Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

But the people of France still believed her to have been involved in the Dauphin’s death. She was an Italian with much to gain, and that was good enough grounds, in their eyes, for murder. Yet I am innocent of this, she assured herself. I never thought to remove poor Francis. She could hear the trumpeters now, and Henry came in to escort her, for on a ceremonial occasion such as this, he could not sit with his mistress. He looked noble in his splendid garments but he frowned at his wife and she sensed his uneasiness.

‘The air is thick with rumour,’ he said, and his glance seemed distasteful as it rested upon her. ‘Would my brother were alive!’ he continued with great feeling. ‘Why should those have wished to destroy my family?’

Catherine went towards him eagerly and slipped her arm through his. ‘Who knows what plans are afoot?’ she said.

‘They are saying the Italian lied.’ Now he would not look at her.

‘They will always say something, Henry.’

‘I would my father had not arranged this spectacle. Or I that you and I need not be present.’

‘Why?’

He turned to her. He looked into her dark eyes that seemed to have grown sly, secretive. She repelled him today more than she usually did. He had thought he would get used to her; he had even begun to think that he was getting used to her, but the mysterious death of his brother he did not want even want to look at her. He did not understand her; and how could he help knowing that her name figured largely in the whispering scandal now circulating through Paris, through Lyons, through the whole of France? She was queer, this wife of his. She, who was calm and self-contained in company, was an entirely different person when they were alone. Now, when shortly they must see a man suffering a horrible death, her eyes gleamed and twitched with eagerness as she plucked his sleeve.

He did not understand her; he only knew that when he was with her, he was filled with a nauseating desire to escape― from the clinging hands, the pleading eyes and the lips, too warm and moist, which clung over-long to his flesh.

‘Why?’ he repeated impatiently after her. ‘You know why. You and I stand to gain so much by my brother’s death. Had he lived, I should have remained a Duke, you a Duchess; now, the poisoned cup is being prepared for us, we shall be King and Queen of France one day.’

She said in that low, husky voice which she reserved for him: ‘I have a feeling that my husband will one day be the greatest King France has ever known.’

‘He would have been happier if he had been born to kingship, and had not to step into his murdered brother’s shoes!’ He turned abruptly; he was afraid that what was whispered about her was true! He found, to his horror, that he could believe it. ‘Come!’ he said coldly. ‘Let us not be late, or there will be my father’s anger to face.’

They took their places in the glittering pavilion. Catherine knew that all eyes were on her; and in the hush that followed, she heard the faint rustling of silk and brocade, and whispering of voices.

Diane sat with the Queen’s ladies, upright, haughty, magically beautiful, so that Catherine’s control threatened desert her, and she felt like crumpling into tears. It was not that she should be so old and yet so beautiful. What chance had a young girl, inexperienced in the ways of love, against such a one? Oh, Montecuccoli, she thought, you have given the promise of queen-ship when what I wanted was to be a beloved wife and mother! She moved closer to the jewelled figure of her husband. Was it her fancy, or did he move slightly away from her? His went to Diane, and now he was the devoted lover whom Catherine wanted for herself.

I hate her! she thought. Holy Mother of God, how I hate her! Help me― help me destroy her. Send a blight to destroy that bright beauty; send humiliation to lower that proud head― Kill her, that the one I love may be mine. I wish to be a Queen and a well-loved wife. If this could happen to me, I would give my life to piety. I would never sin again. I would lead a blameless life free from even venial sins. Holy Mother, help me. Oh, Henry! Why do I, so carefully nurtured, so balanced, s controlled, why do I have to love you so madly when you are enchained by that sorceress! The heralds were trumpeting, and everyone was rising in his or her seat for the ceremonial entry of the King and Queen. Francis looked weary. He was mourning both the death of his son and the devastation of Provence. Catherine, watching him, that he would not be influenced by the whisperings concerning herself.

She sat back now, for the wretched prisoner was being carried out. Could that be handsome Montecuccoli! He was unrecognizable. He could not walk, for both feet had been crushed to pulp in the cruel Boot. His once clear brown skin was yellow now; in a few weeks they had changed him from a young to an old man.

Catherine was quick― and greatly relieved― to see that he had retained that noble and fanatical air. Bruised, bleeding and broken he might be, but he wore his martyr’s crown. She had not been mistaken in her man. He knew what terrible death waited him, but he was resigned; perhaps he felt that his greatest torture was past. Four strong men were leading out four fiery horses; they needed all their strength and skill to hold the animals. Catherine’s mind switched back to a scene in the Medici Palace when she had sat with her aunt and the Cardinal watched the death of a faithful friend.

She had shown no emotion then. It had been important that she showed none. Now, it was far more important.

Each of the Count’s four limbs was attached to a different horse.

Now― the moment had come. Young girls leaned forward in their seats, their eyes wide with expectation and excitement; young men caught their breath.

There was a loud fanfare of trumpets. The horses, terrified, galloped in four different directions. There was a loud cry like that of an animal in the utmost agony; then a deathlike silence only by the thudding of horses’ hoofs. Catherine stared at the horses galloping wildly about the field, attached to each a gory portion of what had been Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli.

She was safe. Montecuccoli could not betray her now. And the Dauphin Francis was dead and in his place was Henry, before whose Italian wife shone the throne of France.

THREE WOMEN who watched the horrific spectacle knew that from now on their lives would be different.

Anne d’Etampes left the pavilion feeling apprehensive, ten years she had ruled the King of France and, through him, France. There was no one in the land more important than herself; even men such as Montmorency and the Cardinal of Lorraine, if they wished to enjoy the King’s favour, must first seek that of his beloved Duchess. The most beautiful woman of the court, she was also one of the cleverest. Francis had said of her that among the wise she was the most beautiful, among the beautiful the most wise. She saw her power now, hanging by a thread; and that thread was the life of the King.

The King and the new Dauphin, it would be said, were different as two Frenchmen could be; but in one important point there was a similarity. Francis, all his life, had been guided by women; in truth, he had been ruled by them, but so subtly that he had never realized it. In his youth there had been his mother and later his sister; their rule had been overlapped by that of Madame de Chateaubriand, who, in her turn had been ousted by Anne herself. These four women had one quality in common; they were all clever; Francis would not have tolerated them if they had not been. So much for Francis, And Henry? He was of a different calibre; there had been no loving parent and sister in his childhood; instead, there had been Spanish guards to jeer at him. But the woman had appeared at the right moment, a woman who had those very qualities which delighted the father― beauty and wisdom; and more completely under the sway of a woman than Francis had ever been, was young Henry in the hands of Diane de Poitiers.

There was more in this hatred of Diane and Anne for each other than mere jealousy. They were each too clever to care that the other might be considered more beautiful, except where beauty could be counted as a weapon to gain the power they both desired.

The more intellectual of the two women was Anne. Writers and artists of the court were her close friends, and they, like herself, were in the new faith which was beginning to spread over the continent of Europe. Anne passionately wished to see the Reformed Faith brought into France. She had many with her; all the ladies of the Petite Bande, for instance, and they were most influential in the land; then there was her uncle, the Cardinal of Melun, and Admiral Chabot de Brion.

The admiral was more than a supporter, for, believing in the equality of the sexes, Anne saw no reason why, since Francis was to unfaithful her, she should remain faithful to him.

Diane, the enemy of the Reformed Faith, had sworn to fight against it.

Montmorency, now the closest male friend of the Dauphin allied with his young friend’s mistress. The Cardinal of Lorraine supported Diane, with three of his nephews, young men of great energy and ambition: these were Francis, Charles and Claude, the sons of the Duke of Guise. With such adherents, Diane could feel strong even against the influential woman of the court.

So Anne, thinking of these matters, wondered afresh what mischievous enemy of hers had, by proxy, slipped the poison into the Dauphin’s cup.

But there was nothing to be done but wait and watch, and lose no opportunity of ousting her rival. The Dauphin was young; the woman was old; and the little Italian was not without charm.

Try herself as she might, Anne could not help but see herself as the moon that is beginning to wane.

* * *

As Henry led Catherine back to their apartments, she also was thinking of the change that had come over her life. Her face was impassive; she gave no sign that the scene she had just aroused any emotion in her. Henry looked yellowish-green. He had seen death before; he had seen even such cruel death; but this touched him more deeply than anything he had ever seen before. He wished he had not so much to gain from his brother’s death.

Catherine turned to him as soon as they were alone. ‘How glad I am that it is over!’

He did not speak, but went to the window and looked out.

Surely, thought Catherine, he must be glad. A short while ago a Duke, now a Dauphin― with the crown almost within reach. He must be secretly rejoicing.

She went to him and laid a hand on his arm. She was sure he did not notice her touch, since he did not draw away from it.

She said: ‘Now it is avenged, we must try to forget.’

Then he turned and looked into her eyes. ‘ I cannot forget,’ he said. ‘He was my brother. We were together― in prison. We loved each other. I could never forget him.’

His lips trembled, and, seeing him softened by his memories she sought to turn the situation to her advantage. ‘Oh, Henry, I know. He was your dear brother. But you must not grieve, Henry, my love. You have your life before you. Your wife who loves you― and longs to be a wife in very truth.’

She saw at once her mistake. She who was sly in intrigue, was clumsy in love; intrigue was natural to her, but love, coming suddenly, she did not understand its ways.

He disengaged himself. ‘I would I knew who had killed him,’ he said; and his eyes glowed as they looked straight into hers. She flinched and he saw her flinch.

He turned from her quickly as though he wished to put great a distance between them as possible, as though when was near her he could not rid his mind of a terrible suspicion.

‘Henry― Henry― where are you going?’ She knew where he was going, and the knowledge enflamed her, robbing her again of that control which she had learned was her strongest weapon.

He said coldly: ‘I do not think it necessary that I should keep you informed of my movements.’

‘You are going to her again― again. You desert your wife on such a day― to go and make sport with your mistress.’ She saw the hot colour creep up under his skin; she saw his mouth set in the prim line she knew so well.

‘You forget yourself,’ he said. ‘I have told you that Madame la Grande Sénéchale is not my mistress. She is my greatest friend whose calm good sense gives me great relief from the tantrums of others which I must endure from time to time.’