Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

They danced the solemn passemento de España in honour of the absent bridegroom. The Queen danced with the Duke of Alva.

But all the time Catherine danced, and later when she chatted gaily with the Vidame, she was conscious of evil near her.

It was not possible to forget the dream of Nostradamus.

The revelries continued. The Duke of Savoy had arrived in time for his marriage to the King’s sister. He made a magnificent spectacle, surrounded by his men in their doublets of red satin, crimson shoes, and black velvet cloaks trimmed with gold lace.

There must be more lavish entertainments; the Duke of Savoy must not feel that his wedding was of less importance in that which had just taken place.

In the Rue Saint-Antoine, close to Les Tournelles, an arena had been set up for a tournament, and in her apartments in the palace Catherine sat listening to the hammering as the pavilion was erected; and as she listened her uneasiness was intensified. The thought came to her that these men were preparing a scaffold or stands for men and women to witness an execution rather than a tournament.

I have allowed this fellow Nostradamus to unnerve me, she thought.

It is nothing. Why, I only felt the gloom when I heard from him.

It was the thirteenth of June and a day of glorious sunshine, Henry came to the Queen’s apartment to conduct her to the tournament. He looked wonderfully handsome, she thought; he was glowing with the pleasure he expected this day to bring him. He was boyish in his love of sport, and there was little he enjoyed as much as a tournament.

He was impatient to be gone, but she had an overwhelming desire to detain him. Everything seemed more vivid to her today than it usually was. As he stood at the window looking down at the crowds, pictures of the past kept flashing in and out of her mind and she was filled with conflicting emotions. She was angry and jealous, tender and passionate in turns. She had to suppress an impulse to rush to him, to fling her arm about him, to beg him to kiss her, to make love to her as he never had, with that fervour and passion which she had seen him bestow on someone else. Tears were in her eyes. She thought of his standing at a window watching the agonizing death of a tailor; then he had held her hand, and in comforting him, she felt he had been closer to him than ever before.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us go down to the arena. They are impatient to start the tournament. Listen to the shouting. They are shouting for us.’

She went to him quickly and, taking his hand, clung to it, He looked at her in surprise.

‘Henry,’ she said, passionately, ‘do not go― Stay here with me.’

He thought she was crazy. She laughed suddenly and dropped her hands.

‘Catherine, I do not understand. Stay here?―’

‘No!’ she cried fiercely. ‘You do not understand. When have you ever understood?’

He drew back. She was frightened suddenly. What a fool she was! Had she not at her age learned to control her passion? ‘How foolish,’ she said. ‘I― I am not myself. I am worried― Henry, desperately worried.’

He looked shocked, but no longer bewildered. She was worried. This then was not one of those alarming demonstrations he had learned to dread in the old days.

She hesitated. But this was not the moment to tell him of the dream. She said: ‘Our daughter― she looks so tragic. It worries me, Henry. It frightens me.’

There was real fear in her eyes, but it was not for Elizabeth. He believed it was, though, and he sought to soothe her.

‘It will pass, Catherine. It is because she is such a child.’

‘She looks so tragic.’

‘But we know these things pass. They are not so bad as they seem.’

She was talking desperately; her one desire being to keep him with her.

‘What do we know of Philip?’

‘That he is King of Spain, that he is the most powerful man in Europe― that his match with our daughter is one of which we may be justly proud.’

She threw herself at him and clung to him. ‘You do me so much good, Henry. You are so sound, so full of good sense.’

Her trembling hands stroked his coat, and, looking up at him, she saw that he was smiling benignly. He did not know that it was a passionate wife who clung to him. He thought it was an anxious mother.

‘There, Catherine. Your anxiety is natural,’ he said. ‘But we must delay no longer. Let us go down to the arena. Can you not hear how impatient they are to start the tournament?’

He took her hand and led her from the room.

When they left the palace and the trumpets heralded their approach, the crowd cheered wildly.

‘Vive le Roi! Vive la Reine! ’ shouted the people.

Yes, thought Catherine. Long live the King! Long live Queen! And for the love of the Virgin let us get on with tournament!

All through that day Catherine’s uneasiness was with her. The sun shone hotly on the gallery in which she sat with the Duke of Savoy and the ladies of the court, but not more hotly than her hatred of Diane, sitting close to her, white-haired and regal, as certain now of the King’s affection as she ever was Henry was the hero of that day. That was right, thought, Catherine, right and fitting. He had given a wonderful display, riding a spirited horse which had been a gift from the Duke of Savoy.

He had chosen for his opponent a young captain of the Scottish guard, a certain Montgomery, a noble-looking youth and a clever combatant.

Watching, there was one moment of terror for Catherine, for the young Scotsman all but threw the King from his horse. A ripple of horror ran through the crowd. Catherine leaned forward, holding her breath, praying. But the King had righted himself.

‘Hurrah!’ shouted the loyal crowd, for the King was now thrusting boldly at the young man. And then: ‘Hurrah! Vive le Roi! ’ For the King had thrown the young Scotsman and victory was his.

Catherine felt that the palms of her hands were wet. How nervous she was!

Why, it was nothing but sport. She listened to the joyous shouting of the crowd.

It was fitting that the King of France should win in the fight with a foreigner.

Henry came to the gallery, and it was near Diane that he sat. While they took refreshments, he discussed the fight with the Duke of Savoy and the ladies, and, wishing to compliment young Montgomery on his fight, the King had him brought to the gallery.

‘You did well,’ said the King. ‘You were indeed a worthy opponent.’

Montgomery bowed.

‘Come,’ said the King, ‘take refreshment with us.’

Montgomery was honoured, he said, to take advantage of such a gracious suggestion.

Watching the young man, Henry said suddenly: ‘Methinks that, had you been fighting with another, you might have thrown him.’

Montgomery flushed slightly. ‘Nay, Sire, yours was the greater skill.’

This remark was applauded by the Duke and the ladies, but, watching the King and knowing him so well, Catherine was aware of the niggling doubt in his mind. It was very likely true. Young Montgomery was a splendid specimen of manhood; Henry was strong, but he had seen forty years.

Henry said: ‘There should be no handicaps in true sport. The laurels that come by way of kingship cannot be worn with dignity.’

Montgomery did not know what to answer to this, and the King immediately announced that he wished to break another lance before sunset and that Captain Montgomery should be his opponent ‘Sire,’ said the Duke of Savoy, ‘the day is hot and you have acquitted yourself with honour. Why not put off the breaking of this lance until tomorrow?’