‘Why?’ he repeated impatiently after her. ‘You know why. You and I stand to gain so much by my brother’s death. Had he lived, I should have remained a Duke, you a Duchess; now, the poisoned cup is being prepared for us, we shall be King and Queen of France one day.’
She said in that low, husky voice which she reserved for him: ‘I have a feeling that my husband will one day be the greatest King France has ever known.’
‘He would have been happier if he had been born to kingship, and had not to step into his murdered brother’s shoes!’ He turned abruptly; he was afraid that what was whispered about her was true! He found, to his horror, that he could believe it. ‘Come!’ he said coldly. ‘Let us not be late, or there will be my father’s anger to face.’
They took their places in the glittering pavilion. Catherine knew that all eyes were on her; and in the hush that followed, she heard the faint rustling of silk and brocade, and whispering of voices.
Diane sat with the Queen’s ladies, upright, haughty, magically beautiful, so that Catherine’s control threatened desert her, and she felt like crumpling into tears. It was not that she should be so old and yet so beautiful. What chance had a young girl, inexperienced in the ways of love, against such a one? Oh, Montecuccoli, she thought, you have given the promise of queen-ship when what I wanted was to be a beloved wife and mother! She moved closer to the jewelled figure of her husband. Was it her fancy, or did he move slightly away from her? His went to Diane, and now he was the devoted lover whom Catherine wanted for herself.
I hate her! she thought. Holy Mother of God, how I hate her! Help me― help me destroy her. Send a blight to destroy that bright beauty; send humiliation to lower that proud head― Kill her, that the one I love may be mine. I wish to be a Queen and a well-loved wife. If this could happen to me, I would give my life to piety. I would never sin again. I would lead a blameless life free from even venial sins. Holy Mother, help me. Oh, Henry! Why do I, so carefully nurtured, so balanced, s controlled, why do I have to love you so madly when you are enchained by that sorceress! The heralds were trumpeting, and everyone was rising in his or her seat for the ceremonial entry of the King and Queen. Francis looked weary. He was mourning both the death of his son and the devastation of Provence. Catherine, watching him, that he would not be influenced by the whisperings concerning herself.
She sat back now, for the wretched prisoner was being carried out. Could that be handsome Montecuccoli! He was unrecognizable. He could not walk, for both feet had been crushed to pulp in the cruel Boot. His once clear brown skin was yellow now; in a few weeks they had changed him from a young to an old man.
Catherine was quick― and greatly relieved― to see that he had retained that noble and fanatical air. Bruised, bleeding and broken he might be, but he wore his martyr’s crown. She had not been mistaken in her man. He knew what terrible death waited him, but he was resigned; perhaps he felt that his greatest torture was past. Four strong men were leading out four fiery horses; they needed all their strength and skill to hold the animals. Catherine’s mind switched back to a scene in the Medici Palace when she had sat with her aunt and the Cardinal watched the death of a faithful friend.
She had shown no emotion then. It had been important that she showed none. Now, it was far more important.
Each of the Count’s four limbs was attached to a different horse.
Now― the moment had come. Young girls leaned forward in their seats, their eyes wide with expectation and excitement; young men caught their breath.
There was a loud fanfare of trumpets. The horses, terrified, galloped in four different directions. There was a loud cry like that of an animal in the utmost agony; then a deathlike silence only by the thudding of horses’ hoofs. Catherine stared at the horses galloping wildly about the field, attached to each a gory portion of what had been Count Sebastiano di Montecuccoli.
She was safe. Montecuccoli could not betray her now. And the Dauphin Francis was dead and in his place was Henry, before whose Italian wife shone the throne of France.
THE LOVE CHILD
THREE WOMEN who watched the horrific spectacle knew that from now on their lives would be different.
Anne d’Etampes left the pavilion feeling apprehensive, ten years she had ruled the King of France and, through him, France. There was no one in the land more important than herself; even men such as Montmorency and the Cardinal of Lorraine, if they wished to enjoy the King’s favour, must first seek that of his beloved Duchess. The most beautiful woman of the court, she was also one of the cleverest. Francis had said of her that among the wise she was the most beautiful, among the beautiful the most wise. She saw her power now, hanging by a thread; and that thread was the life of the King.
The King and the new Dauphin, it would be said, were different as two Frenchmen could be; but in one important point there was a similarity. Francis, all his life, had been guided by women; in truth, he had been ruled by them, but so subtly that he had never realized it. In his youth there had been his mother and later his sister; their rule had been overlapped by that of Madame de Chateaubriand, who, in her turn had been ousted by Anne herself. These four women had one quality in common; they were all clever; Francis would not have tolerated them if they had not been. So much for Francis, And Henry? He was of a different calibre; there had been no loving parent and sister in his childhood; instead, there had been Spanish guards to jeer at him. But the woman had appeared at the right moment, a woman who had those very qualities which delighted the father― beauty and wisdom; and more completely under the sway of a woman than Francis had ever been, was young Henry in the hands of Diane de Poitiers.
There was more in this hatred of Diane and Anne for each other than mere jealousy. They were each too clever to care that the other might be considered more beautiful, except where beauty could be counted as a weapon to gain the power they both desired.
The more intellectual of the two women was Anne. Writers and artists of the court were her close friends, and they, like herself, were in the new faith which was beginning to spread over the continent of Europe. Anne passionately wished to see the Reformed Faith brought into France. She had many with her; all the ladies of the Petite Bande, for instance, and they were most influential in the land; then there was her uncle, the Cardinal of Melun, and Admiral Chabot de Brion.
The admiral was more than a supporter, for, believing in the equality of the sexes, Anne saw no reason why, since Francis was to unfaithful her, she should remain faithful to him.
Diane, the enemy of the Reformed Faith, had sworn to fight against it.
Montmorency, now the closest male friend of the Dauphin allied with his young friend’s mistress. The Cardinal of Lorraine supported Diane, with three of his nephews, young men of great energy and ambition: these were Francis, Charles and Claude, the sons of the Duke of Guise. With such adherents, Diane could feel strong even against the influential woman of the court.
So Anne, thinking of these matters, wondered afresh what mischievous enemy of hers had, by proxy, slipped the poison into the Dauphin’s cup.
But there was nothing to be done but wait and watch, and lose no opportunity of ousting her rival. The Dauphin was young; the woman was old; and the little Italian was not without charm.
Try herself as she might, Anne could not help but see herself as the moon that is beginning to wane.