Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

And when it was done, the ceremonial cry rang out: ‘Le Roi est mort. Vive le Roi François!’ Then the trumpets sounded. The ceremony was over. King Henry was in his grave, and sickly, pock-marked Francis was the King of France.

The walls and floors of Catherine’s apartments were covered in black. Her bed and her altar were also in the same sombre covering. Only two wax tapers burned, and she herself was wrapped from head to foot in a black veil which covered her plain black gown.

She was truly prostrate with grief. It had come upon her so suddenly. She had had some premonition of evil, it was true, but she had not believed it could be the death of Henry.

She had loved him completely; and now there was nothing left to her but revenge.

Diane! Lex talionis! An eye for an eye; a tooth for a tooth.

For nearly thirty years, Madame, I have suffered humiliation. I have watched you through a hole in the floor with a man for whom I longed. I have seen the citizens of Lyons kiss your hand before mine. I have heard you called the Queen of France when that title was mine. Madame, that is now changed. Your day is done, and out of misery and sorrow is mine born. She started up from her black-covered bed and went to her bureau; she unlocked the secret drawer.

Let her death be long and lingering. Let there be much pain for there must be long agony to compensate for the years of misery.

‘He was beginning to like me,’ she whispered. ‘I had pleased him at the time of Saint-Quentin. He appeared at my cercle . In time I would have won him from the ageing widow. And now I have lost all― and nothing is left to me but revenge.’

Diane had said that she did not fear her enemies, that any bitterness that might be inflicted on her would be sweet coma pared with her loss. Perhaps the greater punishment would be to let her live, for if she died suddenly and of poison, people would say: ‘The Queen-Mother has done this.’

Ah, had she planned cautiously in those early days of her passion, she might have won her husband long ere this. But her love had weakened her. Now that she had lost her love, she could plan with caution.

She flung herself on to her bed and wept. Her women thought her grief would drive her mad, so they sent in one who they thought could comfort her.

Little Henry stared at her with wondering eyes; she held out her arms and he ran into them. She took his face in her hand and kissed him. Then she smiled slowly, reminding herself that she had someone left to love.

She had this boy― this other Henry― and she had France. She had the hope of gaining power, as once she had had hope of gaining Henry’s love.

Diane had ruled France through Catherine’s husband, should not Catherine rule France through her sons?

Tears began to flow down her pallid cheeks, and the little boy took a perfumed handkerchief from his belt and kneeled on her lap to wipe them away.

The Vidame de Chartres had an arrogant air; yet he was tender in his manner to the Queen-Mother.

Catherine went about the court in her deep mourning― sad, yet sly, seeming wrapped in melancholy, yet missing nothing.

She had restrained herself over this matter of Diane. She had turned from her poison-closet, realizing that the woman who had been the shining light of the court for so long could be more wretched in exile than in death. Let her return her gifts and jewels; let her make a present of the Château de Chenoneaux to the Queen, in exchange for which the Queen would magnanimously give her the Château de Chaumont, which she had always considered to be unlucky, and then exile her to Anet. The Queen-Mother must not forget that Diane was related to the Guises and that, although through the death of the King she could no longer be of great use to them, they would not wish to see her poisoned.

Moreover, this family which feigned to show great respect for Catherine, who, on account of Francis’ age, was practically Regent, would not hesitate to accuse her if their once-powerful relative died suddenly and mysteriously.

Catherine found solace in her grief by making plans for a glorious future.

She looked about her, wondering how she could use people for her own advancement; she was working now for power, not for love; and thus she could work more calmly.

Her greatest enemies were the Guises, for they were preparing now to rule the country through the young King and Queen.

She smiled on the gallant Vidame; she had thought that, since she had used him in an attempt to provoke Henry’s jealousy, he would no longer be of use to her; but this was not so. The young man was ambitious; he was a Bourbon, and the Bourbons were the natural enemies of the Guises.

Why should not the Queen-Mother secretly make plans with the House of Bourbon to outwit the House of Guise? Once the Guises were removed from power, nothing stood between the young King and Queen and the Queen- Mother. As for Mary Stuart, she was a child; she could be managed to Catherine’s satisfaction if her scheming uncles were removed.

She permitted the Vidame to visit her secretly, and told him something of her plans.

‘I wish you,’ she said, ‘to take letters from me to the Prince of Condé.’

The Vidame’s eyes were full of speculation then, for Condé was the head of the House of Bourbon, and he knew what this meant.

‘I will serve you with my life,’ he declared, kissing Catherine’s hand, ‘and, serving you, shall hope for some reward.’

Catherine answered: ‘Queens are not asked for rewards, Monsieur.’

‘Madame,’ he said, I do not ask you as a Queen, but as a woman.’

She smiled and her smile held some promise. She eagerly awaited his return with the answers to her letters.

But it was not the Vidame who came to her.

A page was brought into her presence to tell her that the Duc de Guise was asking to be admitted immediately; she gave permission that he should be sent to her.

The candles in their sconces flickered as the door opened and shut behind the man. There he stood― arrogant, virile, with a smile on his hideously scarred face.

‘I crave your Majesty’s pardon for the intrusion,’ he said. ‘But― there is treason abroad.’

She studied him calmly, her face blank.

‘The Vidame de Chartres has been arrested.’

‘Is that so? Why is this?’

‘Treasonable documents have been found on his person, Madame.’

‘What documents?’

‘Letters to the Prince of Condé.’

‘A plot?’ said Catherine.

‘It is feared so, Madame. He is to be sent to the Bastille.’

‘I gave no orders that this should be done,’ she answered haughtily.

Le Balafré bowed low. ‘Madame, it was thought to save you trouble. I have the order for his arrest here. It is signed by the King.’

She nodded.

She was defeated. She knew that her battle with the Guises would be as long and as arduous as her battle with Diane. Power was no easier to win than love.

Heavily cloaked, cunningly disguised, Catherine hurried through the streets of Paris to the sombre building of the Bastille.

It was dusk, and she had chosen this hour; for it was imperative that she be not recognized. She shuddered as she looked up at the dark towers and the ramparts with their cannon.

A cloaked figure that had seemed part of the thick wall moved towards her, and she knew she was recognized, by the reverent tone of the man’s voice.

‘Madame, all is ready.’

He led the way through a small door into a dark corridor, up a flight of stairs, along more corridors. Catherine smelt the odour indigenous to prisons― damp, age, slime, sweat, blood, death.