Виктория Холт: Madame Serpent

Catherine’s alert eyes missed nothing. Francis de Guise, she noted, was much in evidence― diabolically attractive with that hideous scar and his rich garments. He had taken Montmorency’s place as Grand Master of the King’s Household, and Catherine admired his cleverness in playing to the crowd. He had allowed the common people to use the scaffolding which had been erected for the occasion.

‘Le Balafré!’ called the crowd. He knew well how to play to the humble people of Paris, he was their idol, determined to be their King.

Cardinal de Bourbon greeted the royal party as they entered the church.

While he was delivering his oration, gold and silver coins were thrown to the crowds. Even in the church it was possible to hear the shouts of the people, shouts of delight from those who secured the money, shouts of protest and from those who were almost trampled to death in the struggle. All through the ceremony the shouting persisted, mingled with screams of the injured.

Catherine was glad when they left the church, for by time the weak had prevailed on the heralds to stop the scattering of money, crying out that unless they did, there would be many deaths to celebrate the wedding of their Dauphin, Back at the Bishop’s Palace a banquet awaited them, and after this the King led the bride in a dance; watching them, Catherine remembered her own wedding and magnificent Francis with the kind, debauched eyes holding her hand telling her that she was Catherine of France now, not Caterina of Italy.

There was a lump in her throat; it was born of pity for poor ignorant little girl from Italy. If only she could have been as wise as the present Catherine, what a lot of misery she would have saved herself!

But here was Francis, the hero of the occasion, bowing before his mother, and begging for the honour of her hand in the dance.

She smiled at him.

‘Come, my dear Dauphin, let us dance.’

All eyes were on the four of them now― the King and Mary; herself and Francis. On such occasions as this she felt that she took her rightful place in the land.

‘You are looking well, my son,’ she said, for indeed he was.

‘It is the happiest day of my life,’ said the bridegroom.

‘You are fortunate, my son. You love your wife. It is a wonderful thing― providing, of course, that there is love on both sides.’

The boy looked at her with pity. He understood. She was thinking of her love for his father, and his father’s for his mistress. Poor Maman! He had never thought of her ‘poor Maman ’ before.

But his own life was so wonderful that he could not brood on the sadness of others. Catherine saw how his eyes followed his dazzling young wife round the ballroom.

She laughed.

‘It is with Mary that you should be dancing, my son.’

‘Maman, tell me this: did you ever see anyone more beautiful?’

‘No. I do not think I have. But I will tell you something, Monsieur le Dauphin . Your sister Margot may yet outshine her.’

‘Nay, Maman , that would not be possible.’

She smiled, glad to see him happy, for he was her son. Let him enjoy his happiness, for she was convinced he could not live very long. He could not do so, for he had to make way for Charles and then for Henry. He must not do so!

Just after four o’clock in the afternoon that ball was over, for the party must now make its journey across the Seine to the Palais de Justice for the day’s final festivities. The King and the Princes rode on beautiful prancing horses, the Queen and Mary Stuart in litters, while the Princesses rode in coaches, the ladies-in-waiting on white palfreys; and everywhere were rations of rich cloth splashed lavishly with the golden lilies of France.

Supper was served in the Palais de Justice, and the civic authorities had decorated the place so fantastically, so magnificently, that people said it was comparable with the Elysian Fields. Each course was accompanied by the sweetest music, and, as the banquet progressed, merriment increased, and there a much lively conversation and gay laughter.

Yet another ball followed.

The Vidame de Chartres sought out the Queen. Catherine had caught the general excitement; the wine she had drunk made her flushed and excited; she seemed to see the world in more beautiful colours than ever before, and hope was high in her heart.

Her eyes never left the King, who too seemed excited and happier, so that he looked younger and reminded her of their earlier days together.

While he lives, thought the Queen, I shall continue to need him. Nothing else can seem important to me while his love is given elsewhere. ‘What a lovely Queen the little Scot will make!’ she said.

The Vidame answered. ‘There is a lovely Queen now on the throne.’

His eyes were bright; he had drunk too freely.

Catherine laughed at the flattery, but she was not displeased.

She kept the Vidame at her side. She allowed him to her hold hand overlong in the dance, and she was sure that it was noticed.

Did Henry notice? She fancied so.

He respected her because of her prompt action over Saint-Quentin. Would he learn to desire her because the Vidame de Chartres was showing them all that he thought her an attractive woman?

She danced with the King; she danced with the Dauphin; and her only other partner was the Vidame.

When they returned to the Louvre after the ball, Catherine looking into her mirror, saw that her eyes were brighter, cheeks flushed. Hope had made her look ten years younger, She wondered if the King would come to her. She imagined a little scene in which he upbraided her for her conduct with the Vidame. Happily, in her thoughts, she answered him: ‘Henry, can it mean that you are jealous?’

She scarcely slept that night; even in the early hours of the morning, she was still hoping that he would come.

But, as so many times before, he did not do so. Yet hope stayed with her.

‘One wedding begets another,’ said Catherine to her eldest daughter.

Poor little Elizabeth! How small she looked. She was only fourteen― so young to be married.

Catherine had sent for the girl that she herself break the news.

‘My dearly beloved daughter, I wish to speak to you of your marriage.’

The girl’s big dark eyes were fixed on her mother’s face.

I grow soft, thought Catherine; for she was feeling uneasy, remembering a long-ago occasion when a girl of about this one’s age was summoned to the presence of the Holy Pope who wished to talk to her about a marriage.

‘Yes, my gracious mother?’

‘You knew, did you not, that when Francis married, it would be your turn next?’

The child swallowed hard. ‘Yes, gracious mother.’

‘Why, you must not look sad, for this is great and wonderful news. Here is a fine marriage for you.’

The young girl waited. Who was it? She was thinking of the young men she knew. It might be one of the Bourbons, because they had royal blood. On perhaps one of the Guises, who had lately become more than royal. There was the son of the Duc de Guise ― young Henry. A rather frightening but entirely exciting prospect. Young Henry was going to be his father all over again.

‘Oh, Maman, ’ she burst out suddenly, ‘do not keep me in suspense. Who is it? Who?― ‘

‘You are going to Spain, my child. You are going to be the wife of his August Majesty, King Philip of Spain.’

The girl grew white, and looked as though she were about to faint. To Spain!

Miles away from home! To the King of Spain. But he was an old man.

‘You do not seem sensible of this great honour, my daughter.’

‘But, Maman, ’ whispered Elizabeth, ‘it is so far from home.’