by Jean Plaidy
‘I have one wish, and that to serve Your. Majesty with all my heart.’
‘Your task will be an easy one. It is well within your range, and as it involves attracting a gallant gentleman and seeking to
hold his affections, I am sure you will accomplish it with ease.’
‘Your Majesty may rest assured that I will do all that is possible to please you.’
It should not be unpleasant. The lover I propose for you has a reputation as colourful as your own. I have heard it said that he is as irresistible to most women as I know you are to most men?
Charlotte smiled. She had long desired the handsome Duke of Guise. If she had never dared to look his way it was because Margot guarded her lovers as a tigress guards her cubs; but if the Queen Mother commanded, then Margot’s anger would be of little importance.
‘I see that you are excited by the proposal,’ said Catherine. ‘Enjoy yourself, my dear. I feel sure you will. You must let me know how you progress.’
‘Is it Your Majesty’s wish that I should begin at once?’
‘That is not possible.’ Catheine smiled slowly. ‘You must wait until the gentleman arrives in Paris. I should not like your courtship of him to be conducted by letter.’
‘But, Madame . . .’ began Charlotte, taken off her guard. Catherine raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, Madame de Sauves? What did you wish to say?’
Charlotte was silent, her eyes downcast.
‘You thought I referred to a gentleman who is now in Paris who has just come to Paris?’
‘I . . . I thought that Your Majesty . . . had in mind . . . a
gentleman who is already here.’
‘I am sorry if I disappoint you.’ Catherine looked at her beautiful hands, kept young and supple by René’s lotions. ‘I do not wish your love affair to advance too quickly. I wish that you should remember while you court this gentleman that you are a dutiful wife. You must tell him that your respect for the Baron de Sauves, my Secretary of State and your loving husband, prevents your giving what he will, ere long I doubt not, be asking for with great eloquence.’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘That is all. You may go.’
‘Your Majesty has not yet told me the name of the gentleman.’
Catherine laughed aloud. ‘A serious omission on my part. It is, after all, most important that you should know. But have you not guessed? I refer, of course, to our bridegroom, the king of Navarre. You seem surprised. I am sorry if you had hoped for Henry of Guise. How you women love that man! There is my daughter doing her best to refuse a crown, for Monsieur de Guise; and I declare you were almost overcome by excitement when, for a moment, you thought that my orders were to take him for your lover. No, Madame, we must make life easy for our young married pair. Leave Monsieur de Guise to my daughter, and take her husband.’
Charlotte felt stunned. She was by no means virtuous, but there were times when, confronted by the designs of the Queen Mother, she felt herself to be in the control of a fiend of Hell.
Sadness brooded over the lovely old Château of Châtillon. There should not have been this sadness, for in the castle there lived one of the happiest families in all France; but for the preceding weeks, the head of the house, the man whom every member of the great family revered and loved deeply, had been restless and uneasy. He would busy himself in his gardens, where now the roses were making a magnificent show, and spend many happy hours with his gardeners discussing where they should plant the new fruit trees; he would chat with the members of his family or walk through the green alleys with his beloved wife; he would laugh and jest with his family or read aloud to them. This was a home made for happiness.
But it was precisely because there had been such happiness that the anxiety was with them now. They did not speak to one another of that dear friend, the Queen of Navarre, who had recently died so mysteriously in Paris, but they thought of her continually. Whenever the court, the King or the Queen Mother were mentioned, Jacqueline de Coligny would cling to her husband’s arm as though, by so doing, she could keep him at her side and out of harm; he would merely press her hand and smile, though he knew he could not grant her mute request; he could not promise not to go to court when the summons came.
Gaspard de Coligny had been singularly blessed, but being beloved by the Huguenots, he must be hated by the Catholics. He now fifty-three years of age; ever since his conversion to ‘the Religion’, which had come about when he had been a prisoner in Flanders, he had been entirely devoted to it; he had sacrificed everything to it as now he knew that he might be called upon to sacrifice his happiness with his family. He did not fear the sort of death which had overtaken Jeanne of Navarre, but he was perturbed at the thought that his family might be left to mourn him. That was at the root of his sadness. He lived dangerously; he had faced death many times during his lifetime and he was ready to face it many more. Only recently he had narrowly escaped being poisoned at—he guessed—the instructions of the Queen Mother. He should not trust that woman; yet if he did not trust her, how could he hope for a solution of all the problems which beset him? He knew that the mysterious deaths of his brothers, Andelot, the Colonel-in-Chief of the Infantry, and Odet, the Cardinal of Châdlion, had probably been ordered by Catherine de’ Medici. Odet had died in London; Andelot at Saintes. The spies of the Queen Mother were everywhere and she poisoned by deputy. Yet if he were called to court, he must go, for his life belonged not to him, but to his party.
As he strolled along the paths of his garden, his wife Jacqueline came to him. He watched her with great tenderness; she was pregnant—a fact which was a great joy to them both. They had not been long married and theirs had been a romantic match. Jacqueline had loved him before she had seen him; like many a Huguenot lady, she had admired him for years, and on the death of his wife she had determined to comfort him if he would let her do so. She had made the long journey from Savoy to La Rochelle, where he had been at that time, and, touched by her devotion, the lonely widower had found irresistible that comfort and adoration which she had offered. It was not long after Jacqueline’s arrival in La Rochelle that Gaspard had entered into the felicity of a second married life.
‘I have come to see your roses,’ she said, and she slipped her arm through his.
He knew at once that some new cause for anxiety had arisen, for he could sense her uneasiness. She was never one to hide her feelings, and now that she was carrying the child she seemed more candid than ever. The way in which her trembling fingers clung to his arm set him guessing what had happened. He did not ask what troubled her; he wished to postpone unpleasantness, just for a little while.
‘Why, you saw the roses yesterday, my love.’
‘But they change in a day. I wish to see them again. Come. Let us go to the rose gardens.’
Neither of them looked back at the grey walls of the Château. Gaspard put an arm about his wife.
‘You are tired,’ he said.
‘No.’
He thought: it must be a summons from the court. It is from the King or the Queen Mother. Jacqueline will weep and beg me not to go. But I must go. So much depends on my going. I must work for our people; and discussions and councils are better than civil wars.
He had long dreamed of that war which was to mean freedom for the Huguenots of France and Flanders, the war which would bring freedom of worship, that would put an end to horrible massacres like that of Vassy. If he could achieve that, he would not care what became of him—except for the sorrow his death would cause his dear ones.
His two boys, Francis and Odet, aged fifteen and seven, came out to join them. They knew the secret; Gaspard realized that at once. Francis betrayed nothing, but little Odet could not stop looking at his father with anxious eyes. It seemed sad that fear and such apprehension must be felt by one so young.
‘What is it, my son?’ asked Gaspard of Odet; and even as he spoke he saw the warning glances of Jaqueline and his elder son.
‘Nothing, Father,’ said O
det, in his shrill boy’s voice. ‘Nothing ails me. I am very well, thank you.’
Gaspard ruffled the dark hair and thought of that other Odet who had gone to London and never returned.
‘How pleasant it is out here!’ he said. ‘I confess I feel a reluctance to be within walls.’
He sensed their relief. Dear children! Dearly beloved wife! He almost wished that God had not given him such domestic happiness since it broke his heart to shatter it; that he had not been chosen as a leader of men, but rather that he might give himself over to the sweeter, more homely life.
His daughter Louise, with Téligny, the husband whom she had recently married, came into the garden. It was a pleasure to see those two together, for they were very much in love; and Téligny, that noble young man, was more to Gaspard than a son, for Téligny, a staunch Huguenot, had become one of the most reliable leaders of the movement, a son-in-law of whom Gaspard de Coligny, Admiral of France and leader of the Huguenot cause, could be proud.
Jacqueline and the boys knew that they could no longer keep the secret from Gaspard.
Téligny said: ‘There are summonses from court.’
‘From the King?’ asked Gaspard.
‘From the Queen Mother.’
‘The messenger has been refreshed?’
‘He is eating now,’ said Louise.
‘My orders are to return to court as soon as possible,’ said Téligny. ‘Yours, sir, are doubtless the same.’
‘Later we will go and see,’ said Gaspard. ‘For the time being it is pleasant here in the garden.’
But the evil moment could not long be put off, and even as he dallied in the gardens, it was obvious to Jacqueline that her husband’s thoughts were on those dispatches. She was foolish, she knew, to think that they could be cancelled merely by refusing to speak of them or to look at them. Téligny had had his orders; her husband must expect similar ones.
And so it was. There was a command from the Queen Mother for him to come to court.
‘Why so gloomy?’ asked Gaspard, smiling at his wife. ‘I am invited to court. There was a time when I thought never to receive such an invitation again.’
‘I wish that you never had,’ said Jacqueline vehemently.
‘But, my dearest, you forget that the King is my friend. He is good at heart, our young King Charles. It is my belief that he is the most benign sovereign that ever mounted the throne of the fleur-de-lis.’
‘I was thinking of his mother, and so my thoughts went to our dear friend, Queen Jeanne of Navarre.’
‘You should not think of the Queen Mother when you are reminded of Jeanne’s death. Jeanne was sick and she died of her sickness.’
‘She died of poison and that poison was administered by . . .’
But Gaspard had laid a hand on his wife’s arm. ‘Let the people of Paris whisper such things, my love. We should not. From them they are gossip; from us they would be treason.’
‘Then is truth treason? Jeanne went to buy gloves from the Queen Mother’s poisoner and . . . she died. That tells me all I wish to know.’
‘Caution, my dearest. You think that I am in danger. That may be fancy. Do not let us make of it a real danger.’
‘I will be cautious. But must you go to court?’
‘My dear, I must. Think what this means to us . . . to our cause. The King has promised help to the Prince of Orange. We will overcome Spain and then those of our religion will be able to worship in peace.’
‘But, Gaspard, the Queen Mother cannot be trusted. Jeanne used to say that, and she knew.’
‘We are dealing with the King, my dear. The King has a good heart. He has said that the Huguenots are as much his subjects as the Catholics. I am full of hope.’
But to his son-in-law Téligny he was less optimistic. When they were alone, he said to him. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether some of our party are worthy of God’s help; I wonder whether they are aware of the solemnity of our mission. Do they realize that it is time for them to establish “The Religion” in our land so that generations to come may be born to it? Sometimes it seems to me that the bulk of our people have no real love for “The Religion”. They use it to quarrel with their enemies, and they would rather argue over dogma than lead good lives. The men of our country do not take kindly to Protestantism, my son; not as do the men of Flanders, England and the German Provinces. Our people love gaiety and ritual; they consider it not amiss to sin, receive pardon, and sin again; as a nation, the quiet, peaceful life does not appeal to them. We must remember that. The two religions have been, to many as yet, a reason for fighting one against the other. My son, I am uneasy. There is a coldness in these summonses of ours which was not shown when I was at court. But I am determined to fulfil my promises to the Prince of Orange, and the King must be made to keep his word.’
‘All that you say is true,’ said Téligny. ‘But, my father. if the King refuses to keep his word to Orange, what can we do?’
‘We can try to influence him. I feel I can do much with the King, providing I am allowed to see him alone. Failing his help, we have our followers, our soldiers, our own persons . . .’
‘The help of Châtillon would seem small, when the help of France had been promised.’
‘You are right, my son; but if France fails to keep her word, Châtillon must not do likewise.’
‘I have had warning letters from friends at court. Father, they beg us not to go. The Guises plot against us, and the Queen Mother plots with the Guises.’
‘We cannot stay away because of warning letters, my son.’ ‘We must take great care, sir.’
‘Rest assured we will.’
At the communal meal nothing was said of the departure, but, from Jacqueline and Gaspard at the head of the table to the servants at the other end, all were thinking of it. Gaspard was greatly loved throughout the neighbouring countryside, for all were aware that there was food for any who needed it at the Château de Châtillon; it was the Admiral himself who had instituted these communal meals which began with a psalm and were followed by grace.
Gaspard was now thinking, as he sat down at the long table, of the struggle which lay before him and those men who were pledged to help him. There was the young Prince of Condé, so like his gay and gallant father who had died fighting for the cause; but the young Prince, for all his valour, was scarcely a strong man. There was the young King, Henry of Navarre, who, at nineteen, was a brave enough fighter but a light liver, a man who thirsted after pleasure rather than righteousness. He could not resist the blandishments of women; he was fond of roystering, of good food and drink; he was too gay a Prince to devote himself to a religious cause. Téligny? It was not because he was so closely related that Gaspard’s hopes rested in that young man. In Téligny Gaspard recognized his own determination, his own devotion. There was also the Duc de la Rochefoucauld, dearly beloved of King Charles; but he was young yet and untried. There was the Scot, Montgomery, whose lance had accidentally killed King Henry the Second. Montgomery was the man who would probably lead the Huguenots if death overtook the Admiral, but he was no longer young, and it was among the young that they must look. In the natural course the leadership would fall to the young King of Navarre.
It was foolish to think of his own death; it was the frightened glances of his family and friends which had sent his thoughts in that direction. Even the servants threw fearful glances at him. They were all silently begging him to ignore the dispatches, to refuse to obey the command of the Queen Mother.
Only Téligny was unafraid; and Téligny knew, as the Admiral knew, that they must leave as soon as possible for the court.
Gaspard talked; he talked lightheartedly of the coming marriage, which was not merely the union of a Catholic Princess and a Protestant Prince but, he hoped, the union of all Catholics and Protestants throughout France.
‘If the King and the Queen Mother were not ready to favour us, would they have wished for this marriage? Has not the King himself said that if the Pope will not give
the dispensation, the Princess Marguerite and King Henry shall be married en pleine prêche? What more could he say than that? He is our friend, I say. He at least is our friend. He is young and he is surrounded by our enemies; but when I go to court I shall be able to assure him of the righteousness of our cause. He loves me; he is my dear friend. You know how I was treated when I was last at court. He consulted me on all matters. He called me Father. He wishes to do good and he wants peace in the kingdom. And, my friends, do not doubt that I will help him to attain it.’
But there were murmurings along the table. The Italian woman was at court, and how could she be trusted? The Admiral had forgotten how at one time she had set one of her spies to poison him when he was in camp. That might easily have been accomplished. The Admiral was too forgiving, too trusting. One did not forgive, nor did one trust, a serpent.
Etienne, one of the Admiral’s grooms, wept openly. ‘If the Admiral leaves us he will never return to us,’ he prophesied.
His fellows stared at him in horror, but he persisted in his gloomy prognostications. ‘She will succeed in her evil plans this time; evil will triumph over good.’
He was silenced, but he sat there dropping tears into his cup.
When the cloth was removed one of the ministers—there were usually one or two at the Admiral’s table—gave the benediction. Then the Admiral and his son-in-law shut themselves up together to talk of their plans and to prepare dispatches which must be sent to court to announce their coming.
When they rode out a few days later,Étienne was in the stables. He had been waiting there since early morning, and when the Admiral mounted his horse, he flung himself on his knees and wailed like one possessed.
‘Monsieur, my good master,’ he implored, ‘do not go to your ruin, for ruin awaits you in Paris. If you go to Paris you will die there . . . and so will all who go with you.’