Виктория Холт - Madame Serpent

Francis smiled his most charming smile, while he thought: why not say what is in your mind, crafty one? You want our children to provide successors without delay. You want to make sure there are Medici hands stretching greedily for the crown of France. ‘Young people,’ declared the Pontiff, ‘need to marry young if they are to lead godly lives. Let them get their childbearing started early. It keeps the Devil behind them. I say the marriage should be consummated at once.’

Francis smiled whimsically, trying to imagine them together. Poor little Catherine! Worthy of a more gallant husband! The young oaf had scarcely looked at her all day; instead, he had stared at the Poitiers woman with calf-love in his eyes. Who would have believed she would have that effect upon him! A woman old enough to be his mother!

‘Then let it be,’ said Francis. ‘Poor child, she will, I fear, find him an inadequate lover.’

The Pope was alarmed. ‘Sire, what mean you?’

Francis, realizing how his light remark had been misconstrued, could not resist the desire to tease. ‘Alas! Holiness, I have my fears regarding the boy― in that respect.’

Little beads of sweat stood out on the pontifical brow. ‘You cannot mean― you surely do not mean―’

‘Alas! alas! I do, I fear, Holiness.’

‘I did not understand. You mean― an inability to procreate children?’

Francis burst out laughing. ‘Oh, that?’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘For that we must wait and see. I mean, Holiness, that I fear he will give a poor account of himself as a lover. So young! So inexperienced! He has never had a mistress.’

The Pope was so relieved that he joined in the King’s laughter. ‘You must forgive me, Sire. You French think continually of love. One forgets that.’

‘You Italians, what do you think of― trade?’

The Pope would have liked to slap the dark and smiling face. ‘Making trade,’ he said shortly, ‘can at times be more profitable than making love.’

‘In Italy, perhaps,’ said the King. ‘But here in France it has often proved that love is not only more delightful but more profitable than trade. So, who are right― we French, or you Italians?’

The Holy Father had no intention of getting involved in a battle of words with the French King. He said: ‘Then, Sire, you agree the marriage should be consummated this night?’

‘Not a night shall be lost!’ cried Francis ironically. ‘And how long will my poor country be honoured by your noble presence, Father?’

‘I shall stay the month.’

Francis smiled slyly. ‘They are young and healthy, both of them. A month― yes, I should say a month.’

The Pope tried to emulate the soft voice and smiling irony of the French King. It was not easy. The King merely despised the Pope, while the Pope hated the King.

* * *

The boy and girl lay in the costly bed. They were both afraid.

The wedding day was over; they had been undressed by their attendants and ceremoniously conducted to the marriage bed. And now they were left together.

Each sensed the other’s fear.

Catherine thought, Oh, Ippolito, it should have been you. Everything would have been different then― different and wonderful. Cautiously she touched her eyes and found them wet.

The boy was sweating. He felt that of all the ordeals he had been forced to face in his miserable life, this was the worst.

She could feel his trembling. Could he hear the beating of her heart? She knew and he knew that their duty must be done.

She waited for him to speak. It seemed that she waited a long time.

Then: ‘You― you must not blame me. I― I did not want this. But― since they have married us―’

His voice was lost in the darkness.

She answered quickly: ‘I did not want it either.’

But now she knew that, great though her fear was, she was less afraid than the boy. That moved her suddenly, and she felt a longing to comfort him.

Why, though he was older than she was― only by a few months, it was true― hers was the greater knowledge of life. She had loved Ippolito and lost him; she had lived and suffered as a woman, whereas he had never been anything but a boy.

It was her place, therefore, to comfort, to lead.

‘Henry,’ she said gently, and she moved towards him.

These two lay still and silent in the state bed until the early hours of the morning, when they fell into deep sleep.

* * *

When Catherine awoke it was broad daylight. She thought for the moment that she was in her bedroom in Florence; but almost immediately she was aware of her young husband beside her, and, remembering her wedding day and the night that followed it, she felt herself flush hotly.

Her flush deepened, for she saw now what had awakened her. On one side of the bed stood Clement, on the other the King of France.

‘Charming! So charming!’ murmured the King. ‘As sweet as buds in Maytime.’

The Holy Father said nothing; his dark, crafty face was set in lines of concentration.

‘My little Catherine is awake!’ said the King, and he stooped to kiss her. He whispered: ‘How fared you, Catherine? What have you to say for the honour of France?’

Catherine bade good morning to these two illustrious personages. She murmured something about it being unseemly that that she should lie while they stood.

‘No ceremony, my little one, on such an occasion,’ said the King. And, turning to the Pope, he said: ‘I think your Holiness may set his mind rest. Let us pray to the saints that you may return to Rome in a month’s time, rejoicing.’

Henry had opened his eyes; he immediately grasped the significance of the papal and paternal visits. He flushed hotly, hating his father, hating the Pope, and hating his young wife.

* * *

A month later, papal duties necessitated the return of Clement to the Vatican; but before he left, with his cardinals and bishops, he gave audience to his young relative.

He told Excellency that he wished to speak in private with the young Duchess of Orléans.

Catherine knelt and kissed the fisherman’s ring, thinking, I shall not do this again for a long time. And this thought gave her pleasure.

After the blessing, the Pope asked: ‘My daughter, have you news for me?’

‘No, Holy Father.’

‘No news!’ The Pope was angry. In spite of hopes and prayers, it had failed to happen, and he must return to the Vatican an anxious man. He blamed the young people. They had not been assiduous in their efforts, or the Holy Virgin would not have failed the Pope himself.

‘I fear not, Holiness.’

‘Daughter,’ said the Pope. ‘The Dauphin of France does not enjoy the best of health. Have you forgotten what your position would be were he to die?’

‘No, Father.’

‘The Duke of Orléans would become the Dauphin of France, and you the Dauphine. And with the death of the King―’ The Pope’s voice took on a hint of malice as a picture of the handsome sensualist, who delighted in the lusts of the flesh, lying dead, rose before his eyes. ‘With the death of the King,’ he repeated, and added quickly, ‘for death is something to which, my daughter, we all must come, and with the death of that delicate boy, you would be the Queen of France. Have you thought what this would mean?’

‘I have, Father.’

‘One frail life between you and the throne of France. And should this circumstance― shall I say happy or unfortunate circumstance?― come about, I trust you would be ready to do your duty by your family.’

‘I would pray that that should be so, Father.’

‘Never forget the need for prayer, and remember this may well happen for the good of France― and Italy. It may be the will of God that this should be.

Have you prayed regularly that your Union should be fruitful?’

‘Regularly, Father.’

‘That is well. Rise, my daughter.’

She stood up, and the Holy Father rose with her. He laid his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. The Pope was puzzled, unsure of the King of France. What had he meant by the boy’s being an inadequate lover? Had there been some subtlety behind that remark after all?

The Holy Father said very quietly: ‘My daughter, a clever woman can always get herself children.’

AT THE French court it was thought that the little Italian was colourless; she was too quiet, too eager to please. They did know, they could not guess, what emotions were hidden from them. Catherine rejoiced in the hard training which had taught her to smile when she was most unhappy.

During the first year, she mourned Ippolito. It seemed to her that the memory of her handsome cousin would be with her forever. I am the most wretched person in the whole of this country, she assured herself.

At the same time, she was finding it difficult to recall very clearly what Ippolito looked like; the tones of his voice had become blurred and, odd though it was, when she tried to conjure up images of her cousin they would become merged in that of her young husband.

She could not hate Henry, although she wanted to. She wanted to feel towards him as he did towards her. She embarrassed him, she wanted to tell him that he embarrassed her. ‘Do you think I want to be with you!’ she longed to shout at ‘Why, when we are together, and you think it is you I wish to love., it is not. It is Ippolito! If you think that I desire you, then you are mistaken. It is Ippolito whom I want, whom I have always wanted and always shall.’ There was in her a passion, n a desire which frightened him. He was so cold; he wanted to keep aloof. Love between them― but that was the wrong word for it― was to him a duty which he undertook as he might a penance. Love! There was no love. Only the need to get children.