by Jean Plaidy
The Eve and the Day of St Bartholomew passed in uneasy quiet; but a few days later a few Huguenots who had held a prêche in one of their houses came out to find a group of Catholics about the door. One bold spirit had dared to put a white cross in his hat. They had only come to jeer, but the terrified Huguenots held their heads high while their lips moved in prayer as they passed along the street. Had they not prayed, all would have been well. Neither Catholics nor Huguenots could bear to see the other side appeal to God. God was their ally; they grew angry that any other sect should dare claim Him. Someone threw a stone and a riot started, which ended in tragedy for some of those concerned before it was quelled.
A deputation of Huguenots went to the palace to demand audience of the King. He kept them waiting, for he was playing at tilting with some of his young men; not the rough tilting at which his grandfather, Francis the First, had excelled, and at which his father, Henry the Second, had lost his life, but gentle tilting in the costumes of ladies. And when he had finished the game, he declared he was too tired to see the deputation.
The Huguenots murmured against him. ‘This is the city of Babylon!’ they cried. ‘Of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Lord will not rest content until he has destroyed this city.’
The poor huddled on the street corners, but when lights sprang up in the palace they would stand as close as they could and try to see what was going on inside. They saw something of the fantastic balls at which the King danced in a low-necked gown with pearls about his throat; they saw him at the banquet where all the men were attired as women, and the women were in men’s clothes. They knew that the silk for these garments had been especially acquired and that it had cost a hundred thousand francs. To pay for this Paris must be taxed.
There were many about the King who remonstrated with him: Catherine herself, the Guises, the Marshal Tavannes.
‘Only fools spend money on folly,’ said Tavannes daringly.
‘One cannot treat the people of Paris thus!’ said Guise.
‘My son, take care!’ begged Catherine. ‘If you must have these pleasures, take them in secret. Do not let the people see how you frolic while they starve. It is not possible to go on in this way.’
‘I am the King,’ said Henry. ‘With me all things are possible.’
Meanwhile a sullen, starving city watched the reckless extravagance of a King it hated.
Louis Bérenger du Guast was curling his master’s hair. He kept up a light chatter as he did so, but he was not really thinking of his master’s appearance. Du Guast was different from the other mignons in as much as he was a politically ambitious man; he wanted official position, and if it meant posing as an effeminate young man who doted on fine clothes, perfumes, lap-dogs and his master, he was ready to do what was required of him.
He had already succeeded in bringing about strife between the King and his sister Margot, for he recognized Margot as the ally of Alençon, who was the deadliest of all his foes. Du Guast had accused Margot, before the King and court, of the impropriety of visiting the bedchamber of one of the gentlemen in Alençon’s entourage. Margot had hotly denied this, but the King was more ready to believe his favourite than his sister; as Margot’s reputation was such that she might very well have committed the indiscretion, others believed du Guast to have been right, Since then Margot had allied herself more closely with Alençon, which meant that her friendship with her husband had grown.
The King was suffering from an affliction of the ear rather similar to that which had resulted in the death of his brother Francis, and it had occurred to du Guast that there might be some in the palace who were trying to bring the King’s life to an end. When poison was suspected, the thoughts of all jai. mediately flew to the Queen Mother, but no one would suspect Catherine of trying to remove her favourite son, who was, as everybody knew, her ‘All’ as she herself called him. Whom else then? Obviously Alençon would take the throne.
There was another fact which disturbed du Guast. He was deeply attracted to Madame de Sauves; nor was he, she had obligingly demonstrated, repulsive to her. She had continued to retain other lovers, among them Guise, Navarre and Alençon; and this angered du Guast, who liked to stand first, both with his mistress and his master. But of his rivals he most feared Alençon, for if the King died and Alençon took his place, then he, du Guast, would fall very low.
‘How is the ear today, dearest Sire?’ whispered du Guast. ‘Very painful,’ whimpered the King. ‘Is it swollen? Dress my hair over it to hide it.’
‘Dearest Sire, I wish to speak to you alone.’
Caylus and Epernon frowned.
‘It is of the utmost importance, Sire,’ urged du Guast.
Henry nodded. He was sometimes not so foolish as he appeared to be; and his neglect of his duties was in some measure due to physical weakness. Most of the virility which he had possessed in his teens had by now disappeared and physical exercise really did exhaust him. He had the frailty of body and the weakness of constitution which had shortened the lives of his two elder brothers; but his mind was more alert than theirs had been. Like all the Medici-Valois brood, he was possessed of a complex nature, and the traits inherited from his mother mingled uneasily with those of his Valois progenitors. He could be a foolish and extravagant pervert, yet, like his paternal grandfather, a lover of all that was artistic; he could, like his slow-minded yet statesmanlike father, try to grapple with matters of importance.
So he now dismissed his attendants and listened to what du Guast had to say.
‘Dearest Sire, I am afraid. Your ear . . . it perturbs me.’ ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your brother Francis died of an affliction of the ear, Sire, and some say that he was hastened to his end.’
‘My God!’ cried Henry. ‘You mean that someone is trying to get rid of me!’
‘It may well be so.’
‘But . . . my mother loves me.’
‘I did not think of your mother, Sire.’
‘Alençon?’ muttered the King.
‘Who else, Sire? He is your enemy.’
‘What can we do? We must act quickly. I shall call in my mother. She will know.’
But du Guast was not going to let him call in Catherine. She would never agree to the murder of Alençon—the only remaining Valois heir.
‘We can arrange it without her, Sire. We can commission another to do the work. As you know, anything that concerns your dear Majesty concerns me. I lie awake at night thinking how best to serve you.’
‘Louis, my beloved!’
‘My adored sovereign. This is what I have been thinking: there is another who hates Alençon.’
‘Who is that, dear fellow?’
‘Navarre.’
‘Navarre! They are allies!’
‘They were. But now they quarrel. It is over a woman. They were at each other’s throats the other day. Navarre plays his crude jokes. He fixed some heavy object over the lady’s door when he last visited her, and arranged that when Alençon called the object should fall on his head. Ma foi! You should have seen the mess it made of our Alençon’s countenance . . . never one to be greatly admired, as Your Majesty knows.’
I rejoice to hear it. A pity it did not break his ugly neck as well as bruise his ugly face.’
There was trouble over that. There might have been a fight to the death. But you know Navarre, Sire; he twists and turns and, before Alençon knew where he was, Navarre had made the whole affair something too ridiculous to duel over. But it rankles, Sire, it rankles. They are both in love with the same woman . . . whom they share.’
‘This Madame de Sauves seems a very accomplished lady, said the King, looking slyly at du Guast, for he had heard the rumours.
‘One amuses oneself,’ said the favourite. ‘Your Majesty also enjoys his little chasse de palais. Although, Sire, you know how the ladies tire you, and being in love with one of them, even for a few minutes, means you must rest for a few days afterwards.’
‘Let us not speak of our pecc
adilloes, dear Louis. We are both a little guilty of them.’
‘My dear lord, my association with Madame de Sauves is conducted solely that I may discover from her what she learns from your enemies.’
‘You are a good friend, my dearest fellow. Tell me more of Alençon and Navarre.’
‘They quarrel. There is perpetual strife between them. Alençon is a fool, but not so Navarre; he merely pretends to be one. My lord, my plan is this: call Navarre to your presence and explain to him how tiresome your brother has become. Tell him he has your permission to deal with him as he pleases. Not only would he remove a rival for his mistress’ favours, but he would be next in direct succession to the throne, should Your Majesty leave no issue.’
‘I shall leave issue,’ said the King. ‘I am going to Notre Dame with the Queen to ask God’s help in this matter. Moreover, to talk to Navarre of his being next in succession could be dangerous, do you not think?’
‘He would be next in succession—if Alençon were removed—only until Your Majesty produces issue. You would only be reminding him of what he knows already; and, Sire, what a good thing it would be if we were rid of Alençon. He is your greatest enemy. I should like to see all your enemies removed, but it is advisable to start with the greatest of them. I believe that was your mother’s procedure; and you will admit that she is an adept at the art of removal.’
‘You are right. As usual, my darling, you are right. Send at once for Navarre.’
Navarre was brought before the King, and Henry said to him: ‘Brother, come sit beside me and tell me about the bruises you inflicted on Alençon. Du Guast here has just been re- counting something of the incident to me, and it amused me much.’
Navarre talked with a lack of ceremony. If he was a little insolent in the presence of his superiors and he was reprimanded, he would always say: ‘Oh, but I am but a provincial, an uncouth Béarnaise.’ And they had to excuse him. ‘He is just a provincial, an uncouth Béamais,’ they would say, while he smiled at them with his slow, lazy smile.
When he had told the story, the King said: ‘Madame de Sauves has come between your friendship with Alençon, which I believe was, at one time, great.’
‘A little rivalry in love, Sire,’ said Navarre lightly. ‘That is no real barrier to friendship if the friendship be strong enough.’
‘Alençon is no friend to you. He never had a true friend in his life.’
Navarre shrugged his shoulders and smiled at the King.
‘My dear Navarre, why do you not revenge yourself on this rival in love? Think! If he were out of the way, you would be next in succession to the throne. You would not have to fix traps over the door of your mistress’ apartments. The lover and the heir to the throne would be triumphant.’
Navarre’s eyes narrowed. ‘What means this, Sire? Is it a command?’
‘It is not a command,’ said the King. ‘But you may call it a suggestion.’
Navarre pretended to breathe freely. ‘Ah, Sire,’ he said, his eyes mocking the King, ‘I have always been very successful in my affairs. I have never needed to use dire methods to get what I want. As for my being heir to the throne, Your Majesty will forgive me if I say that I do not see how that can be. All know that Your Majesty and the Queen pray for an heir. How can it be possible that God would deny the request of two as devout as you and the Queen? Moreover, I am not tempted by a throne so exalted. My own is good enough for me. Your Majesty will, I know, forgive me if I say that the greater the honour the greater the disquiet that accompanies it. Such honour seems hardly worth committing murder to obtain.’
‘You are a great fool, Navarre,’ said the King.
‘That may well be. But there is often some wisdom in great folly. I will not protest when Your Majesty calls me “fool”. It may be that I am a fool who does not wish to burden his conscience with murder.’
The King and du Guast exchanged uneasy glances. They had exposed their design. They guessed that Navarre might very well carry an account of this interview to Alençon. How could anyone know what was in the mind of that crude provincial, that uncouth Béarnais?
Catherine realized that the court was divided into two camps; one contained the King and his mignons, the other, Alençon and his followers. Margot hovered on the periphery of her younger brother’s circle and had now taken one of his men as a lover—the dashing, dangerous Louis de Clermont d’Amboise, Lord of Bussy, who was known as Bussy d’Amboise, and on account of his dashing exploits simply ‘The brave Bussy’. This man was the male counterpart of Margot herself; he was continually on the look-out for adventure, amorous or otherwise; and being Alençon’s man was opposed to the King’s mignons.
Navarre was aloof, but he was ready—Catherine knew through Charlotte—to ally himself with Alençon if it would prove advantageous to him, although their perpetual bickering over Charlotte made them more often enemies than friends. Margot had made several efforts to patch up the quarrel between her husband and Alençon, and through the influence of Bussy she was now a strong adherent to the Alençon-Navarre alliance. Margot was dangerous, as Catherine well knew; clever and shrewd, she was yet unaccountable, being always governed by her emotions rather than her common-sense, always ready to apply her sharp wits to the cause followed by her lover of the moment.
At the present time, it seemed that events were against Catherine. She had just heard of the death of her eldest daughter, Claude. She had not greatly loved Claude; but it seemed to her that her children were dropping one by one, like rotten fruit, from the great family tree. Of her large brood there were only three left now—her beloved King, mischievous Alençon and dangerous Margot. The King was ageing; it was unnatural for a man who was not yet twenty-five to tire so easily, to show signs of age so soon. Alençon suffered now and then from an affliction of the chest. Were her children unable to live to a normal span, to produce healthy children of their own? She told herself that she must not be unduly depressed by the death of Claude; she must not be unduly depressed by her son’s absorption in his mignons. She must exert all her powers to remove him from the influence of these gentlemen; and the one who perturbed her most was du Guast. She must find some means of removing that young man as soon as possible. She dared not administer one of her morceaux, for Henry would suspect her at once if she did, and he would never forgive her if his favourite died from poison. She must stir up trouble for du Guast in that other camp by seizing on some apparently trivial happening which could, as on other occasions, serve her purpose. It might be that Margot’s lover could provide it. She remembered that Monsieur de la Mole had once proved useful. She must forget her grief at her son’s neglect; she must work her way back to his affection and trust.
She was deeply shocked when she discovered that Henry had ordered state documents to be diverted from her and to be brought direct to him. Du Guast had suggested that should be done, she was sure; and this was the most alarming thing that could have happened, because it could eventually cut her off from all state secrets. When she had discovered this treachery she had been more hurt than angry, so great was her love for her son and her desire for his affection.
She had written to Henry at once. ‘You must let me be told of your affairs. I do not ask because I wish to control them, but because, if they go well, my heart will be at ease, and if they go ill, it might be that I can help you in your trouble. You are my “All”, but even if you love me, you do not trust me as you ought. Forgive me if I speak frankly to you, but if you no longer trust me I have no wish to live longer. I have never greatly cared for life since your father died and I only cared to live that I might serve you and God.’
But when she had written that, she had had to smile. There was only the smallest grain of truth in those words. He had wounded her deeply by his lack of trust, but she wanted fervently to live, even if she had to work against him to keep her power.
Well, here were the rival camps—Henry and his darlings in one, Alençon, Margot, Bussy and Navarre in the other. It was l
ike the old fight between the Bourbons and the Guises. That reminded her that she must not lose sight of Monsieur de Guise, for he was only temporarily in eclipse.
The old stimulation was working within her. Discord between the two camps was to be the order of the day.
‘And as for you, Monsieur de Guast,’ she muttered, ‘make the most of your stay on Earth, for I do not think, little mignon, that you will enjoy it much longer!’
Du Guast was quick to realize that the person most to be feared in the opposite camp was Margot. He therefore planned to have her discredited so that it would be necessary to banish her from the court.
An opportunity came when he knew her to be visiting the house, not far from the Louvre, in which she was accustomed to meet Bussy. Du Guast decided that if he could catch her and the young man there it would be possible to have them both banished.
He had arranged that he and the King, together with Navarre and an attendant of du Guast, should be in that quarter of the town during Margot’s rendezvous with her lover. It was perfectly timed; the King’s coach drove slowly past the house, and du Guast’s man, primed by his master, said to Navarre: ‘There is a house which is owned by the brave Bussy. I’d wager you, my lord, that if you were to break in there now, you would find your wife with him.’
Even the lazy provincial must make some show of indignation at such a suggestion; and the outcome was that the man who had made the remark so damaging to Margot must be challenged, which resulted in the whole party’s breaking into the house. There they discovered a disordered bedchamber; on the bed were black satin sheets such as Margot was known to favour; there was a heavy perfume in the air; but there was no sign of the lovers.
‘They have been here!’ cried the King. ‘We took too long in getting in. They have been warned and have flown.’
Navarre, aware of the mocking eyes of the King and du Guast, took du Guast’s man by the throat and shook him. ‘You shall not,’ he said, ‘make accusations against my wife.’