‘Dauphin Francis!’ was hissed among the unforgetful crowd.
Catherine heard this. But one day, she thought, they will shout for me. One day they will know me for the true Queen of France in every respect. It was the old hope of ‘One Day’.
She could feel the child within her. Here I sit, she thought, pale-faced and quiet, with never a thought, some may imagine, but of the child soon to be born. Little do they know that I wait not because I was born patient, but because I have learned patience. Little do they know that they would not be gathered here to witness this mortal combat but for the fact that in the first place, I set the matter in motion. She smiled graciously and laid her hands on her pearl-studded stomacher.
Madalenna leaned towards her. ‘Your Majesty is well?’
‘Quite well, I thank you. A little faintness. It is to be expected.’
In the crowd they would have noticed the gesture, for there was little they missed; they would have seen Madalenna’s anxious query.
‘You see,’ Catherine wished to say to her subjects. ‘He has his mistress, but I shall bear his children. I alone can bear him kings and queens.’
The herald of Guinne, his silken tabard shimmering in the hot sun, stepped forward and blew a few notes on his trumpet. There was an immediate stillness in the air while the crowd waited for the announcement.
‘This day, the tenth of July, our Sovereign Lord the King granted free and fair field for mortal combat to Francis de Vivonne assailant and Guy de Chabot assailed to resolve by arms the question of honour which is at issue between them. Wherefore I make known to all, in the King’s name, that none may turn aside the course of the present combat, aid nor hinder either of the combatants on pain of death.’
As soon as the herald ceased to speak, a great cheer went up. The excitement was intense, for the combat was about to begin.
De Vivonne came from the tent accompanied by his second― one of Diane’s protégés― and friends numbering at least five hundred strong. They wore his colours― red and white― while before the hero of the day was carried his sword, shield, and banner on which was the image of St Francis. With this company, before which drummers and trumpeters de Vivonne walked all round the field to the cheers of the people. When he had done this, he went into his tent while de Chabot with his second, but with far fewer supporters in black-and-white, did the same.
Next came the ceremony of testing the weapons to be used which, as assailed, Guy de Chabot was to choose. This gave rise to a good deal of controversy, and arguments ensued while the afternoon wore on. The heat was intense, but Catherine scarcely felt the discomfort. This, she had determined should be a day of triumph for her. Today, Henry was going to feel a little less pleased with his Diane than he had ever been before. Catherine did not expect to win her husband from his mistress on such an issue, but it would be such affairs as this, piled one on top of the other, that would eventually, she was sure, turn him from his mistress to his waiting wife.
Diane was leaning forward in her seat, frowning at the delay. What was the trouble? Diane wished the affair done with; her enemy lying dead, a lesson to all those who dared flout the King’s mistress.
Madame, thought Catherine, there is, I hope, a great surprise awaiting you. This trouble over the weapons was the beginning. What joy it had been to wrap herself in a shabby and all-concealing cloak and keep the appointment she had made with Monsieur de Chabot at the home of the astrologers Ruggieri. It was not de Chabot who had chosen the weapons that would used today; it was Catherine. De Chabot had spent hours taking lessons at that house from an Italian fencing-master.
Ha! laughed Catherine to herself. There is much we Italians can do which these French cannot. We know better than they how to remove people who stand in our way! How pleasant now to sit back languidly in her seat and to know why there was this dispute about the weapons, while Diane leaned forward, not comprehending, wondering, as did the restive crowd, why the spectacle did not proceed.
De Chabot declared that he wished to fight on foot, with armour, shields, and two-edged swords, and with short daggers of the old-style― the heavy and hampering kind. De Vivonne was nonplussed by this choice, and for the first time was uneasy.
Diane’s frown had deepened. It was for Montmorency, who for the day was Master of the Ceremonies, to give judgment. And there he sat, the grim-faced old fool, determined to be just.
Catherine wanted to laugh outright. She saw further plans to be made. The King’s mistress and the King’s favourite advisor and best-loved counsellor could, in time, become enemies, jealous of the favour of the King. There would be an opportunity for exploiting her cunning.
In the meantime, to Diane’s disgust, Montmorency had decided that, spite of his strange choice, de Chabot must have his way.
From each of the four corners of the field a herald came, shouting: ‘Nobles, Knights, Gentlemen, and all manner of people! On behalf of the King I expressly command all that, as soon as the combatants shall meet in combat, all present are to preserve silence and not to speak, cough, spit, or make any sign with foot, or eye which may aid, injure, or prejudice either of the said combatants. And, further, I expressly command all on behalf of the King, that during the combat they are not to enter the lists or assist either of the combatants in any circumstances whatsoever on peril of death.’
After this, first de Vivonne, then de Chabot, with their companies of supporters behind them, made one more progress round the field whereupon each must kneel on a velvet cushion and swear that he had come to avenge his honour and that there was in his possession no charms nor incantations, and that his sole confidence was in God and the strength of his arms.
They were conducted to the middle of the field, their swords and their daggers placed in their belts, while the Norman herald shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Laissez aller les bons combatants!’ The great moment had come. The two men slowly advanced towards one another.
Catherine, her hands lying in her lap, felt the mad racing of her heart. There was no colour in her face; otherwise she gave no sign of the intense excitement she was experiencing.
She knew that de Vivonne was not happy. The weapons were too cumbersome for a man accustomed to the swift rapier. He had been outwitted. If only de Chabot was as good now as he had been when facing the Italian fencing-master in the house of the Ruggieri, all would go as she wished.
She would have brought some charm with her that would have ensured de Chabot’s victory, if she had dared; but that oath the men had taken before the priest, and she had known must be taken before the combat began, had made her dismiss the idea. Some supernatural force, other than the one she would call upon with her charm, might be turned against her if she dabbled in such matters.
De Vivonne was springing on his opponent; the crowd caught its breath as he aimed a blow at de Chabot’s head. But de Chabot remembered.
Ah, my beloved Italy, thought Catherine . You can show France how to fight. De Chabot, while feigning to parry the blow with his sword took it on his shield, and stooping to do so, thrust his sword into de Vivonne’s knee.
Bravo! Bravo! thought Catherine, glancing toward Henry and Diane, and emulating their looks of consternation, It was not serious, but to the braggart de Vivonno, the finest dueller in France, it came as a complete surprise, and as he staggered back, de Chabot was able to give him another blow on the same spot, and this time, a more violent one.