Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

Each sensed the other’s fear.

Catherine thought, Oh, Ippolito, it should have been you. Everything would have been different then― different and wonderful. Cautiously she touched her eyes and found them wet.

The boy was sweating. He felt that of all the ordeals he had been forced to face in his miserable life, this was the worst.

She could feel his trembling. Could he hear the beating of her heart? She knew and he knew that their duty must be done.

She waited for him to speak. It seemed that she waited a long time.

Then: ‘You― you must not blame me. I― I did not want this. But― since they have married us―’

His voice was lost in the darkness.

She answered quickly: ‘I did not want it either.’

But now she knew that, great though her fear was, she was less afraid than the boy. That moved her suddenly, and she felt a longing to comfort him.

Why, though he was older than she was― only by a few months, it was true― hers was the greater knowledge of life. She had loved Ippolito and lost him; she had lived and suffered as a woman, whereas he had never been anything but a boy.

It was her place, therefore, to comfort, to lead.

‘Henry,’ she said gently, and she moved towards him.

These two lay still and silent in the state bed until the early hours of the morning, when they fell into deep sleep.

* * *

When Catherine awoke it was broad daylight. She thought for the moment that she was in her bedroom in Florence; but almost immediately she was aware of her young husband beside her, and, remembering her wedding day and the night that followed it, she felt herself flush hotly.

Her flush deepened, for she saw now what had awakened her. On one side of the bed stood Clement, on the other the King of France.

‘Charming! So charming!’ murmured the King. ‘As sweet as buds in Maytime.’

The Holy Father said nothing; his dark, crafty face was set in lines of concentration.

‘My little Catherine is awake!’ said the King, and he stooped to kiss her. He whispered: ‘How fared you, Catherine? What have you to say for the honour of France?’

Catherine bade good morning to these two illustrious personages. She murmured something about it being unseemly that that she should lie while they stood.

‘No ceremony, my little one, on such an occasion,’ said the King. And, turning to the Pope, he said: ‘I think your Holiness may set his mind rest. Let us pray to the saints that you may return to Rome in a month’s time, rejoicing.’

Henry had opened his eyes; he immediately grasped the significance of the papal and paternal visits. He flushed hotly, hating his father, hating the Pope, and hating his young wife.

* * *

A month later, papal duties necessitated the return of Clement to the Vatican; but before he left, with his cardinals and bishops, he gave audience to his young relative.

He told Excellency that he wished to speak in private with the young Duchess of Orléans.

Catherine knelt and kissed the fisherman’s ring, thinking, I shall not do this again for a long time. And this thought gave her pleasure.

After the blessing, the Pope asked: ‘My daughter, have you news for me?’

‘No, Holy Father.’

‘No news!’ The Pope was angry. In spite of hopes and prayers, it had failed to happen, and he must return to the Vatican an anxious man. He blamed the young people. They had not been assiduous in their efforts, or the Holy Virgin would not have failed the Pope himself.

‘I fear not, Holiness.’

‘Daughter,’ said the Pope. ‘The Dauphin of France does not enjoy the best of health. Have you forgotten what your position would be were he to die?’

‘No, Father.’

‘The Duke of Orléans would become the Dauphin of France, and you the Dauphine. And with the death of the King―’ The Pope’s voice took on a hint of malice as a picture of the handsome sensualist, who delighted in the lusts of the flesh, lying dead, rose before his eyes. ‘With the death of the King,’ he repeated, and added quickly, ‘for death is something to which, my daughter, we all must come, and with the death of that delicate boy, you would be the Queen of France. Have you thought what this would mean?’

‘I have, Father.’

‘One frail life between you and the throne of France. And should this circumstance― shall I say happy or unfortunate circumstance?― come about, I trust you would be ready to do your duty by your family.’

‘I would pray that that should be so, Father.’

‘Never forget the need for prayer, and remember this may well happen for the good of France― and Italy. It may be the will of God that this should be.

Have you prayed regularly that your Union should be fruitful?’

‘Regularly, Father.’

‘That is well. Rise, my daughter.’

She stood up, and the Holy Father rose with her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. The Pope was puzzled, unsure of the King of France. What had he meant by the boy’s being an inadequate lover? Had there been some subtlety behind that remark after all?

The Holy Father said very quietly: ‘My daughter, a clever woman can always get herself children.’

AT THE French court it was thought that the little Italian was colourless; she was too quiet, too eager to please. They did know, they could not guess, what emotions were hidden from them. Catherine rejoiced in the hard training which had taught her to smile when she was most unhappy.

During the first year, she mourned Ippolito. It seemed to her that the memory of her handsome cousin would be with her forever. I am the most wretched person in the whole of this country, she assured herself.

At the same time, she was finding it difficult to recall very clearly what Ippolito looked like; the tones of his voice had become blurred and, odd though it was, when she tried to conjure up images of her cousin they would become merged in that of her young husband.

She could not hate Henry, although she wanted to. She wanted to feel towards him as he did towards her. She embarrassed him, she wanted to tell him that he embarrassed her. ‘Do you think I want to be with you!’ she longed to shout at ‘Why, when we are together, and you think it is you I wish to love., it is not. It is Ippolito! If you think that I desire you, then you are mistaken. It is Ippolito whom I want, whom I have always wanted and always shall.’ There was in her a passion, n a desire which frightened him. He was so cold; he wanted to keep aloof. Love between them― but that was the wrong word for it― was to him a duty which he undertook as he might a penance. Love! There was no love. Only the need to get children.

He avoided her as much as possible. Whenever he could, he would escape to the Chateau d’Anet, where his great friend would entertain him. Catherine could not understand that friendship between the beautiful widow and her husband.

What could two such people have in common? Why was it that he sought the company of such a dignified, such a worldly woman, when his wife, his own age, was ready to be his friend even if she could never love him.

Catherine felt shut in by youth and inexperience. She was lonely often, frightened sometimes. She was indeed a stranger in a strange land.

But for the friendship of the King, she would have been desperately unhappy. When he talked to her she would he conscious of an exhilaration; she would be actually glad that she had come to France. He enchanted her; he fascinated her. She felt that, in a strange way which was incomprehensible to her, she was in love with the King. It was her delight to think over his conversation with her and those about him; to try to read what was in his mind.

Sometimes she would say to herself: if only Henry were like his father! And then, again, she would be glad that he was not, for although Henry avoided her, he avoided other women as well. It was only that attachment to a woman old enough to be his mother that persisted. Catherine thought she understood. Henry had no mother, and he felt the need of one. Henry was only a boy. She wondered― not without excitement― when he would become a man.

Life seemed to be made of pleasure. There was always a masque about to begin, or a banquet to prepare for, balls, jousts, and journeys. The meeting of Francis and Clement had not been solely the occasion of the marriage of their young people; they had made plans for campaigns against Spain and England.

The King, loving pleasure so much that it was never easy to tear himself away from it, yet yearned for military successes to wipe out the defeat of Pavia. As for the Pope, he was always ready for a new ally, providing that ally kept his plot secret. And who could be a better ally than the King of France, now tied to him by the bonds of relationship?

So, while awaiting the fruition of his schemes, Francis, being impatient, must be kept amused. There was Marguerite to soothe him with her sisterly devotion; Anne d’Heilly to respond to the love he gave her; many lovely women to divert him. He kept close to him some twenty or thirty young women, all renowned for their beauty and their wit. Wherever he went, they rode with him, and he would listen to their counsels rather than to those of his masculine advisers. It was not sufficient to be beautiful enough to charm his senses; they must be clever enough to please his lively mind. Theirs was the task of providing erotic and intellectual pleasure for their master. If his appetite was jaded, they must serve up old dishes garnished to taste like knew. No sultan ever had a more solicitous harem. They must be skilled in the arts of lust and politics; they must be strong to endure hours in the saddle without fatigue; perfectly formed that they might sport with grace in a mirror; sharp-witted enough to converse with foreign ambassadors. Entry into this esoteric band was reserved for the very talented, and was considered the highest honour which could befall a lady of the court. Catherine longed to join the Little Band. She could not, of course, be one of those to those whom the King made love, but she fervently wished that on that on those days when they rode off together and would be away for the whole of the day, that she might be with them. Anne, the King’s favorite mistress, was head of the Little Band, and she had shown preference for the little Italian.

If only I could join, Catherine would think. Not only would it show Henry that his father, who despises him, is fond of me, but I should have many happy days in which to forget my melancholy.

She realized that she was becoming increasingly anxious to show Henry that she was not dull and stupid, that she was worthy of some notice. Indeed, she was piqued by this young husband of hers Not that she should have cared. He was of no account. The King had nothing but contempt for him, and Catherine was not surprised, considering the way he would and stammer when spoken to and had hardly a smile for anyone.

Why should she care? She kept telling herself that it was not his regard she sought. Let him escape to Anet whenever he could; she did not care.

In such contempt did the King hold his son that he would not give him a separate establishment even now that he was married. Catherine did not mind that. It meant that they must share household with the other young Princes and Princesses. And a grand household it was― far grander than anything Catherine had ever known before― with its hosts of officials, chamberlain’s equerries, pages, doctors, surgeons, ladies and gentlemen, stewards, and pages. Still, it was expected that Henry should have an establishment of his own.

Catherine was much less lonely living with the other young people than she would have been in a household of their own. She was growing quite fond of them all. Young Francis, a delicate boy, was gentle in his manners and kind to the little stranger; his clothes were very sober in cut and colour, and he preferred drinking water to wine. The two Princesses, Madeleine and Marguerite, were quiet little girls, but eager enough to be friends with her. As for young Charles― his father’s favourite― she secretly disliked him. He was too boisterous and found it immensely funny to play rather unpleasant practical jokes on the members of the household. Catherine had found a dead rat in her bed on one occasion; and on another a pail of icy water had fallen on her head when she entered a room. She bore these tricks with good humour; she did not wish to offend one so beloved of the King, and she gathered that she had not fared badly at the hands of young Charles. She had heard that one of the women of the household― a pious creature― had, on going to her bed at dusk, found a man there, naked and dead. Catherine’s quiet acceptance of the tricks played on her was such as to make the young Duc d’Angoulême feel that she was not a worthy subject for his, and she was very quickly left in peace.