Madame Serpent

THE TWO QUEENS

QUEEN OF FRANCE! Yet how was her position changed? It was Diane, not Catherine de’ Medici, who had, in effect, mounted the throne of France.

Everywhere now could be seen the King’s initial intwined, not with that of his wife, as etiquette asked, but with that of his mistress. Two D s overlapping (one reversed) with a horizontal stroke binding them to form an H, . They were worked into the masonry, they were embroidered on banners; and even on his clothes, Henry wore them as an ornament.

Catherine continued to smile and none would have guessed that within her burned a desire to deface those entwined letters whenever she saw them. She pretended, as did the more kindly people who surrounded her, that the letters were two C s and an H, not two D s. It made it less humiliating that this could be assumed.

So she went about the court graciously, giving no sign of misery in her heart. She had her own circle now, and she saw that it was conducted with the utmost decorum. All the ladies and gentlemen who surrounded her went in awe of her. She was an enigma. It was not easy to understand how one, continually subjected to humiliation, could preserve such dignity. At times she would seem almost prim; any sign of misconduct in her women would be immediately and drastically dealt with; and yet there were occasions when a coarse jest could bring forth that loud and sudden laughter. The Queen of France was a foreigner; no one could forget that, and no one could love her. She knew this, and she told herself she did not care. There was only one person in the world whose affection she cared about and she had come to believe that patience would bring her that.

But patience― great patience― was necessary.

She could wait. Thank God she now knew how to wait.

Whilst waiting, she looked about for other interests. There was much a Queen could do which was denied to a Dauphine. Francis had talked to her of the alterations he had made to his châteaux. He had found her appreciative and had taught her much. There was one castle in France which Catherine delighted in more than in any other; as soon as she had seen it, it attracted her. Whenever the court was there, she would play an amusing game of the imagination, planning the alterations she would make if it were hers. The Château de Chenonceaux was an enchanting place; it was unique insamuch as it spanned the river and was actually built on the arches of a bridge.

The effect was delightful, for the castle seemed to be above the water like a fairy palace, its keep shaded by protecting trees; water-lilies floated beneath it and stretched up to its dazzling white walls.

Francis had had plans for beautifying still further this most beautiful of his possessions; but Francis was dead; Henry the King was occupied elsewhere; so why should not the Queen amuse herself?

She found great pleasure in her plans.

Meanwhile, she tried to share Henry’s interests, to work patiently and subtly to lure him from Diane. He loved music. and she spared herself nothing in the pursuit of this art. He was particularly interested in chants and hymns, so it was Catherine’s delight to discover old ones and have new ones written. But Diane concerned herself with music, and anything which Diane showed him was, to Henry, always a hundred times beautiful than anything anyone else could proffer.

Catherine was an excellent horsewoman, and she contrived, between pregnancies, to be present at every hunting expedition. She won admiration, even from Henry, for her courage and good horsemanship, while Diane often remained in the castle to welcome the King on his return. How bitterly did Catherine note the eagerness with which the King always greeted his mistress on returning from a hunt in which she had not accompanied him.

He still came to Catherine at night because, so far, she had been able to keep from him the knowledge that she was once more pregnant.

Now that he was the King, Henry had a respect for his position which almost amounted to reverence, His visits to his mistress’ apartments were conducted with great secrecy― as though the whole court did not know of the relationship between himself and Diane. As King, he was naturally more in the public eye than he had been as Dauphin. He would rise at dawn, and the moment he stirred, his entourage would become alive with activity. The highest noblemen in the land, who had been waiting in the antechamber, would enter to salute him and the man of highest rank would hand him his chemise. His first duty on rising was to pray before his bedroom altar in the presence of the assembled company; but from the moment he arose from his bed, and even while he prayed, the dulcimer and clavicord, the horn and lute would enchant his ears.

After prayers, business followed; and then he would eat. He was no trencherman; he had forgotten how to eat, it was said, when he had been a prisoner in Spain; and it was an art he had never been able to master, rather to the disgust of countrymen, for the French cuisine was fast becoming the best in the world. This did not seem in any way to impair his health; he was fit and strong, and after discussing further with his ministers of state, he would devote the afternoon to sport. Usually it was the chase― the most loved of all sports― but he played a good game in the racquet court and was every bit a sportsman.

He had commanded all to forget, while he played, that he was the King; and it was a sight to watch him while men about him discussed the faults quite openly; and when he had finished the game, he would join in the discussion; none was afraid to win a game from the King, because he bore no malice for this, and was delighted to play with men of greater skill than his own.

In the evenings there would be feasting and dancing. It was not wise, said the King’s advisers, that the court should be less brilliant under Henry than it had been under Francis, one must know that the court of France was still the court of France― rich, luxurious, arrogant if need be. Perhaps though, the dancing was a little more stately, the etiquette a little more severe.

And afterwards Henry would be conducted to his apartments for his state coucher. Poor Henry! He must undress in the presence of his courtiers while the chamberlain made sure that the bed was properly made; and when he was settled, the usher must bring him in the official keys of the palace and put them under his pillows.

Only then was the King left in peace to make his way to his mistress’

apartments. Life was more difficult for Henry than it had been for Francis.

Francis had cared nothing for propriety. He would have ordered his courtiers to put ten women to bed with him if he so desired. But Henry must be sure that he had been left for the night before he could rise and go to his mistress.

How Catherine loved him― for his primness, for his greatness, for his desire to do good! Life was indeed strange when it forced her to give all the affection she had to this man who was so unlike herself in every way.

On this night of early summer he came to her apartment which adjoined his own. How stern he looked! So determined to do his duty! They had two children now; she laughed to herself slyly because he did not know that before the year was out, they would have a third. Yesterday, she had all but fainted when sitting in her circle, and only her iron control had kept her sitting, smiling in her seat.

She was not one to give way to ailments, and she was able to ignore the sickening faintness. She must ignore them, for if she did not, the rumours would start. The Queen was enceinte once more! And then goodbye to Henry for many months. Goodbye to love― or what did service as love.

Henry was sad because he had recently attended the obsequies of his father, and death would have a saddening effect on one as sensitive as Henry. He had decided to have the bodies his brothers, Francis and Charles, interred in state at St. Denis at the same time as that of his father. It had been an extravaganza― that State burial; no expense had been spared.

The three coffins, each adorned with a recumbent effigy of its’ occupant, were borne outside the walls of Paris to Notre Dame des Champs. The people of Paris had lined the streets to watch the solemn cortège.

Many sons, Catherine was thinking as she watched her husband, would have rejoiced, would have said: ‘My father is dead, my elder brother is dead; and because of this, I am the King.’

But not Henry.

He spoke of the funeral as he sat by the bed. He always chatted awhile before he snuffed out the candles. He was regular in his habits; and he wanted these visits of his to seem natural; he did not wish to hurt her feelings by letting her guess that all the time he was with her he was longing to depart.

He never gave any sign, by word or look, that he was longing for an announcement from her. He was so courteous; it was small wonder that she loved him. But alas, he was so easy to read and it was impossible for one as astute as she was to be deceived.

So he would chat awhile, playing nervously with bottles on her table, then join her, and afterwards chat again and leave her. The interludes were almost always precisely of the same duration. She laughed to herself― painful, bitter laughter.

How many little Valois would people their nurseries before he decided they need get themselves no more? How long before that happy dream was realized― Diane, old and wrinkled, or better still, dead; and the King visiting his Queen not for duty’s sake, but for that of love?

‘You are sad, Henry,’ she said.

He smiled; his smile was shy, boyish, charmingly congruous in one who was fast turning grey.

‘I cannot forget the burial,’ he said.

‘It was very impressive.’

‘My father― dead. And my two brothers carried off in the prime of their lives.’

She was not eager to speak of his brothers. Did he, even now, when he thought of Francis, think also of her? Suspicion was hard to disperse; it could persist through the years.

‘Charles was no friend to you, Henry.’

‘You are right. As I watched the cortège and grieved for my brothers, Saint-André and Vieilleville were beside me. They remarked on my grief and Saint-André begged Vieilleville to tell me something that happened many years ago at Angoulême. Then Vieilleville told me. He said, Sire, when owing to the folly of La Châtaigneraie and Dampierre, the last Dauphin, Francis and yourself fell into the Charente? I did remember this and I told him so. He then told me how the news that my brother and I were drowned was carried to my father, who was overwhelmed with grief; but in his own apartments my brother Charles was so seized with joy that he was overcome by it. And when he heard our lives had been saved he was overtaken by a severe of fever which experienced doctors attributed to sudden transition from great joy to deep sorrow. Truly Charles was no friend to me.’

She raised herself on her elbow. ‘Henry,’ she said, ‘if he had lived and had married the niece or the daughter of the Emperor, he would have been a dangerous enemy to you.’

‘That is so.’

‘Therefore, you should not be sad. King Francis is dead, but he did not die young, and he had his full measure from life! France never had a better king than you will make, Henry. I pray young Francis will be exactly like his father when on that day, which I trust is far, far in the future, he will take his place on the throne.’

‘You are a good and loyal wife, Catherine,’ said the King.

That made her happy. I shall win him, she assured herself. I have but to remember to go cautiously. But how it was to be careful when she was with Henry. With everyone else she was clever and cunning, but in her state of tremulous excitement which her husband aroused, caution deserted her.

She could not resist speaking of Madame d’Etampes, who had hastily left the court, but whose fate was still undecided.

Desperately, Catherine wanted Anne to be left in peace. Not that she cared for Anne; she cared for none but― Henry. But if she could plead successfully for Anne, Diane was not allowed to wreak her vengeance on her enemy, what triumph!

You are a good and loyal wife! Those words were as intoxicating as the most potent French wine.

‘I was thinking of your father, Henry, and that poor misguided woman whom he loved. He begged of you to spare her. You will respect your father’s wishes?’

Immediately she knew she had been wrong to speak.

‘You are ill advised to plead for such a one,’ he said. ‘I have learned this concerning her: she was as great an enemy to me as ever my brother Charles was. He, with her help, was arranging with young Philip of Spain to attack me when reached the throne. My brother promised to make her Governess of the Netherlands if he married the Infanta. In return for this, she was helping him with money.’

‘I― see.’

‘You see that, being ignorant of what is passing, you should not plead for my enemies.’

‘Henry, had I known that she was guilty of this infamy― had I known that she had conspired against you―’ In her agitation, she rose from the bed and would have come to stand before him; but as she did so, and stretched for her robe, the dizziness overcame her, and valiantly as she tried to hide it, it had not passed undetected by the sharp eyes of King; for after all, he was continually looking for the very symptoms she was trying to hide.

‘Catherine, I fear you are not well.’

‘I am very well, Henry.’

‘Allow me to help you to bed. I will call your women.’

‘Henry― I beg of you― do not disturb yourself. A faintness― nothing more.’

He was smiling down at her solicitously almost. ‘Catherine― can it be?’

His smile was tender now, and how handsome he looked! He was pleased with her; and she longed now, pathetically, to keep his pleasure.

No finesse. No subterfuge now. She wished only to please him.

‘Henry, I think it may be. You are pleased?’

‘Pleased! I am delighted. This, my dear, is just what I was hoping for.’

She was so happy that his irritation with her had turned to pleasure, even if this did mean her fertility released him from of visiting her instead of his mistress.

The uncrowned Queen of France! Surely this was one of the most enviable positions in the land for a practical and ambitious woman to hold. What a happy day for Diane when Francis the King had commanded her to befriend his son!

She received Henry in her apartments, which were more splendid, more stately than those of the Queen.

‘How beautiful you are!’ he said as he knelt and kissed her hands.

She smiled, fingering the jewels at her throat. A short while ago, they belonged to Anne d’Etampes, presents from Francis. Diane wished Anne could see her wearing the gems.

Regally, Diane dismissed her attendants that she might be alone with the King. They sat together in one of the window seats, he with his arm about her.

‘Excellent news, my loved one,’ he said. ‘Catherine is enceinte.’

‘That is wonderful. I had thought there was a look about her of late.’

‘She all but fainted, and I guessed.’

Diane nodded. Sly Catherine had tried to withhold the news. Diane laughed.

Poor, humble little Queen. How much happier it was to be the sort of Queen she herself was! How pleasant to be able to be sorry for the real Queen of France!

Henry had no secrets from Diane. He said: ‘She tried to plead for Anne d’Etampes.’

Diane was immediately alert.

‘My dear, how foolish of her!’

Diane was smiling, but she was disturbed. She pictured the placid face of the Queen― the dark eyes were mild, but was the mouth inscrutable? Surely Catherine would never dare to intrigue with Diane’s old enemy. Diane turned her face to the King and kissed him, but whilst he embraced her, her thoughts ran on. To rule a King needed more caution, more shrewdness than to rule a Dauphin. Henry was sentimental and he had promised his father on the latter’s death-bed to protect Anne d’Etampes. Diane recalled now with what fury she had heard the news that Henry had sent a kind message to Anne on her retirement to Limours when Francis died; in it he had hinted that she might return to court. He had promised his father; he insisted. He was a good man, though unsubtle; but he was also a grateful lover, a man to remember his friends. Anne de Montmorency was already back in favour, and there was a man Diane must watch lest he receive too much favour; but for the time, Montmorency, who had his own score to settle with Anne d’Etampes, was Diane’s ally.

Dear, simple Henry! It was but necessary to show him how Francis’s mistress had plotted against Henry with his Charles for him to see that he was justified in releasing himself from any death-bed promise he had made to a man ignorant of the woman’s duplicity. Anne’s property was confiscated, her servants sent to prison; and her husband, been eager enough to profit from her relationship with Francis, now accused her of fraud, and she was herself sent to prison.

Diane felt that Anne d’Etampes was paying in full for those insults she had directed against the Grande Sénéchale of Normandy. And now― this meek little Catherine must take into her silly head to plead for the woman.

She would, of course, have to learn her lesson. She must realize that she could only be allowed to retain her position as long as she submitted to the uncrowned Queen.

‘I trust,’ said Diane later, ‘that you informed the Queen of the perfidy of Madame d’Etampes in conspiring with your enemies against you?’

‘I told her of this. I fancy she was distressed. She declared herself surprised.’

Well, she might, thought Diane. She would have to be made to realize that it was solely through the clemency of the King’s mistress that his wife was allowed to bear his children.

Diane couldn’t help feeling that it was again necessary to teach Catherine a lesson. She was beginning to think that the Queen’s new standing had gone to her head. After all, reasoned Diane, the woman was but a Medici, descended from Italian tradesmen; Diane herself was a great lady of France, with royal blood in her veins. Yes, Catherine must understand that she owed her position to Diane; and, moreover, that her success in retaining it depended on Diane.

Catherine would learn a lesson more thoroughly, Diane was sure, if it were given in front of others. Therefore she chose a moment when there should be many august witnesses of the Queen’s discomfiture.

It was the occasion of one of those gatherings which, as Queen, Catherine held from time to time. The King was not present; but among the distinguished company was Diane, Henry’s sister Marguerite, Montmorency, and Francis de Guise.

Diane began asking the Queen if she would at some time be kind and gracious enough to show her the plans she had made for the alterations to the castle of Chenonceaux.

‘Why Madame!’ replied Catherine, ‘I should be delighted to show them to you. Of course, you understand that I have not the gifts of my gracious father-in-law, and my plans, I fear, leave much room for improvement.’

‘Madame, I should be glad to see them.’

Guy de Chabot, that stupid, reckless man who had once before shown himself to be Diane’s enemy during the scandal concerning himself and his stepmother, said: ‘Is Madame la Sénéchale thinking of improving on the plans of our gracious Queen?’

‘That may be so, Monsieur de Chabot,’ said Diane coldly, for the man’s manner was insolent. He had shown himself a fool once before; she was sure that he was ready to do so again. He should realize that he was already in the King’s bad graces; he could not help himself by showing a lack of respect towards the King’s mistress.

Diane turned from him to Catherine.

Catherine said: ‘I had thought of altering the southern façade and building the nine arches which Thomas Bohier projected― was it thirty years ago?’

Catherine glowed. She could not help it. Chenonceaux was one of her enthusiasms; it had given her so much pleasure to plan reconstructions when she had been smarting under humiliation. She was trapped, as she could be by her emotions into speaking too glowingly.

Marguerite, who was very clever and able to talk interestingly on most subjects, joined in. There was something kind about Marguerite, and she was glad to see the in the usually pale face of the Queen. Montemorency added his judgments; but artful de Guise guessed what was coming and remained silent.

Catherine said: ‘One of these days I shall start work on Chenonceaux; I shall invite all the greatest artists to help. I shall have the gardens laid out with flower borders; and I shall have ornamented grottoes and fountains.’

Diane answered coolly, since the moment could no longer be delayed: ‘It is my sincerest hope that you will grace Chenonceaux with your presence whenever it is your desire to do so.’

Catherine stopped to look at Diane. Only by the faintest flicker of her eyelids did she betray her feelings. She smiled while she forced herself to hold her hands to her side and not rush forward to slap the serene and charming smile off the face of her enemy.

This was cruel, bitter humiliation. Diane had known of her love for Chenonceaux; deliberately she had trapped her into betraying her enthusiasm, her longing to claim the claim the place as her own; then, before all these people, she had shown that her desires were as nothing beside those of the woman who was the real Queen of France.

Never, thought Catherine, have I hated quite as much as I do now. Not even when I have watched her at Saint-Germain through the hole in the floor. ‘So―’ began Catherine, and hated herself because she hesitated, aware as she was of the sly, laughing eyes of Francis de Guise, of the consternation in those of Marguerite, of the sympathy of de Chabot.

‘The King has been good enough to bestow upon me the castle of Chenonceaux,’ said Diane. ‘The gift is in recognition of the valuable services rendered the State by my late husband.’

It was impossible not to admire the way in which Queen Catherine calmly went on discussing Chenonceaux after congratulating Queen Diane on the acquisition of what was, in Catherine’s mind, one of the most charming residences in France.

Indeed, thought Diane, the Italian woman learns her lessons with grace.

Catherine was thinking: one day, every score shall be settled. You shall escape nothing, Madame.

‘Monsieur, you are downcast today.’

Guy de Chabot found that, in this dance where one’s partners changed continually, it was his turn briefly to dance with Queen Catherine.

He inclined his head. ‘I am,’ he answered, ‘and I hope my condition does not give offence to Your Gracious Majesty.’

‘We would prefer to see a smile upon your lips.’

He put one there.

‘And not a forced one,’ she said.

Now they must come closer in the dance and she took advantage of this to whisper to him: To not be downcast. There is a way out, Monsieur.’

Guy de Chabot looked straight into the eyes of the Queen, and he felt that he had never really looked at Catherine before.

Her lips were smiling, her eyes serene; and yet, he thought, there is something about her― something lurking there, something as yet not fully developed, something of the serpent― But what a fool I am. Anxiety, fear of death is making me fanciful. He did not understand her meaning and his blank expression told herself.

‘You fear de Vivonne,’ she whispered. ‘Do not. There is a way out.’

Now they were not so close, and it was impossible to whisper. De Chabot’s heart beat faster. It was true that he was afraid. He was not a coward, but he supposed that any man seeing death staring him in the face, feared it. He must face de Vivonne in mortal combat, for he had been challenged and had given the consent which King Francis, for the sake of Anne d’Etampes, had denied. De Vivonne was the best swordsmen in France and to fight him was to fight with death.

There were times when one could swagger, pretend one did not know the meaning of fear; but this quiet Queen caught something in his face which he did not realize he had shown.

I am young, he thought; I do not wish to die. What a gay adventure it had seemed, loving the King’s mistress, as many had before him, and some after. And now she, so beautiful, completely desirable, was languishing in prison and he was challenged to a duel which meant certain death.

And suddenly, unexpectedly, here was the Queen to him that she knew a way out. But what way out little Catherine show him? It was the wish of the King, and King’s powerful favourite that he should die. How Queen save him?

The Queen had very little more power than he had. Why, only a short while ago he had seen Madame Diane humiliate her cruelly over this matter of Chononceaux. And yet, suddenly, he had been made aware of the power of the Queen. He could not help it, but it made him shiver slightly, even while it filled him with hope. It was like being suddenly in a dark place by someone he had not known was near him. It was the Queen who had spoken to him; yet it was not the Queen’s mild eyes that looked at him but the of a serpent, calm, patiently waiting for the moment poisonous fangs could be plunged into an enemy.

He had no opportunity of speaking to her for a while. He must continue in the dance, and now he had another saucy-eyed girl who regarded him with favour. He was very handsome, this de Chabot; and the fact that all believed he was not long for this world seemed to add to his purely physical charm. But just now he could think of nothing but the Queen.

He had wondered at her meekness over the affair of Chenoniceaux. He remembered now how unnatural he had thought it, for a wife and Queen, to accept insult so mildly. But was she so mild? He felt that for a moment she had lifted a veil and shown him some secret part of Queen Catherine. He understood it; it was perfectly clear. The King and Madame Diane had decided he should die. He had been the lover of their old enemy; he had given the King, when he was Dauphin, some uneasy moments; he had swaggered about the court challenging him who had dared cast a slur on his honour and that of his stepmother, knowing full well that those who had done so were Dauphin Henry and his mistress. Now he was asked to pay for that folly. But what if, contrary to expectation, it were not de Vivonne who was victor in the combat, but de Chabot. What a surprise for the crowd who would come to see him die. What embarrassment for the King and his mistress. Diane had been prime mover in this affair. Might it not be that the King be so discomfited that he would feel resentment against her on whom he now doted? Yes, de Chabot could see how the Queen’s mind worked. And if she could turn defeat into life, what joy!

He did not see her in the dance again, but later that evening he had occasion to pass close to her. He looked at her pleadingly and he did not look in vain.

‘Tomorrow evening. Masked. The house of the Ruggieri on the river.’

He inclined his head.

It was with apprehension and hope that he went to keep his appointment. It was difficult not to run through the streets of Paris. It was necessary to wrap himself in a sombre cloak that would cover his extravagant court garments; he would doubtless return after dark, and he had no wish to encounter a party of rogues. Moreover, she had said, ‘Masked’. It would not do for any to discover that de Chabot was meeting the Queen at the house of her astrologers.

A new thought struck him. What if this meeting had nothing to do with the combat? He was attractive; he had been much sought after. Surely this could another love affair. With Catherine de’ Medici! He felt cold suddenly, wishing himself back in the palace.

Impossible, he thought. But was it? It was said that the Queen was neglected as soon as she became pregnant, that it was at Madame Diane’s command that the King gave her children. People laughed.

‘What a mild little thing is this Queen of ours. The Italian creature has no spirit.’ And yet, for a moment at the dance, when he had looked into her eyes, he believed he had seen a different woman from her whom the court knew. Could it be that she had no plan of helping him, that she desired him as a lover just as many had before her?

He stopped. He had come to the river; he saw the house of the Italian magicians, and for some minutes he could not take the necessary steps which would lead him to the front door.

He thought he heard the whispering of a crowd. ‘Remember Dauphin Francis―’

He did not know the Queen. No one knew the Queen. Yet for a moment he had thought those beautiful dark eyes were cold and implacable like the eyes of a serpent.

He understood why the King could not love his wife. Had de Chabot not been a man who knew he could, unless a miracle happened, shortly die, he would have turned and gone back hastily the way he had come.

Instead, he shrugged his shoulders and deliberately walked on to the house of the Ruggieri.

Paris sweltered in midsummer sunshine whilst its gothic towers and spires reached towards the bluest of skies. By the great walls of the Bastille and the Conciergerie the people trooped; they came along the south bank of the Seine, past the colleges and convents, while down the hill of St. Genevieve students and artists, with rogues and vagabonds, came hurrying. They were intent on leaving behind them the walls of the capital, for quite close to the City at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, one of the grandest shows any of them had ever seen was being prepared for their enjoyment.

Tumblers and jugglers performed for the crowd; ballads― gay, sentimental, and ribald― were sung; some of these songs were written in ridicule of the fallen favourite Madame d’Etampes, who, it was believed, was destined for execution; none dared sing now the songs that very lady had set in circulation concerning Diane de Poitiers. No! Diane had risen to a lofty eminence. Let us glorify her, said the people. Madame d’Etampes has fallen from grace; therefore let us stamp upon her. If she had appeared among them, they would have tried to stone her to death.

Death was in the air. The people were going to see a man killed. They were going to see rich red blood stain the grass of the meadow and looking on with them would be the King himself, the Italian woman, and that one who was the real Queen of France, although she did not possess the title― in short, Madame Diane de Poitiers; there would also be the great Anne de Montmorency and others of the King’s ministers; in fact, those names were known throughout the land.

Small wonder that the people of Paris had turned out in their thousands to witness the mortal combat between two brave and gallant gentlemen.

De Chabot and de Vivonne were the two protagonists. Why did they fight?

That was unimportant, but it was for some long-ago scandal that de Vivonne, whom everyone expected to win, was taking over the King’s quarrel; and that de Chabot, the lover of Madame d’Etampes before she had fallen in disgrace.

All that July the crowds waited in the fields surrounding that one wherein the combat was to take place. Bets were taken; pockets were picked; men and women lay about on the grass, amusing themselves in sundry ways whilst they waited.

And as the sun rose high, the gallants and brightly-clad ladies began to take their seats in the pavilion, which was decorated with cloth of gold and cloth of silver spattered with the lilies of France. There was Montmorency himself; the Guise brothers, the Cardinals, the Bishops, the Chamberlain― all the high officials of the court; and with them the ladies-in-waiting to the Queen.

On either side of the field were the tents of the combatants. In de Vivonne’s tent― so confident was he of victory― had already been prepared a banquet to celebrate his triumph. He had borrowed the finest plate from the richest households of the court for this occasion; soups, venison, roast meats of all varieties, sweets and fruit, and great butts wine, it was said, were in that tent; indeed the appetizing odours were floating out to the crowd. Everyone’s hope of victory with de Vivonne. De Vivonne was the King’s man; and it was believed that de Chabot had no stomach for the fight.

How delighted was the crowd with the glittering yet sinister sight which met its eyes. Just below the seat in which sat grim-faced Montmorency were five figures, all masked, all draped in black. These were the executioner and his assistants. When de Chabot was slain, it would be their lot to drag him to the gibbet as though he were a felon. It was a glorious and wonderful show― well worth waiting for. There was not a peddler, a prostitute nor a conjurer, a merchant nor a student in that vast crowd who would not have agreed to that.

Now the royal party was stepping out, so the show was all but due to begin.

The heralds blew several fanfares on their trumpets, and now there appeared the royal group led by good King Henry. The crowd cheered itself hoarse. They loved the King― though, declared some, sighing for the magnificence of the most magnificent of kings, he was not such a one as his father had been. But others, who were too young to remember the charm of Francis, thought that none could he better than their good and virtuous King who was so faithful to his mistress.

And here she was beside him, just as though she were his wife and Queen in name. And there again it showed the depth of his love for her, since in all other matters he would have the strictest etiquette observed. She, with him, acknowledged the cheers of the crowd, smiling graciously, beautiful in her black-and-white which made her look so pure and lovely that the coloured garments of those surrounding her seemed suddenly garish.

And then― the Queen. The crowd was silent. No cheers for the Italian woman. Perhaps they applauded the King and his mistress so heartily because of their dislike for the Italian woman.

‘Dauphin Francis!’ was hissed among the unforgetful crowd.

Catherine heard this. But one day, she thought, they will shout for me. One day they will know me for the true Queen of France in every respect. It was the old hope of ‘One Day’.

She could feel the child within her. Here I sit, she thought, pale-faced and quiet, with never a thought, some may imagine, but of the child soon to be born. Little do they know that I wait not because I was born patient, but because I have learned patience. Little do they know that they would not be gathered here to witness this mortal combat but for the fact that in the first place, I set the matter in motion. She smiled graciously and laid her hands on her pearl-studded stomacher.

Madalenna leaned towards her. ‘Your Majesty is well?’

‘Quite well, I thank you. A little faintness. It is to be expected.’

In the crowd they would have noticed the gesture, for there was little they missed; they would have seen Madalenna’s anxious query.

‘You see,’ Catherine wished to say to her subjects. ‘He has his mistress, but I shall bear his children. I alone can bear him kings and queens.’

The herald of Guinne, his silken tabard shimmering in the hot sun, stepped forward and blew a few notes on his trumpet. There was an immediate stillness in the air while the crowd waited for the announcement.

‘This day, the tenth of July, our Sovereign Lord the King granted free and fair field for mortal combat to Francis de Vivonne assailant and Guy de Chabot assailed to resolve by arms the question of honour which is at issue between them. Wherefore I make known to all, in the King’s name, that none may turn aside the course of the present combat, aid nor hinder either of the combatants on pain of death.’

As soon as the herald ceased to speak, a great cheer went up. The excitement was intense, for the combat was about to begin.

De Vivonne came from the tent accompanied by his second― one of Diane’s protégés― and friends numbering at least five hundred strong. They wore his colours― red and white― while before the hero of the day was carried his sword, shield, and banner on which was the image of St Francis. With this company, before which drummers and trumpeters de Vivonne walked all round the field to the cheers of the people. When he had done this, he went into his tent while de Chabot with his second, but with far fewer supporters in black-and-white, did the same.

Next came the ceremony of testing the weapons to be used which, as assailed, Guy de Chabot was to choose. This gave rise to a good deal of controversy, and arguments ensued while the afternoon wore on. The heat was intense, but Catherine scarcely felt the discomfort. This, she had determined should be a day of triumph for her. Today, Henry was going to feel a little less pleased with his Diane than he had ever been before. Catherine did not expect to win her husband from his mistress on such an issue, but it would be such affairs as this, piled one on top of the other, that would eventually, she was sure, turn him from his mistress to his waiting wife.

Diane was leaning forward in her seat, frowning at the delay. What was the trouble? Diane wished the affair done with; her enemy lying dead, a lesson to all those who dared flout the King’s mistress.

Madame, thought Catherine, there is, I hope, a great surprise awaiting you. This trouble over the weapons was the beginning. What joy it had been to wrap herself in a shabby and all-concealing cloak and keep the appointment she had made with Monsieur de Chabot at the home of the astrologers Ruggieri. It was not de Chabot who had chosen the weapons that would used today; it was Catherine. De Chabot had spent hours taking lessons at that house from an Italian fencing-master.

Ha! laughed Catherine to herself. There is much we Italians can do which these French cannot. We know better than they how to remove people who stand in our way! How pleasant now to sit back languidly in her seat and to know why there was this dispute about the weapons, while Diane leaned forward, not comprehending, wondering, as did the restive crowd, why the spectacle did not proceed.

De Chabot declared that he wished to fight on foot, with armour, shields, and two-edged swords, and with short daggers of the old-style― the heavy and hampering kind. De Vivonne was nonplussed by this choice, and for the first time was uneasy.

Diane’s frown had deepened. It was for Montmorency, who for the day was Master of the Ceremonies, to give judgment. And there he sat, the grim-faced old fool, determined to be just.

Catherine wanted to laugh outright. She saw further plans to be made. The King’s mistress and the King’s favourite advisor and best-loved counsellor could, in time, become enemies, jealous of the favour of the King. There would be an opportunity for exploiting her cunning.

In the meantime, to Diane’s disgust, Montmorency had decided that, spite of his strange choice, de Chabot must have his way.

From each of the four corners of the field a herald came, shouting: ‘Nobles, Knights, Gentlemen, and all manner of people! On behalf of the King I expressly command all that, as soon as the combatants shall meet in combat, all present are to preserve silence and not to speak, cough, spit, or make any sign with foot, or eye which may aid, injure, or prejudice either of the said combatants. And, further, I expressly command all on behalf of the King, that during the combat they are not to enter the lists or assist either of the combatants in any circumstances whatsoever on peril of death.’

After this, first de Vivonne, then de Chabot, with their companies of supporters behind them, made one more progress round the field whereupon each must kneel on a velvet cushion and swear that he had come to avenge his honour and that there was in his possession no charms nor incantations, and that his sole confidence was in God and the strength of his arms.

They were conducted to the middle of the field, their swords and their daggers placed in their belts, while the Norman herald shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Laissez aller les bons combatants!’ The great moment had come. The two men slowly advanced towards one another.

Catherine, her hands lying in her lap, felt the mad racing of her heart. There was no colour in her face; otherwise she gave no sign of the intense excitement she was experiencing.

She knew that de Vivonne was not happy. The weapons were too cumbersome for a man accustomed to the swift rapier. He had been outwitted. If only de Chabot was as good now as he had been when facing the Italian fencing-master in the house of the Ruggieri, all would go as she wished.

She would have brought some charm with her that would have ensured de Chabot’s victory, if she had dared; but that oath the men had taken before the priest, and she had known must be taken before the combat began, had made her dismiss the idea. Some supernatural force, other than the one she would call upon with her charm, might be turned against her if she dabbled in such matters.

De Vivonne was springing on his opponent; the crowd caught its breath as he aimed a blow at de Chabot’s head. But de Chabot remembered.

Ah, my beloved Italy, thought Catherine . You can show France how to fight. De Chabot, while feigning to parry the blow with his sword took it on his shield, and stooping to do so, thrust his sword into de Vivonne’s knee.

Bravo! Bravo! thought Catherine, glancing toward Henry and Diane, and emulating their looks of consternation, It was not serious, but to the braggart de Vivonno, the finest dueller in France, it came as a complete surprise, and as he staggered back, de Chabot was able to give him another blow on the same spot, and this time, a more violent one.

It is done, exulted Catherine.

And she was right.

His tendons had been severed, and de Vivonne staggering back with an awful cry, let his sword fall from his hand as his blood spurted over the green grass.

The crowd roared. The combat was over. It was victory for de Chabot― and Catherine de’ Medici.

But my victory, thought Catherine, is the greater because none but myself and de Chabot know it is mine. The breathless crowd waited. What now? Would de Chabot dispatch his victim and hand him over to the executioner for the gibbet or would he spare his life on receiving a confession that de Vivonne had lied and that de Chabot’s cause was the just one?

De Chabot answered the question by shouting: ‘De Vivonne, restore my honour; and ask mercy of God and the King for the wrong you have committed.’

The wretched de Vivonne, in direst pain, still was sufficiently aware of his surrounds to remember ambition. He tried to get up, but failing wretchedly, sank back on the grass.

The moment for which Catherine had waited. De Chabot had left his victim and was kneeling before the King.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I entreat you to esteem me a man of honour. I give de Vivonne to you. Let no imputation, Sire, rest either on his family or upon him on account of his offence; for I surrender him to you.’

Henry had never felt so embarrassed. Here he was, defeated before his court and the citizens of his capital; for de Vivonne’s cause had been his‚ and it was Henry’s honour that de Vivonne was defending.

Catherine’s elation was complete.

Now, my darling, she was thinking, who is to blame for bringing you to this unhappy pass? Whose action, in the first place, set the scandal abroad? Look into the face of her who sits beside you. She is the guilty one. Hate Diane for this; not de Chabot. Oh, my love, why waste time on one who bungles so, when here is your clever Queen who, with your power to help her, could outwit all the men and women of France? How she loved him― even. as he sat there, looking foolish and ashamed.

You’ve lost Henry. admit defeat. Oh, my dear foolish one, you must not hesitate. Have you forgotten that all Paris watching you? Do you not know that mob hysteria can turn to adoration for a hero, and that hero, de Chabot, stands before you now? Do not betray yourself. Blame Diane. Hate Diane. But in the presence of your people do not forget your honour, your nobility.

But the King was silent.

There was a hissing whisper in the crowd. What meant this? The victor was there. It was a surprise, it was true, but who does not like to be surprised? Why did the King not speak. De Chabot, his head held high, had gone back to his foe who to rise and throw himself in an access of hatred on the man who had ruined his future.

‘Do not move, de Vivonne, or I shall kill you,’ said Chabot.

‘Kill me and have done with it!’ cried the wretched man.

And once again de Chabot presented himself to and asked that his honour be restored to him. But still Henry, bewildered and ashamed, did not speak.

Montmorency rose and knelt before the King. Diane’s trembling hand was plucking at the King’s sleeve. Henry must see reason. He could not so demean himself before those thousands of watching eyes. In a few moments, the popularity of years could be lost.

Montmorency entreated. The victor must have his dues, Diane whispered.

‘You have done your duty, de Chabot,’ said Henry coldly, ‘and your honour ought to be restored to you.’

Henry then rose abruptly. The trumpets rang out; and he with Diane and the Queen and his immediate followers walked out of the pavilion.

Catherine was delighted, for surely a King could rarely felt so discomfited.

If he would but remember who had led him to this!

She went to her apartments, and as she sat there, she heard her women chattering.

What were they saying? What was the crowd saying― all those people who had lain about in the fields all night had come to see a man killed and they had seen a King forget his honour.

But later she laughed to have thought it mattered what the people said; it was what they did that was of more moment. They broke into de Vivonne’s tent, and had a good time with the victuals he had prepared to celebrate his conquest.

They feasted and drank and made merry. They stole the rich plate which he had borrowed.

If there was no death for the crowd, there was plenty of fun instead. Perhaps Henry’s feeble conduct was not so important as Catherine had thought it.

Perhaps, for all her scheming, she had come no nearer to winning her husband from Diane.

I cannot endure it, she sobbed to herself during her lonely nights. If I cannot do it this way, I will find some other. A few days later, de Vivonne died. He might have lived if he had wished, but he had torn the bandages from his wounds and would not let the doctors attend him. Hardly anyone seemed to notice his passing The de Chabot and de Vivonne affair was finished. But the Queen developed a new interest in the study of poisons; and in her private bureau there were many locked drawers containing books and recipes as well as potions and powders.

In November another girl was born. They called her Claude, after Henry’s mother.

Henry was paying his nocturnal visits to Catherine again. They must get themselves more sons. Little Francis, at four-years-old was a sickly child.

Catherine watched over him anxiously whenever Diane allowed her to.

Henry had been crowned at Rheims that summer. Catherine had not been crowned Queen so far; but there was no fresh insult in this, since it was the custom of France that the Queen was not crowned at the King’s impressive coronation. Her day was to follow.

During the fêtes which had accompanied the coronation of the King, Catherine had thought of how she could rid herself of Diane. There must be some slow and subtle poison, she told Cosmo and Lorenzo Ruggieri. She could not endure very much more of this humiliation which Diane imposed upon her.

She must rid herself of her enemy. Did they not know that at Saint-Germain she had watched the woman and her own husband together?

The brothers shook their heads. Most respectfully and fervently, they advised her to have the hole in the floor sealed, and to cease to think of the relationship between the King and Diane. They could not help her; they dared not help her. Why, even if Diane died from natural causes, the Queen would be suspected of poisoning her! Moreover, all those been known to advise the Queen would be imprisoned and tortured for confessions.

Catherine understood. Why, if Diane died, these two brothers would set about escaping from France with all speed.

She must not continue to think of removing Diane that way. She listened to them and agreed she had no alternative to take their advice because they were right; but all the same she continued to consider the murder of Diane.

Diane did not spare the Queen. Often she entertained the royal party at Chenonceaux; then she would delight in showing Catherine how she was beautifying the place. It needed great strength of mind not to slip some quick poison into the goblet.

Diane went from triumph to triumph. Chenonceaux was by no means the only gift the King bestowed on her. She was rich in jewels and estates; and her triumphs were mounting.

She now began to arrange the marriage of the heir to the throne.

The family of de Guise was linked to her by marriage, for her eldest daughter had married one of the de Guise― so Diane sought to assist in the elevation of this dashing and ambitious family.

It was characteristic of Diane that, when she had made up her mind that something should be done, she would beg an audience of the King and Queen and discuss such matter with them, gaining that approval which the King would never deny her, and which Catherine had no power to give.

She did this when they were visiting Chenonceaux, as she wished to lay before them her plans for the little Dauphin’s marriage.

She was received by the King and Queen, although, Catherine noted sardonically, it was as though she received them.

‘Your Majesties are gracious to listen to me,’ she said. ‘It is future of our beloved Dauphin. Who could be a better match for him than little Mary Stuart, the Queen of Scotland?’

Catherine said: ‘The Queen of Scotland! Her mother was a Frenchwoman!’

‘Your Gracious Majesty can have no objection to that?’ asked Diane, her lips curling.

‘A Frenchwoman, continued Catherine quietly, ‘a sister to the de Guise brothers. It may be that his Grace the King feels this family are a little too ambitious. A child of their house to come to France as its future Queen might make them feel of greater importance than they do already.’

‘Queens come from strange places,’ said Diane angrily.

Henry spoke: ‘Let us consider this matter. It will be necessary to find a bride for the boy― sooner or later.’

‘Francis is a baby yet,’ said Catherine.

‘The alliances of kings and queens are made while they are in their cradles,’

said Diane.

Catherine bit her lip to keep back the flow of words. So this was a way of getting more power. Diane and the de Guises wished to rule France. Now they were beginning to do so through the King’s mistress; later those ambitious de Guises would do so through their niece.

‘The reports of the little girl,’ said Diane, ignoring Catherine and speaking to the King, ‘are that she is both clever and charming. Think, Sire, what a fine thing that marriage would be for France. Think what she would bring to us!’

‘Scotland!’ said Catherine. ‘A poor country, by all accounts!’

‘Your Majesty speaks truth there,’ laughed Diane sweetly. ‘It is a poor country. All the same it would not be an unpleasant thing to see it attached to the realm of France. But there is another matter which is of the greatest interest.

Sire, have I your consent to speak of it?’

‘My dear friend,’ said the King, ‘I beg you to speak. I know your wisdom of old and I readily give you all my attention.’

Catherine noticed how his eyes adored her. She felt an impulse to burst into weeping, to beg Diane to give him up, and to beg him to tell her what she herself could do to gain his love.

She hastily suppressed such folly.

‘That little girl has a claim to the throne of England,’ said Diane, ‘and her claim is not a light one.’

‘How so?’ cried Catherine, longing to contradict her enemy. ‘There is a young King on the throne of England,:

Diane laughed. ‘That young King, Majesty, is a puny fellow. Small of stature, wan of complexion; I hear he spits blood, and his hair is already falling out.’

Catherine knew it was useless to fight against them. Henry’s eyes were shining; he was in favour of this Scottish marriage because Diane had suggested it, if for no other reason.

‘And when he is dead,’ continued Diane, ‘who shall sit on England’s throne? There are two women. Mary. Elizabeth. And both these women have been declared illegitimate at different times, and by their own father! Now little Mary Stuart, though not so close to the throne, was at least born in holy wedlock. You understand me?’

‘I am inclined to think that it will be an excellent match for little Francis,’

said Henry.

‘Yes,’ said Catherine slowly, ‘an excellent match.’

Diane gave her that smile of condescending approval which Catherine loathed more than anything. But, thought Catherine, she is right. For France it will be good. For France, there will be Scotland and possibly England. It is foolish to allow a personal grudge to spoil what would be good for France.

France will be more important than ever; but so will the de Guises!

And so, negotiations for the Scottish marriage were started.

When Francis heard that he was to have a wife he was delighted. He could scarcely wait to see her. He put away many of his most precious possessions. ‘I am keeping these for Mary,’ he told Catherine.

Elizabeth was envious. ‘ Maman, ’ she wanted to know, ‘cannot I have a wife from Scotland?’

Catherine hugged her daughter. ‘Nay, my love; but when the time is ripe, a handsome husband will be found for you.’

Catherine spent as much time as she could manage in the nursery. This possible because just at present there were other matters to occupy Diane. But while Catherine was with her children, superintending their education, working hard to win their affection, she was not insensible to what was happening throughout France.

The wars of religion had taken a new and bloodier turn. John Calvin was preaching hell fire from Geneva, and crowds were flocking to his side; many in France were supporting him the time of King Francis there had been men ready to risk their lives by tampering with the fine decorations of the church which to them seemed idolatrous. Now there was a fresh outburst of such desecrations; and Henry, supported by Diane‚ was a stauncher Catholic than Francis had been with Anne d’Etampes at his elbow to help the cause of the Reformers.

Catherine shrugged her shoulders over these differences; it seemed to her that life had taught her that there should be only one religion― self-advancement. She wanted power for herself as long as she lived; she wanted Valois-Medici Kings on the throne of France forever. These religious factions― what were they? All very well for some to serve the Holy Church of Rome and some to swear by Calvin. But what was the difference? One believed in pomp and ceremony; the other in austerity. Who should say which would best please God? The Catholics persecuted the Protestants, but that was because the Catholics were the more powerful. Give Protestants the chance and they would be murdering and torturing Catholics. Take this man Calvin; he wished to usurp the place of the Pope― nothing less. What did he say? ‘You shall obey my rules and mine only.’ He was as strict and cruel as any Catholic.

Religion? thought Catherine, as she combed Elizabeth’s hair. What is religion? Observe the rules of the church, one observes the rules of the court. It is a good thing. But right or wrong, good or bad? For me, it is good to rule France. For Diane and Henry, for the de Guises, it is also good to rule France. But if they rule, how can I? It is good in my eyes for me to rule, and bad in theirs. So much for good and bad! No! Keep quiet. Take no sides― unless it is of benefit to take sides― for one side is as good, or as bad, as the other.

But straightforward Henry, fierce Montmorency, and ardently Catholic Diane did not see the matter as did Catherine. To them the Catholic way was the only true way. They had not the gift which enabled them to look at a matter from the angle that was best suited to their own advantage; they could not say:

‘This is good for us, therefore it is a good thing.’

If only Henry would listen to me! thought Catherine. How I would help him! There was this tragedy of the salt tax rising which had done Henry no good.

Why did he not consult his wife on State matters? Because he thought her colourless and unworthy of proffering advice. And how could she change that― while Diane lived? There must be a way of removing her enemy. She would read everything that had ever been written on the subject of subtle poisons; she would summon every seer, every magician to her presence, in the hope of finding some way in which it would be safe to rid herself of Diane. For it was good that she should do so. She was cleverer than Diane; and yet, unless she would suffer complete neglect, she must feign to possess a character which was not hers.

Once again, as she had done so many times before, she set about proving to herself that it would be no sin to rid herself of the woman she hated. If she herself could advise her husband instead of Diane, France, she assured herself, would be a happier country.

‘Holy Mother of God,’ she prayed. ‘A miracle.’

This problem of the salt tax had arisen six years before, when Francis was on the throne, and Francis had dealt with it more cleverly than had his son.

Had I advised him, thought Catherine, I would have begged him to take a lesson from his father. Under Francis, there had been an insurrection in the town of Rochelle against this tax― the gabelle. The citizens of Rochelle had refused pay the tax and had even maltreated those men sent to collect it. Francis, wisely, had gone to Rochelle in person, and had, with that characteristic charm of his, won the citizens to his side. He had gone amongst them, smiling, and begged them to have no fear. They had committed an offence, but he would dismiss that from his mind. They had his free pardon. The citizens of Rochelle had expected bloodshed and the pillaging and burning of their King’s men; instead, the charming Francis himself had visited them and smiled upon them. It was true that they were fined for their offence and the tax remained, but in Rochelle, they talked warmly of the King long after he had gone, and they forgot the burden of the salt tax for a while.

Now that, Catherine thought, was the way in which to deal of the gabelle.

But how differently from his father had Henry dealt with it.

There was a rising in the south, and one town joined another in its protest against the tax-collectors. When these collectors entered the towns, they were seized and maltreated. Near Cognac, one was thrown into the river.

‘Go, you rascal of a gabelleur!’ cried the enraged citizens. ‘Go and salt the fish of the Charente!’

Beggars and robbers swelled the ranks of the insurgents; the movement spread to the banks of the Gironde. This was like a minor civil war.

Oh, why would not the King listen to his wife! But he had no respect for her opinion. He preferred to listen to grim old Montmorency when he was not listening to Diane; and that old man’s way of dealing with a rising was to march at the head of his soldiers; and whilst he said his prayers, he thought of what punishment he would deal out to these men of France who dared revolt against a tax which their Lord King had put upon them.

So down to Bordeaux marched Montmorency with ten companies behind him.

It was a different matter to face an army than to rob and pillage defenceless towns, so the vagabonds deserted and left the honest citizens to face the Constable’s wrath.

What terror Montmorency had carried to the south! He was not content with hangings. He wished to show these men what happened to those who revolted against King Henry. He had the citizens of Bordeaux on their knees in the streets begging pardon; he imposed a heavy fine on the town while he selected one hundred and fifty of the leaders for execution.

Those insurgents who had thrown the collector into the river were themselves thrown into a fire which was prepared for the purpose.

‘Go, rabid hounds!’ cried the Constable. ‘Go and grill the fish of the Charente which you salted with the body of an officer of your King and Sovereign.’

But death by fire was too easy a death, thought the Constable.

He would show these fools. Some were dismembered by four horses; some were broken on the wheel; others were attached to a scaffold, face down, their legs and arms being left free; thus they remained while the executioner smashed their limbs with an iron pestle without touching either their heads or bodies. All these things must rebellious citizens witness.

‘King Henry’s way is not the way of his father,’ said the people of France.

Catherine knew this, because she wrapped her cloak about her and mingled with the gossiping crowds. None guessed that the quiet, plump woman who encouraged them to talk their Queen. Thus did she learn the sentiments of the people.

She enjoyed these excursions, for they gave her a sense of hidden power.

She decided that whatever happened in the future she would adhere to this interesting habit.

She had convinced herself now that to murder Diane would be good, not evil. She continued to pray to the Virgin to show her the sort of miracle which could be made on Earth.

Death and horror at Bordeaux! Pageant and revelry in Lyons! Catherine had looked forward to this visit to Lyons, for in this town, she was sure she would be recognized as the Queen. The citizens of the province would not treat her as she had been treated in the capital.

The King had been in Piedmont and Turin, visiting his armies, and she and Diane, with an entourage, travelled to Lyons to meet Henry there. Catherine had enjoyed that journey, for during it she had been able to feel, briefly, that she was truly Queen. Moreover, she was once more pregnant and was expecting a child in the new year.

Diane had been quiet and unobtrusive; the children were at Saint-Germain where they were waiting to greet the little Queen of Scotland on her arrival; therefore Catherine had not to face the continual jealous irritation which seeing Diane with her children always brought her. As Henry was riding from Italy to Lyons, Catherine had not to watch him with Diane.

Thus would it always be, thought Catherine, if only I could win to myself what is my just due. Holy Mother, show me that miracle. It was September, and it seemed to Catherine that the autumn tints of the countryside had never been so glorious. Her spirits were high. The citizens of Lyons were preparing to greet their King and Queen― good, noble citizens, the backbone of France. They would do homage to their Queen, and the King’s mistress would be forced to slip into the background Did Diane know this? Did it account for her subdued manner?

Alas! when Henry joined them at Ainay, some miles from the town of Lyon, everything was back at normal. He had hardly a word to say to his Queen; his attention was all for Diane. It was long since those two had been together; there much talk of, love to be indulged in.

She could not see them together now, but Catherine’s imagination was vivid.

It tortured her; it maddened her. For what did the homage of the citizens of Lyons mean to her when Henry’s love was denied her?

They thought her cold. If they but knew! To them she was just a machine― a machine for bearing children― because Fate had made her the King’s wife. It was cruel. It was so coldly sordid and humiliating.

‘The Queen is with child,’ she seemed to hear Henry saying to Diane.

‘Thank God. I am relieved of the necessity of visiting her.’

I will kill her, thought Catherine. There must be some slow poison that will make it seem like old age creeping on. Holy Mother, show it to me. But even as she raged, calm common sense did not desert her. If anything happened to her, you would be blamed, she reminded herself. Remember Dauphin Francis, for he is not forgotten. Be careful. Rid yourself of any other who stands in your way, but not Diane― not yet, for you might find that in ridding yourself of your enemy you had also rid yourself of your husband. They travelled in an immense and beautifully decorated gondola down the Rhone to Vaise; its seats were engraved with that device, the interlacing Ds and an H, which kind people pretended to believe was two Cs and an H.

Catherine reminded herself bitterly that this gondola would have been made to the King’s instructions, and that was why it bore those letters.

At Vaise a pavilion had been made ready to receive them and everywhere Catherine looked there were those significant letters. The whole country, then, was saying: ‘It is not the Queen we must honour if we will please the King; it is his mistress.’

When they left the pavilion and entered the town they found themselves in an artificial forest which had been erected by the citizens for their reception. It was cleverly contrived, but spoiled for Catherine, for no sooner had they entered this man-made forest than through the artificial trees came a party of nymphs― all the most beautiful girls of the neighborhood― and their leader, the loveliest of them all, carried a bow and a quiver. It was immediately apparent that she was to represent Diana, the goddess of the chase. She lead a tame lion on a silver chain, and she asked the King to accept the animal from the citizens of Lyons.

And I, the Queen, Catherine thought, might be nothing but the attendant of Diane, for all the respect that is paid to me! Yet there was worse to come. There followed the entry into Lyons itself, under triumphal arches, past the fluttering flags; and, listening to the cries of the welcoming crowds, Catherine in her open litter with the weight of diamonds and wretchedness, knew the acclamation was not for her, but for Diane, who rode behind her on her white palfrey dressed in her becoming garments of black-and-white.

The citizens of Lyons had no doubt of what was expected of them. When the burghers came forward to greet the ladies, they kissed the hand of Diane first, and that of the Queen second.

Between her lids, the Queen surveyed them.

Never, never had a Queen of France been so publicly humiliated!

After the triumphal journey through the cities of France, the royal party made its way to Saint-Germain. Catherine was more unhappy at Saint-Germain than anywhere else; yet when she knew that they were bound for this palace, she could scarcely wait to reach her apartments. In them she could suffer more exquisite torture than in any other spot. Everywhere else she imagined; there she saw.

All were eager to see the little Queen of Scotland, who was now living at Saint-Germain with the royal children, and the child was the topic of conversation as the cavalcade rode On the arrival, the usual ceremonies which accompanied the King wherever he went were performed; and once again it was Diane who was treated with the homage and respect which should have been the Queen’s.

Quietly, and as soon as she could do so unobserved, Catherine slipped away and went to the nurseries.

The nurses in attendance curtsied low.

‘And how are the children? And how have they been in our absence?’

‘Your Majesty, the baby is very well, and so is Mademoiselle Elizabeth.’

‘And the young Prince?’

‘He is not so well, Madame, but the coming of the little Queen has cheered him greatly.’

Catherine went into the first of the nurseries, where three children were playing together. Francis and Elizabeth smiled the queer, uncertain smiles they always gave her.

‘Good day to you, my dears,’ said Catherine.

‘Good day to you, Maman,’ said Francis. He was now five and small for his years. Little Elizabeth was three and a half.

Now Catherine’s eyes were on the newcomer, was the loveliest little girl the Queen had ever seen; her hair was fair and softly curling, her eyes bright-blue, her complexion delicately tinted, and her face a perfect heart-shape. So this was little Mary Stuart! No wonder accounts of her charms had preceded her! She was enchanting; and Catherine was immediately aware that it was not merely enchantment of face and form.

The little girl’s bow was graceful, and there was no sign of self- consciousness as she came forward to greet the Queen of France; her manner was completely dignified as though she had in mind that while she was now in the presence of the Queen of France, she herself was destined for that high rank.

She was six years old― a little older than Francis- easy to see that in the short time she had known him she had made the boy her slave. Already he loved her. That was perhaps just as well, since he would have to marry her.

‘Welcome to France, my dear.’

In perfect French the little girl thanked the Queen for her welcome.

‘You had a comfortable journey, I trust,’ said Catherine.

‘Oh yes. Soon after we left the Clyde, though, an English squadron sighted us, but we escaped. That was most exciting!’

Her eyes sparkled. Could it be that she was only six? She seemed more than a year older than Francis. And even Elizabeth, Catherine noticed, was ready to follow her about and laugh when she laughed. She seemed to have been educated in advance of the little Valois. Well, they would all be educated together now, for the King had given orders that Mary Stuart was to be brought up as a French princess, although in view of the exalted position she would one day hold, she would immediately take precedence of the little Valois girls.

The child chattered on in French. Yet she was a dignified little thing, Catherine thought, a little too imperious. She seemed to be implying: You are the Queen, but I am the future Queen. I am the daughter of kings; and you come from a merchant family! But that could not be. Catherine was a little over-sensitive on that point. She had suffered so much indignity that it might be that she was too ready to look for slights.

She sent for the child’s governess who was a pretty red-headed widow; a natural daughter of James IV of Scotland. Her name was Lady Fleming; and she declared herself to be at the service of the Queen of France.

Catherine discussed the education of the children, and explained that she herself supervised, to a large extent, the children’s education. She fancied Lady Fleming’s smile was a trifle impertinent, as though she already knew that the Queen was only allowed to do what Madame Diane permitted. Truly, Catherine reminded herself, I am over-sensitive. It was the after-effects of the humiliation of Lyons.

‘I shall be giving you instructions,’ she told Lady Fleming and dismissed the woman.

‘Now children,’ she said, ‘tell me what you have been doing while you have been awaiting the coming of the King and myself.’

Francis was about to speak, but Mary spoke for him. They had played games which she had introduced; they had read books which she had brought with her.

Francis’s Latin was not very good she feared; and Elizabeth scarcely knew anything at all.

‘I can see you are a very learned young person,’ said Catherine; at which the little Queen of Scotland was graciously pleased.

Catherine then asked questions about the court of Scotland, and Mary supplied the answers, while Francis and Elizabeth watched her in delight. Every now and then, Francis would: ‘ Maman, Mary says―’ Or: ‘Mary, tell my gracious mother of the way you ride in Scotland―’ And Elizabeth kept murmuring Mary’s name and clutching the elder child’s gowns with her fat little fingers.

An enchanting child, thought Catherine. But one to whom it would be necessary to teach a little humility.

.And then Henry and Diane came into the room.

The attendants dropped to their knees and little Mary Stuart gave the most charming curtsy of all.

‘Come here, little Mary, and let me look at you,’ said Henry. The lovely blue eyes were lifted to Henry’s face with something like awe. She might be the future Queen of France, but here was the ruling King.

And how handsome is my Henry, thought Catherine; forgetting the new arrival at the sight of him in his black velvet garments. Her eyes went to the black velvet cap with the famous letters ornamenting it in flashing diamonds.

Henry was disturbed. He was comparing the lovely girl with poor delicate Francis. Poor boy! If he had looked sickly before; he looked ten times more so side by side with the dazzling Mary.

There was no doubt about it, Henry had a way with children. Their delight in him was spontaneous. Now he seemed to forget his dignity; he sank on to his knee and took the beautiful little face in his hands; he kissed first one smooth cheek then the other.

‘Methinks you and I shall love each other, Mary,’ he said; and she blushed happily; already she loved him.

He signed for a chair and the attendants immediately brought him that one which was kept for him here in the nursery. Henry sat down and made the little girl aware of Diane.

The bow! The looks of respect! So Diane’s fame had travelled to Scotland, and the bright little girl knew that if she would please the King of France, it was not the Queen to whom she must do homage, but Madame Diane.

‘Welcome, Your Majesty,’ said Diane. ‘It makes me very happy to see you and to discover that you have already won the friendship of the Dauphin.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mary lightly. ‘He loves me. Do you not, dear Francis?’

‘Oh yes, Mary.’

‘And he would be so desolate if I went away. He has told me so.’

Francis nodded in agreement.

‘Elizabeth too!’ lisped Elizabeth; and Diane caught up the child in her arms and kissed her, while Francis climbed on to his father’s knee and patted the other, indicating that he wished Mary to use that.

Henry had an arm about each child.

‘Now you must tell me what you have been doing, my dear little ones.’

They chattered, gay and laughing. Mary, her big eyes seeming to grow bigger, explained the perilous journey in detail, making the King laugh with her description of how they had foiled the English fleet. Diane, hugging Elizabeth, joined in their laughter; and Catherine suddenly realized that Mary Stuart was no longer a dignified little Queen; with the King and Diane she was just a six-year-old little girl.

There was no place for Catherine in that magic circle.

She crept away unnoticed, and went to the cradle in which lay little Claude.

The baby at least seemed glad to see her. She clucked and laughed as her mother bent over her. Catherine held up a finger and the baby’s eyes grew large as she stared at the jewel there. Then she reached for it, laughing.

‘You love your mother then, Baby Claude,’ murmured Catherine.

But she knew that Baby Claude would grow up soon; then she too would turn from her mother to Diane― unless a miracle happened.

The King grew more and more under the influence of Diane. He had created her Duchesse de Valentinois and bestowed greater and richer estates upon her.

She was such a good Catholic that it was only right, thought the King, that the confiscated property of Protestants should be given to her, together with fines which the Jews were called upon to pay from time to time.

Brooding on her hatred, Catherine despised herself. Why did she not find some way of killing Diane? What folly it was to love, for it was only her love for Henry which stopped her again and again from trying one of the poisons she had in her possession. Sometimes she felt that it would be worthwhile risking the perpetual hatred of Henry if she could free herself from the continual humiliation of witnessing his love for Diane.

But she knew her love for her husband was greater than her hatred for his mistress. That was the crux of her problem. While matters stood as they were, she had that period between having children when she could share her husband with Diane; at other times she lived on her imagination. But Diane dead, and her death traced to Catherine, might mean banishment― anything, in which case she would be robbed of Henry’s visits and those other intimacies which she enjoyed in her mind.

Sometimes she implored the Ruggieri to help her. They stood firm. No matter how subtle the poison, they dared not risk it. They begged her to cling to reason. It was difficult; it was only her desire for her husband that saved Diane’s life.

Early the following year her son Louis was born, and in June of the same year she had her coronation. The crown was placed upon her head, but it was Diane who wore the Crown jewels; and it was Diane’s head with that of the King which appeared on the medals.

Tired out by the celebrations which attended her coronation, she would lie in her bed and think yearningly of the King as she had seen him that day in his white armour covered by a tunic of cloth of silver, the scabbard of his sword encrusted with rubies and diamonds; with what dignity he had ridden his noble white charger, while over his head was held, by mounted men with frisky horses which pranced on each side of the King’s, a canopy of blue velvet embroidered with golden fleur-de-lys.

He had looked so noble, so kingly. No wonder people had cheered him.

Catherine clenched and unclenched her hands. If only― I will do it. I do not care what happens. I will not see him doting on her, all the time giving her what belongs by right to me. Many times during the darkness of night she poisoned Diane in her imagination; she saw herself sprinkling powdered white poison over the woman’s food; she saw Diane turning the book whose pages were smeared with some deadly solution that would seep into her skin; she saw her drawing on gloves that had been cunningly treated by Cosmo and Lorenzo.

But with each morning, caution came hand in hand with common sense, and although she could not part with an idea which was an obsession and belonged to her life as much as did her love for her husband and her hatred for his mistress, she knew that the time was not yet ripe.

Contemplating the gaiety of the life at court, it seemed to Catherine that a colourfully embroidered cloth had been laid across something that was horrible, for the wars of religion were taking on a deep significance throughout the land.

The Chambre Ardente― a special chamber to deal with Huguenots― had been created by Parliament. Henry was less cruel than many about him and he did not wish to have his subjects tortured and burned at the stake, even though he was convinced that their misguided religious views might merit this punishment; but he was hemmed in by strong men and women who demanded punishment for the heretic. These were the wily de Guises, grown more powerful since their niece, Mary Stuart, had arrived in France, the cruel Montmorency, and Diane herself.

Calvin was flourishing, and Protestantism was growing everywhere; there were even some towns where the Reformers were in a majority; and where they were, as Diane did not hesitate to point out to the King, they did not refrain from persecuting Catholics. A firm hand was needed, said the Catholic party.

Protestantism must be ruthlessly suppressed.

Catherine, concerned with her own obsession, felt aloof from the conflagration. She would state no opinions and favor none unless it were beneficial to her to show favour. If the Protestants could help Catherine de’

Medici in her fight against Diane, then they should have her help; but if the Catholics could prove advantageous in the same cause, then Catherine was all for the Catholics.

Watch and wait for an opportunity to defeat Diane, should be her motto.

An opportunity did come her way, and she seized on it.

Henry was disturbed. It was all very well for his friends to tell him that the burning and torturing of heretics was a necessary duty. Even though Diane insisted on this, he could not feel happy about it. He would, he declared in unguarded moment, be prepared to hear what an ambassador from the Reformed party had to tell him. The man could come to him and have no fear, on the King’s honour, of being victimized for anything he might say on this occasion.

This announcement of the King’s threw Diane and her friends into a state of uneasiness. There were intelligence in the Reformed party; and the fact that the King had, without first consulting Diane, declared his willingness to hear their side of the case was in itself disconcerting.

Catherine was delighted. Could this mean a lessening of Diane’s power, an inclination in the King to think for himself? She was alert, wondering if there was any small way in which she could turn this matter to her advantage.

There were several prisoners awaiting torture and execution, the King had said; and he was agreeable that one of them should be sent to him that he might state his case.

A prisoner, thought Catherine. She guessed that Diane suggested that. Why, the King should have sent for Calvin or some such exalted member of the party.

But a prisoner. There was no doubt that the King was as much under the influence of his Catholic mistress as ever.

So Diane, with her new relations, the de Guises, brought their man before the King. He was to be questioned in the presence of others besides Henry; indeed, there was a good gathering of ladies and gentlemen of the court seated about the King.

Catherine watched the wretched man who had been selected for cross- examination. He was a poor tailor, a man of no education; but as Catherine cunningly surveyed him, it began to occur to her that Diane her friends had not been so clever She felt that mad racing of her heart that was the only indication of her excitement. This tailor was a man of ideals; there was no mistaking the burning zeal in his eyes; he stood before them unafraid, so sure that he was right and they were wrong. She was reminded at once of Montecuccoli and how such men could be used by others whose zeal was not for a cause but for their own power and the fulfillment of their desires. Such men as Montecuccoli and this poor tailor were made to be used by such as herself, the de Guises, Diane. But in this case, she was cleverer than Diane and the de Guises. Had she been in their place, she would not have brought a fanatic and an idealist to speak against them.

The tailor looked wretched in his ragged clothes, the more so because of the brilliant colours and the jewel-studded garments of the court. It was foolish to imagine such a man would be over-awed by splendid surroundings and costly jewels. To him there was no splendour but that of Heaven, to be attained only through what he believed to be the true religion.

He proved to be a man of some intelligence and he talked eloquently. It was easy to see that the King was not unimpressed. It was impossible, Henry was obviously thinking, not to admire spirit and courage, and these the man un-undoubtedly had, even though his religious views were to be regretted.

Catherine was trembling. She longed now to impose her will upon the man, as she could do easily enough with such as Madalenna. There was within Catherine a power which she did not fully understand. There were times when she would have a clear vision of something which had not at the time happened and which certainly would. It was a queer gift over which she had no control.

But this other gift of concentration which enabled her to make others do as she wished in certain circumstances, she felt she was more able to guide.

How stimulating it was to endeavour to work her will on others! Now she wished the tailor to see her as the poor neglected Queen of France, humiliated by the haughty harlot in black-and-white. No doubt he thought of her as that, but at this moment, his mind was far from the relationship of the King with his wife and mistress. Catherine would bring his thoughts to this matter, because she desired to will him to make an outburst, before all these people, against Diane.

She caught the man’s eye and held it for several seconds. She forced herself to see herself through his eyes― the neglected wife, betrayed by a husband with an adulteress. She saw herself, if she had power, pleading for the Huguenots and Calvinists, helping those of the Protestant faith.

She felt the sweat in the palms of her hands; she was almost faint with the effort she had made.

Then Diane put a question to the tailor, and the moment had come.

‘Madame,’ he cried in ringing tones as he turned to the King’s mistress, ‘rest assured with having corrupted France and do not mingle your filth with a thing so sacred as the truth of God.’

The silence which followed this outburst lasted seconds, but it seemed longer to Catherine. The King had risen. His face was scarlet. Diane had been insulted. Henry, who had humiliated his Queen in a thousand ways, would not stand by and hear a word against his mistress.

Everyone was waiting for the King to speak, holding her head high and seemed haughtier than ever. Catherine, recovered from her mental strain, endeavoured to look as shocked as any present that a humble tailor could so speak of the Duchess of Valentinois. The tailor stood defiant, unabashed, his eyes raised to the ceiling; he cared nothing, this man, because he believed that God and all the angels were on his side.

And while the King stood there, slow in his anger, struggling to find the words he needed to express his hatred for this man, two of the guards strode forward and seized the wretched tailor.

‘Take him!’ said Henry, through clenched teeth. ‘He shall be burned alive in the Rue Saint-Antoine, and I myself will watch him burn.’

The tailor threw back his head and laughed.

He called to the saints to witness the puny revenge of a dishonourable King who had promised that he might be allowed to speak freely. Did they think to hurt him through what they could do to his miserable body? He welcomed death. He would die a hundred deaths for the true faith.

Catherine, as she watched the man carried out, knew that Henry was already ashamed of his conduct. This was the second time he had been publicly humiliated through Diane. Would he realize this? Would he not feel some resentment? Or was this just another of those petty victories which led nowhere?

Catherine watched her husband pace up and down his room. Through the open window they could hear the tramp of feet and the low chanting of many voices.

The wretched procession had almost completed its miserable journey through the streets.

Catherine took her place beside the King at the window. He was already regretting that he had sworn to see the tailor burn. He had no stomach for this sort of thing.

Catherine, ever inclined to indiscretion in his presence, wondered whether she should whisper to him: ‘It is through Diane that you suffer thus. You would not be standing at this window now to watch a wretched man perish in the flames by your orders if it were not for her. She has brought you to this. Do you not see that if you would but listen to your Queen you need never suffer thus? I would never lead you to indiscretions such as this. I would never have let you humiliate yourself over the de Vivonne-de Chabot affair. Oh, my darling, why will you not be wise and love your wife so that she does not have to plot to humiliate you!’

But she would not again be trapped into betraying herself.

She said softly: ‘They are tying up the tailor now.’

‘Catherine,’ said Henry, ‘There is a strangeness about the man.’

‘Yes,’ she answered.

‘A look of― what is it― do you know?’

‘A look of martyrdom, Henry.’

Henry shivered.

‘They are lighting his faggots now,’ said Catherine. ‘Soon he will take his arguments to the Judgment Seat, I wonder how he will fare there.’

‘Methinks he sees us.’

Catherine drew back. From where he was placed, that he might be seen from the palace windows, the tailor could command as good a view of the King as the King could of him.

The tailor’s eyes found those of the King, and would not let them go. They stared at one another― the King in jewel-encrusted velvet, the tailor in his rough shirt.

Catherine watched the red flame as it crackled about the martyr’s feet; she saw the cruel fire run like a wild thing up the coarse shirt. She waited for the cry of agony but none broke from the tailor’s lips. Others groaned in their misery, but not the tailor.

The man’s lips were moving; he was praying to God; and all the time he prayed, his eyes never left those of the King.

‘Catherine!’ said Henry in a hoarse whisper; and hand groping for hers; his palms were clammy and he was trembling. ‘He will not take his eyes from me, Catherine.’

‘Look away, Henry.’

‘Catherine― I cannot.’

Nor could he.

Catherine crossed herself. It was as though the tailor had put a spell on the King, for Henry wanted to run from the window, to shut out the sight of the tailor’s agony, but he could not; and he knew that, for the rest of his life, he would never forget the dying tailor.

But Catherine had almost forgotten the tailor, for Henry had turned to her for comfort; and it was her hand that he held. She was thinking, Out of small victories, large ones grow; a small miracle can be the forerunner of a great one. Henry was praying silently for the protection of the saints; and all the time, he stood there staring, until with sudden crackling and roaring the faggots at the tailor’s feet collapsed, and the flames roared up and the martyr’s face was hidden by a wall of fire.