The Guise of the Queen

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The Guise of the Queen - book excerpt

Chapter 1

La Rochelle, October 1573

Differences in opinions have cost many lives: especially true in the field of beliefs. This is dramatically evident in the country at large and the town of La Rochelle in particular. Protestants assume that the Pharisees are the Catholics who have made Christianity a legalistic dogma, while we Catholics think they are self-righteous and use God’s free grace as an excuse for their sinful discrimination and hatred, the prisoner contemplated.

A gnawing scratching noise, low, but distinct, woke Lanval. He sat bolt upright and squinted in an attempt to focus in the gloom of his cell. His gaze fell on the cause of the sound: a fat brown rat, some ten inches long. The voracious rodent rocked to-and-fro on its haunches, its front claws digging into the fabric of the filthy straw palliasse that served as a bed, its strong slender tail extended behind it for balance. Unaware of Lanval’s attention, the omnivorous creature feasted on residual grain and chaff inside the mattress, its furry cheek flaps expanding as it chewed and swallowed. Now sensing the man’s presence, it froze then raised its head in a single sudden movement, deep dark eyes challenging, sharp yellow incisors bared, a soft hissing escaping through its open jaws.

Lanval got slowly to his feet and sent it scurrying away with a violent kick. It leapt through the bars of the grille that imprisoned the man and made off down the tunnel.

His uninvited guest dispatched, and alone again, Lanval Aubert lay down on the bed. They had put an iron shackle, tight, around his left ankle, fixed by a heavy chain to a ring set into the wall. He reached down and moved it slightly up and down, hoping to ease its chaffing against his skin.

‘I don’t understand why they’ve chained me up like this…it’s not as if I’m a murderer or a rapist…nothing of the kind. I still can’t believe how I’ve ended up thus…still, not much I can do about it.’ A maelstrom of disjointed thoughts raced through his head, sometimes in the present, sometimes in the past, but all contributing to his painful confusion and despair.

Curly blond locks either side of a broad forehead, searching blue eyes, a slender nose and even white teeth: he presented a handsome young man of some thirty years, strong of body and spirit, which ne needed to be in this soul-destroying dungeon.

The cave was rough-hewn rock, three walls supporting a domed roof. The sturdy iron-barred front with its hinged door provided no protection from icy draughts, vermin and foul odours that rose from the open sewer running down the middle of the tunnel floor. The darkness, whetherday or night, confirmed to Lanval that he was incarcerated underground. Had he required further proof, water dripped incessantly from the roof and down the walls rendering the cave dank and musty.

After sentencing, the sergeant had tied a cloth close over his eyes and he was led out of the courtroom. Two burly court officers took his arms and marched him through the streets, such that he became disorientated. For all he knew, he could have been near the barracks to the north or the Tour de la Lanterneto the south of La Rochelle town. He heard a door creak open, then they dragged him down a flight of stone steps. The officers only removed the blindfold as they pushed him roughly into the cave and threw him onto the mattress. He blinked, bewildered and afraid.

“Not so brave now are you, Aubert?”

Lanval did not answer, one officer continued,

“Get undressed!”

“What? What do you…”

A vicious slap to his temple sent him reeling.

“Boots, belt, tunic! They’ll fetch a pretty price and you’ll not be needing ‘em where you’re going.”

The wretch had no choice but to follow the order. He sat, shivering and naked, at the men’s mercy. They both laughed out loud, their guffaws reverberating in the confined space.

“Put that on!” came the instruction, the guard pointing towards a heap in the corner – a head to foot shapeless sackcloth nightshirt.

“That’s better, isn’t it? A crown of thorns on your head and you could pass for Jesus getting ready for the cross!”

Again, they erupted into cruel laughter.

“Hey, don’t forget to chain him.”

“No, we don’t want him running about his new home. So, that’s the job done and we’ll leave you in peace to enjoy your stay, courtesy of His Honour, Judge Boivin.” A key turned ominously in the door and they left Lanval’s hole in the rock. He pulled on the rough garment, eager to cover his body against the bitter cold.

Thus, began Lanval Aubert’s confinement and he soon lost track of time: no sun to herald the morning, no dusk to announce the night. Food, such as it was, came at no regular point in the day; no-one passed through the tunnel except a sullen brute of a man who would push a cup of water and a crust of bread under the grille. He also emptied the wooden pail, that was a toilet, into the rushing stream outside the cell.Lanval soon lost all hope of conversing with him. But, suddenly, he realised exactly where he was.

‘The sewer! There’s only one in the entire town…now…the stream rises near the Place des Armes and flows into the gutter that’s cut into the Rue Saint-Come. Then it becomes the Rue Réaumur and goes underground near the Préfecture, not far from the port. That’s where the gaol is so I must be somewhere underneath it. Yes, I’ve got my bearings now, for what good it will do. Those streets are where the wealthy Huguenots have their fancy residences – how I hate them, with their church services and bibles all in French and priests dressed in plain robes, fornicating with the womenfolk - and all this with the blessing of their God!’

Lanval’s contempt for the Huguenots was a feeling shared by the great majority of Catholics in the Kingdom of France at that time.

He sat on the palliasse, leaning back against the rocky wall of his cell, drank a little water that remained in his cup from the previous day, and resumed his thoughts.

‘Our Catholic brothers and sisters in Paris did a good day’s work last year when they put three thousand Protestants and their sympathisers to the sword – to protect our holy cause from the protesting minority. Ay! They may be few in number but they are still dangerous and not to be trusted. I don’t know how they ever became the ruling class in our town…here, they must exceed us by ten to one…so, did I not have the right to help my fellow believers, even if it has jeopardised my very survival?

Damned rich Huguenots! They can empty their privies straight into the sewer so their waste is swept away, sparing their houses and delicate nostrils from foul smells, while we poor souls do not know such luxury. We have to leave our chamber pots right outside the front door and the night soil men don’t always come, so our houses stink…sometimes for days!’

The sound of clinking keys jolted him out of his daydream. The gaoler, bald-headed and swarthy, arrived outside his cell, gave him a toothless grin and proclaimed,

“Here’s your supper, papist dog! More than you deserve is how I sees it, but you won’t be getting many more of ‘em.’

A small pitcher of water and a dry crust, as usual, was his meal and the gaoler resumed,

“You’ll soon be fed as the Lord sees fit and He won’t be as generous as we are, that’s for sure!”

The brute was leaving when Lanval called out,

“Gaoler! Guard! A minute of your time!”

“What is it? I’ve got other duties to be seeing to.” There was malice and disdain in his voice: La Rochelle hated its Catholic population with a rancour that defied any spirit of tolerance advocated in the Bible.

“Can you tell me…do you know when…”

“Speak up, man! Your lot isn’t usually slow to mouth off.”

“When will it be?”

“Ah, I get it…when? In your situation, Aubert, every day longer is a reprieve, don’t you agree?”

Lanval nodded, bowing his head, unable to look his guard in the face.

“Anyhow, His Honour has more pressing matters to attend to right now, unless you hadn’t noticed? You should know that better than most – I’m informed you have the ear of Catherine, herself, and some say even the King! Probably not true, but you can’t deny you’ve stood up in public for their plan to change us all into Papists.”

“I couldn’t say, but I’ve seen the way the Huguenots treat us as second class citizens: decent jobs are given to your kind, we’re the stuff of hurtful jokes, you encourage your children to not play with ours and – what causes us most to hate you – we’re forced to bury our dead in a graveyard without the town walls, as if we’re lepers or plague-bearers!” He spoke all this with his head still bowed as if he were addressing the ground beneath him, from which he thought he would receive a more sympathetic audience. He concluded,

“Enough of it all! It’s not my place to express such views. My fate is sealed, that’s the only certain event I can look forward to.”

The dullard concierge, with his clanking bunch of keys fastened to his belt, gazed hard at his prisoner. If Lanval had looked up he would have seen a countenance that was mellowing with his words, as if he was not aware of these iniquities that the Catholics had to face in La Rochelle on a daily basis. But, he did not comment, only thought,

‘Not right for a man like me to show kindness, that wouldn’t do at all. His Honour would soon see me out of work.’ He cleared his throat,

“Dunno anything ‘bout that. Anyway, eat and drink, you need to keep your strength up.”

With that, he turned and slouched off into the black malodorous tunnel, still jangling his keys, and disappeared.

Alone, Lanval Aubert felt fear for what laid ahead but he did not regret what he had done. He was proud of his Catholic religion whose scriptures he experienced by the clerics reading them out loud in church – he neither read nor wrote. The good King proclaimed the Faith through his messengers, the priests and, as he was the King’s subject, he followed the same belief. In this pit of despair, he reflected,

‘I only seek a life without conflict. I would not be shackled like a madman in a lunatic asylum if she had not betrayed me. How I loved her then, but detest her now. A plague of frogs upon her house! It would not bother me if these damned Protestants prayed in the next church – even in the next house – to me, were they to grant me that same privilege, but they do not! They revile us and we are forced to pray in a decrepit building beyond the woods, and when they are not about, in secret. We will never be equal in La Rochelle, nor in the whole kingdom, without bloodshed and strife.’

His thoughts were immediately confirmed as the ground above him shook violently, sending particles of rock and sand into the cell, filling the air. He covered his mouth and nose with his hands to avoid breathing in the choking dust, his eyes closed tight. The place then fell still, for a minute or so, but for the terrible ear-splitting din above him to resume. It was thus, relentless, every day and night – as far as he could distinguish one from the other – since his confinement in this devil’s cave. The bombardment by the King’s forces, from land and sea, was supposed to save them from the despised Huguenot majority. It had begun the previous year, yet, La Rochelle would not yield.

‘Lord help me. It was not my intention to commit a crime, but, here I am, condemned. I wish I knew when my end will come: under jagged rock or face to face with the hangman on the gibbet?’

The cave shuddered again.

Chapter 2

The chateau of Chenonceau, April 1572

A ghostly figure, dressed from head to toe in a monk’s coarse brown habit, moved silently along the track that hugged the river Cher. The wan light of a vernal moon reflected off the swirls and eddies of the current, surprising an occasional water vole peeking its head out of the reed bed: no sound broke the still of this dark night but the man proceeded with caution as the path widened, heralding the estate of the chateau of Chenonceau, home of Catherine de Médicis. Should he be challenged by a patrolling guard – Catherine had them, as she did spies, everywhere to protect her and report gossip from her court and beyond – his disguise would serve its purpose. He would explain, head bowed, that he had, that day, visited a poor family who bore signs of a plague infection. They had requested his presence to bless the patient and exorcise evil spirits. That, he was confident, would be sufficient to deter the guard from pursuing his enquiry. The mere mention of the word ‘plague’ filled people with horror, even if the scourge had not surfaced in the region for some time. Nobody must know of his identity nor the reason for his presence on the lady’s land in the middle of the night.

To the shrouded figure’s relief, he encountered no guard and, shortly, he reached a bend in the river. Ahead stood the imposing bridge of five spans that supported a gallery and apartments, all designed and financed by Catherine, and united the north side of the river to the chateau and its carefully tended gardens. No welcome light showed in the building but the nocturnal traveller knew what to do now because it was not his first visit to the lady of the residence.

Leaving the track, he moved through the dense undergrowth, making as little noise as possible. He soon found the fallen tree trunk he sought, then, hidden behind a hawthorn bush, a small wooden door that yielded to his touch. Inside, a flight of six stone steps ascended to the gallery, then more steps to the apartments. He had to squint in order to make out the corridor ahead, lit only by the faintest moonshine that penetrated louvre-shuttered windows. At the far end, he made out a solitary flickering candle in a wall niche that indicated Catherine’s private rooms.

Two soft knocks brought an equally soft ‘enter’ and he stood before Catherine de Médicis. He pulled back his hood and bowed.

“Good evening, my lady.”

“Evening?” she snapped, “it’s night, as dark as the world that besets me, so I trust your visions will cast light on these difficult times. You were not followed?”

“I was not, do not fear, and if I might be so impudent as to remind you that prophecies come not from the heart but from the alignment of the stars and the situation of the planets. I hold no sway over the heavens, I simply interpret their will -”

“Quite, Ruggieri. So, will you take wine with me, even at this hour?”

“With pleasure.” Côme Ruggieri, a gaunt-featured soothsayer and astrologer, with close-set eyes and grey straggly hair and beard, made his living from offering generalised prognostics to wealthy clients. He had learned his trade by word of mouth from the old master necromancer, Nostradamus, now retired on the fortune he had amassed. Ruggieri spoke in such a sincere tone that people – kings, queens, dukes or duchesses – readily believed his forecasts, especially in hours of need when they clutched at straws.

Catherine beckoned him to sit at her desk, drawn close to the warmth of the fireplace where dying embers still glowed. Taking the stopper out of a glass decanter she filled two goblets and, in her turn, sat, saying not a word. Instead, she stared hard at the man, a stare that was well practised over much dealing with men, usually of a lesser intellect than her own. She broke the silence,

“Tell me, Ruggieri, how do your stars augur for my horoscope of the year ahead?” Catherine was, by nature, pragmatic and – even if she regarded this presaging lark with some scepticism – she felt sorely in need of whatsoever reassurance for the events of August 21st to come.

The seer withdrew a small pouch from his habit, loosened the string and emptied the contents onto a parchment sheet, marked with a circle of the twelve signs of the zodiac that she had laid out earlier. A number of white raven’s bones and three talisman coins fell randomly. He leaned over the chart to better examine their pattern, glanced at Catherine, then lowered his head in silent contemplation.

“Well?”

He maintained his silence until she prompted him a second time.

“Speak, man.”

“Ma’am, your star sign is Aries, the ram. Be aware that different elements of your nature are dominant in different seasons. The crossing of the bones and resting place of the coins reveals to me that, from the present to the advent of winter, you may benefit from your intelligence -”

“Yes! Yes! But what do you see for the month of August?”

“It is not regular to anticipate the prospects of any particular month but, pray, a moment. He picked up three bones from the sheet and let them drop onto the others.

“This chart tells me that, in addition to your Arian qualities of intelligence, passion and strength, you will face any new challenge directly and will not tolerate failure.”

“Ruggieri, you have brought me good news. Here, take this.”

She pressed two gold pieces into his hand and gestured towards the door. Having put the bones and talisman coins back into his pouch, he nodded his thanks and left Catherine’s study without further ado. That was just about the easiest money I’ll ever make, he chuckled.

Alone, she refilled her goblet, stirred the ashes in the fireplace into life with a poker, and drank more wine. Leaning back in the chair, she mused,

‘Ruggieri is right! There is, indeed, a challenge to be met and, by God, I will not tolerate failure in its pursuance, just as he said.’

The next morning, she awoke early and summoned her maidservant.

“You rang, ma’am?”

I did, Mathilde. Bring breakfast to my chamber and lay out my clothes. You will accompany me around the gardens.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Mathilde finished brushing her lady’s hair then twisted and tied the tresses to fit neatly under a velvet bonnet. Placing a shawl around her shoulders, she fastened the gold clasp at the front.

“Thank you. Meet me shortly, outside.”

Mathilde nodded and left.

The gardens would be ablaze with vibrant colour in a month or so although, today, buds were only just appearing in the flower beds and on the trees.

“Tended by man, created by woman, do you not agree, Mathilde?”

“I do, ma’am. In bloom, they are a wonder to behold and a testimony to your name. It is not by chance that the central paths form the shape of a cross. Praise the Lord.”

“Praise Him,” Catherine responded, to then lapse into profound silence as they walked along the paths that traversed the gardens, side by side. The maidservant had known her mistress long enough to ask,

“There are serious matters on your mind, it is not difficult to see. May I be of assistance, in any way?”

“Yes, serious matters, that’s true, to put it mildly. You realise I intended the cross of the paths to symbolise the cross on which our Lord was crucified. His pain will ever be ours and I will defend his teaching and wisdom with my last breath.”

“Yours and the King’s subjects applaud your leadership and, to a man and woman, are of the same Catholic faith.”

“That is where you are mistaken, Mathilde. There are those who are not. But, enough. You must not concern yourself with a…how shall I describe it…a problem such as this.”

“I meant no offence, ma’am.”

“Nor is any taken. Worry not, my dearest servant, but I fear there are unprecedented violent times ahead. I cannot shirk my responsibilities to our fair kingdom and to our common belief.” The Queen Mother paused, raising her face heavenward, as if in supplication to her Lord.

Catherine de Médicis was now in her fifty-third year. Small of stature and thin, without delicate features but with the protruding eyes peculiar to the Médicis line, she was by no means a beautiful woman. However, that did not detract from her determination and ambition. Her political and romantic acquaintances recognised that tight lips and often sullen countenance signified a powerful lady not to be underestimated.

In Florence, city of her birth, she was known as ‘the little duchess’, in France she was referred to as ‘that Italian woman.’ She was not universally admired.

At the age of fourteen, she married Henry, the future king Henry the Second, but throughout his reign he excluded her from participating in state affairs and, instead, showered favours on his chief mistress, Diane de Poitiers. In the presence of guests at social functions he would sit on her lap and play the guitar, chat about politics or even fondle her breasts. For the first ten years of their marriage, Catherine failed to produce any children and such was her desperation that she turned to the dark arts for assistance. She eventually gave birth to ten offspring, five of whom survived infancy, and it was the fifth child, Charles, now crowned Charles 1X upon the death of his father, who would be pivotal to her designs over the coming months.

Catherine clasped and twisted her hands together in a gesture of great distress, feeling powerless to change the situation that confronted her. Turning, ashen-faced, to Mathilde, her features contorted, she beseeched,

“I ask you, what could a woman do, left by the passing of her husband with children on my arms and two families of France who were thinking of grasping my crown – my own Bourbons and the Guises? Am I not compelled to play strange parts in this theatre to deceive first one then the other, to protect my sons who have successively reigned through my wise conduct? I am increasingly surprised that I never did worse.”

“Such things are above my comprehension and station, ma’am.”

“That is as maybe, but it is you who hear gossip and rumour in Chenonceau and beyond,” Catherine said gently to Mathilde.

“My duties commenced long before you arrived at the chateau when I was, first, a scullery maid and, to speak true, my work was not rewarding. I cleaned and scoured the floors, stoves, sinks, pots and dishes. Then, I peeled vegetables, plucked fowl and even scaled fish!” Mathilde mumbled reflectively.

Catherine smiled,

“How your standing has changed, but I wager you would rather still be toiling in the kitchens than tolerating the fantasies of an old woman.”

“I regard it as a privilege,” her eyes moistened with emotion, “and long may it continue.”

“Ay to that, Mathilde. My aim is to place the honour of God before me in all things and to preserve my authority, not for myself, but for the conservation of this kingdom and for the prosperity and well-being of all my citizens.” She wrung her hands incessantly. “I am so wretched that I know, for sure, I will live long enough to see so many people die before my time. I realise that God’s will must be obeyed, that He owns everything, and that He leads us only for as long as He likes the children He gives us, if that makes sense. Come, let us go to the fountain, it never fails to calm my anguish.”