She could not keep the reproach out of her voice; her eyes were hot; she was seeing herself, tossing and turning in her bed, awaiting a husband who did not come, picturing him with Diane, asking herself, Why? Why should it be Diane and not Catherine? How could she listen to his talk of war? When he was near her she could think of nothing but love.
Her voice sounded high-pitched. ‘Has the King spoken to you again?’ she asked. ‘We see so little of each other, it is small wonder that we have no children―’
He did not move, and she realized he had not even heard what she said. He could not follow two lines of thought at the same time; if something was on his mind he could hear and see nothing else.
‘Montmorency is burning and destroying everything as he retreats, and there will be no stores of food left for the advancing enemy. Men, women, children― French, all of them are left starving after the armies have passed through―’
She interrupted him. ‘But that is terrible. I have heard that Montmorency is cruel and that his men obey him through fear!’
‘It is the only way,’ said Henry. ‘Montmorency is a great man. His policy is the only safe policy. But for Montmorency the Spanish devils would be in Lyons now. I would I could go and fight with him.’
She was pleased. If he went to fight, he must leave Diane.
She slipped her arm farther through his. ‘There are soldiers enough, Henry‚’
she said softly.
‘My father has said that if he needs the Dauphin he will send for him. I wish he would send for me! But he hates me. He knows I long to fight; therefore he says: You shall not fight! And the enemy is at our gates. But for my father’s folly there would be no war. Long ago Milan would have been ours!’
Catherine’s eyes went to the door. She longed for Henry’s confidences but she dared not let it be known that she had said, or even listened to, a word against the King. Francis’ favor was easily won by some; it was equally easily lost; and she must not forget that it was only through a lucky chance that Henry was speaking to her thus. He had come to the apartment not thinking of her; and he had found her there, and being unusually excited by the closeness of the war, had wished to talk to someone― even Catherine.
She said: ‘Lower your voice, Henry. There are spies everywhere, and what you say might quickly be carried to your father.’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘This desire of his for Italy― it is like all of his desires. No matter what stands in his way, he will do anything― cruel, foolish, it matters not― anything to get his desires. As it is for women, so it is for Italy.
There is no right or wrong for my father where his desires are concerned. When Monsieur Chateaubriand objected to my father’s immorality with Madame de Chateaubriand, he took the man by the throat and threatened to cut off his head unless he gave up the woman. He must lose either his head or his wife.’
Catherine laughed, loving this intimacy. ‘So he kept his head. Sensible man!’
‘I hate the life my father leads!’ said Henry. His mouth was prim and Catherine wondered about his love-making with Diane. ‘He chooses the most degraded people to surround him. Madame d’Etampes should be banished from court.’
Catherine’s smile was noncommittal. The King’s mistress was supposed to be her friend.
Then Henry spoke again of his father who was forever reaching out his hands to Catherine’s native land of grapes, olives and the finest artists in the world. He was reckless when he should be cautious― so said his son― bold when there the greatest need for hesitation.
Catherine understood that glittering personality far better than did his son.
She knew that over the brightness which surrounded him lay the shadow of Pavia. There was hardly an hour in the King’s life when he did not remember that defeat, and he would feel that nothing but the conquest of Italy would wipe out the humiliation. It was Pavia that made him reckless, eager as he was for that military success which would put him right with the world; it was Pavia that made him hesitate, reminding him that disastrous defeat must never be repeated.
Pavia had made of the century’s greatest lover its most incompetent general.
‘The Emperor,’ Henry was saying, ‘has made a triumphant return from the East. He has twice defeated Barbarossa; he has taken Tunis, and the whole of the Christian world rejoice because he has brought with him many who were made slaves to toil for the barbarians. And what has my father done? He looks about him for an enemy of the Emperor― and makes a treaty with the Turks!
With infidels! This Most Christian King! He’d make a treaty with the Devil to get a woman or a country.’
‘I beg of you, Henry, my dear Henry, speak quietly. If it should get to the King’s ears―’
‘Then should he hear the truth for once. I do not think that would harm him.’
‘He is angry,’ said Catherine gently, ‘because Milan was promised to us through our marriage. But then, my kinsman died.’
She looked at Henry anxiously. Did he hate his marriage because of Clement’s untimely death, as did the rest of France? How she longed for him to tell her that he was pleased with their marriage, that he was happy to be united to her, even though she had not brought him the promised riches.
He did no such thing. He could only think of his father’s disastrous military campaign.
‘Milan was scarcely defended at all!’ he said. ‘We could have taken it. But my father hesitated, and now― it is too late. Would I were there. I would have taken Milan― and held it.’
‘You would!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Henry, you would do brave things, I know. I should be so proud of you― so honoured that my husband was known throughout the world for his courage.’ He did not move away from her. She said eagerly, thinking of the love potion she had in her drawer, awaiting a moment when she could give it to him: ‘You will take some refreshment, Henry?’
He shook his head. ‘Thank you, no. I cannot stay now.’
She should have let him go then, but she was intoxicated by having him with her. ‘Henry, please, please. Share a cup of wine with me. I scarcely ever see you.’
‘I― I have not the time,’ he said firmly.
Her control snapped. She cried: ‘You would have, did you spend less time with Madame la Grande Sénéchale.’
He coloured hotly and he looked at her with distaste. ‘She is an old friend,’
he said with hauteur.
‘Indeed she is. Old enough to be your mother. Madame d’Etampes says she was born on the day the Sénéchal was married.’
Henry’s eyes flashed dangerously. ‘I do not care to hear what that harlot says and I should advise you, in view of your position, to choose your friends more wisely.’
She faced him; she was so miserable that she could not hide her anger.
‘I have not forgotten, Monsieur, that the lady is the most influential at court.’
‘I have not forgotten that she is the most immoral.’
‘Why should it be more immoral for the King to have a mistress than for the King’s son to leave his lawful wife― night after night― for the sake of― an old friend!’
He was white with anger. He did not know how to deal with this situation.
He had done his duty and it had not been easy; but if she were going to make such scenes as this it was going still harder.
And then she began to cry; she flung her arms about his neck, for when her control broke suddenly the floods seemed to flow the faster for having so long been pent up.
‘Henry,’ she sobbed, ‘I love you. I am your wife. Could not― could we not?
―’
He stood rigid. ‘I think there has been some― misunderstanding,’ he said, and his voice was cold as icicles in January. ‘Pray release me, and I will explain.’