Threads of Silk (32 page)

Antoine moved even farther from Francis and said not a word.

Francis frowned, and a crimson stain stood out on his pale, boyish cheeks. He averted his eyes. He plucked at his hands. He began again: “Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

“I am innocent of any rebellion, my lord King. I was not involved in the Amboise rebellion. I knew nothing of it until it was over.”

Francis looked about him as though wondering what to do next. Unexpectedly, he yelled out, “Help! Help! Assassin!”

But by this time, Antoine, warned by the marquis of what to do, had inched closer and closer to the door. As soon as Francis cried “Assassin!”

Antoine ran out of the royal chamber to where the marquis and Gallaudet were waiting. Antoine was escaping before the three plotters could dart from the antechamber with daggers unsheathed to protect their king.

Andelot remained mute and as far away as he could from those in the royal chamber.

Duc de Guise held a dagger in hand. His eyes were hard, and his mouth slashed his disapproval across his white face.

Andelot, sickened, was sure he considered Francis a failure for not hurling enough venomous charges against Antoine to provoke him. The Cardinal de Lorraine also held a dagger, and his mouth was twisted with mockery as his voice dripped with scorn toward Francis.

“Behold the most lily-livered king that ever sat on the throne of France!”

Andelot felt the injustice of it all stir his heart. He clenched a fist behind his back.
And you Monsieur le Cardinal — a hypocrite! As if I
would ever wish to follow your steps. I shall not stay at court. After my
days with Scholar Thauvet are accomplished, I shall leave France.

AT
FONTAINEBLEAU
IN EARLY DECEMBER
, the execution of Prince Louis was days away. The rains darkened the afternoon, and candles burned in the Queen Mother’s chamber. She walked to and fro, her feet treading soundlessly over the burgundy and gold carpet. She brooded over the narrowing course of action open to her.

She pressed her kerchief to her lips, biting on the cloth, her mind racing. She had hoped that as Francis grew older, he would begin to assert himself and come into his own rule, but he remained intimidated by the lecherous cardinal.

If only my Anjou had been born ahead of Francis.
Anjou, third in line to kingship, would not permit himself to be controlled by the house of Guise.
Francis was never meant to be a king
. She sank into a chair with wearied resignation.

There was no way out of her trap except to wait — wait for her son, so tired and exhausted, so ill, poor petit Francis, to die.

Catherine rose and walked slowly about her chamber, head bent, pondering. Charles would become king, and Charles did not fear the cardinal — he hated him.
The house of Guise will not be able to control
Charles. He will not submit his scepter to the Guises. It is I alone who
control Mad Charles.

Charles will not come into his maturity for years
.
If am voted the regent
by the Estates General, it will mean that I will rule France for years —
with Antoine de Bourbon.

And Mary? If Francis died would she remain at court? Yes! Yes! With the Guises scheming to marry her to Charles, who was besotted with her, though he was but a child. Even so, the Guises would seek to arrange a wedding between them for the future. Ah, she knew the Guises well.

Catherine hardened her mouth.
Ah, that spy will be sent back to
Scotland.
Let her shrewd red-headed cousine, Queen Elizabeth in England, take care of the petite reinette in her own fashion.

She pushed her kerchief to her mouth to silence a gusty chuckle.

The days slipped by. King Francis complained of severe pain in his ear. He was in so much pain that all of the court physicians did not know the answer to His Majesty’s ailment and suffering. Catherine insisted on helping her son with her own remedies of herbs and drugs.

“As I did when he was my enfant. My herbs and powders from Florence help lighten the pain,” she said. “I cannot bear to see my son, my Francis, suffer so.”

“But Madame,” Mary cried, looking pale and red-eyed from crying.

“The medicine you give Francis puts him into dumbness. He cannot move. He does not speak to me.”

“My poor petite Reinette Mary, how your tender heart grieves, and I understand why.”

If Francis dies, your days here are finished
.
You will be off to your wild
and churlish Scotland, as you fear
.

“Your sorrows are many. This is so hard on you, is it not? But what is most kind? To ease his pain in deep slumber, or allow him wakefulness to toss and turn in agony? You too must rest. Yes, you are driven by your anxiety.”

“Oh, Madame, after all that has occurred — ” Mary’s eyes snapped —“First at Amboise, with the beheadings of so many Huguenots, and now with Prince Antoine — how can Francis and I not be overwrought?”

And who was it that wished the execution of so many Huguenots at
Amboise and planned to murder Antoine? The Guises! Your oncles!

Catherine caught herself and replaced her inner snarl with a look of compassion.

“So true, so true. These have been dreadful days. That is why you must get some sleep and leave me to sit by his bedside for this night at least.

Go, ma chère. Is not the royal physician also here to watch over him?”

“Yes . . . yes . . .” Mary put a hand to her forehead.

“Tomorrow,” Catherine continued soothingly, “tomorrow? Who knows, ma petite? Perhaps God will hear the bonne cardinal’s intercessions and Francis will awaken feeling much better!”

“Yes, you may be right. Mon oncle, the cardinal, is offering a Mass.”

“Oh, well then! Francis will assuredly do better.” Catherine smiled.

Catherine beckoned for Mary’s ladies to come forward, and they took her away to her rest for the night.

Catherine dropped her smile. She walked briskly to the bedside and gazed down at her son. She remembered the happy moment when her first son had been placed in her arms. How Henry had been pleased!

She continued to stare down at him.

She sat down gently so as not to disturb his slumber.

During the long night, she thought, planned, and watched him.

If only you had permitted me to arrange a marriage for you instead of
letting Henry’s debauched mistress arrange it with Mary Stuart, matters
would be different for you, for us. You would have been happier, my son,
and there would be no house of Guise manipulating your throne.

My poor little son, the king.

Later, she sent the docteur away. “You also, Maître d’Fontaine, must take your sleep. Docteur Ambroise le Pare will soon be here — there is no need to wait for him. I shall keep vigil. Au revoir
.
”

ON THE FIFTH OF DECEMBER
, King Francis died.

Catherine took refuge in her chambers where the walls were hung in black mourning drape. She locked her door, making plans to send Mary back to Scotland.

Poor petit Francis.
She took another moment to remember his life and his illness of the blood disease since infancy. She dabbed her eyes with her kerchief. Now he was gone — but so was Mary.

Well, the docteur had always told her he could not be expected to live
long.

After the death of his elder brother, the boy-prince Charles de Valois became King Charles IX, crowned in 1561 in the cathedral at Reims by the Cardinal de Lorraine. And Catherine, according to her plans, became regent of France, with Prince Antoine de Bourbon as her general. She had received the quiet support of the Huguenot Admiral Coligny, to whom she had promised the religious convention at Poissy. She had also promised to work for an end to the relentless persecution.

Nevertheless, Fabien believed she would throw them all to the lions if she thought it would prevent Spain from supporting the Guises with an army in order to replace her.

Fabien was in the council chamber, standing near the Queen Mother, when Duc de Guise entered. His sour gaze swept away from Catherine to fix on Fabien. Fabien gave him a measuring glance, refusing to yield.

The duc walked up and bowed stiffly to Catherine.

“Madame, what is this I hear of Prince Louis being released from the Amboise dungeon? And mere days before the axe was to fall? This smells of injustice and treachery. I believe you should have the new king look into this matter, lest the people come to think suspiciously of your reign.”

Fabien reached to smooth the lapel on his velvet jacket and ended by drumming his fingers.

“Monsieur Duc, you forget yourself in my presence,” she said.

“Madame, I could not forget myself in your presence. If I have seemed to you too blunt, I beg pardon, but my words spring from an injustice.”

“An injustice?” Fabien asked.

His voice, equally blunt and aggressive, caused Duc de Guise to turn toward him, lifting his chin.

“Do you know something of injustice, Messire?” Fabien asked.

The duc blinked, his shock apparent. “You are suggesting, Marquis?”

“That Duc Jean-Louis de Bourbon, my father, was left to die on the battlefield near Calais. That too, was injustice. An injustice that as yet has not been satisfied.”

The duc’s left eye watered, and the scarred eyelid twitched.

Fabien could not see Catherine’s face, but this was the tense environment she hoped for. So be it. It mattered not whether he was playing into her plan. These were the words he had long wanted to throw at the duc, and more.

The duc’s small mouth came together in a thin line beneath his short ginger-colored beard.

“The death of Duc Jean-Louis de Bourbon was an honorable one,

Messire. I know nothing of any injustice; the day he took a sword thrust and was left on the battlefield, I was miles away in a battle of my own.”

Fabien was on the verge of pressing home the attack when Duchesse Dushane, standing nearby, stepped toward them, her ebony walking stick clicking on the glossy floor. She had grown thin and pale from a detrimental change in her health.

“Madame,” she said to Catherine, and inclined her silvery head with its glittering diamonds. Her smooth voice seemed to try to ease the matter by changing the subject back to Louis.

“Is it not true, Madame, that legally Prince Louis was imprisoned by the will of the late king?”

“Duc de Guise would know that, Duchesse, since it was he who insisted Francis send for the Bourbon princes to arrest them.”

“And rightly so, Madame,” Duc de Guise snapped, giving a hard look at Duchesse Dushane.

“Then,” said the duchesse, “is it not a matter for the new king to either carry through on his brother’s wish, or to release Prince Louis, which he has chosen to do?”

His lean face sullen, Guise remained in silent opposition.

“The new king has chosen to show mercy on his ascension to the throne, my lord Duc,” the Queen Mother said.