by Jean Plaidy
There must be no delay in putting the murder of the Admiral into effect, but it must be after the wedding. If the Admiral suddenly died now, there might be no wedding. Catherine found a pleasure in watching her victim; it was like fattening up a pig for the kill. There he was, puffed up with pride and confidence; he thought he only had to come to court to gain the King’s goodwill; he had only to persuade and his plans would be put into action.
Well, let him enjoy his last weeks on Earth. Let him continue to think he was a power in the land . . . for a few weeks.
The Admiral had no finesse, and like most blunt soldiers he needed lessons in statecraft and diplomacy. He rarely stopped to consider his words; he said what he thought, which, in a court such as this where artificiality was a fine art in itself, was the height of folly.
At one of the council meetings, he brought up this matter of the Polish throne.
‘There are several claimants,’ he said, ‘and there can be no doubt that very shortly it will become vacant. If that throne is to fall to France it is very necessary for the Duke of Anjou to leave for Poland at once.’
The King nodded with enthusiasm, since there was little he would like better than to see his hated brother out of the country. Catherine was furious, but she calmly appeared as though she were considering the matter. As for Anjou, his rage was almost uncontrollable; the hot colour flamed in his face and the earrings quivered in his ears.
‘It seems to me that Monsieur l’Amiral interferes in matters which do not concern him,’ he said coldly.
‘This matter of Poland is of vital concern to France, Monsieur,’ answered Gaspard with his habitual frankness.
‘That is true enough,’ supported the King.
‘And if,’ went on Gaspard, ‘Monsieur who would have none of England by marriage, will have none of Poland by election, he should say outright that he does not desire to leave France.’
The council broke up and as soon as possible Anjou sought out his mother.
‘What think you of such insolence, Madame?’ he demanded. ‘Who is this Admiral to address me thus?’
Catherine soothed her beloved son. ‘My darling, do not distress yourself. Do not take the words of such a man too much to heart.’
‘Such a man! You know he is the close friend of the King. Who can guess what they will hatch up between them? Mother, will you let them plot against me?’
‘Have patience,’ said Catherine. ‘Wait until after the wedding and you will see.’
‘The wedding! But when can this be? I know they are all here . . . all the nobles of France and their followers, but that old fool, the Cardinal of Bourbon, will never perform the ceremony without the dispensation from the Pope; and will he give it, do you think? Will he allow a marriage between our Catholic sister and the Huguenot to take place? Why, soon we shall hear that he forbids the marriage and Paris will be in an uproar.’
‘You are young yet, my love, and you have not learned that there are ways of working miracles. We shall manage without Monsieur Gregory, never fear.’
‘One cannot think that the Bourbon will perform the ceremony against the wishes of the Pope.’
‘He will not know the wishes of the Pope, my son. I have written to the Governor of Lyons that no posts must be allowed to come from Rome until after the ceremony.’
‘Then we shall wait in vain for the Pope’s dispensation.’
‘Better that than that we should receive word from Rome that the wedding must not take place.’
‘How will you get him to perform the ceremony without the Pope’s consent?’
‘Leave that to your mother. Ere long your sister will be united to Navarre. Never fear. I can manage the old Cardinal. Have patience, my dearest. Wait . . . just wait until the wedding is over and then you shall see.’
Anjou’s dark Italian eyes gleamed as he looked askance at his mother. ‘You mean? . . .’
She put her fingers to her lips. ‘Not a word . . . even between us. Not yet. But have no fear.’ She put her mouth close to his ear. ‘Monsieur l’Amiral has not long to live. Let him strut as much as he likes through his last hours on Earth.’
Anjou nodded, smiling.
‘But,’ whispered his mother, ‘it is necessary for us to employ the utmost caution. Planning the end of such a man is full of dangers. He is no little fish. We have our spies everywhere and they tell us that he receives warnings of what is about to happen to him. How this becomes known it is beyond my knowledge to understand. It is necessary to lay the net very carefully in order to trap the salmon, my son. Make no mistake about that.’
‘My mother, I have no doubts of your powers to achieve what is necessary.’
She kissed him tenderly.
In the closet which led from her bedchamber, the Princess Marguerite entertained the Duke of Guise. She lay beside him on the couch which she had ordered should be covered in black satin as the perfect contrast to her beautiful white limbs. She smiled at him, for the moment sleepily content. No man delighted her, nor she believed ever could, as did her first lover, Henry, Duke of Guise.
‘It has seemed so long,’ she said. ‘I had forgotten how wonderful you are.’
‘And you, my Princess,’ he answered, ‘are so wonderful that I shall never forget you.’ sighed Margot. ‘If only they had let us marry! Why, then you would not be another woman’s husband and I should not be close to the most odious marriage that was ever made. Oh, Henry, my love, if you only knew how I pray each day, each night, that something will happen to prevent this marriage. Is it possible, my love? Is there something which can be done?’
‘Who knows?’ said Guise gloomily. ‘There is that in the air of Paris which makes one wonder what will happen next.’ He took her face in his hands and kissed it. ‘There is only one thing certain in the whole world, and that is that I love you.’
She embraced him feverishly; her arms were about him, her lips warm and demanding. She never failed to astonish him, although he had known her and loved her all his life. He looked at her as she lay back, stretching out her arms to him, her black hair loose, those wonderful dark eyes glowing in her lovely, languorous face; she was already eager for their next embrace. She was irresistible and very beautiful; the heaviness of her nose which was an inheritance from her grandfather, and the thickness of her jaw which had come from her mother, were not apparent now.
‘Margot,’ said Guise, with passion, ‘there is no one like you.’
They lay content behind the locked door of the closet, happily secure. In tender reminiscence they recalled that night when they had been discovered—Margot in the fine clothes in which she had greeted her suitor, Sebastian of Portugal. They both recalled the fury of the King and the Queen Mother on that night when they had beaten Margot almost to death for her share in- the adventure; as for Guise, he had narrowly escaped with his life. ‘Ah,’ said Margot, ‘you emerged from that danger with a wife, but I came out of it with a broken heart.’ She had said that at the time, but now she knew that hearts which broke one day were mended the next; and the wife of Henry of Guise could not prevent his being Margot’s lover. There were other men in the world, Margot had found—not so handsome nor so charming, it was true—and she could not exist without a lover.
How pleasant it was to lie in this man’s arms and to lure him to fresh frenzies of passion, and to think sadly, when passion brought temporary—a very temporary—satisfaction: ah, how different it would have been had I been allowed to marry the man whom I loved. We should have been faithful to one another and ours would have been the perfect union! This self-pitying role was Margot’s favourite one; she would indulge her desires and then she would say: ‘But how different I should have been if I had been allowed to marry the only man I ever loved!’ She had only to tell herself that and she could, with a good conscience, indulge in any amusement.
There was a sudden knocking on the door of the closet and the voice of Charlotte de Sauves was heard. Margot smiled. Charlotte would know whom she
was entertaining in her closet, and Charlotte would be just a little jealous. That was pleasing. Charlotte, because of her beauty and her importance in the Escadron, gave herself too many airs.
‘Who is there?’ asked Margot.
‘It is I. Charlotte de Sauves.’
‘And whom do you want?’
‘But to ask if you have seen Monsieur de Guise. The Queen Mother is asking for him. She grows impatient.’
Margot laughed. She rose and went to the door. ‘When I next see Monsieur de Guise I will tell him Have no fear, that will be very soon.’
‘Thank you. I will go to Her Majesty and tell her that Monsieur de Guise is coming.’
Margot turned to her lover, who had already put on his coat and was adjusting his sword. She felt angry at his impatience to leave her.
‘You seem very eager to be gone.’
‘My darling, that was a summons from your mother.’ Margot put her arms about him.’Let her wait awhile.’ He kissed her, but she knew that he was thinking of the interview with the Queen Mother.
‘The ambitious head of the House of Guise and Lorraine first,’ she said lightly. ‘The lover second. Is that not so?’
‘No,’ he lied. ‘You know it is not so.’
Her black eyes flashed. There were occasions when she wanted to quarrel with him. With her, love was everything; and she could not bear to think that this was not the case with him.
‘Then kiss me,’ she said.
He did so.
‘Kiss me as though you were thinking of me and not what you will say to my mother. Oh, Henry, five minutes more!’
‘Dearest, I dare not.’
‘You dare not! It is always “I dare not” with you. It was “I dare not!” when you let them marry you to that stupid wife of yours.’
‘Margot,’ he said, will be back.’
‘Why do you think she sends for you now? It is because she knows we are together and it delights her to tease us. You do not know my mother.’
‘I know that when she summons me, I must obey.’
He had turned the key in the lock, but Margot still clung to him, kissing him passionately. ‘When will you return?’
‘As soon as it is possible to do so.’
‘You promise that?’
‘I promise.’
‘Then kiss me again . . . and again . . . and again.’
Catherine dismissed all her attendants; she would not even allow her dwarf to remain; she was preparing to receive the young Duke of Guise.
She watched him approach, thinking that it was not surprising that Margot found him irresistible. He was a handsome creature. Twenty-two was not very old, but in a few years he would be as wily as his father had been; and even now, since he had that old fox his uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, at his elbow, she must be wary of this man.
When he had greeted her ceremoniously, she said: ‘I have much to say to you, Monsieur de Guise. We are alone, but keep your voice low when you speak to me. It is not easy to talk secretly in the palace of the Louvre.’
‘I understand, Your Majesty.’
‘The presence of one at this court, I feel, must anger you as much as it does me, my dear Duke. You know of whom I speak?’
‘I think I do, Madame.’
‘We will not mention his name. I refer to the murderer of your father.°
He was very young and unable yet completely to hide his emotion. He looked a little tired, which was no doubt due to the hour he had spent with Margot. That baggage would tire out anyone! From whom had she inherited such habits? Not from her mother; that much was certain. From her father? Indeed not. He had been a faithful man . . . faithful to the wrong woman, it was true; but Margot would never be faithful. She had had many lovers, though she was not yet twenty. It must be her grandfather, Francis I, or perhaps Catherine’s own father. They had both been insatiable, so it was said. But she had sent for this young man to discuss important affairs, not his love-making with her daughter.
‘Yes, Madame,’ he said bitterly; he had always believed that Gaspard de Coligny had murdered his father, and he would never be completely happy until he had avenged Francis of Guise.
‘We cannot tolerate his presence here at court,’ said Catherine. ‘His influence is bad for the King.’
Guise’s heart began to beat more quickly. He knew that Catherine was hinting that he should help her arrange the murder of Coligny. His fingers closed over his sword and his eyes filled with tears as he remembered how they had carried his father into the castle near Orléans. He saw afresh Duke Francis’ noble face with the scar beneath the eye, which had earned for him the name of Le Balafré; he remembered seeing that beloved face for the last time, and remembered too how he had sworn vengeance on the man who he believed had murdered his father.
‘Madame,’ said the Duke, ‘What are your instructions?’ ‘What?’ said Catherine. ‘Do you need instructions to avenge your father?’
‘Your Majesty doubtless had some suggestion in mind when you sent for me.’
‘This man walks about the court; he commands the King; he threatens not only your family, but mine, and you ask me for instructions!’
‘Madame, I promise you that he shall not live a day longer.’
She lifted a hand ‘Now you go too fast, my lord Duke. Would you plunge this city into bloodshed? I wish this man to attend the wedding of my daughter and the King of Navarre, After that . . . he is yours.’
The Duke bowed his head. ‘It shall be as Your Majesty wishes.’
‘My dear Duke . . . why, you are almost a son to me. Did you not spend the greater part of your childhood with my own family? And you have grown to love them, have you not . . . some more than others? Well, that is natural. But I love you as a son, my dear boy; and it is for this reason that I wish you to have the joy of avenging your father.’
‘Your Majesty is most gracious to me.’
‘And would be more so. Now listen. Do nothing foolhardy. I would not have you challenge the man. Let the shot that kills him be delivered by an unknown assassin.’
‘I have always believed that it is my mother who should fire the shot that kills him, Madame. That, I feel, would be justice indeed. She is a good shot and. . .’
Catherine waved a hand. ‘You are young, my dear Duke, and your ideas are those of a boy. If a shot were fired at the man and he were to escape, what an uproar there would be! No, let the first shot find its mark. Let us not make of this matter a bit of play-acting. That man has a way of avoiding his fate. Sometimes I think some special magic preserves him.’
‘It shall not preserve him from my vengeance, Madame.’
‘No. I feel sure that it will not. Now keep this matter secret, but discuss with your uncle what I have said. Find some means of hiding an assassin in one of your houses, and as your father’s murderer passes along the street on his way from the Louvre, let the shot be fired. No play-acting. Let us have a skilled marksman, not a nervous Duchess. This is life . . . and death, Monsieur, not a drama to be acted for the amusement of the court. Go, and when you have a plan, bring it to me. But do not forget . . . after the wedding. Is that clear?’
‘It is perfectly clear, Madame.’
‘Now, back to your pleasures, and not a word of this to anyone—except, of course, your worthy uncle. I know that I can trust you.’
‘Your Majesty can have complete trust in me.’
He kissed her hand and retired. He was too excited to return to Margot. He sought out his uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, to tell him of his interview with the Queen Mother.
As for Catherine, she was pleased; it suited her serpentine nature to bring about her desires by such circuitous means.
The bridegroom was riding to Paris at the head of his men, and although he was dressed in deepest mourning—for it was less than three months since his mother had died mysteriously in Paris—there was a Gascon song on his lips.
He was a young man of nineteen, not by any means tall, but of good proport
ions; there was an immense vitality about him; his manner was bold and frank, and there was often laughter on his lips; but his eyes were veiled and shrewd, and it was as though they belied the character which the rest of his face betrayed. In those eyes was a hint of something deep, something which was at the moment latent and which he had no intention of showing to the world. He had inherited much of his mother’s shrewdness, but little of her piety. He was a Huguenot because his mother had been a Huguenot, but on religious matters he was a sceptic. ‘By God,’ he would say, ‘a man, it seems, must have a faith; and as the good God decided He would make a Huguenot of me, so let it be.’ But he would yawn during sermons and at times openly snore; and on one occasion he had hidden himself behind a pillar and while eating cherries had shot the stones up into a preacher’s face.
His men were fond of him. They considered him a worthy Prince to follow. He would be coarsely familiar, with them, and he was easily moved to tears and laughter, but there was little depth in his emotions. The veiled, cynical eyes belied the facile emotions, and it was felt that while he wept he had already done with tears.
His love affairs had already been so numerous that even in a land where promiscuity seemed natural enough he was remarkable. He had been brought up in a practical manner by his mother, who had discouraged him from imitating the fanciful manners of the Valois Princes. He was coarse in his manners and not over-careful about his appearance; he was as happy in a peasant’s cottage as in a royal palace, providing the peasant’s wife or daughter could amuse him during his stay.
So he came riding into Paris, seducing the women of Auvergne and Bourbonnais, Burgundy and Orléans as he came.
He was thinking of the marriage shortly to be celebrated between himself and the Princess Marguerite. He had known from his earliest childhood that such a marriage would probably take place, for it had been arranged by Margot’s father, Henry the Second, when Navarre was two years old and Margot a few months older. It was a good marriage—the best possible for him, he supposed. His mother had wanted it because it brought him nearer to the throne. Navarre shrugged his shoulders when he thought of the throne of France. There were too many between; there were Henry of Anjou and Francis of Alençon, not to mention any children they might have; and Charles’ wife was at present pregnant. Navarre doubted very much whether a King of France could enjoy life more than he did; and what he was bent on at the time was enjoying life.