Looking down at his dark head, she thought, Does he know? Does he suspect anyone? ‘Henry,’ she said in a whisper, ‘you cannot think of any who might have done this thing?’
And when he lifted his face to hers he said simply: ‘There are some to whose advantage it has been. Myself, for instance.’
No! she thought. It was nothing. He knows no more than I do. If he did, he’d tell me; there are no secrets between us. ‘Promise me, my love,’ she said, ‘that you will never drink rashly. Let everything― everything― be tasted before it touches your lips.’
He said quietly, ‘I have a feeling that I am safe, Diane.’ Then he turned to her eagerly as though he wished to banish unpleasantness in the happiness she could give him. ‘Let us forget this. Francis is dead. Nothing can bring him back.
I pray God that if it is ordained that I should wear the crown, I shall do it with honour; and if I am unworthy, I can only hope that it will be taken from me.’
She caught him to her suddenly. She knew he had had no part in the murder of his brother. She knew that in her lover, she was lucky, for being a practical woman she could not help thinking, as she lay in his arms, of the glorious future that awaited the uncrowned Queen of France.
By the spring of the following year, the speculation over the Dauphin’s death had, in a large measure, ceased. One of the accused Imperial generals had been killed in battle before he could hear the charge against him; as for the others declared it was ridiculous. There was for a time much discussion as to what should be done about bringing the accusers to justice, but eventually the matter was dropped. The Imperialists of Spain laughed the accusation to scorn; and the French could not but feel half-hearted about it. And as no discussion would bring young Francis back to life, the King preferred to forget.
Catherine knew that there were still many to whisper about the Italian woman, as they called her throughout France; there were still plenty to believe that she was involved in the plot that had destroyed Francis and put her husband within easy reach of the throne.
She used her young woman Madalenna to spy for her. Poor, silly little Madalenna! She was afraid of her mistress, seeing in her something which others, who did not live so close to her, failed to observe. It fascinated the child, but it fascination of a snake for its prey. Many tasks had been allotted to her and these often led her into strange places. She been obliged to hide in the apartments of the Grande Sénéchale herself when the Dauphin visited her, and had had to report to her mistress everything she had seen and heard. The girl had been terrified of being discovered; she could not have imagined what would have happened to her if the Dauphin or the Grande Sénéchale had become aware of her presence in the cupboard in which she had shut herself. But, terrified as she was of these tasks which were set her, she was more terrified of her mistress, and for that reason they were performed with careful craft.
Madalenna was not sure what it was about her mistress that so frightened her. It might have been because of what lay beneath her smiles and fine manners, her humility with those about her; yes beneath that correct and smiling façade there was, for one thing, a passionate love for the Dauphin, and for another, a delight in discovering what was not meant for her eyes and ears; there was craft instead of guile; there was fierce pride instead of humility. And because Madalenna knew that there was much else besides, she was afraid. She remembered how her mistress’s eyes had glistened after that sojourn of Madalenna’s in the Sénéchale’s cupboard; her eyes glittering, her lips tightly pressed together, the Dauphine had insisted on hearing each indelicate detail, as though begging for what must have been torture, to go on and on. It was uncanny, thought Madalenna; and often when her thoughts turned to her mistress, she would cross herself.
She was glad now that the Dauphin was away from court.
Henry was at Piedmont. The French had invaded Artois and had enjoyed a successful campaign; but restlessness quickly overtook the King, and no sooner did he find himself among his soldiers than he longed for the comfort and luxury of the court, the intellectual conversation and the voluptuous charm of his mistress. So he had called off the war, disbanded his army with the exception of a garrison which he left in the town of Piedmont under Montmorency and Dauphin Henry, and returned to Paris where the court was en fête to welcome him.
Summer came and Fontainebleau was beautiful in summer. Francis, as restless as ever, found some peace in this palace among his statue and paintings.
He would spend much time, between bouts of feasting and love-making, marvelling at his Italian pictures― Leonardo’s Gioconda, Michelangelo’s Leda, and Titian’s Magdalen among them. Then he would tire of his masterpieces temporarily, and there would be a spate of comedies and mosques, balls and feastings; or he would ride out in the forest and spend days with his Petite Bande. Catherine was no more at peace than was the King, though none would have guessed it. When he rode out to the chase, she was often beside him. He liked to show her his masterpieces and discuss them with her, since many of them were her countrymen. It was one of his pleasures to hear her speak of Florence; and they would often chat in Italian.
But the love of her husband meant so much to Catherine that she would have gladly bartered the friendship of the King for it. She dreamed of Henry, longed for him, and although she was delighted that, being in Piedmont, he was not seeing Diane, she longed for his return.
Madalenna brought the news to Catherine. It was the sort of news, Catherine thought grimly, that she would be the last to hear.
‘The Dauphin, Madame la Dauphine, is enamoured, they are saying, of a young Italian girl― a merchant’s daughter of Piedmont. She is very young and they say very beautiful, he visits her so often that― that―’
Catherine gripped the girl’s wrist; there was in her eyes that fierceness which mention of Henry always put there. ‘Come, come, Madalenna, that what?’
‘They say, that there is to be a child― and that the Dauphin and the lady are very happy about it.’
Catherine let the girl’s arm drop. She walked to the wind and looked out.
She did not want Madalenna to see the tears which had come to her eyes.
Madalenna must think of her strong― cruel if necessary, but always strong. So he had fallen in love! And the court was whispering of it, delighting in this fresh scandal which was wounding further Catherine de’ Medici’s already tortured heart. He had escaped at last from his aged charmer― but not to his wife, who loved him fiercely that when she thought of him she lost all her control. Oh, the humiliation! Was she to be humiliated forever? That it should be a girl of her own race― a young girl, younger than herself! A merchant’s daughter of Piedmont, and Catherine his wife, was a Medici of Florence― a Medici and a Queen-to-be; yet he could not love her, and she could not have his child!
She closed her eyes, forcing back the tears.
Madalenna stammered: ‘I― I thought you would― wish to know. I hope I did no wrong.’
‘Have I not told you that all the news you gather must be brought to me?
Now, Madalenna, tell me everything. What is the court saying concerning my husband and his newest mistress?’