The King coughed in an embarrassed way and rose. He walked to the window and stood there uncertainly, his figure silhouetted against the hangings, infinitely desirable to her in all its virile manhood.
He had not changed at all. He did not wish her to touch him. Demonstrative affection on her part embarrassed him now as it ever did.
The magic was slow in working.
She twisted the ring on her finger.
‘Francis is not as strong as I could wish,’ she said. ‘We must get ourselves more sons.’
He nodded, grimly, she thought, as if he was wondering when there might be an end to this unpleasant duty.
Nothing was changed. He sat and fiddled with the jars upon the table; she could see his face reflected in the mirror, gloomy, embarrassed.
She got into the magnificent bed, and waited, twisting the ring round and round on her finger, biting her lips to keep back her tears.
* * *
One October day, a few weeks after the death of little Louis, Anne de Montmorency begged an audience of the Queen.
Catherine wondered what the harsh old man could want of her. She had never really liked him; she did not even admire him. He was too easy to understand, too straightforward to win― in her estimation, he was not even a good soldier. He had come to dishonour in the reign of the previous King; and if he were not careful the same thing might happen to him again. He was flouting Diane openly, which was absurd.
He should have done what wise people did― work against her in the dark.
Sooner or later there was going to be a battle between the King’s mistress and the Constable. Silly old man! thought Catherine. It was sadly obvious who would win such a battle. If he wished to hold his place he should do as his betters did, and appear to be Diane’s ally.
Still, she was interested to hear what he had to say. She was depressed and unhappy. The ruby ring had proved to have no magical properties whatsoever.
She had worn it for a week and the King’s feeling for her had not changed one little bit. Her hopes had been raised and proved futile; and she had at first been furious with the Ruggieri brothers, who, she was sure, deliberately misled her.
They were right, of course; there was nothing she could do just yet. The destruction of Diane must wait awhile; she must continue to use less sure methods than poison― just for a while. She had wanted to fling the ring into the river, but even then her caution got the better of her. She sent it back to Anet so that Marie might find some way of returning it to Diane’s finger.
There was one bright spot in the whole sorry affair. Diane’s health was not improving, and she still forbade the King to visit her at Anet.
The suggested interview with Montmorency therefore promised to relieve the tedium, and she eagerly attendant to bring him to her.
The Constable bowed low over the Queen’s hand. He had come, he said, to pay his respects to the new baby. As she took him to the nursery where Charles was sleeping peacefully, and watched him prod the baby’s satiny cheek with finger until he awoke and whimpered, she knew that Montmorency had not asked for an interview merely to do that.
She said: ‘He is young yet, Constable, to realize the honor you do him.
Come and see the other children. They will be delighted to see you.’
Francis and Elizabeth made the Constable pretty curtsies and young Mary offered him an exhibition of her pert dignity.
After he had exchanged a few pleasantries with the children, the Constable said that the afternoon was mild, and he would deem it a great honour if the Queen would take a turn in the gardens, where they could chat undisturbed.
The last words excited Catherine, for she knew at once that Montmorency had something to say to her which he did not wish anyone to overhear; so, stimulated always by thought of intrigue, and guessing that this might have something to do with the absent Diane, Catherine readily consented to accompany him.
As they walked round the most private of the closed-in gardens, Montmorency said: ‘Your Majesty will agree with me that it is peaceful here since some have been forced to leave it.’
Catherine, feeling her way cautiously, inquired: ‘Whose absence has made the palace of Saint-Germain more peaceful to you, Constable?’
The Constable prided himself on being a blunt man. He was not one to prevaricate. ‘I speak, Your Majesty, of the Duchess of Valentinois, now confined to her bed in the Château of Anet.’
‘You are pleased that she is absent then, my Lord Constable?’
Montmorency frowned. Name of God, he thought. Was the Italian woman going to pretend she was surprised by that? The woman was a fool. Look at her meekness! She sat and smiled, and bore no malice towards a woman who was as much her enemy as Spain was to France. What milk-and-water creature was this? Still, even such a one must have a spark of jealousy.
‘I am pleased indeed, Madame,’ he said gruffly. ‘The lady has become overbearing of late.’
Catherine was delighted. It was pleasant to have the Constable of France on her side. But she must go carefully, and remember not to disclose her true feelings, even to those who be her friends.
‘Did it seem so to you?’ she asked.
‘It seems so to many, Madame. May I speak frankly to you?’
‘I beg that you will.’
‘Well then, the King has been much enamoured of this lady, but the King is human. Madame la Duchesse de Valentinois is indisposed and cannot amuse the King. Why should there not be others to do so?’
Why not indeed! she thought. Why not his desirous and most jealous Queen!
She said coolly: ‘That seems sound sense, Constable.’
‘The King is not one to move towards pleasure unless assisted, Madame.’
‘Unless assisted,’ repeated Catherine, with that sudden loud laughter which she usually managed to suppress because it belonged to the hidden Catherine rather than to the one she wished everyone to know.
‘I repeated― unless assisted, Madame. There is a woman who attracts the King, and one I think who, were she given opportunities, might take the place of the absent Duchess.’
‘Oh?’ It was difficult now to hide her feelings; all the jealousy, all the bitterness was rising to the surface of her emotions. She said to herself: This man must not guess. No one must guess.
Montmorency was impatient. Enough of this side-stepping! he thought. If we decide to speak with bluntness, then let us speak with bluntness. ‘I refer to the Scots woman Lady Fleming. The King has a fancy for her.’
‘Lady Fleming! But― she is an old woman―’
‘The King fancies old women. In any case, she is not as old as the Duchess.’
Catherine closed her eyes and looked away from the Constable. He must not see that she was almost in tears. She said uncertainly: ‘The King has noticed her, I grant you. I thought it was because he interests himself in the education of the little Scot. It seems to me that if he has been seen talking to her, that is the reason.’
‘Lady Fleming is an attractive woman, Madame. She is― different from our women because she is a foreigner. The King is human. Everyone at court is enamoured of the little Scots Queen. Why? She is pretty as a picture; she’s full of witchery. But that is not all. She is― different. Half-French; half-Scot. It is the strangeness that attracts. His Gracious Majesty, with a little direction, could become enamoured of the Lady Fleming. It is to your own advantage as well as mine to unite him with a silly woman and separate him from the wily one of Anet.’
Catherine’s eyes were shining now. A brief affair with the silly Scots widow― a break with Diane― and then? Waiting for him would be his true and loyal and most forgiving wife, who was, after all, the mother of his children.
Here was a way to work a miracle which a silly ring could not give her.
She said, almost choking with the loud laughter, ‘We could arrange a masque. The King could partner with the widow. The wine― the music― and the absence of the Duchess―’
Montmoren
cy nodded. ‘The Fleming will do the rest. She only awaits the opportunity. The King may have been thinking of young Mary’s education when he chatted in such friendly fashion with the governess, but the governess was thinking of the King.’
‘I shall consider this, Monsieur de Montmorency,’ said Catherine. ‘And now, I beg of you, lead me back to my apartments.’
The court was amused. The Constable had suggested a masque. What next?
The grim old soldier planning gaiety! What could be behind that.
The Queen was taking upon herself the management of this affair― usurping the place of the absent Duchess of Valentinois. What sort of entertainment would harsh Montmorency and Catherine contrive between them?
Everyone had to admit that the idea was a novel one. The Queen would decide which characters were to be represented and, in secret, she would tell each person which of these characters had been allotted to him or her. Therefore the Queen alone would know, as she mingled with the guests, who it was beneath the masque and the elaborate costume. The Queen was to attend as herself; and she would give a jewel as a prize for what she considered the best costume. Each guest was in honour bound to keep his or her identity secret. It was a masque with a difference; there must be real surprise when masques were removed at midnight.
The Queen summoned the Lady Fleming to her presence.
The woman curtsied, while Catherine’s keen eyes noticed that she was a little uneasy. Could it be that Henry had been a little more than friendly already?
It seemed incredible.
Catherine dismissed her attendants.
She made the woman stand while she talked to her. Catherine’s glittering eyes took in each detail of her appearance. The woman was pretty in a conventional way― red hair, widely parted lips that gave to the face a vacant air. She was plump; she was weak and helpless, appealing, Catherine supposed, in what Henry would see as her womanliness. Catherine could imagine her coquettish, eager, a partner in a romantic intrigue.
Imagine it, or was there now something insolent about the woman? She was older than Catherine. It was incredible and maddening. What had these women that the Queen had not?
‘Your Majesty wished to see me?’
Catherine said: ‘It concerns your costume for the ball. You know my plan.’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘You are to come as Andromeda. You know the story of Andromeda? She was chained to a rock and given up to a monster. Perseus came to the rescue with the Medusa’s head, the sight of which turned the dragon to stone. He freed Andromeda and married her.’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘If you are in any doubt as to your costume you may consult me.’
‘I am deeply grateful, Madame.’
‘There is one other matter. For the purpose of the masque, you will need to be at the side of Perseus for the evening. You understand that. I wish to tell you this: who is who at the masque is to be a great secret, but in your case I am going to let you into the secret. You will understand the reason when I explain it to you. The part of Perseus is to be played by a very exalted person indeed; I would not wish you, Lady Fleming, to commit an indiscretion by― shall we say an over-familiarity.’
How the wanton creature’s eyes sparkled! She knew what this meant. She was delighted. She was longing for the King even as the Queen longed.
Catherine could have slapped her silly face.
‘Your Most Gracious Majesty, you may rely upon me.’
Gracious, I am indeed, thought Catherine grimly, to hand my husband over to such a ready wanton! And I know, Madame Fleming, that I may rely upon you to play the part Monsieur the Constable has chosen for you. ‘You may go, Lady Fleming. Do not forget if there is any matter on which you wish to consult me concerning your costume. I shall be ready.’
‘Your Gracious Majesty is very good to me.’
Catherine stared after the woman as she bowed herself out. One could not hate such a simpering fool. She was all eagerness now, preparing herself to seduce the King.
Why should I let her do this? Catherine demanded of herself.
Why should I myself not wear the costume of Andromeda? Why should it not be the Queen who must lure the King from his sick Duchess? Because the Queen could never do it. He knows her too well. No costume, no mask, could disguise the Queen in the King’s eyes. Moreover, as Montmorency knows, as Lady Fleming herself knows, the King is attracted by the fool, and only needs the stimulation of wine, sensuous music, the inevitable romance of a lady in disguise― together with the prolonged absence of his mistress― to be tempted into committing an indiscretion.
* * *
The King was adequately disguised in the armour of Perseus; wits of cloth of silver instead of mail. His graying hair was hidden and his eyes peered out through slits in his silken visor.
He was enjoying the masque more than he had enjoyed anything since Diane had lain sick at Anet; and even his sorrow at his mistress’s sickness was not so great, for the last few days had brought better news of her.
Andromeda pressed close to him. He was excited because he knew whose enticing form was beneath the costume of Andromeda; he had seen a red ringlet beneath her wig; moreover, that halting French of hers was unmistakable. The Scottish governess spoke the language of his country with some difficulty and great charm.
Catherine had chosen the music― Italian music. It was soft music, deeply sensuous; it was the sort of music to put ideas into a head that was usually a sober head.
Andromeda flirted gaily, pretending not to know who her partner was. He found himself responding― awkwardly, it was true― and enjoying it. After all, it was very enjoyable to be foolish, incognito.
‘How happy I am that I was chosen to be Andromeda,’ she murmured, ‘since you are Perseus.’
She pressed against him as they danced. He felt younger than he had for a long time. He was reminded of a charming young girl in Piedmont; he was experiencing all he had experienced there― the same violent feelings, the same uncontrollable desire to kiss the woman and make love to her.
The image of Diane was fading, although it could never fade entirely.
This was nothing, he hastened to explain to himself.
Diane would understand. This was just a frivolous masque which the Queen had arranged because he was so melancholy since his little son had died and his mistress was sick. It was nothing but an evening’s frivolity.
Andromeda, warm and clinging, chattered on merrily. Her fingers clung to his, and she lifted her face, obviously expecting him to kiss her. He found himself doing so― while he explained to Diane:
This is nothing, Diane. Just a silly masque. The Queen arranged it because I was so wretched― anxious on your account. Andromeda whispered: ‘The wine I have taken would seem to have gone to my head. What of you― Perseus?’
‘To mine also,’ he answered.
That was true, he supposed. Catherine had most assiduously arranged that his cupbearer should keep his goblet replenished.
Andromeda called his attention to a laughing Daphne who went by with Apollo.
‘Did it not seem to you that Apollo had a look of de Guise?’ whispered Andromeda.
‘It did indeed.’
‘There are some who cannot hide themselves whatever the disguise,’
laughed Andromeda. She added quickly: ‘And if we are right, and Apollo is Francis de Guise, I greatly doubt whether that Daphne will turn into a laurel before her Apollo has had his will.’
Henry laughed, and wondered what had happened tonight.
Diane’s image was growing fainter. When he did think of her, he was sure that she would fully understand that flirtation with the gay little Scot was not of the slightest importance. He was indulging in it merely because, missing Diane, he wished to lighten the melancholy of one evening without her. He refused to remember that he had reasoned similarly during his infidelity at Piedmont.
‘Let us dance no more,’ said Andromeda. ‘I am weary of dancing.
’
She drew him from the throng, and it was comforting knowledge that no one would know that the King had left the dancers In the cool of an antechamber off the main hall, Lady Fleming turned to the King suddenly, and throwing her arms about him, kissed him passionately on the lips. The silk of his vizor was in her way and, laughing, she lifted it.
‘That― was very forward of me, was it not?’ she murmured coquettishly, waiting for his response.
‘Indeed not!’ said the King haltingly; and he returned her kiss.
He realized now that he had always been attracted by the Scottish governess, not because of her interest in the education but because of her red hair, her white skin, and her pretty foreign ways. He knew too that she had been attracted by him and the reverent glances she had sent his way had also been inviting.
Her small white hands stroked his face, and he felt his blood racing. This was Piedmont all over again.
She said: ‘I know where we can be quite alone― for an hour or so―’
* * *
In and out among the sweating dancers went the Queen, her alert eyes missing nothing. She saw them leave the ballroom, and, in spirit, she was with them, every passionate moment.
Her eyes were hard and angry. Hatred, jealousy, and cunning battled in her heart. Was she right to have done this thing? Did it not hurt as much to picture him with the sly Scot as with Madame de Valentinois?
But patience! He will soon tire of that silly creature. One must be grateful for the small blessing. Remember, Diane cannot keep him faithful.
All these people were watching her, wondering at her. What a fool she was, they were thinking. She had organized the most amusing masque the reign had known, and she herself was taking no part in it. Why had she not played Psyche to the King’s Cupid or some such role? That was what Madame d’Etampes would have done in her day. Surely, Queen Catherine did not enjoy being humiliated and now the monster Valentinois was out of the way, here was her chance.
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