by Jean Plaidy
FIRST AMERICAN EDITION 1976
Copyright © 1958, 1976 by Jean Plaidy
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
SBN: 399-11787-3
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Hibbert, Eleanor, 1906—Queen Jezebel.
Sequel to The Italian woman.
1. Catherine de Medici, Consort of Henry II, King of France, 1519-1589— Fiction.
I. Title.
PZ3.H5212Qe7 [PR6015.I3] 823’.9’14 76-10751
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
To G.P.H. whose practical help and advice have been invaluable
WITHIN THE THICK STONE WALLS, Paris sweltered in the heat of the summer sun. For weeks now, from the far corners of the land of France, travellers had been passing through the city’s gates. Noblemen came with their retinues, and following in their train were the beggars, rogues and thieves who had joined them on the road. It seemed that the whole population of France was determined to see France’s Catholic Princess married to the Huguenot King of Navarre.
Now and then a glittering figure would ride by to a flourish of trumpets and with a band of followers to announce him as a nobleman. On his way to the Louvre, he passed through the streets of tall and slender houses, whose roofs crowned them like grey peaked caps, and if he were a Catholic gentleman he would be cheered by the Catholics, and if a Huguenot, by the Huguenots.
In the winding alleys, with their filth and flies, there was tension; it hung over the streets and squares, above which, like guardians, rose the Gothic towers of the Sainte Chapelle and Notre Dame, the gloomy bastions of the Bastille and the Conciergerie. The beggars sniffed the smell of cooking which seemed to be perpetually in the streets, for this was a city of restaurants, and rôtisseurs and pâtissiers flourished, patronized as they were by noblemen and even the King himself. Hungry these beggars were, but they also were alert.
Now and then a brawl would break out in the taverns. A man had been killed at the Ananas and his body quietly thrown into the Seine, it was said. He was a Huguenot, and it was not surprising that he found trouble in Catholic Paris. One Huguenot among Catholics was a dangerous challenge; but in Paris this summer there were thousands of Huguenots. They could be seen in the streets, outside the church of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, strolling through the congested streets, past the hovels and the mansions; many were lodged behind the yellow walls of the Hôtel de Bourbon; others found their way to the house on the corner of the Rue de l’Arbre Sec and the Rue Béthisy which was the headquarters of the greatest of all the Protestant leaders, Admiral Gaspard de Coligny.
Away to the east in the Rue Saint Antoine was one of the largest mansions in Paris—the Hôtel de Guise—and on this summer’s day there came riding into the city a man, the sight of whom sent most Parisians wild with joy; he was their hero, their idol, the handsomest man in France before whom all others, be they Kings or Princes, looked like men of the people. This was the golden-haired, golden-bearded, twenty-two-yearold Duke, Henry of Guise.
The Parisians shouted their devotion; they waved their caps for him; they clapped their hands and leaped into the air for him; and they wept for the murder of his father, who had been another such as he. He was a romantic figure, this young Duke of Guise, particularly now when the whole city was preparing to celebrate this wedding, for Guise had been the lover of the Princess who was to be given to the Huguenot; and Paris would have rejoiced to see the Catholic Duke married to their Princess. But it was said that the sly old serpent, the Queen Mother, had caught the lovers together, and as a result the handsome Duke had been married to Catherine of Cleves, the widow of the Prince of Porcien, and gay and giddy Princess Margot had been forced to give up Catholic Henry of Guise for Huguenot Henry of Navarre. It was unnatural, but no more than Paris expected of the Italian woman, Catherine de’ Medici.
‘Hurrah!’ cried the Parisians. ‘Hurrah for the Duke of Guise!’
Graciously he acknowledged their homage, and, followed by his attendants and all the beggars who had joined them on the road, Henry, Duke of Guise, rode into the Rue Saint Antoine.
The Princess Marguerite, in her apartments of the palace of the Louvre with her sister, the Duchess Claude of Lorraine, listened to the cheers in the street and smiled happily, knowing for whom the cheers were intended. Marguerite, known throughout the country as Margot, was nineteen years old; plump already, vivacious and sensually attractive, she was reputed to be one of the most learned women in the country, and one of the most licentious. Her older and more serious sister, the wife of the Duke of Lorraine, made a striking contrast with the younger princess; Claude was a very quiet and sober young woman.
Margot’s black hair fell loosely about her shoulders, for she had just discarded the red wig she had favoured that day; her black eyes sparkled, and even Claude knew that they sparkled for the handsome Duke of Guise. Margot and Guise were lovers, although they had ceased to be faithful lovers; there were too many separations, and Margot’s nature was, Claude told herself, too affectionate for constancy. The mild and gentle Claude had a happy way of seeing everyone in the best possible light. Margot had often told her sister that her life had been ruined when permission to marry the man she loved—the only man she could ever love—had been denied her. As a wife of Henry of Guise, she declared, she would have been faithful; but, being his mistress and being unable to become his wife, she had been dishonoured; in desperation she had taken a lover or two, and then had been unable to get out of the habit, for she loved easily, and there were so many handsome men at court. ‘But,’ explained Margot to her women, ‘I am always faithful to Monsieur de Guise when he is at court’ And now the thought of him made her eyes shine and the laughter bubble to her lips.
‘Go to the window, Charlotte,’ she commanded. ‘Tell me, can you see him? Describe him to me.’
A young woman of infinite grace rose from her stool and sauntered to the window. Charlotte de Sauves could not obey a command such as the Princess had just given, without seeming to proclaim to all who watched her that she was the most beautiful woman at court. Her long, curling hair was magnificently dressed, and her gown was almost as elaborate as those worn by Claude and Margot; she was fair, her eyes were blue and she was two or three years older than Margot; her elderly husband occupied the great position of Secretary of State, and if his duties left him little time to bestow on his wife, there were many others ready to take over his conjugal responsibilities. Margot’s reputation was slightly tarnished, but that of Charlotte de Sauves was evil, for when Margot strayed, she loved, however briefly, and for her that love was, temporarily ‘the love of her life’; Charlotte’s love affairs were less innocent.
‘I see him,’ said Charlotte. ‘How tall he is!’
‘They say he is at least a head taller than most of his followers,’ commented Claude.
‘And how he sits his horse!’ cried Charlotte. ‘It is not surprising that the Parisians love him.’
Margot rose and went swiftly to the window.
‘There is no one like him,’ she said. ‘Ah, I could tell you much of him. Oh, Claude, do not look so shocked. I shall not do so, for I am not as indiscreet as Charlotte and Henriette.’
‘You should tell us,’ said Charlotte, ‘or some of us may be tempted to find out for ourselves.’
Margot turned on Charlotte and, taking her ear between her finger and thumb, pinched it hard. It was a trick Margot had learned from her mother, and she knew from personal experience what pain it could inflict
‘Madame de Sauves,’ she said, every bit the Princess now, ‘you will do well to keep your eyes from straying in the direction of Monsieur de Guise.’
Touching
her ear very gently, Charlotte said: ‘My lady Princess, there is no need to fear. I have no doubt that Monsieur de Guise is as faithful to you as . . . you are to him.’
Margot turned away and went back to her chair; it did not take her long to forget her anger, because already she was anticipating a reunion with Henry of Guise; those about her knew her well, and they were fond of her, for, with all her faults, she was the most lovable member of the royal family. Her temper rose quickly but it fell with equal speed and she was generous and goodhearted; she could always be relied upon to help anyone in distress; she was vain and she was immoral; there had in fact been unpleasant rumours concerning her affection for her brother Henry, the Duke of Anjou; she had at one time admired him greatly; this was when he was seventeen and the hero of Jarnac and Montcontour, and Margot’s love, whether for cousin or brother, held nothing back that might be asked. But beautiful as she was, both gay and learned, so eager always to talk of herself, to make excuses for her conduct, she was an enchanting companion, a joy to be with, and greatly she was loved.
Now, because of the words of Charlotte de Sauves, she must justify herself in the eyes of her women. She shuddered and rocked herself gently to and fro. To think,’ she murmured, ‘that each passing minute brings me nearer to a marriage which I hate!’
They tried to comfort her.
‘You will be a Queen, dearest sister,’ said Claude.
Others added their balm. ‘It is said that Henry of Navarre, although lacking the beauty of Monsieur de Guise, is not without his attractions.’
Charlotte joined them, still tenderly fingering her ear. ‘You would find many women ready to testify to his attractiveness,’ she murmured. ‘He is a little rough, they say, a little coarse; but it would be difficult to find another as affectionate and as elegant as Monsieur de Guise. Duke Henry is a king among men; and the King of Navarre, it is said, is just a man . . . among women.’
‘Be silent, Charlotte,’ said Margot, beginning to laugh. ‘Oh, but my heart bleeds. What shall I do? I declare I’ll not be married to this oaf. I hear he has a fondness for peasant girls.’
‘Not more than for great ladies,’ said Charlotte. ‘He just has a fondness for all.’
‘It may be,’ said Margot, ‘that the Pope will not send the dispensation. Then there can be no marriage. I pray each hour that the Pope will refuse to allow the marriage to take place. And then what can we do?’
Her ladies smiled. They were of the opinion that the Princess mother, who desired the marriage, would not allow it to be prevented by a mere Pope. But they said nothing; it was the fashion to share wholeheartedly in Margot’s fables. As for Claude, she did not wish to add to her sister’s distress.
Then there will be no wedding,’ continued Margot, ‘and all these men and women can go back where they belong. But it is exciting to see so many people in Paris. I must confess I like it. I like to hear the shouts of the people all through the night. They have turned night into day—all because they have gathered here to see me married to that oaf Henry of Navarre, whom I will never marry, whom I have sworn never to marry.’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Enter!’ cried Margot; and her face changed when she saw Madelenna, her mother’s confidential Italian attendant. Claude shivered; she invariably did when there was a prospect of her being called to her mother’s presence.
‘What is it, Madalenna?’ asked Margot.
‘Her Majesty, the Queen Mother, desires the immediate presence of Madame de Sauves.’
All except Charlotte showed their relief, and she gave no indication of what she was feeling.
‘Go at once,’ said Margot lightheartedly. ‘You must not keep my mother waiting.’
There was silence when Charlotte had gone. After a pause Margot went on to talk of her hated marriage, but her eyes had lost their sparkle and the animation had left her face.
Charlotte de Sauves knelt before Catherine de’ Medici, the Queen Mother of France, until Catherine, waving a beautiful white hand, bade the young woman rise.
Catherine was fifty-three years of age at this time; she had grown very fat in the last years, for she was very fond of good food; she was dressed in black—the mourning which she had worn since the death of her husband, Henry the Second, thirteen years before. Her face was pale, her jowls heavy, her large eyes prominent; her long black widow’s veil covered her head and fell over her shoulders. Her carmined lips were smiling, but Charlotte de Sauves shivered as many did when they were in the presence of the Queen Mother, for in spite of a certain joviality of manner, her sly secret nature could not be, after so many years, completely hidden; and it was such a short time since the death of Jeanne of Navarre, the mother of the bridegroom-to-be, who had, much against her inclination, been persuaded to come to court to discuss the marriage of her son with Catherine’s daughter. Jeanne’s death had been swift and mysterious and, as it had occurred immediately after she had done what Catherine required of her, there were many in France who connected the death of Jeanne of Navarre with Catherine de’ Medici. People talked a good deal about the strange ways of the Queen Mother, of her Italian origin, for it was recognized that the Italians were adepts in the art of poisoning; it was suspected that her perfumer and glove-maker, René the Florentine, helped her to remove her enemies as well as her wrinkles, supplied her with poisons as well as perfumes and cosmetics. There had been deaths other than that of Jeanne of Navarre—secret murders of which this widow in black had been suspected. Charlotte thought of them now as she stood facing her mistress.
But Charlotte, young, bold and beautiful, was by no means of a timid nature. She enjoyed intrigue; she was delighted to exploit the power which was hers through her unparalleled beauty. She had found favour with Catherine because Catherine always favoured those who could be useful to her; and she had her own way of using beautiful women. She did not keep a harem to satisfy her erotic tastes as her father-in-law Francis the First had done. The women of Francis’ Petite Bande had been his mistresses whose task was to amuse him with their wit and their beauty; Catherine’s women must possess the same qualities; they must be able to charm and allure, to tempt husbands from their wives and ministers of state from their duties; they must wheedle secrets from those who possessed them, and lure foreign ambassadors from their Kings. All the women of the Escadron Volant belonged to Catherine, body and soul; and none, having entered that esoteric band, dared leave it. Charlotte, like most young women who had joined it, had no wish to leave it; it offered excitement, intrigue, erotic pleasure; and there was even a certain enjoyment to be had from the more unpleasant tasks. No woman of virtue would have been invited to enrol in that band, for women of virtue were of no use to Catherine de’ Medici.
Charlotte guessed the meaning of this summons. It was, she was sure, connected with the seduction of a man. She wondered who this might be. There were many noble and eminent men in Paris at this time, but her thoughts went to the young man whom she had seen on horseback from the window of Princess Margot’s apartment. If it were Henry of Guise she would enter into her task with great delight. And it might well be. The Queen Mother might wish to curb her daughter’s scandalous behaviour; and as Margot and Henry of Guise were in Paris at the same time there was bound to be scandalous behaviour, although he was another woman’s husband and she a bride-to-be.
Catherine said: ‘You may sit, Madame de Sauves.’ She did not go immediately to the point. ‘You have just left the Princess’ apartments. How did you find her?’
‘Most excited by the tumult in the streets, Madame. She sent me to the window to look at the Duke of Guise as he rode by. Your Majesty knows how she always behaves when he is in Paris. She is very excited.’
Catherine nodded. ‘Ah well, the King of Navarre will have to look after her, will he not? He will not be hard on her for her wantonness. He himself suffers from the same weakness.’ Catherine let out a loud laugh in which Charlotte obsequiously joined.
Catherine went on
: ‘They say he is very gallant, this gentleman of Navarre. He has been so ever since he was a child. I remember him well.’ Charlotte watched the Queen Mother’s lips curl, saw the sudden lewdness flash into her eyes. Charlotte found this aspect of Catherine’s character as repelling as anything about her; as cold as a mountain-top, she had no lovers; and yet she would wish her Escadron to discuss their love affairs with her, while she remained cool, aloof, untouched by any emotion and yet seemed as though she enjoyed their adventures vicariously. ‘Old and young,’ went on Catherine. ‘It mattered not what age they were. It only mattered that they were women. Tell me what the Princess Marguerite said when she sent you to the window to watch Monsieur de Guise.’
Charlotte related in detail everything that had been said. It was necessary to forget nothing, for the Queen Mother might question another who had been present and if the two accounts did not exactly tally she would be most displeased. She liked her spies to observe with complete accuracy and forget nothing.
‘She is not so enamoured of the handsome Duke as she once was,’ said Catherine. ‘Why, at one time . . .’ She laughed again. ‘No matter. An account of such adventures would doubtless seem commonplace to you, who have had adventures of your own. But those two were insatiable. A handsome pair, do you not think so, Madame de Sauves?’
‘Your Majesty is right. They are very handsome.’
‘And neither of them the faithful sort. Easily tempted, both of them. So my daughter was a little jealous of the effect your interest might have on the gallant Guise, eh?’
Charlotte touched her ear reminiscently, and Catherine laughed.
‘I have a task for you, Charlotte.’
Charlotte smiled, thinking of the handsome figure on horseback. He was, as so many agreed, the handsomest and the most charming man in France.
‘I wish to make my daughter’s life as pleasant as I can,’ went on Catherine. ‘This wedding of hers is distasteful to her, I know, but she likes to see herself in the role of injured innocent, so she will, in some measure, enjoy playing the reluctant bride. The young King of Navarre has always been one of the few young men in whom she has not been interested; and as I wish to make life easy for her, I am going to ask you to help me do so.’