Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

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.

CATHERINE LAY at Saint-Germain. Another boy had just been born. This was Charles Maximilian; and she had now three sons― Francis, Louis, who was more sickly than his elder brother, and Charles.

She should have been a happy woman, since that fertility for which she had once fervently prayed was hers; but her miserable jealousy persisted.

Only this morning, she had heard women talking beneath her window, and getting up from her bed, she had gone to the window and crouched there listening.

‘The King has gone to Anet.’

‘To Anet! At such a time! His place is here with his wife and new-born son.’

Catherine had imagined the lift of the shoulders, the sly smiles.

‘Oh yes, my friend, it is the custom, is it not, to be with his Queen at such a time? In all things deeply sensible to what is right and what is wrong. But when Madame de Valentinois beckons― ah then, it is another matter.’

‘Poor Queen Catherine! How sad she must be to find herself and her new son so neglected!’

‘The Queen?―’ The voice dropped so low that Catherine could not hear.

And then: ‘Something― strange about the Queen. I do not think she cares.’

Catherine laughed grimly. Not care indeed! And something strange? Perhaps they were right there. But what a cruel thing when a Queen must be pitied by her women!

Deliberately, then, the woman of Anet had lured Henry from Saint-Germain at such a time.

Catherine rose from her bed. Useless to remove the desk and rug and look into the room below. Instead she prayed; she; she wept; she cried out bitterly; and the subject of her prayers was: ‘Holy Mother of God, show me a miracle!’

* * *

Was this the miracle?

It was Madalenna who brought the news to her. ‘I have news, Gracious Majesty. The Duchesse de Valentinois lies sick at Anet.’

Sick at Anet! Catherine’s heart began to beat more quickly. This was it. Her prayers were answered.

‘The King is at Anet, Madalenna.’

‘Yes, the King is with Madame la Duchesse, but it is said that she is very sick indeed.’

Catherine could not wait to summon the Ruggieri brothers to her. It was dusk, and, putting on her cloak, she went to see them. She was as active as ever after the birth of five children all following close upon one another. She hurried to the house by the river.

She knew, as soon as she entered the house, that Cosmo and Lorenzo had heard the news. There was that stubborn look in their faces, that suspicion, as though they believed that in some way, although she had not long left her bed, she had contrived, in spite of their warnings and their care, to administer poison to the Duchess of Valentinois.

She was impatient with them, as they immediately closed all doors, drew the shutters and sent out their two servants, although they were Italians. They were afraid of the Queen’s obsession.

‘You have heard the news, I see,’ she said, not without a touch of scorn.

‘It is grave news,’ said Cosmo.

‘Grave news indeed! It is the best news I have heard for many years.’

‘Beloved and Most Gracious Majesty,’ begged Cosmo, ‘we implore you to be calm. The Duchess is ill and none knows the illness. Rumour spreads like fire on windy nights in this city.’

Catherine drummed her fingers on the table. ‘Oh yes, yes. There will be some to say that I have had something slipped into her wine, sprinkled on her food, spread over the pages of a book― I know. They will accuse me of poisoning her.’