself as the moon that is beginning to wane.
―――――――
As Henry led Catherine back to their apartments, she also was thinking of the change that had come over her life. Her face was impassive; she gave no sign that the scene she had just aroused any emotion in her. Henry looked yellowish-green. He had seen death before; he had seen even such cruel death; but this touched him more deeply than anything he had ever seen before. He wished he had not so much to gain from his brother’s death.
Catherine turned to him as soon as they were alone. ‘How glad I am that it is over!’
He did not speak, but went to the window and looked out.
Surely, thought Catherine, he must be glad. A short while ago a Duke, now a Dauphin― with the crown almost within reach. He must be secretly rejoicing.
She went to him and laid a hand on his arm. She was sure he did not notice her touch, since he did not draw away from it.
She said: ‘Now it is avenged, we must try to forget.’
Then he turned and looked into her eyes. ‘ I cannot forget,’ he said. ‘He was my brother. We were together― in prison. We loved each other. I could never forget him.’
His lips trembled, and, seeing him softened by his memories she sought to turn the situation to her advantage. ‘Oh, Henry, I know. He was your dear brother. But you must not grieve, Henry, my love. You have your life before you. Your wife who loves you― and longs to be a wife in very truth.’