The Italian Woman

CHAPTER II

Dressed in a plain black gown and covered from head to foot in a black veil, Catherine paced up and down in her apartments of the Louvre. The room was lighted by only two wax tapers. The walls were covered with heavy black hangings; the same black cloth covered her bed and her prie-dieu.

Her forty days and nights of mourning were over, and Catherine was beginning to realise more fully all that the death of her husband would mean to her; she found that she could look forward to the future with eagerness.

There would be no more humiliation, no futile attempts to gain Henry’s affections. She would never again watch him make love to his mistress. Henry, who had caused her so much bitterness and humiliation, was now powerless to hurt her. She loved him; she had desired him; his death was a great tragedy; yet freedom was now hers.

She looked back, but fleetingly, for it was not a habit of hers to look back, to those moments when she had watched her husband and his mistress together. She laughed suddenly, remembering that when people made love, wonderful as they might seem to one another, they could appear rather ridiculous to an unseen watcher; and when a woman of nearly sixty and a man of forty behave like young lovers, the unseen watcher – though jealous and tormented – might surely be forgiven a sly snigger. Had she then found a certain coarse amusement mingling with her jealous anguish? What did it matter? It was pointless to look back when there was so much to which she might look forward.

Francis was now King, and Francis was only sixteen years old; he was not very clever, and he was suffering from some poison of the blood which meant that he was continually breaking out in sores. He had, in his formal address to his subjects, asked them to obey his mother. On all state documents he wrote: ‘This being the good pleasure of my Lady-Mother, and I also approve of every opinion that she holdeth.’

Such deference was pleasing, but she had quickly realised that it was not so flattering as it seemed.

How unfortunate it was that Henry and Diane should have married Francis to the Scottish girl! That girl now dominated Catherine’s dreams, for Mary made Francis obey her in all things; and her uncles, the Guises, cunningly saw that she obeyed them.

How I dislike undutiful children! thought Catherine; and, for all his words, Francis was an undutiful son, since he did not obey his mother, but the Guises.

Catherine hated the Guises, and they terrified her. Very clearly the arrogant Duke Francis and the sly Cardinal of Lorraine had shown her that they were the masters. She had tried to placate them while wondering how she could destroy them. She had vowed friendship for them; she had insisted that Francis issue a statement commanding obedience to the Duke and the Cardinal; and as she had done so, she had wondered how she could betray them. Longingly she thought, as she had thought in the days when Diane had occupied her mind, of the poison closet at Blois; but the people whom she wished to remove were so important, so well guarded, that she had to bide her time. She could only use the contents of her closet, and the fine art which she had gradually mastered, on those who were less significant. At the moment she must go warily, for if she were plotting against the Guises, she could be sure they were watching her very closely, and one false move on her part would be disastrous to her.

She had already, she saw now, made a mistake by too prompt action. She had brought about the disgrace of her old enemy, the Constable Montmorency, insisting that the young King take from him the seals of office, and, thinking to ingratiate herself with the Guises, had suggested that they be given to them. Francis told the Constable that, in view of his years, these offices were too great a strain on him, but that he should remain a member of the Privy Council. The Constable had retorted hotly: ‘Being old and half in my dotage, my counsel can be of little use to you.’ And in great rage he had retired to the château of Chantilly. Catherine realised that she had made a dangerous enemy and that the course the ex-Constable would probably take would be to ally himself with the Bourbons.

She could not make up her mind whether or not to make the Bourbons her friends at the expense of the Guises. She had chosen the Guises because Antoine de Bourbon had not been at court when she might have sounded him and thrown in her lot with him. She did not doubt that his prolonged absence might have been engineered by the Guises, but that did not endear him to her; she knew him for a weak and vacillating creature who could not make up his mind on such a simple thing as a journey to court. The Prince of Condé was gallant and attractive; she had always had a pleasant feeling for him; but she did not know enough of him to trust him as an ally in this dangerous game of politics which she was now about to play. Meanwhile, the Guises were at hand, and they seemed all-powerful; and through their niece, Mary of Scotland, they insisted that the young King should take their advice instead of that of his mother. And so, for the moment, Catherine had been forced to take the Guises as her allies.

She drew aside the heavy curtains and looked out on the gardens. The young people were down there, and as she stood watching them, she drew from the observation that delight which watching others, when they thought themselves unobserved, always gave her.

She frowned at those children of hers. There was Francis walking about the enclosed garden with his arm about his wife. Every now and then he would stop to kiss her passionately. He looked like a little old man from this distance. She laughed suddenly, reflecting that he was wearing himself out with the exertions of sport and being a husband. Well, when Francis had worn himself out there would be an end to the easy power of Messieurs the Duke and Cardinal. They would not find it so easy with young Charles. Or would they? But there should be no sly little wife to lure Charles from his mother. She would make sure that over Charles she would have complete domination.

Now there was Charles, sidling up to Mary, trying to take her hand, looking at her in that wild, passionate way of his – his heart in his eyes. Silly Charles! He was no doubt begging that he might be allowed to play his lute to her or read some poem he had written about her. Catherine must stop this folly of her second son; by the look of young Francis, it might be that he was not long for this world, and, if he were not, Charles would have other things to think about than pursuing Francis’s widow. Francis’s widow should never become Charles’s wife.

She must watch these children of hers, for they were very important. Now that her husband was dead, they were all-important. In them lay her future and all that she could hope for in this land of her adoption.

Margot caught her eye. Margot was sprawling on the grass, and on one side of her was the little Prince of Joinville, son of the Duke of Guise, and on the other the Marquis of Beaupréau, the son of the Prince of Roche-sur-Yon. Margot’s wayward eyes went from the dark head of Beaupréau to the fair one of young Guise; and there they rested with a most unchildlike longing. Margot was talking; Margot was always talking, except in her mother’s presence. She jumped up suddenly and danced on the grass, lifting the skirts of her dress too high for decorum, while the two Princes tried to catch her and dance with her.

Then into her apartment came her darling Henry, and with him was little Hercule. Hercule had lost his beauty since his attack of smallpox, for his skin was badly pitted; he would never again be known as ‘Pretty Hercule’. But Henry in contrast was growing more and more beautiful every day.

She could not repress a fond smile at the sight of him. He had decked himself out in the most brilliant colours; but these colours, though dazzlingly bright, mingled perfectly, for her Henry was an artist. In his ears were sapphire earrings and it was these that he had come to show her. He was nine years old now, and those wonderful dark eyes of his were pure Medici. How ordinary the others seemed in comparison with Henry! They had no subtlety. Francis was foolish; Charles was hysterical; Elisabeth and Claude had been quite obedient girls; Margot, nearly eight years old now, was wild and in constant need of restraint; Hercule without his beauty was a petulant little boy, but Henry, her darling, was perfect. She thought even now as she looked at him: Oh, why was this one not my first-born!

He had come to show her his new earrings. Were they not beautiful, and did she not think that sapphires suited him better than emeralds?

‘My darling,’ she said, ‘they are most becoming. But do you think little boys should wear earrings?’

He pouted. Hercule watched him in that astonishment which was apparent on all the children’s faces when they saw the behaviour of Henry towards the mother whom the rest of them feared.

‘But I like earrings, Maman; and if I like earrings I shall wear earrings.’

‘Of course you shall, my pet; and I will tell you that if the other gentlemen do not wear them, the more fools they, for they are most becoming.’

He embraced her. He would like a necklace of sapphires, he said, to match the earrings.

‘You are a vain creature,’ she told him. ‘And you have been perfuming yourself from my bottles, have you not?’

Henry was excited. ‘This perfume of yours is the best you have ever had, Maman. This smell of musk enchants me. Could Cosmo or René make some for me?’

Catherine said she would consider that, in a way which he took for consent. He began to dance round the room, not boisterously as Margot danced, but gracefully, and with the utmost charm. After that he wished to recite to her the latest poem he had composed; and when she heard it, it seemed to Catherine that it compared very favourably with the best of Ronsard.

Ah, she thought, my clever son, my handsome little Italian, why were you not my first-born?

She took him into her arms and kissed him. She told herself, as she had so many times before, that she would use all her power to advance this beloved son. She was as necessary to him as he was to her.

But he wanted now to escape from her, to go to his own apartment and write poetry; he wanted to look at his reflection in his new Venetian mirror and admire the fine garments and the earrings he was wearing.

She let him go, for he was petulant if detained; and when he had gone she felt a distaste for her other children, who were not like Henry.

She did not wish to keep Hercule with her, so she sent him into the gardens to tell his sister Marguerite to come to her at once. Hercule looked startled, for when Margot was not called by her pet name which Charles had given her, it usually meant that she was in disgrace.

‘And,’ went on Catherine, ‘you need not return with her. You may stay in the gardens.’

Hercule went out, and Margot lost no time in obeying her mother’s summons.

The little girl stood before Catherine; she seemed quite different from the gay little coquette of the gardens. She curtsied, and her great dark eyes betrayed her fear; Margot was always afraid when summoned to her mother’s presence.

She came forward to kiss her mother’s hand, but Catherine withheld the hand in displeasure.

‘I have been watching you,’ she said coldly, ‘and I have found your behaviour disgraceful. You roll on the grass like the lowest serving-girl, while you attempt, in your foolish way, to coquette first with Monsieur de Joinville and then with Monsieur Beaupréau.’ Catherine gave a sudden laugh which terrified Margot. Margot did not know why her mother frightened her. She did know that this was going to mean a beating, probably from her governess; but there had been many beatings, and Margot had a method of moving out of range of the rod; it was a technique of her own invention which she had taught the others. It was not the beating which frightened her; it was her mother. She was terrified of this woman’s displeasure. She had said that it was like displeasing God or the Devil. ‘I believe,’ Margot had said, ‘that she knows in her thoughts what we do; I believe that she sees us when she is miles away from us, and that she knows our thoughts. That is what frightens me.’

‘You are not only foolish,’ went on Margot’s mother, ‘you are wanton and wicked. I would not answer for your innocence. What a pleasant thing is this! Your father so recently dead, and you see fit to sport in the gardens with these two gentlemen.’

Margot began to cry at the mention of her father; she remembered suddenly so clearly the big, kindly man with the silvery hair and the understanding smile; she remembered him as a man she thought of first as father, then as King. She could not think how she could have forgotten him when she was trying to make Henry jealous of silly young Beaupréau. Perhaps it was because when she was with Henry of Guise she forgot everything but that boy.

‘You, a Princess of France … so to forget yourself! Go and tell one of the women to find your governess and send her to me.’

While she waited for the governess to arrive, Margot tried to tell herself that this was nothing; it would merely mean a beating; but Margot could not stop herself trembling.

‘Take the Princess away,’ said Catherine to the governess. ‘Give her a good beating and see that she remains in her room for the rest of the day.’

And Margot, trembling still, went from her mother’s presence; but as soon as she was in the corridor with her governess, all her old spirit came back to her; her tears stopped suddenly and she looked slyly up at the poor woman to whom the beating of Margot was a greater ordeal than to Margot.

And in the apartment, with the rod in her hand, the governess tried in vain to catch the small, darting figure; there were not many strokes that found their target on the lively little body. Margot’s red tongue popped out now and then in derision, and when the governess was completely exhausted, Margot danced about the apartment, studying her budding beauty, wishing Henry of Guise was there to admire her.

Having despatched Margot, Catherine sent an attendant down to the garden to have Charles brought to her.

He came in trepidation, as Margot had done. He was nine and seemed moderately healthy; it was only after his hysterical fits came upon him and his eyes became bloodshot and there was foam on his lips that he seemed feeble.

‘Come here, my son,’ said Catherine.

‘You sent for me, Madame.’

‘I have been watching you in the gardens, Charles.’

Into his eyes there came that same haunted look which she had seen in Margot’s. He, like his sister, was terrified of the thought of his mother’s watching eyes.

‘What were you saying to Mary, Charles?’

‘I was asking if I might read some verses to her.’

‘Some verses … written by you to Mary?’

He flushed. ‘Yes, Madame.’

Catherine went on: ‘What do you think of your sister Mary? Come, tell me. And tell me the truth, Charles. You cannot hide the truth from me, my son.’

‘I think,’ said Charles, ‘that there never was a more beautiful Princess in the whole of the world.’

‘Go on. Go on.’

‘And I think my brother Francis is fortunate above all others because Mary is his wife.’

Catherine took his wrist and held it firmly. ‘That is treason,’ she said quietly. ‘Francis is your King.’

‘Treason!’ he cried, trying to start back. ‘Oh no. It is not treason.’

‘You cherish unholy thoughts about his wife.’ She kept her voice low as though that of which she spoke was too shocking to be spoken aloud.

‘Not unholy,’ cried Charles. ‘I merely wish that I might have been my father’s eldest son, and that I might stand in Francis’s place – not for the throne, but that Mary might be my wife.’

‘These are wicked, wanton thoughts, my son. These are treasonable thoughts.’

He wanted to contradict her, but her eyes were fixed on him and he found that he was speechless.

‘Do you know, my son, what happens to traitors? I will take you down to the dungeons one day and there I will show you what is done to traitors. They are tortured. You cannot understand torture, but perhaps, as you harbour traitorous thoughts against your brother, it would be a kindness to show you these things.’

Charles cried out in terror: ‘No; please do not. I could not … I could not look. I cannot bear to see such things.’

‘But it is as well that you should know, child, for even Princes may suffer torture if they are traitors to their kings.’

His lips were moving, and she saw the flecks of foam gathering upon them; his eyes were wide and staring, and she saw the pink veins beginning to show in the whites of them.

‘I will tell you what happens to traitors,’ she went on. ‘It should be part of your education. In the dark dungeons of the Conciergerie – you know the Conciergerie, my son – prisoners are kept. They scream in terror. They would faint, but they are not allowed to faint. They are brought round by means of herbs and vinegar. Some have their eyes put out; some lose their tongues or have their ears lopped off. Some suffer the water torture, others the Boot. Those who betray kings suffer more terribly than any others. Their flesh may be torn with red-hot pincers, and molten lead, pitch, wax, brimstone … such things are poured into the wounds …’

Charles began to scream: ‘No … no! I won’t go there. I won’t be tortured. I won’t … Maman … you will not let them take me … ?’

Catherine lifted the little boy in her arms. That was enough. Perhaps now he would not be so foolish. Perhaps he would think of the torture chambers every time Mary Stuart flashed those bright eyes of hers his way.

‘Charles, Charles, my dearest son. My dear, dear boy, your mother is here to protect you. She would let no harm come to you. You are her Prince, her son. You know that.’

He buried his head against her. ‘Yes, Maman. Yes, Maman.’

His hand curled round the stuff of her sleeve as a baby’s curls, tightly, for protection.

‘There, my little one,’ she soothed. ‘Nothing shall happen to you, for you are my little Prince, and I shall be proud of you. You would never be a traitor to your brother, would you? You would never be so wicked as to desire another man’s wife – and he your own brother!’

‘No, Maman, no!’ He was shivering now. She had averted the fit. That was the way she preferred to do it. It was not pleasant to see him lose his reason.

She soothed him; she laid her cool hand on his forehead; she made him lie on her bed, and she sat beside it holding his hand.

‘Have no fear, my son,’ she said. ‘Do what your mother tells you, and she will see that no harm comes to you.’

‘Yes, Maman; I will.’

‘Always remember that, Charles.’

He nodded while Catherine wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead. She sat beside him until he was calm.

She was thinking what a difficult task lay before her. She must dupe the arrogant Guises and the vacillating Bourbons; but she must not neglect to guide her children’s footsteps in the way they must go. She could not guess which task would be the more arduous – the fooling of the rival houses or the controlling of her Valois brood.

Francis was preparing for a day’s hunting. He was feeling wretchedly ill, but he was happy. He enjoyed hunting when Mary was to be of the party, for whenever Mary was with him he was happy. He never tired of looking at her, of telling her how beautiful she was; and that made them both very happy.

He wished he could escape from his mother and the Cardinal and be alone with Mary all the time. He wished that his father – his dearly beloved father – was alive. He would like to kill the man who had killed his father. He, Francis, did not want to be King; he had been so much happier when he was Dauphin. Then there had been little to do but dance and play and be with Mary. Now that he was King, he was never free from the attentions of his mother and the Cardinal.

He was afraid of his mother; he was afraid of the Cardinal. They were both, he knew, so much cleverer than he would ever be. He had to obey them both, and as they did not always wish him to do the same thing, that was very difficult. The Cardinal sneered openly at him, saying those clever, cutting things which hurt more deeply than Francis would admit. He would have liked to have banished the Cardinal, but Mary called him her darling uncle; and the Cardinal was always thinking of things which would please Mary; he could not banish one of Mary’s uncles.

As for his mother, he would have liked to tell her to do everything she pleased, for he was sure she knew much more about governing France than he did. But always at his elbow was the Cardinal, with his thin, beautifully formed features and his cruel mouth letting fall those unkind words.

The Cardinal came in unceremoniously, even as he was dressing himself for the hunt, and with an imperious gesture dismissed the King’s attendants. Francis would have liked to protest, but if he did so he would stammer and stutter, and the Cardinal had already mocked stammerers and stutterers, so that Francis was almost afraid to speak in his presence.

‘We leave in half an hour, Sire,’ said the Cardinal.

Francis said: ‘I do not know if the Queen will be ready.’

‘The Queen must be ready,’ said the Cardinal testily.

‘There … there is plenty of time,’ stammered Francis. ‘The Prince of Bourbon shall be met half an hour’s ride from the palace.’

‘Nay, Sire, we shall not meet the Bourbon, hunting to-day.’

‘Not … But … But he is on his way. I … I had heard that he was.’

The Cardinal of Lorraine studied his long white fingers. ‘Sire, the Bourbon rides this way. He comes with a humble following because he has some notion that he is important to the King of Spain and it is well that the spies of that monarch should not know of his movements. Therefore he rides to court like a poor gentleman.’

Francis did not laugh. He hated to hear people ridiculed, and Antoine de Bourbon was of higher rank than the Cardinal. He hated the sly, handsome face of the Cardinal; he hated the drawling voice.

‘Then we must meet him if he rides this way,’ he said.

‘Why so, Sire?’

‘Why? Because it is courteous. More than that, it is our custom. Do we not always meet those who come to visit us … out hunting … as if by accident?’

‘If the visitor is important, yes.’

‘But this is the Prince of Bourbon.’

‘Nevertheless, he must learn that he is of no account.’

‘I cannot do this, Monsieur le Cardinal. I will not be guilty of such ill manners towards my kinsman.’

The Cardinal sat smiling at his long white hands until Mary joined them. She was flushed and laughing; the young King was enchanted afresh by the beauty of his wife.

‘You are ready, my love?’ she asked. ‘Why do we wait?’

Francis hurried to her and kissed her hands. ‘We but waited for you.’

‘Alas, dear niece,’ said the Cardinal, ‘you will not ride the way you chose. The King has given orders that we must ride south to greet the Bourbon.’

Mary looked from her husband to her uncle. She took her cue from the Cardinal as always.

‘Oh, Francis, but I did not want to go south. I had made other plans. There is something I wished to show you on the north road.’ She grimaced charmingly. ‘And the Bourbon! He wears earrings. He is a fop and a fool, and he tires me so. Francis, please, let us pretend we have missed him. Let us ride the other way. Yes, Francis … darling … to please me.’

Francis murmured: ‘We will go where you lead us, my love, my darling.’

And the Cardinal looked on, smiling benignly at his beautiful niece and her little King.

Antoine was only a few miles from the Palace of Saint-Germain. He was thinking of the new status which was his since the death of King Henry. He was a Prince of the Blood Royal, and young Francis was only sixteen. In such cases it was necessary to have a strong and influential Privy Council, and naturally he, on account of his rank, should have high office in it.

He thought pleasantly of what he would do for the persecuted Protestants for whom he and his brother felt such sympathy. He felt proud, contemplating that all over the country Protestants would look to him as their leader; they would rejoice when they heard that he was at court. He could almost hear their cries: ‘Vive le Bourbon! Let us make him our leader. All our hopes rest in him!’

He had talked of this with Jeanne before he had left home, for his wife was fast growing in sympathy with the Reformed Faith; she would soon come out into the open. It was not that she was afraid to announce her belief; she did not fear the enmity of the Guises and Philip of Spain; it was the honour which she felt was due to her father that prevented her from making her feelings known just yet.

Oh, Jeanne, he thought, how I love you! How I admire you, my darling! You are more than a woman … more than a wife. I am even glad of the profligate life I led before I met you, because my dealings with those light women whom I knew at that time have taught me to appreciate you more.

Jeanne wanted him to lead the Protestants so that they might rid themselves of these perpetual persecutions. In Jeanne’s eyes he was already a leader. He would come back to Nérac, to Jeanne and his children; and she would be proud of his achievements.

He said to his attendants: ‘We shall be meeting the King’s party at any moment now. Be prepared.’

But they rode on, and there was no sign of the King’s party; and when they reached the Palace of Saint-Germain, the attendants seemed surprised to see them.

Antoine, furious at this reception, said coldly: ‘Take me to my apartments at once.’

‘My lord Prince,’ was the answer, ‘no apartments have been prepared.’

‘This is nonsense. Am I not expected? Conduct me to the King … no, to the Queen Mother.’

‘My Lord, they are out hunting. They will not return until the late afternoon.’

Antoine realised now that this was no accident, but an intentional slight, and he could guess who had arranged it. It could mean only one thing. His perennial enemies, the Guises, were in command.

Even as he stood there, hesitating and uncertain, he knew what Francis Duke of Guise would have done in his place. He would have drawn his sword, he would have shouted curses; he would have demanded that apartments immediately be prepared for him. And the Cardinal? Antoine could imagine the scorn on those cold, handsome features; he could hear the clear, cutting voice which would strike terror into all who heard it.

But Antoine was no Guise. He did not know how to act. He was not physically afraid; his was a moral cowardice, and an inability to think quickly and to know how to act in an emergency. In battle he would be as brave as any – but this was not battle.

His friend the Maréchal de Saint-André came to his rescue and offered him his room at the palace, saying that he would help find lodgings in the village for Antoine’s attendants. Antoine accepted this offer with gratitude. He saw now that this had been planned by the Guises, who had decided that he should come to court and find himself in the midst of his enemies with a few – a very few – attendants scattered in the village. He knew that he had been unwise to delay his visit so long and that he should have been at court weeks before, for perhaps at that time the Guises might not have been in such complete power. He should have come in pomp, well guarded by his own men. He had been a fool to listen to evil counsels, and now he knew it. He realised to the full what power was working against him when, on the return of the hunting party, he went into the audience chamber.

King Francis – looking uncomfortable, it was true, but obviously obeying orders – stood quite still and made no attempt to greet him. The Cardinal of Lorraine, who stood close to the King, did likewise. This was a great insult, for Antoine was of higher rank than the Cardinal, and even if the King chose to insult Antoine, the Cardinal certainly had no right to do so. But Antoine was without dignity. Uncertainly he embraced the King and the Cardinal, though neither gave the slightest response.

Catherine was present with the young Queen, and as Catherine watched Antoine de Bourbon she felt a desire to burst out laughing. She had been fortunate in not putting her trust in a Bourbon. He was reduced to the position of a chambermaid, she thought. And how meekly he accepted it! The fool! Could he not see that this was no time for weakness?

He should have demanded the homage of the Cardinal; he could have made the poor little King shiver if he had done so; and the Cardinal also would have realised that he had a strong man to deal with. But no! Antoine had no dignity, no arrogance … only meekness.

The Cardinal spoke to him most haughtily, and Antoine smiled, glad to receive some attention.

Poor little popinjay! thought Catherine. Now, there is a man whom it should not be difficult to use.

Antoine had gone back to his wife, and Catherine laughed to think of their reunion. She was no longer jealous of their love for one another, for she was certain that one day Jeanne was going to repent of her marriage. Jeanne was strong, and as a strong woman she must despise weakness; so she must soon despise her husband. It was amusing to think of Antoine’s creeping back to his wife to tell of his reception at court, of all he had been able to achieve for the Protestants, whose hope he now was since Condé had been tactfully sent away on a foreign mission – for what Antoine had achieved was precisely nothing.

Condé was in a different class. Condé was not a man to be dismissed as lightly as his elder brother Antoine; but Condé was away, and there was no need to think of him now. This scheming for power was such a difficult task, such an allabsorbing one, so complicated that one could never see more than a few moves ahead.

Still, there was time to reflect that Antoine was creeping back to his wife, his tail between his legs, to tell her a tale of humiliation and defeat. One day Madame Jeanne would be forced to see what kind of man she had married.

Thoughts of Jeanne still haunted Catherine a good deal; she would always hate her, would always see her as a political rival as well as a woman who had been successful in love – though with what a partner! – and a woman to watch in the future.

There was much to think of at home. ‘With the help of the brothers Ruggieri and her perfumer René, who had a shop on the quay opposite the Louvre, she had removed from this life one or two minor characters who had made themselves difficult. Such actions gave her a satisfying sense of her power; she enjoyed giving her smiles to her intended victims and assuring them that they were well on the way to gaining her favour; then would come the removal, sometimes swift, sometimes lingering, whichever suited her purpose. This was like soothing ointments on her wounds, those wounds which had been made long ago by Diane de Poitiers and now by the Guises. Sometimes she thought it would be a clever thing to slip something into the wine of Francis of Guise, something which would improve the taste of the wine, for his was a rare palate; at others she thought how she would have enjoyed presenting the Cardinal of Lorraine with a book, the pages of which had been specially treated by René or one of the Ruggieri brothers; it would have made her happy to have given to that dandy, Antoine de Bourbon, a pair of perfumed gloves, the kind which, when drawn on to the hands, produced death. But such would be only a momentary satisfaction. It was unwise to deal thus with those of rank and importance. Moreover, she was beginning to see that the Guises and the Bourbons would be of more use to her alive than dead, for it would be to her advantage to set one rival house against the other. At the moment it might appear that she was siding with the Guises, but she did not always intend to do that. When she had a chance she would let that weak, vain little Bourbon think that she was on his side – secretly, because of the power of the Guises; she would remind him that Francis could not live for ever.

When Francis died, Charles would take the crown; and Charles, hysterical and unbalanced, had been taught to rely on his mother. Yet, pliable as he was, she must not forget that streak of madness in him; there was a hint of rebellion also. Catherine had seen how, through Mary of Scotland, her son Francis had been weaned from her control.

She decided now to put into action a plan which had long been in her mind. It seemed impossible to banish Mary Stuart from Charles’s mind. When Catherine talked to him, rousing that greatest emotion of which he was capable, fear – fear of his mother, fear of torture and death – he was compliant; but when the next day he set eyes on Mary, he would watch her like a lovesick boy.

Catherine sent for two Italians of her suite, two men whom she trusted as she trusted her astrologers.

When they were in her apartments she closed the doors and made sure that there was no one hidden in any cupboard or anteroom. Then she explained what she wanted of them. It was possible to speak frankly – or as near as Catherine could get to frankness – to Birago and Gondi, the Count of Retz; for they, as Italians, must obey the Italian Queen, since they knew that their prospects in France depended on her good graces.

‘I am alarmed concerning my son,’ she said. ‘I do not mean the King, but my son Charles, who would take the King’s place were the King to meet with an early death. My lords, the little boy has feelings beyond his years … and for his brother’s wife. This is not healthy in a little boy. The French …’ She smiled at them intimately … Italian to Italian. ‘The French, my lords, see nothing wrong in love between the sexes … even in the cases of children. “It is natural,” they say. “What a lover he will become!” ’ She gave a sudden spurt of laughter. ‘But at the age of my son, it is more natural, I think, to have a fondness for members of his own sex.’

Her wide, prominent eyes stared blankly before her, and the men watched her closely.

‘You think, Madame,’ ventured the Count of Retz, ‘that it would be more natural were he to indulge in the usual passionate friendships with … boys of his own age.’

‘How well you understand! I do. Indeed I do. I do not wish to curb his natural emotions.’ She smiled, and they smiled with her, knowing full well that it was a habit of the Queen Mother’s to say what she did not mean. ‘I wish him to enjoy friendships with members of his own sex. He is not strong, and I feel you gentlemen could do much for him. Let him not, at his tender age, think of women.’

The Italians smiled afresh. They knew that they had been chosen as tutors for Charles because of their perverted tastes rather than for their academic qualifications.

They understood the Queen Mother. The Prince Henry was as dear to her, so it was said, ‘as her right eye’. Francis did not look as if he would make old bones, and as yet he had no son to follow him. If it should happen that the little Queen of Scots gave him one, they did not doubt that Catherine would know how to remove that little obstacle. And after Francis … Charles. Let the danger of Charles’s producing children be made as remote as possible. He was weak and unbalanced; well, it should not be difficult to turn such a boy from his natural inclinations.

Some might have been astonished at this interview with the Queen Mother; but Charles’s new tutors were not. They understood perfectly and accepted the task required of them.

Catherine was preparing to set out for Francis’s Coronation, which was to take place, as tradition demanded, in the town of Rheims. How long, she asked herself, would this little King stay on the throne? He had been such a difficult baby to rear. She remembered how in the first year of his life his body had from time to time been covered with livid patches about which the doctors could do nothing, being absolutely ignorant of their cause. There was an obstruction in his nose which it had been thought at one time would kill him; but he had survived to speak with a nasal accent which was not very pleasant to listen to. It had always seemed that he was too delicate for long life, and now, by the look of him, it appeared that he could scarcely survive his Coronation. Watching him, Catherine felt competent to arrange that matters should go the way she wished.

A few days before they were due to set out for Rheims, Catherine was sitting with some of her ladies when the talk turned to Anne du Bourg, whom Catherine’s husband, the late Henry the Second, had sent to prison for holding heterodox views. Anne du Bourg was now awaiting his trial, and there was more unrest than ever in the country on account of this man. As they talked, Catherine realised that the ladies about her all had Huguenot leanings – the Duchess de Montpensier, Mademoiselle de Goguier, Madame de Crussol and Madame de Mailly. Catherine was stimulated, for her sense of intrigue warned her that the gathering together of such ladies was not an accident. She let them talk.

‘Ah,’ she said at length. ‘But, ladies, it would seem to me that there are two parties of Huguenots in France to-day: those who devote themselves to their Faith – and these I honour – and those who make a political issue of religion. Nay, Madame de Mailly, do not interrupt me. Some of the party, I have reason to believe, plot with Elizabeth of England. I understand it is their wish to depose my son and put the Prince of Condé on the throne.’

Her thoughts went to Condé as she spoke, and she could not prevent a little smile. Condé! What queer thoughts this man aroused in her! She knew that she would not hesitate to use him, even to slip a little potion into his wine if need be; but she could never hear his name without a slight emotion. That was folly for a woman of her age, particularly as she had no great desire for physical passion. Yet, try as she might, she could not overcome this excitement with which she was filled at the prospect of meeting Condé. He was a man of immense vitality, and his magnetism affected every female who set eyes on him; this must be so if it could touch Catherine de’ Medici. She heard that many women were in love with him. He was small, yet enchanting; he was hot-tempered, quick to take offence; and, she imagined, quite unstable. He would need much guidance, but it was said that he got this in good measure from his wife Eléonore, a fervent defender of the Reformed Faith. He was a practised philanderer, this Condé, as was his brother, Antoine de Bourbon. Philanderers both – yet held in check by over-devoted wives!

She had missed a little of the conversation while she had been thinking of Condé, which showed how unlike herself she became at the very mention of the man’s name.

‘Ah,’ she went on. ‘You would not expect me to support those who ill-wished my son!’

‘Madame,’ cried Madame de Montpensier, ‘the Huguenots are loyal … absolutely loyal to the Crown.’

Catherine shrugged her shoulders. ‘There are some,’ she went on, ‘who wish to have no King at all. A republic, they say they prefer … ruled by Calvin!’

‘Nay, Madame, you have heard false tales.’

‘It may be that you are right.’

And when she dismissed these women, Madame de Mailly remained behind and whispered to Catherine: ‘Madame, the Admiral of France would wish to have a word with you. May I bring him to your presence?’

Catherine nodded.

Gaspard de Coligny. She studied him as he knelt before her, and as she looked at his stern and handsome face, it occurred to her that such a man, after all, might not be difficult to use. She knew a good deal of him, for she had made his acquaintance when she had first come to France. He was of Catherine’s own age, and his mother had been the sister of Montmorency, the Constable of France. He was handsome in quite a different way from Condé. Gaspard de Coligny had a stern and noble look. Yet in his youth he had been a gay figure of fashion, spending his time between the court and the battlefield. Catherine remembered him well. He had been seen everywhere with his greatest friend, Francis of Guise; now the greatest friends had become the greatest enemies, Francis of Guise being the nominal head of the Catholic Party, while Coligny was the hope of the Protestants. Coligny was a power in the land; as Admiral of France, he controlled Normandy and Picardy. He had been a good Catholic until, during three years’ captivity in Flanders, he had taken to the Protestant religion. A quiet and serious man he had become, and he was married to a plain and very wise wife who worshipped him and to whom he was devoted. In the presence of Coligny, Catherine was aware of strength, and such strength excited her as she wondered how she could use it.

When Coligny had risen, she asked him what he wished to say to her, and he answered that it was the Queen Mother to whom the Protestants were now looking with hope. She smiled, well pleased, for it was amusing to discover how successfully she had managed to hide her true self from the people about her.

‘They are aware of your sympathy, Madame,’ said Coligny earnestly.

Then she spoke to him of what she had mentioned to the ladies; of plots with England, of plots with Calvin. He in his turn assured her of his loyalty to the Crown; and when Coligny spoke of loyalty she must believe him.

‘Madame,’ said Coligny, ‘you are on your way to Rheims. A meeting could be arranged there … or somewhere near. There is much which should be discussed with you.’

‘What would be discussed with me, Admiral?’

‘We shall ask for the dismissal of the Guises, who hold so many offices; we shall ask for the redistribution of offices; the convocation of the States General. All this would be in the true interest of the Crown.’

‘Ah, Monsieur l’Amiral, when I see poor people burned at the stake, not for murder or theft, but for holding their own opinions, I am deeply moved. And when I see the manner in which they bear these afflictions, I believe there is something in their faith which rises above reason.’

‘Our people look to you for help, Madame,’ pleaded Coligny. Madame de Mailly cried out: ‘Oh, Madame, do not pollute the young King’s reign with bloodshed. That which has already been shed calls loudly to God for vengeance.’

Catherine looked at Madame de Mailly coldly. ‘Do you refer to what took place when my husband was on the throne?’

Madame de Mailly fell on her knees and begged the pardon of the Queen Mother.

Catherine looked from Madame de Mailly to Coligny. ‘I think,’ she said slowly, ‘your meaning is this: many suffered at my husband’s command, and you think that because of this a terrible death overtook him.’ Catherine laughed bitterly. ‘You would warn me, would you not, that if there are more deaths, more suffering, I may suffer? Ah, Madame, Monsieur l’Amiral, God has taken from me him whom I loved and prized more dearly than my life. What more could He do to me?’

Then she wept, for it pleased her to appear before Coligny as a weak woman, and both the Admiral and Madame de Mailly comforted her. But as she wept Catherine was asking herself whether or not it would be wise to agree to this meeting with the Protestants. She decided that it would, for she need commit herself to nothing while she learned their secrets.

So she promised that she would see any minister whom the Reformed Church cared to send to her; and Coligny and Madame de Mailly retired very well satisfied with the interview.

When Catherine was alone she thought continually of the Protestants; that led her to Condé; she contemplated his attractiveness, and his weakness. She thought of Antoine and Jeanne; Condé and his Eléonore. And when her women came in for her coucher she thought how lovely some of them were. There were two among them of outstanding beauty; one was Louise de la Limaudière and the other Isabelle de Limeuil.

She said, when she had dismissed all but the most beautiful of her attendants: ‘Do you remember how in the days of my father-in-law Francis the First, there was a band of ladies, all charming, all good company, great riders, witty, the pick of the court?’

They had heard of Francis’s Petite Bande, and they said so.

‘I have such a band in mind. I shall gather about me ladies of charm and elegance, ladies who will do as much for me as Francis’s did for him. Beauty, daring, wit, these shall be the qualifications; and it shall be deemed as great an honour for a lady to enter my Escadron Volant as it was to be a member of Francis’s Petite Bande.’

The court had moved to the Castle of Blois on the advice of Ambroise Paré, the King’s surgeon. Francis’s poison of the blood was particularly severe at this time, and it was thought that the climate of Blois, milder than that of Paris, might be good for the King.

During these uneasy days, Catherine felt herself to be most unsafe. The meeting with the Protestant ministers which she had planned had not taken place, for the arrangements had come to the ears of the Cardinal of Lorraine and he, in his arrogant way, together with his brother, the Duke of Guise, had made it very clear to Catherine that she could not serve two masters. If she wished to throw in her lot with Coligny and the Protestants, she would immediately and automatically become the enemy of the Guisards. And Catherine – with Francis on the throne, and Francis’s wife, subject to those uncles of hers, in command of the King – could not afford to offend these men.

If the matter had ended there it would not have been important, but the persecutions of the Protestants had increased. The terrible sentence that he should be burned at the stake had been carried out on du Bourg, and many had watched him die in the Place des Grèves.

The Protestants were murmuring against Catherine for having failed to keep her promise. The French, of whatever class or party, were always ready to blame the Italian woman.

Catherine chafed against her inability to get what she wanted; but the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duke of Guise had followed the court to Blois. They were on the alert. Catherine knew they watched her closely.

Only the children seemed unaware of the tension. The King knew nothing of what was going on about him. He was only concerned with his happiness in his married life. Mary was happy too, as long as she could dance and chatter and be admired; it seemed wonderful to her to be the most beautiful of all the Queens of France, to be courted and petted by her two formidable uncles.

Charles was not happy, but then how could he be? His tutors bewildered him by the strange things they taught him. He still longed to be with Mary, the Queen and wife of his brother; he wanted to write poetry to her and play his lute to her all day long.

Henry was happy with his dogs and those members of his own sex whom he chose for his playmates; these were all the pretty little boys of the court, not the big, blustering ones, like Henry of Guise, who were always talking of fighting and what they would do when they were grown up; Henry’s friends were clever boys who wrote poetry and read poetry and liked fine pictures and beautiful things.

Margot was happy because Henry of Guise was at Blois. They would wander together along the banks of the Loire and talk of their future; they were determined that one day they would marry.

‘If they should try to marry me to anyone else,’ said Margot, ‘I shall go with you to Lorraine and we will rule there together; and perhaps we shall one day take the whole of France and I will make you King.’

But Henry scoffed at the idea of there being any opposition to their marriage.

‘Say nothing of this to anyone yet, dearest Margot, but I have already spoken to my father.’

Margot stared at him. ‘About us?’

He nodded. ‘My father thinks it would be a good plan for us to marry.’

‘But Henry, what if the King … ?’

‘My father is the greatest man in France. If he says we shall marry, then we shall.’

Margot thought of Henry’s father, the mighty Duke of Guise, Le Balafré, with the scar on his face which somehow made him more attractive because he had received it in battle. There would be many who would agree with his son that Francis of Guise was the greatest man in France; and if he could give her his son Henry in marriage, Margot herself was prepared to believe it.

And so the little lovers wandered through the castle grounds, talking of the future and the day when they would marry, swearing fidelity, assuring each other that no one should be allowed to stand in the way of their ultimate marriage.

Francis, Duke of Guise, called a Council at the Castle of Blois. He was grave, but his eyes sparkled as they always did at the thought of adventure; for there was nothing that delighted Francis more than a battle – the bloodier the better.

‘Mesdames, Messieurs,’ he said, addressing the Council, which consisted of the young Queen and the Queen Mother as well as the King, the Cardinal of Lorraine and the leading figures of the court, ‘I have news that a plot is afoot. My spies in England have brought me word of this. The King is in danger. A military rising is being planned, the motive of which is to kidnap the King, the Queen, the Queen Mother and all the royal children. These traitors plan that if the King refuses to become a Protestant, another King will be set up to take his place. At the head of these traitors, as you will guess, are the Bourbon brothers. There has been correspondence with Elizabeth of England, who promises them help. Every care must be taken of the King. We must guard the castle.’

After this revelation all were confined to the castle. There were no more ramblings along the banks of the Loire for Margot and Henry of Guise. They did not care; they were happy as long as they were together; and both were of the kind to enjoy the thought of danger’s being near to them. Not so Francis and his brother Charles. Charles’s fits became more frequent, and he would cry out in his sleep that he was being murdered; he was terrified, on retiring, lest an assassin should be hiding in the hangings of his room. He was becoming more and more nervous. His mother watched him with calculating eyes; it seemed to her that his tutors were having some effect upon him; she was not displeased.

But at present she must turn her thoughts from her children to the bigger issue – the war between the Catholics and Protestants – in which she would not become involved, unless she might effect, by her intervention, a favourable advantage to herself. Sometimes she laughed at the fervency of the people about her. She was the only one who cared not a jot whether Catholics or Protestants got the upper hand, as long as they were subservient to the will of Catherine. Her religion was neither Catholic nor Protestant; she would fight for no cause but that of keeping the Valois Kings on the throne of France, and the Valois Kings under the control of the Queen Mother.

So, while listening to the plans of the Guisards, she was busy formulating her own.

Secretly she sent for Coligny. She had betrayed him once, but she felt that by sending out distress signals she could fool him again. Like most straightforward men, there was little subtlety about Coligny. She wrote to him that she had heard the English were about to attack a convoy of French ships. Now, although Coligny might be in league with England against the Guises and the Catholics, in such a man as he was honour demanded that he must always fly to the help of France; so he came at once to Catherine when he received the message from her. Catherine received him with tears, told him that she was a weak woman completely in the hands of the Guises, and begged him to stand by the King.

‘The cause of all this trouble,’ said the Admiral, ‘is the family of Guise. The only remedy, Madame, and the only way in which a terrible civil war can be avoided is by an Edict of Tolerance.’

Catherine declared that everything in her power should be done to bring this into being; and because it seemed imperative to her to win the confidence of the Protestants, which she had lost when she failed to keep her word with regard to the meetings near Rheims, she issued a decree; it was a decree to stop the persecution of the Protestants; it gave them freedom to worship and contained a promise of forgiveness to all except those who had plotted against the royal family.

Catherine felt that she had handled a delicate situation rather well; but when, a few days later, Francis of Guise was ushered into her apartments, and the man stood before her, his scarred, handsome face set and determined, those glittering eyes watching her cynically, that cruel mouth smiling a little, she began to realise the mighty force she had to pit her wits against, and her uneasiness returned.

Francis said: ‘Madame, we are leaving Blois immediately. I can give you thirty minutes in which to prepare yourself.’

‘Leaving Blois!’

The eyes flickered and the one above the scar watered a little, as it did when Francis was experiencing strong emotion.

‘Danger, Madame, to the King, yourself and the royal children.’

‘But,’ she retorted, ‘the danger is past. The Edict …’

‘Your Edict, Madame,’ said the Duke with unmistakable emphasis, ‘will not help us to fight our enemies. We leave Blois for the safety of Amboise. I cannot leave the King exposed to danger.’

She realised the power of the man, and that wonderful self-control of hers was ready to meet this situation as it had met many more in the past. She, the Queen Mother, would accept the humiliation of bowing to the will of the Duke of Guise, for, she assured herself as she prepared to leave Blois, it would not last for ever.

Francis the King was very frightened. Why could they not leave him alone? He wanted nothing but to be happy with Mary. He did not ask much – only that he might ride with her, dance with her, give her fine jewels, hear her laughter. It was so pleasant to be a young husband in love; so frightening to be a King. There were so many who wanted to rule France: his mother, Monsieur de Guise, the Cardinal of Lorraine, Antoine de Bourbon, Louis de Bourbon … If only he could have said: ‘Very well, here is the crown. Take it. All I want is to be left at peace with Mary.’

But that could not be done. Unfortunately, he was the eldest son of his father. Oh, why had dearest Papa died? Why had there been that terrible accident which had not only robbed him of a father whom he loved and who had made him feel safe and happy, but had put a crown on his head!

And now there was fresh trouble. Here at Amboise they had been kept like prisoners. The Cardinal sneered at him; the Duke ordered what he should do. Oh, that he might be free of Mary’s uncles! Men sought his life, he was told. He must be wary. They had caught some men in the forests surrounding Amboise, and these men had said they would talk to none but the King. He had been lectured and drilled as to what he must do. His mother had told him; the Guises had repeated their instructions. He was to give these men a crown piece each and be jolly and friendly to them while he asked sly questions and found out who had sent them to Amboise.

He knew that while he talked to the men, his mother would be listening through a tube which connected her room and his. He knew that the Cardinal would be concealed somewhere or other and that, if he made a false step or failed to get what they wanted, he would have to face the scorn of the Cardinal, the anger of the Duke, and, worse still, the coldness of his mother, which he dreaded more than anything.

The men were brought in; they bowed low over his hand.

He tried to appear bluff as he had been coached, but it was no good. ‘Fear not, my good men,’ he said shyly; and he thought that by the sound of his voice it was they who should be telling him not to fear.

He gave them the money.

‘Tell me, what were you doing in the forests?’

They smiled and exchanged glances. They liked his youth and his shyness. What was there to fear? If he was the King, he was only a poor, delicate boy.

‘We came to rescue you, Sire,’ they whispered. It was apparent that the boy was uneasy; it seemed obvious that he would be nothing loth to escape from the rule of the Guises. With his stammering shyness he had won their confidence, and in a little while they were telling him that they had been sent from Geneva and that very shortly their leaders would join them.

The King hoped they would succeed; it was a genuine hope, for he could imagine nothing worse than the captivity he now endured under the control of the Duke and the Cardinal.

‘Fear not, Sire,’ whispered the leader of the men. ‘There are forty thousand men on the way to your help.’

They thanked him for his graciousness; they kissed his hand with affection, it seemed; and Francis was very sorry for them and longed to warn them that they had been overheard.

They were taken as they left the castle, and for weeks afterwards their heads – with those of many others who had been rounded up in the forest – adorned the crenellations of the castle.

All the children, except Hercule, were summoned to the balcony. They dared not refuse to obey the order. They must sit with the ladies and courtiers while they watched the massacre of Huguenots in the courtyard.

Francis felt sick; he could not endure it. Mary covered her face with her hands. Charles watched in horror; later he would go back to his tutors, who would talk of what had happened until he would scream and fall into one of his fits. Margot turned pale; it hurt her to see young and handsome men cruelly pinioned, pale from the dungeons, bleeding from the torture chambers. Margot could not bear to look at the blood, and there was blood everywhere. She wanted to scream: ‘Stop! Stop!’ Her brother Henry looked on with indifference; he did not care about anyone but himself and his pretty friends. But Henry of Guise was thrilled by the spectacle; he always took his cue from his father, and the massacre of Huguenots was organised by the Guises; therefore it was right.

Francis of Guise exchanged approving glances with his son, the hope of his house. Henry’s eyes showed how he adored his father, and there was contentment and understanding between those two. But the Duchess, Henry’s mother, disgraced them all by covering her face with her hands and weeping.

‘What ails you?’ asked the Queen Mother, herself calmly watching the spectacle.

‘This piteous tragedy!’ cried the Duchess of Guise hysterically. ‘This shedding of innocent blood … the blood of the King’s subjects. Oh, God in Heaven, terrible days are before us. I have no doubt that a great disaster will fall upon our house.’

Duke Francis angrily led his wife away, and Henry was ashamed of his mother.

Later, as the massacres continued day after day, the Duke grew more cruel, as though in defiance of anything Fate could do to him. Everywhere was the sickening stench of blood and decaying flesh; when the children went about the grounds they would be faced with the sight of men’s bodies hanging from the battlements. They watched men, fresh from the torture dungeons, tied in sacks and thrown into the Loire.

Neither Catherine nor the Guises attempted to stop the children’s witnessing these terrible sights. Duke Francis knew that his son Henry would be hardened by them as he wished him to be hardened; Catherine knew that her Henry was quite as indifferent to the sufferings of others as she was herself. As for the rest of the children, it was to the Guises’ advantage as well as that of Catherine that the King and his brother Charles should be weak, and it was in fact Francis and Charles whose nerves were racked by the horrors.

The bloody days went on and it seemed to the children that their beloved Amboise had taken on a new aspect. They thought of the dismal dungeons in which foul things were done; the beautiful battlements could not be dissociated from ghastly corpses which had once been men; the sparkling river was now the grave of many.

Francis cried when he was alone. It hurt him to go out and see how people shrank from him. When he approached he saw startled village women hustle the children into the safety of their cottages.

‘Here comes the King!’ they cried. ‘He is sick, they say, and only keeps himself alive by drinking the blood of babies.’

‘They hate me! They hate me!’ sobbed Francis. ‘They should be told that it is not I who do these terrible things.’

Once, with a sudden spurt of courage, he threw himself against the Cardinal and, when he felt the suit of mail beneath the Cardinal’s robes, he knew that this man, too, was afraid.

The Cardinal lived in terror of assassination. He had altered the fashion in men’s clothes that it might not be easy to hide weapons about their persons. Cloaks were no longer wide, boots were smaller, that daggers might not be secreted in them.

He is a coward, thought Francis; and he cried: ‘It is because of you my people hate me. Would to God you would take yourself away from here!’

The Cardinal only smiled, for if he was afraid of an assassin, he was not afraid of the King.

In the little court at Nérac there was great consternation. A letter had arrived for the King of Navarre from the King of France. Antoine opened it and read:MY UNCLE, – You doubtless will remember the letters which I wrote to you touching the rising which lately happened at Amboise, and also concerning my uncle, the Prince of Condé, your brother, whom many prisoners accuse vehemently; a belief which I could not entertain against one of my blood.

Antoine’s eyes skimmed the page, his hands trembling. He read on:… I have decided to investigate the matter, having resolved not to pass my life in trouble through the mad ambition of any of my subjects. I charge you, my uncle, to bring your brother, the Prince of Condé, to Orléans whether he should be willing or not, and should the said Prince refuse obedience, I assure you, my uncle, that I shall soon make it clear that I am your King …’

Jeanne watched her husband as he read, saw the change of colour in his face, and she was afraid for him.

So much had happened during the last year that she had been forced to adjust her picture of him, but he was still her beloved husband, in spite of the occasional bickering between them. Their personalities were quite opposed, one to the other; he was so weak, and he could never make up his mind; she was strong, and once she had made up her mind, for good or ill, she found it difficult to swerve.

She had made him King of Navarre, but she was bold and independent and herself ruled the province. She had sharply reproved him for what had happened when he had gone to court and had been so rudely treated by the Guises. She had explained to him the peril in which he had put himself, herself, their children and their kingdom. She had seen that the Prince who could work with the Queen Mother was the one who would have the largest say in state affairs. He had hesitated, and the Guises had got there before him.

There had been coolness between them for a short while, but the heat of Jeanne’s temper always faded quickly; and Antoine, though he changed his mind again and again, was still her beloved husband. They were lovers yet, and if he needed guidance from her, her help in his career, she must only thank God that she had the strength to give it.

Now, as she watched him, she thought of the happiness of their life together here in their own province. She, with her beloved children, teaching them herself, delighting in their precocity at their lessons, could have been completely happy. She drew great contentment from the Huguenot faith, though she had not professed her acceptance of it publicly; yet it was known throughout the land of France – and Spain – that there was refuge for Huguenots in Jeanne’s kingdom.

‘Antoine,’ she said. ‘What is it, my love?’

He brought the letter to her and put an arm about her shoulder while they read it together.

Jeanne said promptly: ‘You must not go, and certainly Louis must not go.’

‘This, dearest Jeanne, is a command. Do you not see that? A command from the King!’

‘The King! A sickly boy without a mind of his own. It is a command from the Duke of Guise and his wicked Cardinal brother – a call from the Queen Mother. It means: “Come. Walk into the trap we have prepared for you.” ’

‘You may be right. No. Certainly I shall not go. I shall tell Louis nothing of this, for he is foolhardy enough for anything.’

But Antoine could not remain of the same mind for long at a time.

‘A command from the King must be obeyed. I think, Jeanne, that I should go. They would not dare harm us – Princes of the Blood!’

‘Princes of the Blood have been murdered ere this,’ she reminded him.

The Count of Crussol, the messenger who had brought the letter, assured Antoine that he had nothing to fear. He could give the word of the King on that.

‘But the King,’ pointed out Jeanne, ‘is not allowed to give his word.’

‘You have the word of the Queen Mother.’

‘Ah!’ cried Jeanne, hot and imprudent. ‘Might not the Queen Mother keep this promise as she did that other … to meet our ministers at Rheims?’

‘There are also the words of the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine.’

‘Never trust the words of brigands!’ cried Jeanne.

And it was Antoine’s turn to reprove her.

How impossible it was to continue with the happy life! If they could only live humbly, simply, if they were not of royal blood, how happy they would be! But she must fret against Antoine’s indecision and lie against her brusque frankness, and all because they must fear for the children and their kingdom; so they grew angry with each other on account of faults which in a lowlier household would merely have given rise to amusement.

Antoine decided that it was necessary to warn Condé of the King’s letter and, on receiving his message, Condé, with his wife, the Princess Eléonore, came to Nérac to discuss the matter.

Condé, fearless, longing for adventure, declared there was nothing they could do but answer the summons. No one should say that Condé was afraid. Jeanne was furious with both brothers.

‘It is for your own salvation, Louis,’ she cried, ‘that I advise you and Antoine to remain here.’

‘Dear Jeanne, we cannot stay. It would be said that we were afraid to face the charge.’

Jeanne bit her lips in anger, while the Princess Eléonore, as wise in her way as Jeanne was in hers, added her prayers to those of her sister-in-law; but though the two men agreed to stay, both women knew their husbands well enough to recognise their instability.

‘If you do go,’ said Jeanne at length, ‘you must at least appear before the Princes of Lorraine supported by a force which should compel them to respect the blood of the Bourbons.’

‘Louis,’ cried the Princess of Condé, ‘do you not see that every step you take towards the court will bring you nearer to destruction? In the King’s letter there is no attempt to hide their threats. Take men. Take arms. And if you are determined to die, die at the head of an army, not on a scaffold.’

‘They are right, Louis,’ said Antoine. ‘I will go alone to the court. The chief accusation is against you. Let me go alone, test the climate there, and then … send you word.’

And while they hesitated, there came another messenger to the court of Nérac with letters from Catherine.

‘Advance with fearless courage,’ advised Catherine. ‘You have nothing to fear if you come with courage. Come humbly, without much state; that will proclaim your innocence.’

‘She is right,’ said Antoine. ‘If we go with an armed force we shall look like guilty men.’

‘If the Queen Mother says, “Come humbly,” ’ said Jeanne, ‘then you can be sure it would be wise for you to go fully armed.’

There were more letters. Those from the Huguenot Duchess of Montpensier warned Antoine and Condé not to leave Nérac. Catherine wrote asking Jeanne to accompany her husband to Orléans. ‘Bring your little son and daughter,’ wrote Catherine. ‘I long for a sight of their bright little faces.’

‘They at least shall not be exposed to Madame le Serpent,’ declared Jeanne.

And when, at last, Antoine and Condé set out for Orléans, Jeanne left Nérac for Pau and began to make arrangements for the defence of her realm.

Antoine, King of Navarre, and Louis de Bourbon, the Prince of Condé, were on their way to Orléans. They had sent their chamberlains ahead to announce their approach.

Catherine in her apartments pondered this. She was going to have need of all her subtlety in the next few weeks; she was going to discover whether she had learned her lessons well, whether that self-control, that craft, that method of fabricating miracles, which she had nourished for so long, would work as she had always believed they would.

She remembered well the words of Machiavelli, that protégé of Lorenzo de’ Medici: ‘A prudent Prince cannot and ought not to keep his word, except when he can do it without injury to himself; or when the circumstances under which he contracted the engagement still exist. It is necessary, however, to disguise the appearance of craft and thoroughly to understand the art of feigning or dissembling; for men are generally so simple and weak that he who wishes to deceive, easily finds dupes.’

That was her policy. She had learned the lesson in her home, the home of her ancestors, in the Medici Palace and the Convent of the Murate, in Clement’s Rome; and she would apply it in France. She had not yet enjoyed the full force of her power, she had not yet tried her wings, but she was confident. There was no one in this country who knew her for what she was. There had, it was true, been certain rumours about her from time to time; when the Dauphin Francis, eldest son of Francis the First, had died suddenly, many had believed she had had a hand in his death. But to most she was mild and patient, the woman who had endured over twenty years of humiliation through Diane de Poitiers with such meekness as only a poor, humble creature could show. She had duped them all, and they had been easy dupes.

She went into the little closet adjoining her apartment, locking herself in and then unlocking the door of a secret compartment. Here there were several speaking tubes, and one of these she held to her ear.

Sometimes it was necessary to wait for a long time, but usually she heard what was worth waiting for. These tubes had been, through the ingenuity of René and the Ruggieri brothers, made invisible and inserted into certain apartments of the palace; all were connected with and led to her little room. The one she held so patiently now was that connected with the private apartments of the Duke of Guise.

She knew this would be worth waiting for, since her woman Madalenna had discovered that the Duke had invited young Mary, the Queen, to his apartments.

Catherine thought of the Queen of France as her bête noire of the moment. It was infuriating to know that that foolish girl, still in her teens, was the real source of power in France, since, but for her, there would have been no need for the Queen Mother to endure those frequent slights from the intolerable Guises. The foolish Francis and the coquettish Mary were far too important in the land, even though they were merely the puppets and mouthpieces of the House of Lorraine.

Soon she heard the Duke’s voice: ‘My dear niece, it is good of you to come to my call …’

Good of her, indeed! thought Catherine. For was she not the Queen of France? And who was this Duke to summon a Queen in such a manner to his apartment? But he was Le Balafré, a man whom many found irresistible, the embodiment of virile French manhood – handsome, dashing, swaggering, with that rare quality in a Frenchman, a calm, cool manner in an emergency. Oh yes, he had fascinated his charming niece as he had fascinated others.

It was not easy to hear through the tube, for it was only possible to catch a word here and there. This was far from satisfactory, but it had sufficed to teach her much, and, until some better method could be found, she would have to be content with a tube.

‘The Bourbons are on their way, Mary.’

Then came Mary’s high voice: ‘Uncle, what is it you wish Francis to do?’

‘They threaten our house … these Bourbon Princes. They cannot be allowed to live …’

Catherine nodded grimly. ‘But they shall live, Monsieur le Duc,’ she murmured, ‘for without our little Bourbons, our Princes of Lorraine would be even more arrogant, more intolerable than they are now.’

Then she heard the words which made her face grow pale with anger.

‘Continue, Mary, to watch the Queen Mother. Report all her actions … however insignificant they may seem. You have done well so far. But continue … Contrive to be at her side as much as possible.’

Catherine’s eyes had gone blank, her mouth slack. There was about her that look which people must have noticed when they had likened her to the serpent.

So the Queen of France had been set to spy on the Queen Mother!

There could be no greater indignation than that of the spy who knew herself to be spied upon.

Catherine was in the audience chamber when Antoine and Condé came to pay their respects to the King. The Guises were lounging against the wall, and Mary was with them.

Antoine bowed low over the King’s hand; he was too humble. Francis, in accordance with his orders, and aware all the time of the fierce eyes of the Duke and the sneer of the Cardinal, ignored Antoine, though he was very sorry for him and hated to be churlish to the uncle of whom he was fond.

Then came Condé.

If the Guises despised Antoine, they feared Condé. Condé was cool and arrogant, showing by his demeanour that, although his life was in danger, he did not forget that he was a royal Prince.

The newcomers went through the traditional address while all courtiers and attendants stood by, tense and waiting.

Then Catherine spoke to Condé. It was an uncharacteristic and impetuous action, but some hidden emotion which she had not fully examined forced her to take it. They were planning to murder Condé, and she wanted to help him to escape; and this was not merely because she wished to use him against the Guises. It was something more, something inexplicable. Was there just a faint tenderness in her eyes as they rested on the gallant Prince?

Condé, alert, knowing himself to be in acute danger, turned to the Queen Mother. Had he one friend, he wondered, in this nest of vipers?

‘Monsieur de Condé,’ said Catherine, ‘there are matters which I would discuss with you before the investigation as to your guilt in the Amboise plot takes place. Pray step along to my privy chamber now.’

The Guises were alert, regarding the Queen Mother with suspicion.

Condé bowed low, his charming face creased in a smile; his eyes said that his journey, his fears, his dangers were worth while if they brought him an interview with the Queen Mother, whom, while he respected her as a Queen, he admired as a woman.

The Guises made no attempt to stop this strange and sudden action of the Queen Mother, and they allowed her to lead Condé to her apartments; but once they had left, quick action was decided on, and it was in the private apartments of the Queen Mother that Condé was arrested.

Condé looked startled when they took him. He was not sure what the friendliness of the Queen Mother meant, and Catherine felt a thrill of triumph. She had the Prince guessing as to her intentions towards him; and that was a position into which she liked to thrust all those with whom she came into contact.

So Condé was in the dungeons and Antoine was confined to the palace, more or less a prisoner.

How ridiculous she had been, thought Catherine, to contemplate any man with tenderness when the struggle for power was more intense than it had yet been!

Condé had been removed from the dungeons of Orléans to those of Amboise and condemned to death.

His sorrowing wife had journeyed to Orléans, and she had begged the Cardinal of Lorraine to let her see her husband; but this request the Cardinal had brusquely refused. He and his brother did not like the wives of Condé and Navarre. They were strong women, both of them; upright, moral women, not the kind to interest the Cardinal. He knew what havoc such women could cause. He dismissed Eléonore with threats.

The woman was indefatigable. She even, by stealth and trickery, achieved an audience with the young King, and it had not taken her long to have that little fool weeping with her and assuring her that he felt her sorrow as keenly as she did. But the Cardinal had arrived in time and saved Francis from any great folly.

It was at Catherine’s instigation that Condé was removed to Amboise; and here she allowed herself the pleasure of frequent visits to him.

Those hours were some of the most enjoyable she ever spent; for Condé, though he knew himself to be a condemned man, did not brood on this melancholy fact; he was as gallant and charming as he would have been at a masque, and he enjoyed the sinuous conversation of the Queen Mother; it amused him to speculate as to whether she was friend or foe.

As for Catherine, while she sat back on the stool which had been brought for her, and the faint light from the grating shone on the handsome face of Condé, she told herself that she would not let him die. Somehow she would prevent that. This she conveyed to him at great length; he believed her and a very tender friendship was born between them. She was not an old woman. She had never indulged in excesses and she was well preserved and healthy. The widow of a King might mate with a Prince, and if birth were considered, this Prince was of higher rank than she was. The Prince of Condé and the Queen Mother could rule France together.

They were charming fancies, but, like soap bubbles, they could burst and be nothing at all.

Yet it was amusing to ponder and chatter, to make statements which were full of ambiguities, to arouse hopes in the Prince’s heart that she would achieve his freedom and give her hand to him. Eléonore? Catherine wanted to laugh aloud at the thought of the meek Princess. A saint, some said. Well, saints were not for this world. Let them get into the next, where they belonged. It would be easy. René or Cosmo? Hitherto murders had gone unnoticed, but she supposed that if such a person as the Princess Eléonore of Condé died, and later the Queen Mother married the Prince of Condé, there would be a renewal of that tiresome gossip which she remembered from those long-ago days when Dauphin Francis had died after drinking a cup of water brought by his Italian cupbearer. That death had made Catherine Queen of France … and people had talked. She did not want such talk, yet. Later, when she was secure, all-powerful, she would snap her fingers at the gossips. But at the moment she must remember that it was necessary to disguise the appearance of craft. She must not forget the wise teaching of Machiavelli.

Meanwhile, it was pleasant to talk to the Prince; such a gallant man was not meant to be a faithful husband; but if he were ever married to the Queen Mother he would have to be a faithful husband, for she would endure no more Dianes. There should be no more watching her husband and his mistress together.

And when she recalled that torture, she had less zest for the game she was playing with Condé.

She left him in his dungeon, puzzled and bewildered, vainly trying to understand the strange friendship offered him by Catherine de’ Medici; and in the rooms above his dungeons Catherine sought to mould the other brother to her will.

Antoine was easy to handle. It did not need the full force of her cunning to handle this little popinjay. Vain, vacillating, his earrings gleaming in his ears, he walked beside the Queen Mother, who put her arm through his and called him her brother, while she told him she wished to be his friend.

‘My dear brother of Navarre, you must not blame me for what has happened to the unfortunate Condé. Rest assured that I did everything in my power to help you both. It was the King who desired this, and kings – though young – must be obeyed.’

All knew that little King Francis had not a will beyond that of his mother and his wife’s uncles, yet Antoine found it agreeable to believe in the friendship of the Queen Mother.

‘My lord, I have many burdens on these poor shoulders. I fear that my son will not live long.’

‘Madame, this is sad news.’

‘Alas! But not unexpected. Have you not noticed how this terrible sickness of his gains on him? My poor Francis, he has not many days left to him. But a tragedy to some could be a blessing to others. You love your brother; and it is this son of mine who has sworn that he shall die for the part he played in the Amboise plot.’

Antoine felt a pulse throbbing in his temple; he wished Jeanne was here at Amboise with him; then he could have asked her to help him unravel the meaning of Catherine’s advances. But no! Jeanne was suspicious of Catherine. She would say, ‘Draw back. Beware. When the Queen Mother tries to win your approval of some scheme, never give your consent to it, no matter how attractive it may seem.’

Catherine pressed his arm; her face was close to his; he looked into the prominent eyes and tried in vain to read what was behind them.

She went on slowly: ‘If Francis died, then my son Charles would be King of France, and he is such a young boy to have greatness thrust upon him. Boys of tender years cannot rule a great country, particularly when that country is split by two religious factions. If Charles came to the throne, my lord, there would be a Regency, and you, as a Prince of the Blood, would be expected to play a big part. You know my little Henry and my Hercule are younger than their brother Charles; and the next in succession would be yourself, and after you, Monsieur de Condé.’ She gave a sudden laugh. ‘I would not care to be the one to have charge of Charles unless his mother were at hand to help me. He is often sick … sick in the mind, I mean … and at such times none but his mother can manage him. What a tragedy it would be for my son and those who tried to lead him … if any but I, his mother, attempted to do that!’

She had removed her hand from his arm. She stood before him, her arms folded across her black gown. She looked unearthly in the cap which she had favoured since the death of her husband, with its point resting on her forehead. Antoine felt himself shudder. There were strange threats in her eyes, and he remembered the mysterious deaths of some people who had come into contact with her. He thought fleetingly of Dauphin Francis, who had died, some said, to make her way clear to the throne.

‘What is your will, Madame?’ asked Antoine.

And she answered in a manner which seemed straightforward to him: ‘That if there is to be a Regent of France, I shall be that Regent. Oh, do not imagine that I am ignorant of your powers, of your wisdom. Far from it.’ She put her face close to his and he heard her laugh again. ‘I should give you the post of Lieutenant-General and all edicts would be published in our joint names.’

‘I see,’ said Antoine slowly.

She put her fingers to her lips, and she made of the gesture something almost obscene, unholy. ‘A secret, my dear Antoine; a secret, my brother. The Guises would not be made happy by these plans, for, believe me, they are not anxious to see my son Francis in his grave, whither, I fear, this weakening of his blood is leading him.’

‘No, Madame,’ said Antoine.

‘Well, do you agree?’

Antoine’s natural indecision came to his aid. ‘It is too important a matter to settle quickly. I will think of this, and rest assured that as soon as I have made my decision I shall lose no time in passing it on to you.’

The white hands – her one real beauty – were laid once more upon his arm.

‘My friend, do not make the mistake of delaying too long. I am a poor, lonely widow with little children to look after. If I can find no succour from the House of Bourbon – which House it is most proper that I should ask first – there would be no alternative but for me to beg help from the House of Lorraine. My lord, the heads of the House of Lorraine would go … to God alone knows what lengths … to take from a Prince of Bourbon that honour of Lieutenant-General which I have just offered you.’

Antoine bowed. He felt as though he had been offered the poison cup in order to speed his decision to bend to her will.

Her face was expressionless, but surely her words meant: ‘Make me Regent of France on the death of the King. For yourself accept the Lieutenant-Generalship … or death.’

Long after he had left her, Antoine’s body was clammy with the sweat of fear.

Catherine was in the King’s apartment. Francis was lying on his bed exhausted. Mary stood up and addressed the Queen Mother.

‘Madame, Francis is very tired. He wishes to sleep.’

Catherine smiled smoothly. ‘I shall not tire him. Rest assured that I know more of the nature of my son’s indisposition than any, and best know how to treat it. I wish to speak to him, and I will ask your Majesty to leave us alone for a little while.’

‘Madame …’ began Mary.

But Catherine had lifted a white hand. ‘Leave us … for ten minutes only. You will, I am sure, have much to say to your uncle, the Duke. You see, Francis and I wish to be alone.’

‘But Francis said …’

Francis was feeling ill, and although he wished to please his wife in everything, he was aware of the domination of his mother.

‘If you wish me to go, Francis, I will,’ said Mary.

‘Certainly he wishes it. It is just a little motherly talk, dear daughter. The Duke was asking for you. I should go along to his apartments.’

Mary hesitated for a moment before she bowed and retired.

‘Why, she is a little jailer!’ cried Catherine. ‘I declare she did not want to leave her captive alone with his own mother!’

‘It is because she wishes to be with me, to care for me when she knows I am not well.’

‘Of course. Of course. Do not rise, dear son. Lie still. What I have to say to you can be said while you rest. You are looking ill to-day. I must get a health potion for you. Cosmo will mix you something; although I am beginning to wonder whether René’s draughts are not more useful. Excuse me one moment.’

She went to the door and opened it. Mary stood there.

‘Ah, my dear daughter,’ said Catherine with a smile, ‘do not stand about in the corridors. They are draughty and bad for your health. Moreover, Monsieur de Guise awaits you. Do not disappoint him.’

Catherine stood watching the discomfited Mary walk very slowly and with some dignity along the corridor and up the staircase to the Duke’s apartments.

Catherine shut the door and went back to the bed.

‘You are disturbed, my boy. Something worries you. Tell your mother.’

‘Nothing worries me, Mother.’

‘They try your strength too much … these uncles of your wife. Why, what you need is to go away to the quietest of your castles and there rest or walk in the green fields with your wife beside you. You need rest from state duties; you need rest and play.’

‘Oh yes!’ said Francis fervently.

‘I shall see that this is arranged. Your mother will see that you enjoy such recreation.’

‘If only it were possible!’

‘I promise you rest, my son.’ She laid her cool hands on his hot head. How it was throbbing!

He lifted his eyes to her face as he had done when he was a little boy. ‘Maman, there are pains … pains in my head … in every part of my body.’

‘Francis … my little one!’

‘And oh, Maman, I am so tired. Could I not go away … just with Mary … and the smallest of trains? Could you not arrange that?’

‘I will arrange your departure, my son. But first tell me what it is that worries you. Tell Maman. What have these uncles been hatching up for you? You hate them, do you not? It is from them you long to escape.’

‘Maman, the Duke is a very fine gentleman. There is no greater man in France.’

‘Ah yes. Le Balafré is a very great man. Ask the people of Paris. He is a hero to them. They do more homage to him than to you, my son.’

‘Yes; he is a very great man.’

‘And the Cardinal, he is also a very great man. Mary says so, does she not?’

‘The Cardinal …’ Francis began to tremble, and Catherine put her lips to his ear.

‘It might be, my son, that I could help you. Tell me what it is that they have been hatching up for you?’

Francis swallowed and pressed his lips together. She had not been mistaken, then. She had heard something of this, but the tube failed her again and again, carrying to her alert ears only scraps of conversation; but Francis’s demeanour had betrayed his agitation and that he had no liking for this newest plot of Mary’s uncles.

‘It is something to do with Antoine de Bourbon, is it not?’

He opened his eyes wide and stared at her. ‘Maman, how could you know? Why … none knows.’

‘There are many things which you cannot yet understand, my son. One day you may understand. Suffice it for the present that I know.’

‘Maman … some say that you are in league with … things beyond this world.’

‘My son, many strange things are said of your mother. They are going to kill Antoine. That is it, is it not?’

He nodded.

‘And how are you, my poor sick boy, to take a hand in this?’

‘It is to happen naturally. He is to threaten me, and I am … in a fit of rage … to strike at him with my dagger. When I lift it, the Duke and the Cardinal with the Maréchal de Saint-André, who will be close at hand, will rush in and do the rest.’

‘And how will you get our poor Antoine to strike you, Francis? He loves you. He would never commit such a dastardly action.’

‘I am to abuse him and make him angry, to strike him if necessary. He will think I am alone, but a boy, and weak …’

‘My poor boy! And you will do this?’

She stroked his tumbled hair from his forehead.

‘Madame,’ he said. ‘Madame, my mother, the Bourbons seek to undermine our house. They wish to take the throne from us.’

‘My poor Francis,’ she whispered. ‘Poor Antoine … weak, defenceless, helpless. What a terrible thing it is to wear a crown!’

There was a footstep outside the door.

Catherine whispered: ‘Obey your conscience, son, but tell no one that your mother knows of this diabolical plot to murder your kinsman … a Prince of the Blood.’ Mary had come into the room. ‘Au revoir, dear son. Ah, here is your charming wife. Mary, sit beside him. He misses your bright presence. He has been telling me how much you do for him. You have been so quick. Did you find your uncle, the Duke?’

‘He was not in his apartments, Madame.’

‘Was he not?’ Catherine rose and placed her hands on Mary’s shoulders. She kissed first one of her flushed cheeks, then the other. ‘Thank you, my dear, for all you have done for our dear little King. May the saints preserve you!’

Mary bowed, rigorously correct, as always with Catherine. Catherine smiled at the lovely bowed head.

Spy! she thought. It shall not be long before you find it impossible to spy on me, for you shall not remain at the court of France.

Francis was waiting. The palms of his hands were clammy; he was frightened; he fingered the dagger at his belt; he licked his lips. He knew he was going to fail.

He could not forget that they were watching him, despising him. He knew that his lips would tremble and that he would forget what he had to say to Antoine. He would falter, and he would not sound in the least angry or cuttingly cynical. Why did not Mary’s uncles carry out their own diabolical plots?

Henry of Guise might look upon this as an exciting adventure if his father had called upon him to play the part Francis had to play. But Francis hated bloodshed; hated death. He wanted to be happy, playing his lute, reading to Mary, making love. That was living a good life. But they would not let him live a good life.

‘Sire, the King of Navarre is without and begs an audience.’

‘Send him in,’ said Francis, and was appalled by the tremor in his voice.

But he must do as he was bid. He dared do nothing else.

And here was Antoine, with a strange, cold glitter in his eyes as though he knew what was about to happen. He approached, and surely there was caution in his manner, surely his eyes were looking round the room for concealed assassins. He was solemn, lacking his usual gaiety; Francis became obsessed by the idea that Antoine knew.

One of Antoine’s attendants remained stationed at the door.

Francis said: ‘You may go. What I have to say to the King of Navarre is for his ears alone.’

The man went, but Francis believed he waited on the other side of the door, ready to run to his master’s assistance.

Antoine stood, calm yet alert. He was ready and waiting, for Catherine had warned him of the plot; she had advised him what to do, and the Queen Mother’s advice was worth having. If he escaped alive from this trap, he would be ready to throw in his lot with Catherine, he would accept the Lieutenant-Generalship and agree to her becoming the Regent of France on the death of Francis. She must be his friend, for if all happened as she had warned him it would, and he emerged from this room with his life, he would owe it to her.

Francis began to shout in a nervous voice: ‘You coward! You traitor! You with your brother have schemed against us. You would set yourself on the throne. You are traitors, both of you … vacillating traitors; and you deserve to die.’

Francis waited for the expected indignation, for the protests; but none came, and Francis never knew how to deal with unexpected situations.

He swallowed and began again. ‘You traitor! How dare you …?’

But Antoine kept his distance; he did not approach the King, but stood midway between him and the door.

‘Why don’t you speak?’ cried Francis. ‘Speak! Speak! Why don’t you defend yourself?’

Then Antoine spoke. ‘There is nothing I would gainsay if my King declared it to be so.’

‘You mean … you mean …’ spluttered Francis. He half turned towards the door which led to the antechamber. They were waiting in there for the signal, for the cry he was to give: ‘Help! Help! Assassin!’ But how could he give it while Antoine kept so far away? It would so obviously be a trick. The man waiting outside the door – Antoine’s man – would come in and see what had happened. He must lure him on. But he did not know how.

‘Sire,’ said Antoine quietly, ‘you are distraught. Have I your leave to retire that you may send for me when you are feeling better?’

‘Yes … yes …’ cried Francis. And then: ‘No, no. You coward! You traitor …’

But Antoine had slipped through the door.

‘Come back! Come back!’ screamed Francis. ‘I … I didn’t get a chance.’

A door was opened, but it was not the one through which Antoine had departed. It was that of the antechamber.

On one side of the King stood the Duke, the terrible scar standing out on his livid face, and the eye above it watering, as it did when he was angry. On the other side of the King stood the Cardinal.

They both carried daggers, and for the moment Francis thought they were going to use them on him, as they could not on the King of Navarre.

The Duke did not speak, but Francis heard the words which came through the Cardinal’s thin lips.

‘Behold the most lily-livered King that ever sat upon the throne of France!’

Antoine had agreed to accept the Lieutenant-Generalship and that Catherine should be Regent of France. Mary Stuart was a spy who was watching every action of the Queen Mother and reporting it to her uncles. So there seemed nothing to be done but wait for the death of Francis; and the sooner it came, the sooner would that power for which she longed be Catherine’s.

The poor little King was growing gradually weaker. Catherine herself prepared many potions for him, but these did not seem to improve his health, but rather to make him more feeble. She herself spent much time in his apartment, braving, as she said to some, the jealousy of her little daughter-in-law. ‘But,’ she would quickly add, ‘I understand that. They are lovers, but when a boy is sick it is his mother who should be at his side, and the King is but a boy.’

One day Francis complained of a pain in his ear. He cried out in agony, and then only his mother’s herbs and drugs could soothe him. These sent him into deep sleeps which gave him the appearance of a dead man, but it was better that he should be thus, all agreed, than that he should be conscious and suffer such pain.

Mary, frightened, her pretty face marred with the signs of weeping, cried out: ‘This cannot go on. These doctors are fools. I will send for Monsieur Paré. He is the greatest doctor of all.’

Catherine took her daughter-in-law by the shoulders and smiled into her face. ‘No doctor can help him. All we can do is ease his pain.’

‘We must save him,’ said Mary. ‘We must do everything possible to save him.’

‘I will not have Monsieur Paré here. The man is a Huguenot. There will be those to say we plot in the palace.’

‘But something must be done. We cannot let him die.’

‘If it be God’s will, then, my daughter, we must accept it.’

‘I will not accept it!’ sobbed Mary. ‘I will not!’

‘You must learn to bear misfortune like a Queen, my daughter. Ah, do not think I cannot understand your sufferings. I know full well how you feel. Did I not suffer so myself? Did I not see the husband I loved – as you love Francis – did I not see him die in agony?’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Yet I loved him as you love Francis, but I would not have had him kept beside me to suffer.’

Frightened, and angry at the same time, Mary flashed out: ‘He would not have suffered beside you, Madame, but beside Madame de Valentinois.’

Catherine smiled. ‘You are right. You see, I suffered far more than you, my child, for your husband has been a faithful husband. I suffered in so many ways.’

Mary looked with horror into the face of the Queen Mother, realising what, in her anguish, she had said. She dropped on her knees and wept. ‘Madame, forgive me. I knew not what I was saying.’

‘There,’ said Catherine. ‘Do not fret. It is your anguish as a wife that makes you forget the bearing of a Queen. You need rest. I shall give you something to drink. It will help you to sleep. Wait. I will get it myself, and then I shall hand you over to your women. Rest … and perhaps when you wake, our dearest little Francis will be a little better.’

‘You are good to me, Madame,’ muttered Mary.

And obediently she drank the warm, sweet liquid. Catherine called Mary’s women and said: ‘See that she rests. She is overwrought. She suffers deeply.’

Catherine sat by the bed and watched her son in his drugged sleep, and as she sat her thoughts moved onwards.

Little Charles on the throne! A boy of ten! Her fingers were ready now to seize the power for which they had been itching during the humiliating years.

How long would Francis live? Another day? Two days?

His ear was puffed and swollen; he was moaning softly. That meant that her drugs were loosening their hold upon him.

Catherine seemed calm, but inwardly she was furiously angry.

Mary had arranged with her uncles that Ambroise Paré should be brought to the bedside of Francis. The Guises were very ready to give their sanction to this request. Paré was a Huguenot, but he was reckoned to be the greatest surgeon in France since he had performed a clever operation on the Count d’Aumale by extracting a piece of lance which had entered beneath the eye and gone through to the back of the neck. This had happened before Boulogne during the war with the English; the Count had lived and regained full health after the operation, and the cure had seemed something like a miracle. The Catholic Guises were ready to overlook Paré’s faith, for it mattered not who saved Francis as long as he was saved.

Paré had examined the King’s ear.

Catherine said: ‘Monsieur Paré, I have the utmost faith in your judgement. I beg of you to tell me privately what you have found.’

‘I will know also,’ said Mary imperiously.

‘My daughter, I am his mother.’

‘But I,’ said Mary, ‘am his wife.’

Catherine shrugged her shoulders and had the room cleared until only she, Mary and Paré remained.

‘Mesdames,’ said Paré, ‘the King’s condition is grave. I do not think he can last the night.’

Mary covered her face with her hands and began to sob.

He continued: ‘There is a malignant abscess in the ear. It is full of evil humours that are entering his blood and poisoning it.’

‘Oh, my son, my little King!’ moaned Catherine. ‘Only a few hours then, Monsieur? Only a few hours of life left to my little son?’

‘Madame, if the abscess were lanced …’

Mary stared at him wildly; Catherine’s eyes glittered.

She said sharply: ‘I will not have my son tortured, Monsieur, with your lancings. I will not hear him scream in pain. He has suffered too much in his short life. I would have him die quietly and in perfect peace.’

‘I was about to say, Madame, that if the abscess were lanced …’

Mary flung herself at the feet of the surgeon and kissed his hand. ‘There is a chance? Monsieur Paré, there is a chance to save him?’

‘I cannot assure your Majesty of that. I do not know, but it may be …’

‘You do not know!’ cried Catherine. ‘You would subject my son to pain when you do not know!’

‘It would be a chance, Madame, but it would need to be done at once. Each passing minute carries the poison deeper into his blood.’

‘I will not have him tortured,’ said Catherine.

‘Monsieur,’ cried Mary hysterically, ‘you must save him. You are the greatest surgeon in France … in the world … and you can save him.’

‘I will try, Madame.’

‘Yes. Now! Lose not a minute … since every second is precious.’

‘Stay awhile,’ said Catherine. She began to pace up and down the apartment. ‘This needs thought.’

‘There is no time for thought!’ cried Mary angrily.

‘There must always be time for thought.’

‘Madame,’ said Paré, ‘you remember that our great good King, Francis the First, suffered from a similar abscess. Each year it grew big until it burst and let forth its evils. When it did not open, King Francis died.’

‘Open it, I beg of you,’ said Mary. ‘I am his wife. I am the Queen. I demand it.’

Catherine laid a hand on Paré’s arm. ‘It will be necessary for me to give my consent. I cannot do this in a hurry, and I cannot put my son’s life in danger.’

‘Your son’s life is in danger now, Madame.’

‘I cannot bear to have him hurt. If you but knew how he has suffered already!’

‘Heed her not,’ begged Mary. ‘Go and do it … now!’

The surgeon looked from the Queen to the Queen Mother. How calm was Catherine; how distrait Mary! Naturally, he must give his attention to the calm Queen Mother.

He began to talk to her persuasively, explaining the nature of the operation. But would he, Catherine wanted to know, take responsibility for the life of the King? Were he allowed to perform this operation and the King died, there would be many to ask if he had intended he should not recover. He was a Huguenot; the King was a Catholic. Would he perform the operation knowing that, if he failed, mighty reverberations might occur throughout the realm? The war between the Protestants and the Catholics was ever ready to break out anew. An operation by a Huguenot surgeon on a Catholic King! Oh, indeed it needed the deepest consideration.

Catherine walked up and down with the surgeon. Mary had flung herself on to a couch and was sobbing in helpless rage against the Queen Mother.

‘Passions run high in these times,’ said Catherine. ‘You are a Huguenot, Monsieur. Oh, do not hesitate to confess it to me. You have my sympathy. Do you not know that? I would not care that you should run the risk of facing such an accusation.’

‘Madame, you are too kind, too considerate. When men are sick, I think of all I can do for them … of consequences later.’

‘But, Monsieur, you are too useful a subject to be lightly lost. Tell me truthfully. You can see that I am a woman who knows how to bear her troubles. I have had enough, I can assure you, during my life. I can bear a little more. My son is sick, is he not?’

‘Very sick, Madame.’

‘And death is near.’

‘Death is very near.’

‘And the chances of success?’

‘There is just a chance, Madame, a frail chance. As you remember in the case of your father-in-law …’

‘Ah yes, tell me about the case of my father-in-law. I would hear it all. I must decide whether I can allow my son to face this ordeal.’

Paré talked; and Catherine, hurrying to ask questions whenever he showed signs of stopping, kept him talking. Outside, the December wind howled through the trees, and on the couch Mary Queen of France and Scotland lay sobbing as if her heart were broken.

At length Catherine said: ‘I cannot decide. It is too big a thing for me. Oh, Monsieur, was ever mother presented with such a problem? If my husband were only here! Oh, Monsieur Paré, bear with me. Remember I am a widow left with little children to care for. I want what is best for them, for they are more to me than my life.’

Mary had risen from the couch and rushed past them, and Catherine knew immediately whose help she intended to enlist.

‘Monsieur,’ said Catherine to Paré, ‘return with me to the King’s chamber, and pray with me that God and the Virgin may lead us to the right decision.’

They were kneeling by the bed when Mary came in with her uncles.

Catherine stood up. She looked at the face of her son and she knew that the intervention had come too late.

The Duke said: ‘Monsieur Paré, you can save the King’s life?’

Paré went to the bed and looked at the young King. ‘Nothing, my lord Duke, can save the King’s life now, for there are only a few minutes of it left to him.’

Mary flung herself on her knees, calling to her husband, to look at her, to smile at her, to live for her. But although Francis turned his head towards her, he did not seem to be aware of her.

The Cardinal was bending over him, and briefly Francis appeared to recognise the man who had overshadowed and spoilt the last years of his life. In Francis’s eyes that terror with which he had been wont to look at the Cardinal showed itself for a second or so; and it might have been that, seeing the boy was about to leave this life, the Cardinal was suddenly conscience-stricken; and perhaps he realised that in Francis’s mind were lurking the horrors which he had witnessed during the massacre of Amboise and which had, ostensibly, been perpetrated at his commands.

The Cardinal murmured in an urgent whisper: ‘Pray, Sire, and say this: “Lord, pardon my sins and impute not to me, Thy servant, the sins committed by my ministers under my name and authority.”’

Francis’s lips moved; he tried to follow the lifelong habit of obedience; but it may have been that the Cardinal’s words bewildered him as they did those others who heard them, for it was the first and only time in his life that the Cardinal of Lorraine had shown that he possessed a conscience.

Francis’s head sank back on the pillow, and there was no sound in the room but the moaning of the wind through the leafless trees and Mary Stuart’s heartbroken sobbing.

In his dungeon under the Castle of Amboise, Condé sat disconsolately at table, contemplating his fate. The stale stench of the dungeon nauseated him. He thought tenderly of his wife, their two sons and his dear little daughter. Perhaps he would never see them again. What a fool he had been to ignore the advice of Eléonore and Jeanne and to have made the journey to Orléans, to have walked straight into that trap which had been prepared for himself and his brother!

What was the meaning of the Queen Mother’s strange friendship? Was she in love with him? Condé shrugged his shoulders. Many women had been in love with him. He smiled reminiscently. Sometimes he wished – as he knew Antoine did – that he had not been blessed with such a saintly woman for a wife. What gaiety there had been in the days before his marriage; always there had seemed to be the light adventure, romance, some different woman to enchant him with some novelty of passion. And yet, how could they – he and his brother, so alike in looks and character – ever be unfaithful to two such women as Jeanne and Eléonore!

He sighed. This was not the time for such thoughts. What was the motive of the Queen Mother? Could she really have him in mind as her lover-to-be? God forbid! That woman! There were occasions when the very thought of her sent shivers even down this brave man’s spine. Her way of entering his cell often startled him; one minute she was not there and the next she would be standing quietly in the shadows, so that he had the impression that she had been standing outside, listening to his conversation with his jailers, and had silently glided in like the snake to which some people had compared her.

Oh, he had been gallant; he had been charming. How could it have been otherwise? She could save him, if anyone could. But for what?

He flicked a cobweb off his fine coat. This dungeon disgusted him. He could smell the sweat of others who had lived here before him; now and then he was aware of the unmistakable odour of blood, for his cell was not very far from those shambles they called the torture-rooms. Death awaited him, and his time was short. The Queen Mother had not visited him recently. Had she turned back once more to his enemies, the Guises? They were more useful friends just now than the Bourbons could be.

His thoughts went to Eléonore. One of his jailers, whom he had managed to charm, had told him that she had been to Orléans when he had been there, in the hope of seeing him. Dear sweet wife, the best of mothers! He knew he was unworthy of her.

He was melancholy to-day because he was bored. He needed continual excitement, and now there was nothing to do but await death. Death! He had never thought of it seriously before, although he had courted it a hundred times. Could this be the end, then, of the Prince of Condé? Was this the finale of that tragi-comedy which his life had been, the end of his grandiose schemes for sitting on the throne of France? He was ambitious, and because he had been born near the throne, it had, all his life, stood there before his mind’s eye as a possible acquisition.

What was happening above him? He looked at the dismal ceiling of his cell; he looked at the wall down which the moisture trickled. When it was dark the rats came and looked at him hopefully; yet not far from this spot the noble Loire flowed by in sunshine.

One of his jailers passed by the table. He whispered so that the other jailer could not hear: ‘Monsieur, King Francis is dead. Your life is saved!’

Condé stared before him, too full of emotion to speak. He thought of the river and the buds on the trees just beyond his prison; he pictured the tears in his wife’s eyes and the smiles on the faces of his children. King Francis was dead, and it was King Francis who had condemned Condé to death. Condé went on thinking of all those things which he had believed he would never see again.

In his impetuous way, Antoine wrote openly to his wife of what was happening at court:MY DARLING, – How our fortunes have changed! How delighted you would be to see the position of your husband here at court! The Queen Mother consults me in all things. Why did you ever think that she was not friendly towards us? She is going to urge that the images of the Virgin be taken from the churches. My dear wife, you can picture the consternation in some quarters. The Spanish Envoy, Monsieur de Chantonnay, is furious. He reports this to his master, and one can imagine with what effects! The Queen Mother will shortly pledge herself to full toleration of the Reformed Faith. Think what this means, my love, and what we have achieved. I know you think I should have insisted on sharing the Regency; but, my dear one, I am Lieutenant-General, and that post, I do assure you, is not a small one. I would rather work with the Queen Mother as my friend; and surely, in view of all she has done for our Faith, you cannot deny that she is our friend?I must tell you that my dear brother Louis is well and free. How could the brother of the Lieutenant-General remain a prisoner? No! There was nothing to do but free him. He was noble, as you can guess. The King’s death meant that it was possible for the Queen Mother to release him, for she says that it was by the will of King Francis that he was made a prisoner – so naturally, with the King’s death, our brother was released. But, as I say, he was proud, and at first he would not accept release until his honour was cleared. Is that not like our brother? He was, however, removed to a better lodging than the dungeon he had been occupying at Amboise and at length the Queen Mother arranged for his name to be cleared. She has a very friendly feeling towards Louis, as he has towards her. Ah, my dear wife, at last we Bourbons are getting that respect which is due to us. You would have wept to see Louis and his family together on the day he joined them. The two boys and the little girl threw themselves at him, and all those about them wept, as did Louis and Eléonore, with those little ones. They are now all happy together, and all goes well with the House of Bourbon.I was glad to hear you had decided to plant the mulberries along the meadow slope where we used to play Barres. Ah! How I remember those games of ours!I hope my little comrade son is in good health, and also our dearest little daughter. Commend me to them.I will end my note in assuring you that neither the ladies of the court nor any others can ever have the slightest power over me, unless it be the power to make me hate them.

Your very affectionate and loyal husband,

ANTOINE.

When Jeanne read this letter she felt uneasy. What was happening at court? She knew Antoine too well to believe that he could be making a real success there. How was the Queen Mother using him? How long would this benevolence of hers last towards the new faith?

Moreover, was he not a little too insistent on his fidelity? Should that have been necessary if they were all she believed them to be to each other?

Little Charles, the new King, did not know whether to be proud or frightened of the new honour which was his. It was startling to find that wherever he went, men and women smiled on him, bowed low to him, treated him with such ceremony as seemed odd when he was reminded that he was only ten years old.

He had to attend many solemn meetings; there were proclamations and declarations to be signed. It was certainly bewildering, when you were ten years old, to find that you were the King of France.

But he had nothing to fear; his mother told him so; for all he had to do was obey her. That was easy, since he had done that all his life. But there were others round him besides his mother. There was his Uncle Antoine, who was very important now; his mother had explained that Uncle Antoine was now Lieutenant-General of France, which meant that, with her, he was the ruler of France until he, little Charles, was old enough to take on that immense responsibility.

Then there were the great Guises. They were very angry because Francis had died and he was now the King. They seemed subdued at present, but Charles was terrified of their watching eyes which never seemed to leave him.

There were his tutors, Monsieur Birago and the Comte de Retz. They had opened up a strange world to him, and it was very interesting to learn so much about life. They wanted him to be more like his brother Henry. He wished he could be, because his mother would have liked him better if he were more like her favourite; but it was difficult to be what you were not. He tried hard, but those tutors of his liked such strange things; they showed him pictures which embarrassed him; they said it was great fun beating each other on the bare flesh. That seemed very strange to Charles as it was what people did when they were angry, or as a punishment. But the Italian tutors said: ‘There is much you have to learn, Sire. This is a different sort of beating.’

It seemed a mad world if such was the accepted behaviour. He did not understand them; sometimes he would grow hysterical listening to them; he would have one of those screaming fits during which he did not know what he was saying; then they would have to soothe him with the special drink his mother prepared for him.

He wondered whether these attacks had become more frequent because of his tutors or because he was getting older; and whether they had something to do with the additional strain of being a King.

But there was one glorious thing which, he realised, being a King may have made possible: marriage with Mary. Dear Mary! She was very unhappy now. She was enduring the traditional forty days’ seclusion which all the Queens of France must face when they lost their husbands. She was shut up in her apartments at Fontainebleau, and these apartments were hung with black; Mary herself would be in black from head to foot, but that would only make her look more beautiful than ever; her lovely fair hair and glowing skin would show up more against sombre black than they had against her jewelled wedding gown.

Mary was nineteen and he was only ten. That was a great difference, but there had been greater differences between the ages of husbands and wives.

He had watched his brother Francis. How he had hated to be King, and yet, because Mary was his wife he had been often happy.

I should be happy too, thought Charles, if I could have Mary for my wife.

He broached the subject to his mother.

‘Now that my brother Francis is dead – God rest his soul – and his wife is a widow, she will be wanting a husband and I shall be wanting a wife.’

The expression on his mother’s face did not change. She said: ‘That is true, my son.’

And he was suddenly happy; he saw that what she had called his unholy thoughts about his brother’s wife were forgotten, for indeed Mary was no longer his brother’s wife; she was his widow.

‘Go on,’ said Catherine.

He was afraid to look at her; he was so overwhelmed by the thought of all the happiness that might be his that he could scarcely find words to speak of it.

‘I thought, dear Maman, that it might be my task to soothe Mary’s grief for the loss of Francis,’ he said eagerly.

He was quite unaware of the fury behind that quiet smile.

So, after all that his tutors had done for him and to him, thought Catherine, he still hankered after Mary; and once let him make this desire known to Mary’s uncles – in any case, they probably knew of it already – and they would do everything they could to arrange the little King’s marriage with their niece; and then the position of the Queen Mother would be that intolerable one she had endured for the last two years – relegated to impotence while the Duke and the Cardinal reigned through Mary and Charles as they had through Mary and Francis.

Catherine thought: I would see you dead first. And she said: ‘I do not think, my son, that Mary would wish to have her thoughts taken from her grief just yet. It would be unseemly to talk of it while she mourns her husband.’

The boy was eager. ‘Yes; I do see that. She must mourn her forty days and nights. But they will not last for ever, and …’

Catherine laid a gentle hand on her son’s shoulder and smiled into his eyes. ‘My son, my dearest little King, you know your happiness is all that I desire.’

He buried his head in her lap as he had done when he was a little boy. ‘Oh, Maman, you will let this be, then?’

‘Everything that can be done shall be done. Do not doubt that, my son. But do not forget your dignity as a King. Charles, my dearest boy, you are watched and there will be many to criticise your actions. You must walk with the utmost caution now that you are a King. You must do everything that dear Papa would have had you do.’

Charles’s eyes filled with tears at the mention of Papa, whose death had been the greatest grief of his life.

‘Papa,’ went on Catherine, ‘would not have you think of your own pleasure when your brother is so recently dead.’

‘No, Maman. I did not …’

‘Ah, but my darling, you did. Did you not? You must not lie to me, you know.’

‘But I love Francis. He and I were … the best of friends.’

She lifted a finger. ‘And yet you so want Francis’s wife that, while he is yet scarcely cold, you can think of taking her! Ah, my son, growing up, loving women, being a King – such matters are fraught with danger. Do not think that because you have become a King that you are no longer in danger. Terrible things have happened to kings. One day I must tell you of these things.’

His hands began to twitch and pull at his jacket – the well-known signs of hysteria.

‘But I will not do these things. I will not put myself in danger.’

‘You have your mother to look after you. And, Charles, do you realise how fortunate you are to have a mother whose one thought is the welfare of her children?’

‘I do realise that.’

‘Then you will remember that you are a child yet, and that wise children are guided by their parents. Papa is with me in all I do. I feel him near me … guiding me. You would want to do what Papa and I know to be wise?’

‘Yes, Maman.’

‘That is a good boy; that is a wise King. You must be wise, for if you are not, terrible things will happen to you. Kings have been murdered ere this.’

‘No, Maman, no! Do not tell me. I know … I know these things are, but do not speak of them or I shall have bad dreams to-night, and when I have these dreams …’

She embraced him.

‘We will not speak of them, but you know, do you not, my son, my little King, that you must be very wise? You have been guilty – ah, yes, I fear you have been a little guilty – of infidelity to your brother, your dead brother. What if Francis did not understand and came down from Heaven to haunt you?’

‘He would not come to haunt me. I love Francis. I have always loved him.’

‘And you loved his wife …’

‘Not … not … only as a sister.’

‘And you want to marry your sister?’

‘Only after a time when Mary has recovered from her grief and I have recovered from mine.’

‘Listen, Charles. Go carefully. Not a word of your intentions towards your sister-in-law to anyone. You would not find many to understand as I understand.’

‘No, Maman.’

‘There might be some who would be angry. Now, remember. Why, if this were to reach Mary’s ears … or those of her uncles, what would they think?’

Charles smiled a little slyly, she thought. ‘Oh, I do not think Monsieur the Duke and Monsieur the Cardinal would mind very much. Mary would be the Queen of France if she married me.

Catherine said firmly: ‘Now, take heed of this very carefully. If the people of France knew of your evil thoughts concerning your brother’s wife, if they knew of your unholy intentions, they would rise against you. And one day when you walked abroad a man would come up to you and … you would think he was a friend until you saw the knife gleaming in his hand. Then you would cry out as you felt the cold steel pierce your heart. The pain, my son, would be terrible. I will tell you …’

‘No, no! I know. You are right, Maman. I must tell no one. I will say nothing.’

Catherine put her fingers to her lips. ‘Swear to me, my son, swear you will be wise and say not a word of this to Mary and her uncles. This is our secret. No one else whatsoever must know of it. And if at any time you feel inclined to speak, remember cold steel … in your heart … just about … there. You would swoon with the pain, for it is unbearable, but your swoon would not last and you would wake to your agony … dreadful agony … and the sight of blood on your clothes, and all about you … the stench of blood in your nostrils … your own blood.’

Charles was shaking with fear. ‘I will not tell. I will not tell.’ He caught her hand. ‘But later … later, you will help me? You must let me have Mary for my wife.’

She put her lips to his forehead. ‘I shall do everything in my power, everything for your good.’

He knelt and kissed her hand; she felt the trembling of his small body, the tears on her hand; and, smiling, she thought: I will see you dead before I put that spy back on the throne.

Jeanne was worried. The news from the court of France was too good to be true.

Was it possible that the Guises could have become so weak that they bowed to the greater power of the Bourbons? What of the Queen Mother? How was it that she had suddenly become the dearest friend of Antoine and Louis de Bourbon? How was it that Coligny and the Huguenot leaders were being received at court? Something strange and unhealthy was afoot.

But she was far from the court of France, and she felt that it was better for herself and her family – and perhaps most of all her husband – if she remained where she was, safe in her own province, at the head of an army which was ready for any emergency that might arise.

She had had long discussions with her religious advisers, and it seemed to her that now the time had come for her to announce her complete conversion to the Reformed Faith.

There was nothing to stop her, and with a new King on the throne of France this seemed as propitious a time as any.

She was convinced that the Protestant Faith was the true one, and she wanted the whole of France – and Spain – to know that from henceforth she would support this Faith with everything at her disposal.

This might be a test as to whether the court of France was sincere in its new tolerance. If the Catholic Guises were really in decline, she felt she would soon know, and that this public avowal of hers would enable her to know the sooner.

Before departing for Nérac, where she intended to stay well fortified, awaiting fresh news from her husband, she went formally to the Cathedral at Pau and there attended Holy Communion in accordance with the Reformed ritual.

Jeanne of Navarre was now acknowledged as one of the leaders of the Huguenots; she was standing side by side with the brothers Coligny and with her husband, Antoine, King of Navarre, and his brother, Louis de Bourbon, the Prince of Condé.

This caused rejoicing among the Huguenot population throughout France. Jeanne was recognised as a staunch leader, even though her husband was suspect. With Jeanne and the Condés and the Colignys, the Huguenot Party felt itself rich in the right sort of leaders, and it seemed to them that a new liberty was beginning to dawn in the political sky. The Huguenots now began to give themselves airs, to become arrogant in their new importance. There were stones of Huguenot atrocities carried out against Catholics. The wheel seemed to be slowly turning.

There were many rumours circulating about the Queen Mother. It was whispered that she was gradually becoming converted to the Protestant Faith and that she would have the royal children brought up in that religion.

But what had happened to the Guises? Was it possible that the death of one sickly little King and his replacement by another, even younger and almost as sickly, had brought about the eclipse of such men?

Letters began to arrive at Nérac for Jeanne, and when she recognised the hand in which they were written, a smile of contempt curved her lips. She would never believe in the sincerity of Catherine. She had seen that quiet smile given to Diane de Poitiers; she had noted the meek expression which seemed to say: ‘Stamp on me. Humiliate me. I like it.’ Then she remembered that message which had been sent to Diane when King Henry, Catherine’s husband and Diane’s lover, lay dying: ‘Return all his gifts. Hold nothing back. I have noted every one.’ All the cunning in the world was hidden behind that expressionless face, and because it was successfully hidden, it behoved one to be the more wary of it.

How was Antoine faring at court? Of what indiscretions was he guilty? How could he – light-hearted, flippant, weak as water – deal with such a sly one as the Queen Mother?

The letters were affectionate. Catherine called Jeanne her ‘dear sister’. Jeanne must come to court, for Catherine longed for a sight of her. ‘Come, my good sister, and bring your little ones with you, those darlings whom I think of as my own. I have a plan which I should like to discuss with you. It concerns your Catherine, my little namesake. Do not forget that I am her godmother. I would like to arrange a match between her and my little Henry. Such an alliance, dearest sister, would render our union indissoluble. You could not have a more affectionate and sincere relative than myself …’

This, from the craftiest woman in the world! What did it mean? What could it mean?

Those were days of great uneasiness at Nérac.

Little King Charles had a new friend. This man had frequently come to the palace since the death of Francis, and now had apartments there.

Such a man, thought Charles, I should long to be.

To be with Gaspard de Coligny, the Admiral of France, was a pleasure; with this man Charles did not feel frightened or bewildered, and this in itself was a strange thing, for the Admiral was a great man, a far greater man than either of the King’s tutors.

They walked together in the grounds of the palace; they rode together. People said: ‘The King and the Admiral are the greatest of friends.’

Charles talked to the Admiral of the greatest fear in his life – the fear of horrible torture and death.

‘One should not fear death, Sire,’ said the Admiral, ‘for after death comes the life everlasting, the life of joy if it has been preceded by a good and honest effort here on Earth.’

‘But, Admiral, if one has committed sins …’

The Admiral smiled. ‘The sins of a boy of ten years could not be great ones. I think it would be easy to obtain forgiveness for them.’

‘I have asked for the intercession of the saints.’

‘There are some of us who appeal to God direct, Sire.’

The New Faith! It was exciting to hear of it; and there was nothing wrong in hearing of it, because his mother, it was said, had given her support to it.

How pleasant it was to listen, not only to the Admiral’s talking of the New Faith, but to hear him tell of battles he had fought, and of how, when he was a prisoner in Flanders, he had seen what he called ‘The Light’! How happy the King felt after these sessions, how stimulated, for when he was with the Admiral, although they often talked of wars and bloodshed, these things were different when spoken of by this man who doubtless knew more of them than did Charles’s tutors and his mother.

To fight for a cause you believed in was a glorious thing. Honour mattered more than life; and should you die most miserably, then there was nothing to fear, for, if you died for the right, you were received into Heaven, and there all was good, all was peace. So said the Admiral.

Charles longed to confide his hopes in this man as well as to tell of his fears, but he remembered his mother’s injunctions to speak to no one with regard to his beloved Mary.

The Spanish Envoy, watching this friendship between the King and Coligny, wrote home to his master in great anger. The Guises watched and waited while they prepared to put an end to this state of affairs.

Mary Stuart was in despair. To the French court had come men from Scotland, her native land, to claim their Queen. Scotland was a foreign land to her. She had known that she was the Queen of Scotland, but she accepted the Queen of Scots as her title as she accepted that other, Queen of England; she had never thought of it as anything but a title. And now from Scotland had come men to take her there.

They terrified her, these men from Scotland. They were strangers, foreigners – tall, fair-haired and dour. They were not delighted, as she was, with the court of France; they found it shocking. The beautiful clothes, the dainty manners, the charming gallantry between ladies and courtiers – they thought these things wicked, scandalous. They despised the lilting French tongue and they refused to speak it.

Why did not her uncles thwart the plans of these men? To whom could she turn? A little while ago she had only to express the smallest wish and there were many to hurry to gratify it, to count themselves honoured to serve her who, they all agreed, was the most enchanting of princesses.

And now there was no one to help her. She knew why. The Queen Mother had decided that there was no longer a place for her in France.

Mary had wept until she had no tears; she had shut herself in her apartments, declaring that she was too sick to appear. Someone must help her. She had not realised when Francis died – and that had been a great tragedy to her – that this greater tragedy must follow. She had thought that so many people at the French court loved her that they would never let her go.

There had been many noble gentlemen who had worshipped her with their eyes; the poet Ronsard had written his verses especially for her. They would have died for her, so she had believed; and now she was to be sent away from them, to a cold and miserable land where there was no gaiety, no balls, no gallants, no poets – only dour men such as these who had come to France, to disapprove of that gaiety and beauty of hers which the French had loved.

She could not believe that it could happen to her – the Queen of France, the pampered Princess. She thought of her arrival in France, of Francis’s father, King Henry, on whose knee she had sat and who had loved her, and whom she had loved; she thought of the attention which had been paid to her by Diane de Poitiers, and in those days Diane had been virtually Queen of France. She thought of the fun of playing with the royal Princes and Princesses, of having lessons with them and showing everyone how much more clever, how much more charming she was than they. For years she had thought of this land as her home, and that she would never leave it. How could anyone be so unkind as to let her go? She had loved Francis – oh, not as madly as he had loved her – but adequately. It had been so pleasant to be adored, and she had been truly sorry when he had died; but she had not thought that his death would mean her banishment from the gay land to which she felt she belonged.

There was, however, a ray of hope. Little Charles loved her. Naturally, one did not think of a little boy, not yet eleven years old, as a husband; yet betrothals – even marriages – were arranged between youthful kings and queens.

There were visitors to her apartments – those who came to condole – but she had a feeling that none of them really cared. Her brothers-in-law Henry and Hercule came; but they were too selfish to care what happened to her. Hercule was too young to appreciate her beauty, and Henry had never cared very much for the beauty of women. Margot made a show of crying with her, but Margot did not care and would be glad to see her go, for the selfish creature looked upon Mary as a rival. Margot knew what it meant to be admired, for although only eight she was a true coquette, and she wanted the admiration of the men who admired Mary to be directed to herself; so while she said that it was very sad and that she had heard that Scotland was not a very pleasant place, she was smoothing her dress and patting her lovely black hair, and thinking: When Mary has gone, I shall be the most beautiful Princess at court.

As for Charles, she was not allowed to see him.

Why did not her uncles arrange for her a marriage to the new King of France? They neglected her now, and she saw that the attentions which they had showered upon her such a short while ago had not been for herself, their little niece whom they loved, but for the Queen of France, whom they wished to use in order to rule her husband.

She was sick with fright. There was not only the wretchedness of leaving a land which she had come to regard as her home; there was not only the nostalgia which she would feel, she knew, for the rest of her life if she were sent away; there was the perilous sea voyage to be faced, and her terrifying relative who sat on the throne of England had not guaranteed her a safe passage. She was afraid of the red-headed virgin of England, and well she might be, for some said that she, Mary, had more right to the English crown than the bastard daughter of Anne Boleyn.

While she was occupied with these gloomy thoughts, the door of her apartment opened so silently that she did not hear it, and her mother-in-law must have stood watching her for some seconds before she was aware of her presence.

‘Madame!’ Mary sprang off her bed and bowed.

Catherine was smiling, and the very way in which she stood there, the very way in which she smiled, told Mary that she herself, so recently the petted Queen of France, was of no importance now in the eyes of the Queen Mother.

‘My child, you have spoilt your beauty. So much weeping is not good for you.’

Mary cast down her eyes; she could not meet those under the peaked headdress.

‘You must not grieve so for poor Francis,’ said Catherine maliciously.

‘Madame, I have suffered sadly. First I lost my husband, and now … they are threatening to send me away from here.’

‘Poor Mary! Poor little Queen! But in your great grief for your dear husband, leaving France will not seem so very important to you. I think that God gives us these blows, one following another, in order that we may become hardened to bear them. To leave France – which I know you love – when Francis was alive would have been a tragedy for you. But now, in the shadow of a greater tragedy, it will seem as nothing, for how much more you must have loved Francis than your adopted country! That is so, is it not, my daughter?’

‘I loved Francis dearly, yes. And, Madame, I think that, if I were allowed to stay here, I could still, in time, find some happiness in France.’

‘Ah,’ said Catherine lightly. ‘Then what a pity it is that you must leave us!’

Mary went on her knees and took Catherine’s hand. ‘Madame, you could let me stay.’

Now that Mary could not see her face, Catherine let her expression change. This was the girl who had called Catherine de’ Medici ‘Daughter of Merchants’, had dared to slight her because she had seen others do it. She had taken her cue from Madame de Poitiers. Well, it had not been possible to take revenge on that woman, but on Mary it would be. Not that Catherine cared greatly for revenge for its own sake. If it had been politic for Mary to have stayed in France, she would have forgotten past slights and humiliations. But now she could settle old scores and help her schemes of power politics at the same time. She could allow herself to get full enjoyment from this little by-play. This girl had dared to spy on her!

‘I let you stay?’ said Catherine. ‘You over-estimate my power.’

‘No, Madame. You are the Regent of France. All power is yours.’

‘My dear, I share it with the King of Navarre; and then there is the Council; and the King, though a boy, has his say in affairs.’

‘Then I must speak to the King. He will understand. He will help me.’

‘The King is indisposed. I could not have him disturbed. As you know, his health is not of the best.’

‘Oh, Madame, have you no pity? You would send me from France … from my native land?’

‘Nay, child. It is the land of your adoption, as it is mine. I doubt not that when you, a little girl of six, heard that you were to leave your home and sail across the seas to France, there to be brought up among strangers, I doubt not that you shed many tears. Well, this is such another upheaval in your life. In a year’s time you will be laughing at these tears. You will be loving the mists of your native wilderness as you love our snows and sunshine.’

‘Madame, I shall never love any land but France.’

‘And you a Queen of Scotland!’

‘And a Queen of France, Madame.’

‘And a Queen of England!’ said Catherine with a malicious laugh. ‘Your cousin in England is not going to be very pleased with you for using that title!’

‘You know it was at the wish of your husband, the King, and of my husband. I did not wish it.’

‘Yet you seemed very proud, nevertheless – very proud of it. Poor Mary! They are no longer here to answer to the virago of England for their sins. But I am sure she will forgive you and love you.’

‘She will hate me. She has always hated me. She has refused me safe passage to Scotland.’

‘Doubtless your charming ways will stand you in good stead with her as they did with me. You know how your pretty ways have endeared you to me. I have no doubt that Elizabeth of England will learn to love you as I have.’

Catherine wanted to laugh aloud. She was well aware of the red-headed Queen’s feelings towards this girl, this Queen whose existence was a threat to her hold on the throne of England. How would Elizabeth have reacted had she found the girl spying on her? Mary would not have got off so lightly as she had with Catherine. She would have had her head off by now.

‘Be of good cheer,’ soothed Catherine. ‘You will grow to love your little kingdom. You will be able to think of us, and we shall think of you.’

‘Madame, the little King Charles loves me. If I go, he will be broken-hearted.’

‘Nonsense. He is only a child.’

‘He is old for his years. He used to say that if his brother Francis had not had the good fortune to marry me, he would have asked to be allowed to do so.’

‘He is a precocious boy, that one. Thinking of marrying at his age!’

‘It was his love for me.’

‘You will no doubt find many to love you … in Scotland. And any alliance, as you will see, between you and King Charles is out of the question. You have been the wife of his brother. It would be … immoral. You remember what happened when a King of England married his brother’s widow. Ask Queen Elizabeth to remind you. She will remember.’

Mary cried out: ‘Will you not have pity on me? I beg of you … I implore you … do not send me away.’

Catherine began to walk up and down the apartment. She let herself think back over the past. She saw this girl as a child at her Latin lesson; she remembered the curl of the haughty lips, the whispered words: ‘Daughter of Merchants’. She remembered the girl who had quickly learned how wise it was, how diplomatic, to seek the favour of Diane de Poitiers and to treat with indifference the real Queen of France. She remembered also the anguish she had suffered because of her husband’s love affair with the Lady Fleming, who had been this girl’s governess. But for the coming of the little Scot she would not have had to endure that.

But away with revenge! What did it matter? It was just something to enjoy like the melons of which she was so fond, or a chine of beef which made her mouth water at the very thought of it, or a goblet of rare wine. Revenge was an ephemeral pleasure. The real reason why Mary must go was because, if she stayed and was married to Charles, those arrogant uncles of hers would be in power again, and that situation – against which Catherine had fought with all the means at her disposal, even unto speeding her son along that road to death – that intolerable situation would be re-created.

Mary was indeed a little fool to expect such favours.

‘There, my child. Calm yourself. You will be Queen of Scotland, Queen of your native land. I hear the scenery is charming, and that Monsieur John Knox awaits you. I am sure you will have a very lively time. As for your cousin of England, I am sure you have as little to fear from her as from me. Now bathe your eyes. I will send you a lotion to brighten them.’ Catherine turned to the door. ‘Rest then, and enjoy your last days in France.’

And so, a sorrowing girl rode north to Calais. To her it seemed that the procession was like a funeral cortège. She wept bitterly and continually, and the last she saw of the land she loved was through eyes swollen with grief.

She had had one short interview with the distracted King, who had wept with her and begged her to stay and be his wife in spite of his mother, for he loved her. But even as he had talked she had seen the madness in his eyes, and she knew that she could no more hope for help from him than from Queen Catherine.

She had said farewell to her powerful uncles after begging them to let her stay.

‘I will live simply,’ she had cried. ‘I will be merely the dowager Queen of France. I have my dowry of Poitou and Touraine. I will live in France as a simple lady. I will give up everything … only do not send me to that wild country. Let me stay here … in my home.’

But the uncles had conferred with one another. They were not yet fully cognizant with what had happened at court. There were too many intrigues being conducted. The Queen Mother had seemed like a harmless snake coiled up in sleep, and now she had raised her head and shown her fangs, and those fangs, they knew, were poisonous. They assured Mary that if they could arrange a marriage for her, this should be done, for she could be sure they had her welfare at heart. Let her look upon this as a visit to Scotland, for it was right that she should occasionally visit the country of which she was Queen. Very soon, they doubted not, she would be returning to France for as brilliant a marriage as her first one.

‘King Charles would marry me now,’ she said.

‘He is too young yet. Later … we may arrange it. Trust us, niece.’

‘Make it soon, I beg of you. Make it soon.’

They assured her that they would. They kissed her fondly, and then she was forced to set out with that miserable cortège.

Although it was April, the weather was bleak, for spring came late that year.

‘The whole countryside mourns with me,’ said Mary Queen of Scots. ‘Oh, Holy Mother of God, how I dread this voyage! I dread it more than death.’

And as they went aboard the ship which was to carry her across the grey, heaving sea, away from the land where she had known such joy, to the land where she was to know great sorrow, she remembered not the last hours of her husband, the tender smiles of the poet Ronsard, the adoration of young King Charles, but the cold, snake-like stare of the woman who could have spared her this agony of exile. She knew now that the woman to whom she had been so indifferent in the past was not the colourless creature she had imagined her to be. She knew now what people meant when they called her Madame le Serpent.

She looked back for as long as she could at the receding shores of France; and as the cold spray touched her cheek she tried to imagine the unknown future which seemed to her already darkened by the shadow of the grim John Knox and the red-headed Queen of England who might even prevent her reaching Scotland.

She was frightened and miserable; she felt that her heart had been broken at the order of a woman whom she had never known until now.

It was not to be expected that the Guises would allow matters to go on as they had since the death of King Francis. They realised that affairs had come to this pass because they, like the rest of those around her, had not been allowed to see how strong was the Queen Mother.

In unexpectedly using the Bourbons – playing them off against the Guises – she had caught them at a disadvantage, but obviously this must be changed, and it was decided that the first blow should be one which struck at Catherine’s affections. The whole court knew how she doted on Prince Henry; he was to her, it was said, ‘like her right eye’. Well, her son Henry should be taken from her, and she should not have him back until she realised who were the real masters of France.

The Duke’s plan was simple, and to put it into effect he called in his own son Henry to help him. More than anyone on Earth the Duke loved this eldest son of his, and all his feelings for the boy were deeply reciprocated. Duke Francis saw in Henry of Guise, at present the Prince of Joinville, all that he himself must have been at his age. Their similarity, not only in appearance but in character, was remarkable, even for father and son. Young Henry of Guise would willingly have died at his father’s command, and Duke Francis would as eagerly have given his life for his son. Therefore the Duke knew that it was quite safe to tell young Henry of the plot to kidnap the royal Henry.

‘We shall do him no harm. It is just to teach his mother a lesson.’ But Henry of Guise would not have cared if they had done Prince Henry any harm. He had no real feeling for the boy, whom he despised as weak, effeminate and everything that he and his father were not.

‘Tell no one of this … not even Margot.’

‘As if I would!’ cried Henry of Guise; and his father laughed, for it was a joke shared between them that women were well enough for the hours of pleasure, but must not be allowed to interfere with the real business of the day. The most endearing thing about his father, as far as Henry of Guise was concerned, was this assumption that he was already a man.

‘As if you would!’ echoed the Duke, putting an arm about the boy. ‘Now listen. You will be playing with Prince Henry. You must see to that, and that the two of you are alone. I and the Duke of Nemours will approach and ask him to come away with us for a little jaunt. The Duke of Nemours will make the suggestion while I am talking of this jaunt to you … and it will be as though I do not care whether he comes or not. But you will care, my son. You will talk to him of Lorraine and what good fun it would be if he would come with us.’

‘I will do it, Father. When shall we go?’

‘At night.’

‘But the Prince’s apartments are guarded.’

‘Never worry your head about that. We’ll get him through the window, and a coach will be waiting.’

Henry of Guise laughed with delight. He stood up very straight and tried to assume the bearing of his father; he greatly regretted that he had not a scar of battle beneath his eye. Sometimes he wondered whether he would make such a scar so that men would say, ‘Is that Le Balafré Père or Le Balafré Fils?’

He was determined to play his part correctly. He was absent-minded with Margot. She reproached him and tried to make him caress her, but Henry of Guise became aloof as he imagined his father would be before some great battle; this was no time for dalliance with women.

At the appointed time he was at his post with Prince Henry, and he so arranged it that they were alone.

He flashed a secret smile at his father, Duke Francis, as he approached with his friend and ally, the Duke of Nemours, just as he had said he would.

Nemours talked to the little Prince while Duke Francis turned away and engaged his son in conversation.

‘Good day to you, my lord,’ said Nemours.

‘Good day,’ said Prince Henry. He touched his ears to make sure his earrings were in place.

‘And what religion is yours, my Prince? Are you Papist or Huguenot?’

The crafty Medici eyes were immediately alert. He was no fool, this Prince Henry, and he knew very well that all the trouble in the land had arisen through the conflict of religion. At the mention of the subject he was on guard.

He said haughtily: ‘I am of my mother’s religion.’

‘That is well,’ said Nemours. ‘It shows you are a dutiful son.’

Now it was the turn of little Henry of Guise. He ran to the Prince and said: ‘My father is taking me on a visit to our château of Lorraine. Please come with us.’

Prince Henry’s Italian eyes went from the Dukes to the boy. ‘I do not think,’ he said, ‘that my mother would wish me to desert my brother, the King.’

Henry of Guise persisted. ‘It will be fun in Lorraine. There you will have the first place. Here you are merely the brother of the King. My mother has some beautiful jewels. I doubt not that you would enjoy seeing her sapphires.’

‘What sort of sapphires?’ asked Prince Henry with interest.

‘All sorts. And she has beautiful cloths from Italy. We turn out her trunks and dress up in them. You should come with us.’

Prince Henry’s eyes began to shine, for there was nothing he enjoyed so much as dressing up. He wanted to hear more about the cloths and the jewels of the Duchess of Guise.

‘Come and see for yourself,’ said Henry of Guise slyly.

‘Very well,’ said the Prince. ‘I will come for a short visit.’

Francis of Guise pressed his son’s shoulder gently and approvingly; and the two boys ran off whispering together.

The Prince asked suspiciously, when they were out of earshot of the men: ‘Why do we go without the consent of my mother?’

‘Oh … it is but a short visit, and it will be over so soon. There is no need to trouble her.’

‘I do not think I should go without my mother’s consent.’

Henry of Guise was alarmed, and, seeking to make the adventure more exciting, he whispered: ‘It will be the greatest fun. We are going to climb through our windows, and there will be a coach waiting to take us to Lorraine.’

The Prince was thoughtful; he was not so fond of rough, boyish games as his friend was. Henry of Guise was only a young boy; it did not occur to him that such a manner of going could possibly be a deterrent. Prince Henry smelt his perfumed kerchief and studied the rings on his hands. The smile about his mouth was very sly, and he sought an early opportunity of going to his mother.

She embraced him tenderly; there was never any ceremony with her beloved son as there was with the others.

‘Mother,’ he said, the crafty Medici look creeping into his eyes. ‘I am to leave my apartment by the window, go into a waiting coach and be driven off to see the fine cloths and jewels of the Duchess of Guise.’

‘What is this, my darling?’

‘That is what they plan for me.’

‘Who, my dearest? What do you mean?’

‘Henry told me about it. His father was there, and so was Monsieur de Nemours. They asked what my religion was – Papist or Huguenot – and I told them my religion was the same as yours. They said I should pay them a visit, and we should go through the window and a coach would be waiting to take us to Lorraine. I thought that was a strange way for a Prince to travel.’

Catherine embraced him fiercely. ‘Oh, my darling. My wise and clever boy. How right you were to come straight to your mother!’

From then on she could not bear him to go out of her sight. They had terrified her. They had thought to kidnap her dearest boy. What dangerous men these were! And what a perilous position she had put herself in by siding openly with the Bourbons!

When, a few days later, she found herself face to face with Francis of Guise, she realised afresh the strength of this man. He was angry with her because his plot to kidnap the Prince had failed; he distrusted her, seeing her as a different person from the meek woman he had suspected her to be.

He was blunt; the eye above the scar watered freely; the strong, cruel mouth was hard and firm.

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I and mine have allowed you to become the Regent of France that you might defend the faith. If this is not your intention, then there are others – Princes of the Blood Royal, men of wisdom – who are more fitted to take over the responsibility which is now yours.’

With an impetuosity which was foreign to her, she said: ‘Would you, Monsieur de Guise, remain true to me if I and my son changed our faith?’

The Duke answered with frankness: ‘No, Madame. I should not.’

‘Then you are lacking in loyalty to the Crown, Monsieur.’

‘As long as you and the Crown keep to the faith of your forefathers and mine, I will give my life in your cause.’

She did not doubt for a moment that he spoke the truth. She saw the fanatical gleam in his eyes, and during the last few years she had become familiar with that fanaticism. So the mighty Duke, the great disciplinarian, the soldier of France, was as fanatically religious as those men whom she had seen tortured for their religion or burned at the stake.

It was a startling discovery, but it was not an unpleasant one. She considered these fanatics, these people who served a cause. They were weak compared with such as herself whose cause was expediency, who had no religion but that of keeping power. She could change her course so easily, using the winds of fortune; they must plough on, whether the wind was with them or against them.

She could see more clearly the way she must take with this man. She feared him. He was the head of the great Catholic Party, and he had a strength and a power which was lacking in the Bourbons. She had been foolish to show too much favour to Antoine of Navarre and Louis of Bourbon, the Prince of Condé, to Coligny and his brothers.

She said softly: ‘Monsieur de Guise, rest assured that there is only one faith for me, and that is the faith of your forefathers and mine. How could it be otherwise? Why should I change with these … fanatics?’

The Duke spoke coldly: ‘It would seem, Madame, that this is what you have done. I hear that you even allow prêches to be conducted in the palace. You surround yourself with heretics. It was therefore thought advisable to remove the little Prince Henry from such evil influences.’

‘Ah, Monsieur le Duc, how you misunderstand me! I am a good Catholic. It grieves me to see this land rent in twain by such disturbances, and all in the name of God. I thought to show leniency to these people. I thought to lead them back to truth by gentleness.’

‘They do not understand gentleness, Madame. They grow arrogant under your protection. It was not for this that we allowed you to be Regent of France.’

She came close to him and laid a hand on his arm; she lifted her eyes to his and smiled craftily.

‘My object, my lord Duke, was to reform these Princes of Bourbon, to lead them back to the Catholic Faith.’

He was scornful, and he terrified her because he did not attempt to hide his scorn. He was then still very sure of the power his family wielded.

‘Is that then the meaning of this great friendship you show for them, Madame? Is that why you are seen so often with the King of Navarre … and even more often with his brother?’

Catherine felt a surge of anger as she realised the significance of his remarks regarding herself and Condé. But the anger was for herself as much as for Francis of Guise. She had been foolish to let this romantic feeling for Condé get the better of her common sense.

But when she spoke her voice was quiet and controlled. ‘You smile, Monsieur, but that is because you have not heard my plan. I have a very good plan which I firmly believe will make these two princelings forget the more serious matters of wars and religion.’

‘How so, Madame?’

‘Think of the King of Navarre!’ She made a disgusted noise with her lips. ‘Antoine of Navarre, the little popinjay, the vainest man in France! Why is he such a good Huguenot, do you think? It is on account of Madame Jeanne, that wife of his.’

‘He was a Huguenot before she was.’

‘He could never stay of the same opinion for more than a day or two at a time. The turncoat! That is the man we have to deal with … or it would be, but for his wife.’ Catherine let out her spurt of coarse laughter. ‘Madame Jeanne d’Albret, Queen of Navarre! She has been a Huguenot in secret for years. Oh yes, I know she has just made a public avowal of the fact, but for years she has followed the faith in secret. As for Antoine, he is a Huguenot because his wife says he must be. He is in leading strings. If we would bend Antoine to our will, we must strike at him through his wife.’

‘What plan have you for attacking the Queen of Navarre?’

‘Oh, I do not mean that we should take an army and march south. That is not my way, Monsieur. That would avail us little. We should have civil war in France, with the Huguenots fighting to free their heroine. No, we strike through Antoine, but we strike at his wife. Did you see them at the wedding of Francis and Mary? Do you remember the silver galleons and how Antoine selected his wife for his companion? “What a devoted husband!” said everyone. My plan, Monsieur, is to make Antoine a slightly less devoted husband.’

‘You think that possible? Jeanne is as strong as granite.’

‘And Antoine is as weak as water. That is why we strike through him. Great plans are in my head; I am a poor, weak woman who loathes violence. My plans are quiet plans, but I think they will work as efficiently as your massacres. We will separate Antoine from his wife. It is, after all, unnatural for the man to be such a devoted husband. He was born a philanderer. We will put temptation in his way. We will so anger that saintly wife of his that she will be infuriated with him. The adored wife, the publicly chosen of her husband, will be neglected, forced to see her husband with a mistress whom he adores. And then, where will the leader of the Huguenots be? You know these Huguenots, Monsieur. They are more prim than we Catholics. They do not love adulterers. His mistress will lead him as his wife now leads him; I plan that she shall lead him back to the Catholic Faith.’

Francis of Guise was excited. It was a good plan, and it was not an impossible plan. If the Queen Mother had had this in mind right from the first, he had misjudged her. She was as good a Catholic as he was. She was as much his ally as she had been when Francis was alive.

He looked at her and, smiling maliciously, said: ‘And the Prince of Condé?’

She repeated slowly: ‘The Prince of Condé.’ And she could not help it if her mind went back to those visits to his cell, those conversations that had held in them a hint of tenderness. She shook off such thoughts and looked unflinchingly into the face of Le Balafré. Then she said: ‘I had the same sort of plan for Condé as for his brother. He also, as you know, has a strong and saintly wife, a woman whom I suspect of leading her husband.’

‘And for him also, Madame, you would suggest a mistress, a love that will lead him back to the Catholic Faith?’

‘That is what I suggest.’

‘You think it possible in his case?’

‘Monsieur, I do think it possible.’

‘And’ – the Duke’s eyes openly mocked her now – ‘and which lady would you suggest for the seduction of the Prince of Condé?’

She was ready for him. ‘There is one in my Escadron Volant. I do not know whether you have noticed her: Isabelle de Limeuil. She is a very beautiful woman and, I believe, irresistible to most.’

‘And so, you have selected her as Condé’s temptress?’

‘I have, Monsieur.’

‘And for Antoine?’

‘Mademoiselle du Rouet.’

The Duke nodded. ‘You have chosen two very beautiful women, Madame, and very light ones.’

‘Those are the qualifications necessary for this particular task, great beauty and lightness. One would not choose such as the Princess Eléonore and Queen Jeanne of Navarre for such tasks, I do assure you.’

The Duke laughed with her, his good humour quite restored.

‘And what of Coligny?’ he asked at length. ‘That man is more dangerous than any.’

‘He is indeed, for no light and beautiful woman could seduce him from what he believes to be his duty. When the time comes, we shall have to think of a way of subduing Coligny.’

The Duke came nearer to her, and she saw in his eyes that he was remembering rumours he had heard concerning her. She knew that his thoughts had flitted to the Dauphin Francis, who had died after his Italian cupbearer had brought him water. He was remembering what he had heard of her poison closet at Blois, and waiting to hear what she planned for Coligny.

‘When the time comes,’ she said, ‘we shall know.’

He took her hand and kissed it, reminding himself that it was as well to have the Italian woman working on his side.

As Catherine looked at the proud head bent over her hand she reflected that it was a pity one could not remove from this life the people who made it so difficult; and she was not thinking so much of Coligny as of the Duke of Guise.

The ladies of the Escadron Volant lounged about their apartment talking together. They had just returned from the hunt, and it had been a strenuous day. The Queen Mother, growing stout as she was, had lost none of her energies.

Mademoiselle Louise de la Limaudière, the daughter of the Seigneur de l’Isle Rouet, was smiling secretly to herself. She was a very lovely woman, and with her friend and confidante, Isabelle de Limeuil, shared the distinction of being the most beautiful in this group of women who were selected not only for the quickness of their wits and their skill on a horse, but for their beauty.

The Queen Mother had talked to Louise this afternoon when they were in the forest. She had told her what was expected of her. Nothing less than that she should, at the earliest possible moment, become the mistress of Antoine de Bourbon, the King of Navarre.

Louise smiled. Antoine was a charming man. She was not at all surprised by the commission. Every woman in the Escadron knew that she belonged to the Queen Mother, body and soul, much as every woman in the Petite Bande of King Francis the First had belonged to him. Sooner or later must come the summons to go here or there, to make oneself irresistible to this minister or that, to learn his secrets and pass them on to the Queen Mother. There was danger as well as excitement in the Escadron; each member knew that even though she longed to escape, once she was initiated there was no way out. It was, Isabelle had said, like selling one’s soul to the Devil. When she had said that her eyes had shone and Louise understood perfectly what she meant. Life under such a mistress – of whom they were permitted a more intimate glimpse than others enjoyed – had its excitements, its pleasures, its intellectual side, its morbid enchantment. All knew that to attempt to escape from the thraldom of the Queen Mother, to pass on her secrets, could end in one way only. They had seen it happen. There had been one girl who had wished to leave the Escadron, who had decided to reform and had begged leave to go into a nunnery. ‘By all means,’ said the Queen Mother. ‘If you wish to leave our company, you must go.’ And go she did, though she never reached the safety of a nunnery. She had fallen into a decline, her skin had shrivelled, her eyes had sunk into her head and her teeth had broken like glass.

Louise shuddered, yet with a thrill of excitement. She had no wish to go into a nunnery; the life of the Escadron delighted her.

She was sensual in the extreme. She enjoyed the caress of satin against her skin and anointing her body with the scents which Catherine graciously allowed her own parfumeurs to supply to the ladies of the Squadron. There was, Louise knew, some special aphrodisiac quality in those perfumes. She was quick-witted, as all the women were required to be; she delighted in the erotic literature which was so fashionable at the court; she herself composed verses and sang charmingly. Catherine’s Escadron was very similar to Francis’s Petite Bande; Catherine desired her women to be clever as well as beautiful, just as Francis had.

Smiling at the ornate ceiling of the apartment, at the naked cupids depicted there with their adorably fat bodies, she thought of Antoine. She had often noticed him with pleasure, and she imagined that he had not been altogether oblivious of her; his gaze had at times rested on her with something like regret, and she guessed that in the background of his mind were memories of his stern wife, Jeanne of Navarre.

Jeanne of Navarre! That woman with the cold, stern face, the new leader of the Huguenots! They were really rather stupid, these stern women who thought themselves so wise. They were so energetic, concerning themselves with prêches and edicts; cleverer women achieved their desires by far simpler methods.

Isabelle came to her bed and lay down beside her.

She whispered so that none of the others might hear: ‘The Queen Mother spoke to you this afternoon?’

Louise nodded.

‘To me also,’ said Isabelle.

‘And who is your quarry?’

‘You’ll never guess.’

‘I’ll swear he is not so exalted as mine.’

‘Do not be too sure of that. Mine is a Prince.’

‘Mine is a King.’

‘A King!’

‘Antoine … King of Navarre.’

Isabelle began to laugh.

‘It is true,’ she said, ‘that you have a King and I have only a Prince, but my man is the more important.’

‘How could that be? Next to the Queen Mother, my Antoine is the most important personage of the court.’

‘Only on the surface, my dear. I assure you he is not so important as his brother.’

‘So yours is Condé?’

‘You are envious.’

Louise laughed, and sang quietly so that only Isabelle could hear:Le petit homme tant joliQui toujours chante, toujours ritEt toujours baise sa mignonne –Dieu garde de mal le petit homme.

‘Ah, my friend,’ said Isabelle, ‘I see that you are jealous.’

‘Who would not be? But you will never get him.’

‘Will I not!’

‘He is devoted to his wife.’

‘So is Antoine.’

‘Do you think I have anything to fear from that prim Huguenot?’

‘But you seem to think that other prim Huguenot, the sainted Eléonore, will keep me from my pretty little man.’

‘There is a difference. You know it, my dear. Antoine is the easier.’

‘Perhaps, my darling,’ said Isabelle, ‘that is why the Queen Mother gave him to you. She reserved the more difficult task, you see, for me.’

‘Oh, it is not so difficult. It will just need a little more time, perhaps.’

‘How fortunate we are! Two such charming men. And of what rank! Good times lie ahead of us.’

‘I’m all impatience,’ said Louise, springing off the bed. ‘I’ll wager you I’ll get my man before you do.’

‘Oh, I think that you may do that, since mine is the more difficult task. Good luck with Antoine.’

‘The best of good fortune with Louis. I wonder who will make the better lover.’

Isabelle snapped her fingers. ‘There will be little to choose. They have both had much experience.’

‘You must remember that they have been in the hands of the saint and the leader for many years. Powers wane and happy tricks are forgotten.’

‘We shall have to remind them of better days, my darling.’

They laughed so much that the others looked their way. No questions were asked. All the ladies knew that these two had been singled out for some special task by the Queen Mother that day, and at such times questions were never asked.

It was warm in the salle du bal. Antoine sat back feigning to watch the dancers, but he was too much aware of the woman at his side to notice them.

It seemed to him that rarely had he seen such a beautiful woman; she was seductive too; the low-necked gown showed her bare breasts, the nipples delicately reddened to match her lips. The perfume which came from her inflamed his senses; but more enchanting than her sensuous beauty was the homage, the adoration in her eyes.

She was saying: ‘My lord King, this is the greatest night of my life. To sit near you, to listen to your talk, that gives me great joy. Often have I watched you from a distance, not daring to approach one of such high rank; and when this night you asked me to partner you in the dance, I thought I should die of delight.’

‘My dear lady, you must not continue to worship from afar. You must perform that duty at closer quarters.’

She drew nearer to him and laid her hand on his arm. ‘I am bold,’ she said. ‘There is something within me that makes me bold, something which I cannot control. I beg of you, my lord, do not ask me to come closer, for if I did my feelings might get the better of what is fitting in the presence of one so exalted.’

‘It is right, I am sure, that you should come closer,’ said Antoine. ‘I have no objection to being worshipped at very close quarters by one so fair as you are, my dear Mademoiselle de la Limaudière.’

She smiled wonderingly. ‘See how my hands tremble at the touch of Your Majesty.’

‘Why so, Mademoiselle Louise?’

‘I will be bold and shameless. It is because for a long time I have seen no one at this court but yourself.’

Antoine gripped her hand. ‘You are very fair, Louise. I was thinking that of all the beautiful women gathered here in this court, there is not one to compare with you.’

‘Such words delight me … coming from you, Sire.’

‘It would be an easy matter,’ said Antoine, ‘for me to fall in love with you.’

She lifted his hand and kissed it shyly.

‘Ah, if that were so, how happy I should be! There is nothing I would not do for you, my dearest lord.’

‘Then …’ he said; and she leaned forward breathlessly. He frowned, and seizing his goblet drank off his wine. ‘Louise,’ he went on, ‘how enchanted I should be if I might become your lover!’

‘My lord, I would give twenty years of my life to be yours.’

She saw the lust in his eyes, the pulse at his temple. She marvelled at the power of Jeanne of Navarre, who had kept such a man faithful to her for so long. She felt a determination to defeat that woman’s power over him. She wished not only to do what was necessary and obey the wishes of her exacting mistress, the Queen Mother, but to follow her own desire.

‘My lord,’ she said breathlessly, ‘when?’

Antoine was disturbed. Such adventures as this had been numerous before his marriage, but even as the temptation was here before him, he remembered his wife. He loved Jeanne. She was not, it was true, beautiful as this woman was beautiful. Love between himself and Jeanne had been a serious dedication, the obligation to produce children, and make sure that they could provide heirs to the throne of Navarre. Acts of love performed for such a set purpose held less of pleasure, less of passion than the old erotic excitements which he had known so well. The woman tempting him was very beautiful; but he must think of Jeanne, of the domestic atmosphere of that Huguenot household which she had made for him; he thought of her strength, her rectitude, her decided views. There was no one on Earth like Jeanne, so good, so worthy, so capable of making him really happy in a peaceful home.

He turned his eyes from the woman at his side.

‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘you are very beautiful; you are very desirable. I will not deny that you tempt me. But, I am not a free man. I am happily married to the best of wives, and it is my wish to remain completely faithful to her.’

Louise said with shame in her voice: ‘My lord King, I beg of you, forgive me. I have been shameless and I have allowed my feelings to override my respect for Your Majesty. I beg of you to tell me you forgive me.’

‘It is I who should ask forgiveness,’ said Antoine. ‘You have honoured me. Mademoiselle Louise, believe me, it would be the simplest thing in the world for me to love you. Indeed I do already.’

She drew nearer. ‘My lord …’

‘You must know,’ he said gently, ‘that I am a faithful husband.’

‘I would be grateful for one kiss, for one embrace.’

He sighed. ‘You are young. You must not talk thus to a man who is married and so much older than yourself.’

‘I could talk to only one man thus,’ she said with quiet dignity.

He stood up and they danced together; and after a while they left the dancers and went out into the grounds. It was a warm night, and the exotic shrubs which King Francis had, at great expense, brought to adorn the palace gardens filled the air with their scent.

Antoine put his arms about Louise and kissed her. He let his hand rest on her warm bare breast.

‘Enchanting!’ he whispered. ‘Intoxicating! But, my dear, it must not be. I am a faithful man. A man who owes much to his wife. Why, but for her, I should not be a King.’

‘It is she, I am sure, who owes much to you,’ answered Louise. ‘What is rank? What is position? What is anything compared with love? She has your love, and I would die to possess it.’

He kissed her again, and permitted himself a little freedom with her person. Not very much, he was saying to himself. I must be faithful to Jeanne. What an extraordinary thing that I should be faithful for so long! What an extraordinary man I am! Jeanne is faithful to me, but she is never tempted. Jeanne is cold and I am warm. But she loses her temper with me. She has said some cruel things. She has criticised my actions. Even now, the letters she writes are often full of reproaches. She thinks that I am being imposed upon; she sees me as the tool of the Queen Mother and the Guises. She thinks I have no sense. Whereas this woman – this delightful and passionate woman, this seductive Louise – thinks that every thing I say and do is wonderful. That is how a wife should feel towards a husband; that is the right attitude towards a King.

‘Let us walk,’ he said; and he put his arm about her as they walked.

‘Louise,’ he said, ‘you are delightful, and my senses long for you. Ah, duty! What a hard taskmaster, my dear! And a man in my position is never free from duty. Always he must think of it. Always he must eschew his pleasure, subdue his desires.’

She turned and pressed herself against him. ‘I would rather die than interfere with your duty, Sire.’

He kissed her fervently. Why not? he was thinking. Just once. Just for one night.

But he could not dismiss the memory of Jeanne. If she heard of any lapse from virtue, she would never forgive him, and it would be the end of their happy life. He must remember that he and his brother, with Jeanne, were putting themselves at the head of the Huguenots. An intrigue with a court beauty would, by their followers, be looked upon with extreme disfavour. Still, who need know? Nonsense! Everybody would know. He was watched wherever he went. No doubt he was being watched now. Their kisses would have been seen. Well, he might as well carry this affair to its natural conclusion, for even if he did not there would be many to say that he had done so.

But he could not bear the thought of Jeanne’s steadfast eyes looking at him in horror. Jeanne, for all her wisdom, was a very simple woman. She thought fidelity between husband and wife was natural, not, as it assuredly was, the most unnatural thing on Earth!

And I am a natural man, thought Antoine angrily, kissing Louise again.

Then he told her about his home life and why he could not enter into a love affair. ‘My wife is a very wise woman, a great leader and a great Queen …’

‘Yet she does not understand your needs,’ said Louise.

‘No. In a way … you are right.’

Then he was telling her, not of his happiness with Jeanne, but of their quarrels, their misunderstandings.

‘I do not understand how she can bear to be away from you,’ said Louise.

‘She is a Queen, with Navarre to rule. I must be here to work with the Queen Mother. For people of our rank there is little domestic life.’

‘Were I your Queen I would let nothing stand in the way of being with you.’

There were more embraces. Why not? thought Antoine, hesitating; first saying Yes; then saying No.

But when he retired that night, Jeanne’s was the victory.

‘My darling,’ were his parting words to Louise, ‘it would be better if we did not see each other. The temptation would be too great, and I must be a faithful man.’

‘I would do anything in the world to please you,’ said Louise.

And that night, when the palace was quiet, she slipped along to the apartments of the King of Navarre.

His gentleman raised his eyebrows at the sight of her, but she smiled and gave him a nod of understanding.

‘I carry no dagger,’ she said, ‘to kill the King. You may search me.

She was naked beneath her robe.

‘I come,’ she continued, ‘at the invitation of the King of Navarre. Do not attempt to stop me or you will have to answer to him.’

So Louise went through to Antoine’s bedchamber. She stood by the bed.

‘My King,’ she whispered.

‘Louise!’

‘I could not stay away,’ she said.

This is no fault of mine, the King of Navarre told himself.

The next day Antoine was remorseful. He had been unfaithful. He was in love. Louise de la Limaudière was the most enchanting creature he had ever known. But he must do without her. He must eschew such love.

He wrote a long letter to Jeanne.‘MY DEAREST WIFE, – I sigh because you are not here with me. I think of you all the time. Never forget that I am your loyal and affectionate husband. Other ladies have no power to move me. To me they seem ugly. I am bored when I do not see you … oh, much more than you can ever know. You must have pity on me … for my nights are sleepless and I have grown a little thinner. I shall not revive until I see you …’

He wrote on fervently and passionately, assuring himself that he did not wish to be an unfaithful husband.

Louise had possession of him now, and the entire court knew it. He disregarded the sly glances and whispers, for he could not do without her. She was so passionate, so loving, and she adored him so blindly; she saw his virtues where his wife saw his faults.

She said to him one day: ‘Your brother is a little shocked by our love, my darling.’

‘Ah, Louis has a nobler character than I.’

‘That I will not believe.’

‘Ah, yes. Though in some ways he is another such as myself, though he too needs a woman to love him, see how sternly he sets his face against such solace!’

‘Does he?’

‘Yes. He sees himself as a leader. He never forgets that he is the Prince of Condé – a man to whom many look as their leader.’

‘I doubt that he is as virtuous as you seem to think. I will show you something. Let us give a merry party … a small party. Let us give it in your apartments, and let there be none but you and I, a friend of mine and your brother. Shall I tell you a secret? My friend loves the Prince. She is pining for love of him. She feels towards him as I feel towards you. Would you not give him a chance to be happy?’

‘No!’ cried Antoine. ‘He would be tempted, for he is a man who once found beauty irresistible. Who is the lady?’

‘You have seen her, my lord. Oh, I beg of you, do not look too closely at her or I shall suffer a torment of jealousy. She rides with the Queen Mother and the rest of the ladies. Her name is Isabelle de Limeuil.’

‘A lovely girl.’ He kissed Louise. ‘Nay, fear not. There is none for me but you, my sweet Louise.’

‘You love your brother, do you not?’

‘He is a great man, and I honour him. He has my respect as well as my love.’

‘Then … give him a little fun. There could be no harm in asking him to the party.’

So they planned the party. It would be amusing, thought Antoine, to see how Louis reacted to the proffered charms of Isabelle de Limeuil; and if he too became involved in a love affair he would not be able to look down his handsome nose at his brother Antoine.

It was a successful party; there was plenty of laughter and good wine.

Isabelle had never, thought Louise, looked quite so attractive. Condé seemed to think so too. He was a passionate man and he had been celibate too long; the separation from his saintly Eléonore had made him a ready victim to temptation. He guessed that Isabelle was a spy of the Queen Mother, for he knew her to be a member of the Escadron Volant, and he was fully aware of the purposes to which the Queen Mother put these ladies. But the beauty of Isabelle was intoxicating; and the next day he was in no position to reprove his brother.

The whole court was now laughing at the affairs of the Bourbon brothers. Catherine’s feelings were a little mixed. She was triumphant at Antoine’s moral downfall, delighted for more reasons than one. This was the first step in her scheme. What was Madame Jeanne going to say when the news reached her? Would she remember how smug she had been that night when her husband had carried her off in a Spanish galleon that he might make love to her, his wife? Was she going to be quite so haughty now? It would be amusing to observe the reactions of Jeanne. That, however, was a minor issue. The main point was the effect on the Huguenots of what Louise had achieved.

And the other pair? Catherine frowned. Condé in love … and with that harlot! What an enchanting lover he must be! She could not help it if she remembered those conversations which had taken place in a dungeon under the château of Amboise. What a fool she was! She was fat; she was getting old; let her compare her grossness with the slender beauty of Isabelle de Limeuil, Isabelle’s youth with her age. Isabelle would be wise too in the ways of love. For a moment Catherine thought of those other lovers – Henry and Diane – spied on through a hole in the floor. She would not, for anything, go back to those days of anguish and humiliation. Love? It was not for her. And what did this love amount to? What did it bring but jealous torment, a temporary satisfaction. No, it was not love she wanted; it was power. There was no time to waste, watching Isabelle and Condé through a hole in the floor; she would not bother to listen to their conversation through a tube leading from her apartment to theirs. No! She was done with that folly. She had no time for it.

She sent for Louise, and when the woman knelt before her, she bade her rise and make sure that they were not overheard.

‘Now, Mademoiselle,’ she said, ‘you have done well and I am pleased with you.’

‘Thank you, Madame. It is my pleasure to serve Your Majesty.’

‘You now have the confidence of the King of Navarre, I believe?’

‘I believe so, Madame.’

‘How is he with you? His desire, I trust, has not weakened through too much satisfaction?’

Louise was prepared. It was a trait of the Queen Mother that she liked to hear details of the exploits of her Squadron. She took a vicarious pleasure in their experiences through their reports. One must submit to her wishes, enter into her coarseness. Sometimes it was easier than at others; but Louise was half in love with Antoine and did not enjoy discussing the more physical details of their love-making. However, the Queen Mother must be obeyed in all things.

After a while, Catherine said: ‘I think that you have his confidence, and now is the time to widen your mission. The King of Navarre is a Protestant, and as such he puts himself in danger. I wish him to become a Catholic. That is your next task.’

‘But … Madame … a Catholic! Change his religion! That will be a very difficult task, Madame.’

‘But not one beyond you, I am sure, Mademoiselle.’

The girl looked frightened. How strange these people were! thought Catherine. Even this harlot was appalled at the thought of discussing religious doctrines between bouts of love-making.

Catherine laughed. ‘It will give you something to talk about when you are not in the act of love-making. Holy Mother, woman, would you wear out the poor little man!’

Louise did not smile. ‘His religion, Madame, it seems apart … a sacred thing. I had not thought. He … he is of the Reformed Faith.’

‘And you, I trust, Mademoiselle de la Limaudière, are a good Catholic?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Well then, as a good Catholic, does it not become you to try to turn his footsteps in the right direction?’

‘I … I had not thought that my duties would lie that way.’

‘And now you hear they do.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘You do not seem to relish this task.’

‘It is so unexpected, Madame. I had not thought about religion. I … I will do my best.’

‘I shall demand nothing less,’ said Catherine with a smile, and the smile made Louise shiver. ‘Now, child,’ continued the Queen, ‘do not look so glum. You know that I reward those who work with me and for me. Make a good Catholic of your lover and I will see if I can turn him into your husband.’

‘My husband! But he is a King, Madame, and … married.’

‘He is a King – that is true. And far above you in rank, my dear. But I doubt not that if you brought him into a mood in which he wished for marriage with you, he would insist on it; and how could he be refused? He is married, you say. Yes, he is married to the Queen of Navarre. I do not think, my dear, that the Pope would withhold a divorce from a Catholic King who wished to free himself from his heretic wife. Now go and think on what I have said. But remember – discretion. It would be unwise to repeat at this stage a word of anything I have said to you – to any. Pray remember that.’

Louise came out of the apartment dizzy with excitement. Had she heard correctly? Had Catherine really held out to her a promise of marriage with the King of Navarre – to her, who was merely the daughter of the Seigneur de L’Isle Rouet? And all she had to do to achieve this was to make him change his religion!

When Louise had left her, Catherine sent for the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine.

She was pleased with herself. She had lulled the fears of these men by showing them her hostility to Jeanne of Navarre and the Huguenot cause and supplying two of its leaders with mistresses, so creating a court scandal which must be angering the Coligny brothers whilst it struck right at the heart of the Huguenot Party by bringing into disrepute two of its most prominent leaders.

So far so good; but Catherine did not want this to go too far. She must keep these rival houses of Bourbon and Guise at odds with one another; for if they were to unite and band together against her, she could not hope to hold out against them.

She did not believe for a moment that the beautiful Louise would be able to induce Antoine to change his religion, but it was necessary to make the Guises believe that that was the intention. She thought she understood these fanatically religious people. They never changed. Who would have believed that the cruel and ambitious Francis de Guise could be such an ardent Catholic? They were all alike, scheming, cunning and unscrupulous – except where their religion was concerned.

The Duke and his brother were ushered in. They bowed low over her hand.

‘Welcome, Messieurs. What think you of the way things go with the Bourbon brothers?’

‘I should enjoy,’ said the Cardinal with his sly malicious smile, ‘seeing the faces of Mesdames Jeanne and Eléonore when they hear of the frolics in which their husbands indulge.’

‘To let them both get caught up by mistresses was a master stroke,’ said the Duke with a laugh. ‘I myself think that what Antoine does is immaterial. Condé is another matter.’

‘Condé,’ said the Cardinal, ‘is the stronger of the two.’

‘But not strong enough to say “No” to Mademoiselle de Limeuil,’ added Catherine with her gusty laugh.

‘He is soft with women, but a formidable enemy,’ put in the Duke. ‘Condé must be watched. The greatest mistake that was ever made was to free him after the death of King Francis.’ The Duke glared at Catherine with something like his old arrogance as he said this. ‘The safest place for Condé’s head is on the battlements – not on that elegant body of his.’

Catherine said: ‘I like not injustice. Condé defended his honour and it was agreed that he should go free.’

‘Not by us, Madame,’ the Cardinal reminded her.

She bowed her head in silence, and thought: Of all my enemies, I hate most this Cardinal. Even more than I hate the Duke, I hate him. Would to God I could find some way of despatching him!

‘It may be that concerning Condé you are right, Monsieur le Cardinal,’ she said soothingly. ‘How can we know? But these Bourbon Princes are popular with the people. I think that had we executed Condé on that occasion there would have been risings throughout France.’

‘Madame,’ said the Duke, ‘the whole question of religion has to be decided sooner or later. It is your behaviour towards the Huguenots which has made them arrogant, too sure of themselves.’

‘I think, my lord Duke, I have shown you that I am a true Catholic.’

The Guises were insolently silent, and she could not quell the fear which came to her as she looked at them. The Bourbons inspired no such fear. The Duke was a strong man; the Cardinal was an infinitely cunning one; as a team they were irrepressible, impossible to subdue except by death; and the only death one could consider for such men was a secret, silent stab in the back.

‘I asked you to come, Messieurs,’ she said, ‘that I might give you further proof of my friendship for you, of my loyalty to the faith we mutually hold. I propose to make Catholics of Antoine and Condé.’

‘You never will. They are ardent heretics. Their wives would not let them be good Catholics.’

‘Their wives would not let them sport with their mistresses if they could help it, Messieurs! But these two gentlemen have, nevertheless, managed to elude the control of their very virtuous wives.’

‘But their religion, Madame!’

‘Louise de la Limaudière is a very attractive girl, my lord Duke. She is already with child by our little King of Navarre. The Queen of Navarre is not going to be very pleased when this news reaches her. She is going to give our Antoine a piece of her mind, and he, the little coxcomb, flattered and adored by such a beautiful girl as la Limaudière, is not going to relish a scolding from that less beautiful and shrewish wife of his. I do not despair at all of our Antoine’s turning his coat. He can never be of one mind for any length of time.’

‘A man’s religion, Madame,’ said the Cardinal, ‘is sacred to him. He may change his women, but not his faith.’

Catherine agreed; and it was now necessary to her plans that Antoine should not change his religion. But she pretended to believe that he would do so.

‘He is weak, my lords. He is like a reed in the wind. Jeanne of Navarre – she is the danger, for although she is the wife and Antoine the husband, it is she who rules. We can do nothing with her except have her branded as a heretic, hand her over to the Inquisition, or have the marriage annulled and our King of Navarre married to a wife more suited to him.’

The Guise brothers were interested now. The Cardinal’s long white hands stroked his gorgeously coloured robes; the Duke’s eye began to water above his scar.

‘And whom have you in mind, Madame, for the King of Navarre’s second wife?’

‘Your niece, my lords. Mary Queen of Scots. What think you of my choice?’

‘An excellent one,’ said the Cardinal.

‘To that I agree,’ added the Duke.

They smiled at the Queen Mother, being once more assured that she was their friend. Catherine wanted to laugh. They were as easily duped as la Limaudière. Did they really think that she would bring back to France their little spy? Evidently they did!

Holy Mother! thought Catherine. How can I fail when these great men are such fools!

The Spanish Ambassador, de Chantonnay, was a man well versed in the ways of intrigue. De Chantonnay had been trained in diplomacy from his childhood; he had inherited his astuteness and his boldness from his father, Chancellor Nicholas de Granvelle; and Philip of Spain had chosen wisely when, at this time, he had decided that de Chantonnay was the man best fitted to serve his interests in France.

De Chantonnay was not, therefore, unaware of the traps which had been set for the Bourbon Princes, and since the ladies who had lured them into these traps were members of the Escadron Volant, and he knew very well what the duties of that esoteric band comprised, it was no great feat of cerebration to determine who had set the traps. The Queen Mother! But whether out of fear or friendship for the Guises he was not sure.

The Guises were the allies of Spain; the Queen Mother, by her prevaricating behaviour since little Charles had been on the throne, had been the subject of many disquieting letters which de Chantonnay had sent to his King. Philip of Spain did not trust the Queen Mother, for he accepted his Ambassador’s keen judgment; and de Chantonnay was certain that the waverings from Bourbon to Guise were due to her desire to use their friendship whenever she might need it, and by so doing to keep her own power.

However, de Chantonnay’s one object was to work for his master, and for this purpose he was spy and intriguer as well as Ambassador. He had his spies just as the Queen Mother had, and he knew that Louise had been instructed to induce the King of Navarre to change his religion. This suited Spain; but Spain wanted more of the King of Navarre than his conversion.

For this reason de Chantonnay ingratiated himself with Antoine, flattered him, admired him, and made a friend of him. Antoine was the easiest man at court with whom to make friends. Flattery was all he needed, and that was cheap for a Spanish Ambassador to provide.

De Chantonnay talked and drank with Antoine.

‘Ah,’ said the Spaniard, ‘what a great and glorious future might be your Majesty’s if you would but play the right cards. I cannot doubt that you will, for I’d wager with anyone that there’s a fine head for business beneath those handsome curls. Do you know, my lord King, that there are some who are deluded enough to think that because a man is handsome he is a fool?’

‘What great and glorious future do you speak of, Monsieur?’

‘My lord King, could we go somewhere where we shall not be overheard? There are too many eyes and ears in this palace, and I should prefer to be out of doors.’

So they walked together in the palace gardens while the Spanish Ambassador unfolded the Spanish King’s plans for Antoine.

‘Part of the province of Navarre, as your Majesty well knows, is in the hands of my master – won from the sovereign of Navarre in battle.’

Antoine looked sullen. That was a sore point with him. But the Spaniard hurried on: ‘What an uneasy thing it is for such a province to belong half to one King, half to another! What if you were offered Sardinia in exchange for Navarre?’

‘Sardinia!’

‘A wonderful island, Monseigneur. A beautiful climate. A land of beautiful women and great cities. You would be King of all Sardinia. But first it would be necessary that you embrace the Catholic Faith. My master could have no dealings with a heretic. Oh, Sire, do not be rash. Do not be angered. Your soul is in danger. Your future life is in jeopardy – not only in Heaven, but here on Earth.’

‘My future here on Earth? How is that?’

‘His Most Catholic Majesty, the King of Spain, thinks often of you, Sire. He grieves that you should put yourself at the head of heretics, for that way lies disaster. Give up this new religion and save your soul. And get yourself a triple crown at the same time.’

‘What is this? What do you mean, man?’

‘If you became a Catholic you could not remain married to a heretic.’

‘But … Jeanne is my wife.’

‘The Pope would let nothing stand in the way of your divorce from one who has publicly proclaimed herself to be a heretic. Moreover, there was a previous marriage with the Duke of Clèves, and this was binding. Oh, Monseigneur, Your Majesty would have no difficulty in divorcing your wife.’

‘But I had not thought of this. We have our children.’

‘Children who are illegitimate, since the woman you call your wife was first given to the Duke of Clèves! You would have other children – children to inherit a triple crown.’

‘Whose triple crown?’

‘Your own, for one.’

‘But I have that because it was bestowed on me through my wife.’

‘We need not let a little detail like that worry us, Sire. Your wife would lose all her possessions, as do all heretics. You would have your own crown – the crown of Sardinia – and in addition the crown of Scotland and the crown of England.’

How so?

‘By marriage with the Queen of Scots. His Most Catholic Majesty does not intend to allow the red-headed heretic to hold the throne of England for ever; and when she does not, who should? Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. You see what glories I hold out to your Majesty.’

‘Yes,’ said Antoine, dazzled. ‘I see, Monsieur.’

‘And all you have to do is renounce Navarre and take this beautiful island of Sardinia in its place. Then shall you be married to the heiress of Scotland and England. Her uncles are most willing that the marriage should take place. Oh indeed you are a fortunate man! The triple crown within your grasp, and all you have to do is save your soul and divorce your wife.’

Antoine pondered in silence. Mary of Scots? That little beauty! And such great good fortune! It was enough to make a man thoughtful.

De Chantonnay came nearer and whispered: ‘There is a fourth crown that might be yours. But perhaps we should not speak of that yet. The little Charles is not, to my mind, a healthy child. And Henry? And Hercule?’ De Chantonnay lifted his shoulders and smiled shrewdly. ‘I would not say that those boys have long lives before them. And then, Sire, think what might be yours! This, as you know, could only come about with the aid of His Most Catholic Majesty.’ De Chantonnay’s face was very near Antoine’s as he whispered: ‘The most desirable crown of all, Sire – the crown of France!’

The Queen Mother was worried. Events were moving too fast and away from her control. She had reckoned without de Chantonnay. So he had offered to exchange Sardinia for Navarre! And that fool Antoine was actually dazzled by the prospect, foolishly believing Sardinia to be all that the Spaniard represented it.

If she were not careful, the Guises would have their niece back in France and the girl would be married to Antoine, for Louise had reported that he was wavering and showing more and more tolerance for the Catholic Faith.

She paced up and down her apartments. Was ever a woman so beset by enemies on all sides? Which way could she turn? To the Guises? To the Bourbons? To the Spanish Ambassador and that shadow which haunted her life, his grim master, Philip of Spain, her own son-in-law? Only for a little while could she turn to any of these, only for a little while walk along beside them in step. She was playing her own lonely game, a secret game; they must never guess what she was planning. She had to work alone, to keep her power, to keep the throne for Henry when the time came. And she doubted not that they were all working against her.

It was she who had, in a misguided moment, suggested Mary Queen of Scots for Antoine. How could she have guessed what such a suggestion would involve? She was beginning to wonder whether after all she was still a novice in this game of politics. She had made so many mistakes.

She must learn by these mistakes. She must prevent Antoine’s marriage with Mary Queen of Scots. What a dangerous alliance that would be! The Guises would not rest until they had Mary on the throne of France, and if Antoine became a Catholic they would wish to see him there too.

She had been foolish. She had shown too much favour to the Huguenots. So now the Catholic Party planned to set Antoine on the throne, with Mary Queen of Scotland as his Queen. What of her children – her little Charles, her darling Henry? These children might die. Others had quickly learned the secrets of those poisons which she and her followers had brought with them when they came to France. Was Charles weaker than he had been? Was Henry? It was typical of Catherine that she considered everyone to be as unscrupulous as herself, and that as her thoughts flew so often to poison, she should imagine that other people’s did also.

She was not sure which way to turn. But Jeanne of Navarre must be made to come to court. That much was obvious, for if anyone could prevent the divorce of Antoine and his wife, that one must surely be his wife.

She wrote affectionately to Jeanne. How were the dear little children? Did Jeanne not think that a match between her little Catherine, Catherine the Queen Mother’s own namesake, and Catherine’s own son Henry, would be a pleasant thing? ‘How it would bind us together!’ she wrote. ‘And then there is the match between my daughter Marguerite and your son Henry, which my husband decided on. We should discuss that together and, as you know, such discussions are difficult by letter …’

Then Catherine wrote once more to say that Jeanne must come north for the Council of Poissy.

‘My dear cousin, you know I am your friend. You know that these differences of faith, which have steeped our country in blood, distress me. I have thought it would be a good plan for members of both sides to get together, to discuss, to try to come to an understanding, this time without bloodshed; for what understanding was ever reached through bloodshed?’

When she had written the letters to Jeanne she summoned the Duchess of Montpensier to her, for, knowing this lady’s Huguenot sympathies, she felt she was the one to do what was required.

‘Ah, Madame de Montpensier,’ she said. ‘I am sending letters to the Queen of Navarre, and I think that you should write to her also. It is a very bitter subject, I know, but I am of the opinion that the Queen of Navarre should be made aware of it. It is my belief that if she were here she might be able to rescue that foolish husband of hers from his follies. Mademoiselle de la Limaudière grows larger every day with the King’s bastard. I do not like such things to be seen at my court, as you know. The King of Navarre is as devoted to the woman now as ever, and I think his wife should be told. There is another thing. I think that she should know that he is attempting to barter her kingdom for a worthless island. That man is foolish enough for anything. You are the Queen’s friend. Write to her and tell her of these things.’

‘I will write and tell her of the proposed exchange, Madame.’

‘You will also mention that the King’s bastard is spoiling Mademoiselle de la Limaudière’s slender figure.’

‘Madame, I …’

‘That,’ said Catherine, ‘is a command.’

The Monastery of Poissy at which the Council was held was not far from Saint-Germain; and to this monastery during those summer weeks came the important figures from the Catholic and Protestant movements. The Council was, as Catherine realised later, doomed to failure from the start.

When people were concerned with religion, they became fanatical. They would not give way. Endlessly they discussed the different tenets. What did it matter, Catherine wondered, how the sacrament was taken? Yet endlessly they must discuss and continually they must disagree on such subjects as the Ordination, Baptism, the Laying on of Hands.

Catherine, as she looked round at these great ones assembled in the monastery refectory, was thinking: Why do they fight each other? Why do they die for these causes, these stupid quibbles?

They were all the same: the crafty Cardinal of Lorraine and the mighty Duke of Guise; Calvin, who mercifully was not present; Théodore de Bèze; Michel de l’Hôpital, that fine Huguenot Chancellor to whose wise judgement she owed a good deal; Jeanne of Navarre and Eléonore de Condé; yes, they were fanatics, every one.

And what did she expect to come from the Council which she had arranged? Nothing – precisely nothing. They would never agree, these two factions. Nor did she wish them to; she only wished to let them think she hoped they would agree. For herself, she had no religion; for her there could only be expediency. But it was good, for her, that others should possess this fanaticism, since it made them vulnerable, while those who did not have to consider a faith were free to turn this way and that, to act not for what was right for their faith, but for what was to their own material advantage.

The excitement brought about by such a Council caused tension throughout the entire country. The Huguenots believed that the Queen Mother was, after all, on their side. Catherine, worried at the thought of what disaster might threaten herself and her family if Antoine turned Catholic and allied himself with the Guises, now began to show favour to the Huguenots. She wished to be sure of their support, although she realised that a section of the Huguenot community wished to eliminate the monarchy altogether and set up a presidency in its place.

However, the Huguenots were in Paris, Saint-Germain and Poissy in full force; and it seemed that those who rallied to that cause were almost as numerous as the Catholics.

Catherine therefore pretended not to notice that prêches were openly held even in the apartments of the palace itself; and when de Chantonnay, in a rage, pointed this out to her, she replied blithely that she had seen nothing of them.

Even the children were aware of the tension.

Catherine’s darling Henry was attracted by the Huguenot Faith. It was new, and novelty always appealed to the intellectual set to which Henry belonged. Henry was quick to sense his mother’s moods and to follow them; and she listened smilingly while he talked of de Bèze and his wonderful sermons.

There were quarrels in the children’s apartments, particularly between Margot and Henry. Henry would make his sister stand in a corner while he preached to her, repeating all that he could remember of de Bèze’s sermon. But Margot would not be intimidated.

‘I am a Catholic,’ she asserted stoutly. ‘I belong to the true faith. I and my husband-to-be will always support the true faith.’

‘Your husband-to-be is a Huguenot,’ retorted Henry.

That made Margot laugh scornfully, for she was as determined never to marry Henry of Navarre as she was to remain a Catholic.

‘My future husband is a Catholic.’

‘It may be,’ teased Henry, ‘that you do not know who your future husband is to be, Mademoiselle Margot.’

‘Indeed, I do know. We have arranged it between us.’

‘What is his name? Tell me that, for I think there is some mistake here.’

‘You should know. It is the same as yours.’

‘Henry. That is correct. He spent his early days in a peasant’s cottage and he drank a peasant woman’s milk. That makes a peasant of him.’

Margot tossed her head, throwing back her long black hair. ‘You think that I would marry that oaf!’

‘I think you will, for it has been arranged that you shall.’

‘His hands are unclean. His hair is unkempt. I would not marry a peasant, brother.’

‘As that peasant happens to be the future King of Navarre, you will, my dear sister.’

‘It is another Henry whom I shall marry.’

Henry laughed aloud. ‘Henry of Guise? I tell you, you will have to look higher than that.’

‘No one is higher than Henry of Guise. He is the highest man on Earth. His father is the greatest man in France.’

‘Treason!’ cried Henry.

Margot laughed. ‘Everybody is afraid of Le Balafré.’

‘Henry of Guise is your lover, Margot, and you should both be whipped. He should be banished, and you should be married at once to the peasant with the dirty hands and undressed hair.’

Margot smiled scornfully. ‘I would never marry Henry of Navarre. I hate him. He knows I do, and he hates me. How I wish that he had not come to court with his mother for this Council!’

‘You must become a Huguenot, for you are to marry a Huguenot.’

‘I will never become a Huguenot; nor will I marry one.’

Henry snatched her prayer-book and threw it into the fire.

‘I wonder,’ said Margot, her eyes blazing as fiercely as the flames, ‘that you are not struck dead for that.’

‘Do you? I wonder you are not struck dead for clinging to the old faith. If you do not change, I will have you whipped. I will ask our mother to have it done.’

‘She would not dare to whip me, or have me whipped, for such a reason.’

‘Do you think she would not dare to do anything she thought fit?’

Margot was silent, and Henry went on: ‘I will have you killed, for if your beliefs are wrong you deserve to die.’

‘Very well,’ cried Margot. ‘Have me whipped. Have me killed. I would suffer the worst that could happen to me rather than damn my soul.’

And so the quarrels went on – in the children’s apartments, in the monastery of Poissy, and throughout the tortured realm of France.

Jeanne, the deceived wife, the Queen possessed of a husband who was plotting against her, who was planning to give her kingdom away, had arrived in Paris with her two children, Henry and little Catherine.

When she had first heard the terrible rumours concerning Antoine, she could not believe them. She knew that he was weak, but for all his faults he had loved her. Theirs was to have been the perfect, lasting union. How could he have written those letters assuring her of his faithfulness if all the time he was indulging in a love affair with this Mademoiselle de la Limaudière, La Belle Rouet as they called her? Jeanne would not believe it. He had written only a short time ago to tell her that other women ceased to attract him. Surely he could not be so deceitful.

She was filled with horror at the idea that he could intrigue with Spain. This she would consider even more false than his conjugal infidelities, for with the woman he deceived only her, but with Spain he deceived not only her, but her children, since he was ready to throw away their heritage for his own aggrandisement.

She was bewildered, not knowing to whom to turn for advice and for the truth.

The Queen Mother had offered her apartments in the Louvre that she might be near her dear friend, and that she might often see those little ones whom she thought of as her own, for, said Catherine, she looked upon the bride-to-be of her son and the bridegroom-to-be of her daughter as her own children. But Jeanne had never trusted Catherine, and she preferred to take up her residence in the Palais de Condé.

Here fresh revelations awaited her. Eléonore, who had come to court for the Council of Poissy, received her sister-in-law.

They embraced, and as she looked into Eléonore’s face Jeanne realised that she also had her troubles. The forthright Jeanne plunged straight into the subject which was uppermost in her mind.

‘Eléonore, you can tell me if this is true: I have heard terrible stories. They say that Antoine is in love with a woman of the court.’

‘Oh, my dearest sister, alas, it is true.’

Jeanne’s eyes blazed. ‘I shall never forgive him for this. I hate philanderers! Is there not enough for us to do … our work … our cause …? And yet he deceives me. He brings our cause into disrepute at the same time. Oh, Eléonore …’

Jeanne covered her face with her hands; she was afraid she was going to weep. She hated to show weakness, but she was so wretchedly unhappy.

Eléonore put an arm about her.

‘Dearest Jeanne, I understand your troubles. It is better that you should hear all this from one who loves you and suffers with you. Antoine, you know, has become the lover of that court woman. Jeanne, my dearest, you must prepare yourself for a great shock. Antoine’s son was born a few weeks ago.’

Jeanne broke away from Eléonore’s embrace.

‘I hate him!’ she cried. ‘I did not know it had gone as far as this. He shall suffer for it. Oh God, to think this could happen to us! We were so happy, Eléonore. I knew that he liked gaiety … fun … pleasure … flattery, but I did not think this could ever happen to us. Oh, Eléonore, I am so miserable, so wretched.’

‘I sympathise, my dear,’ soothed Eléonore. ‘I too am unhappy at this time. You see, Jeanne, I suffer your humiliation – not only yours, but that of my own.’

Jeanne stared at her sister-in-law. ‘You mean that Louis also …?’

‘Louis too,’ said the Princess of Condé. ‘Mademoiselle de Limeuil is his mistress.’

Jeanne took Eléonore’s hands and pressed them against her breast. ‘And I so wrapped up in my own troubles that I do not think of yours, which are as great! Oh, Eléonore, if I could but be calm as you are!’

‘My dearest Jeanne, these husbands of ours are weak men, but we love them. We must forgive them.’

‘I shall never forgive Antoine.’

‘But you will see when you grow calmer that you must. There are your children to be thought of. We must overlook these lapses. There are more important things to be done than waste our energies on domestic quarrels.’

‘But I thought you and Louis were so happy. It always seemed so. As for myself and Antoine – oh, you sit there smiling calmly! You may forgive them; I never will!’

‘But you must. Our enemies have brought this about. They have laid the bait and our husbands have fallen into the traps. We must fight for them … with them.’

‘You may. I never will. I hate Antoine. Not only for his infidelity, but for his lies … his hypocrisy.’

‘Oh, Jeanne, my dearest sister, how well I understand, but …’

‘There are no buts.’ Jeanne laughed suddenly, but there were tears in her eyes. ‘You and I are different, Eléonore. You are a saint and I am … a woman.’

In the Palais de Condé Antoine faced the fury of his wife.

‘So, Monsieur, you have a son. I congratulate you. And what a charming mother! Chief harlot of the court, so I hear. What do you plan for this bastard of yours? The throne of Navarre, or the throne of Sardinia? I gather you have not yet made up your mind what to do with my kingdom.’

Antoine tried soothing her. ‘Now, Jeanne, my dearest wife, pray listen to me. Louise de la Limaudière? That is nothing. A lapse, I admit, but that is all. You are my wife, my dearest wife. It is our lives that are important. You have lived too much away from the court of France. Your little courts of Pau and Nérac … well, my dear, they are not the court of France.’

‘Evidently not, since in them we are old-fashioned and ungallant enough to respect our marriage vows.’

‘Why, Jeanne, I care for no one but you. Do you not see that?’

‘So then, it is your custom to give sons to women for whom you do not care?’

‘It was a lapse – a pardonable lapse. Any but you would sec that. I was away from you. I am a man.’

‘You are a fool! A conceited popinjay, as easily fooled by a harlot as by a Spanish Ambassador.’

‘Jeanne …

‘Sardinia!’ she cried. ‘That was a lapse, I suppose. A pardonable lapse!’

She looked at him, and it seemed to her that she looked at a stranger. There he stood, a man of forty-five – not a young man any more – old enough to have some sense, to know when and why people flattered him. His beard was getting grey, but his hair was frizzed and curled; his clothes were more extreme than those of anyone else at court. The sleeves of his coat were puffed with gorgeous satin, and his plumed hat was set with gems. He was conceited in the extreme. He was a fool, an arrogant fool, a deceitful husband; and she loved him.

She stifled the impulse to run to him, to remind him of the happiness they had enjoyed together, the joys of the simple life they had led in the despised courts at Nérac and Pau. Oh God! she thought. Then we were happy. I could have made him happy for ever if I had kept him with me, if they had not made him Lieutenant-General at the court of France, if he had never been important to these unscrupulous seekers after power. But how could this beautiful, elegant creature, who thought more of the line of his coat and the set of his hat than of high politics, how could he resist their flattery, which they would give him as long as they could use him?

She longed for him just as she had in the beginning. She remembered him as a young man at the christening of poor little King Francis. She remembered him in his Spanish galleon at the wedding of King Francis. And now … he had betrayed her, betrayed her both as a wife and as a Queen, betrayed her home and her kingdom.

She must not weaken because she loved him. She held him off.

‘Do not come near me,’ she said. ‘You are despicable. Weak and vain. Look at that hat! I should be ashamed of it if I were you. So that is the new fashion, is it? And so that you may preen yourself and mince about the court like a pretty man, a gallant courtier, you would deceive your wife, you would dare to exchange what is not yours for a worthless island. Let me remind you, Monsieur who call yourself King, let me remind you that you owe your crown to me!’

It was the final insult. Antoine would bear no more. He hated criticism. She had sneered at his elegance, his rank. He could deal with an angry wife, but not with a self-righteous Queen.

He said: ‘I see it is of no use trying to talk calmly to you. You are determined to quarrel, and I refuse to quarrel.’

He bowed elegantly and left her. He went straight to Louise and told her all that had happened. She soothed him, flattered him; and as she caressed him, Antoine’s thoughts went to Jeanne, and it seemed to him that the Spanish Ambassador was right when he had said that it was Jeanne who was standing in his way to greatness. His crown had come to him through her! Well, she should see what the King of Spain thought of her right to that crown.

He embraced Louise, delighting in her youth and beauty. Jeanne was plain in comparison. Louise – La Belle Rouet – one of the most beautiful women in France, adored him and had willingly borne his bastard. And Jeanne could do nothing but sneer at him, and all because he had followed that fashion which was surely perfectly natural to a French nobleman – he had taken a mistress.

Jeanne stayed at the Palais de Condé; Antoine kept to his apartments in the Louvre. He had become a Catholic now, and de Chantonnay was his great friend. The two were always together, and the Guises had warmed towards their old enemy. It was known that Antoine was considering divorcing his wife, for how could a good Catholic remain married to a heretic? Spain and Rome had denounced her as such, and together they had destined her for the stake; but this as yet was kept secret, for it was necessary to get possession of the person of the Queen of Navarre before she could be handed to the Inquisition; and she had many influential friends in France who would help her to avoid capture.

The Huguenots were outraged by Antoine’s conduct, and even the Catholics despised a man who changed his religion for those reasons which all knew to be behind Antoine’s conversion. He was named – slightingly – throughout the country ‘L’Échangeur.’ Condé, it was known, had been false to his wife; the French understood that, and it was only the more austere among the Huguenots who held it against him; but Condé had never denied his faith, nor, he declared, would he ever do so. He was in love with the beautiful Isabelle de Limeuil, but try as she might she could not persuade him to abjure his faith. Condé, like the rest of the Huguenots, was disgusted with his brother.

As for Catherine, she did not know which way to turn. Antoine had alarmed her by changing so easily, but she trusted Condé to remain firm, and while Condé did so he would be able to provide a mighty force to hold the Guises in check.

Jeanne had arrived too late; the Spanish schemes for Antoine had gone too far for her arrival to turn Antoine back to her. Antoine had been too dazzled by the flattering suggestions of de Chantonnay. All the same, Antoine was not unsentimental, and he still had a great affection for his wife; besides, he was a notorious turn-coat. Might it not be possible to reconcile him with Jeanne? The thought of having Mary Stuart in France again was more than Catherine could endure.

Catherine summoned Jeanne to her presence; she wished, she said, to talk of serious matters with her.

They faced each other, the two Queens, each mistrusting the other. Jeanne, her face pale, her eyes cold, successfully managed to hide most of her misery. Whenever she saw Antoine, on his occasional visits to the Palais de Condé, there were quarrels. He sought quarrels. He accused her of heresy and, worst of all, he threatened to take her children from her. She knew that she was in danger and that there were plots afoot concerning her; her friends advised her to leave Paris as soon as she could and make for her own dominions. She could not do this; she could not leave while this unsatisfactory state existed between herself and her husband. She was terrified that if she made preparations to depart he would insist on her leaving her children behind. She saw little of him, for most of his time was spent with his mistress and with his friends of the court. There were occasions when he would appear at the Condés’ home to quarrel with his wife; he would seem sleek, satisfied, smiling secretly as, so Jeanne imagined, he remembered incidents from the previous night’s love-making with his mistress. It was an intolerable position for a proud woman, for a Queen to whom – she never forbore to remind him – he owed his kingdom.

Catherine’s pale features were composed into lines of sympathy. Having herself suffered from the humiliation of watching a husband’s devotion to a mistress, she could guess something of Jeanne’s feelings. But how calm she had been! She had learned how to smile, to feign indifference. Jeanne’s was too frank a nature to be able to hide very successfully what she was feeling.

The foolish Queen of Navarre seemed to think there was some virtue in her frankness; to the Queen Mother of France it looked like sheer folly.

Catherine knew that Jeanne was in acute danger. Not only was she being closely watched by de Chantonnay, but by the Papal Legate, who had arrived in Paris to spy on her and to make plans for her capture if she continued in her heresy. These plans would have to be carefully made and carried out. Jeanne had too many friends for her arrest to be a simple matter. It would have to be carried out by stealth. Both Rome and Spain realised that this outspoken woman was a powerful leader; and one false move on the part of either might bring about much bloodshed and even war.

Catherine knew that Antoine’s chamberlain and his physician were spies of the Legate and that every single action, every word lightly spoken, were reported. But Antoine was not regarded with the respect which was accorded to his wife, and for this reason Jeanne of Navarre was in great peril. If she did not take care, in a short while she would be hearing the crackle of wood at her feet; she would be feeling the flames scorch her flesh before they consumed her.

Catherine was indifferent to Jeanne’s possible sufferings; but she wished to save her from Spain and Rome, for she was sure that a reconciliation between Jeanne and Antoine could help to counteract the power of the Guises as well as the power of Spain.

‘My sister,’ said Catherine softly, ‘it is with great regret that I hear of your troubles. I remember how fond of each other you and the King of Navarre were in the early days of your marriage, and what an example you set to others. It grieves me, therefore, to see you at variance. Is there no hope that you will be reconciled?’

‘There seems none, Madame.’

‘Of course, I know that you must stop this ridiculous exchange of territories. You can do so, because nothing can be arranged on that matter without your consent; but do you not think that you might try to appease your husband? Appear to conform to his direction. Be calm. Wait for some more propitious time to mould him to your will.’

‘On matters of religion and politics we differ, Madame.’

‘You know that the Papal Legate is here, and for what purpose? You know that de Chantonnay notes everything you say and do and reports it to my son-in-law, the King of Spain? Be wise. Turn to the Catholic Faith. If you do that they cannot harm you. You take away their reasons for doing what they plan. That is the only way to keep your kingdom, that your son may inherit it.’

‘Madame,’ cried Jeanne vehemently, ‘if I at this moment held my son and the kingdoms of the world in my grasp, I would hurl them to the bottom of the sea rather than imperil the salvation of my soul.’

Catherine shrugged her shoulders. Very well. Let her go to the Inquisition. Let her save her immortal soul in the flames of the martyr’s death. Others had done it before her. And what was this concern for an immortal soul? Eternal power? So they thought. And Catherine’s goal was earthly power. Was one any more selfish than the other? Jeanne was ready to throw away her son’s inheritance for the sake of her immortal soul. Her own immortal soul. That was where they were weak, all of them. They were as concerned about themselves just as she was about herself, but whereas she wished nothing to stand in the way of her earthly power, they were determined to save their souls at all costs.

Fools … all of them! And Jeanne was a nuisance too, for she was obviously not going to help Catherine in the least.

‘Well,’ said Catherine gently, ‘you have my best wishes that you may recover from this unpleasant situation and regain your happiness. You know, my dear cousin, that you are close to me and that I regard my little Margot as pledged to your son Henry, and my son Henry to your little Catherine. That should make us close indeed.’

When Jeanne had gone, Catherine sat down and wrote to the King of Spain. She was very anxious to arrange two matches – one for her daughter Margot and the other for her son Henry. She must look to the future, and little Henry of Navarre’s hopes of inheriting the kingdom of Navarre were a little dim at the moment. Catherine wanted Philip’s son, Don Carlos, for Margot, and Philip’s elderly sister Juana, the widowed Queen of Portugal, for Henry.

She wrote ingratiatingly with the object of trying to assure that grimmest of men, her most Catholic son-in-law, that she was a good Catholic and that the interests of Spain were in truth those of France.

‘I wish God would take the Queen of Navarre,’ she wrote, ‘so that her husband might marry without delay.’

The King and Queen of Navarre were the talk of the court. There were open quarrels between them, and Jeanne did not now hesitate to hide her feelings. The King had tried to force the Queen to go to mass. He was by turns cold and quarrelsome, indifferent and abusive.

Louise de la Limaudière, who knew that if the King of Navarre were divorced he would remarry, and saw herself in the exalted position of his wife, gave herself airs.

She was every bit as important, she considered, as the Queen of Navarre. She herself might one day be Queen of Navarre – or Sardinia. The Queen Mother had promised her this reward for having – an unmarried woman of rank – borne the King’s bastard.

She grew haughty, and even impertinent, in the presence of the Queen of Navarre herself.

‘Why, Madame,’ she ventured when there were others present, ‘do you not follow the fashions of the court? A gown such as this would make you look less angular. And that colour does not become you. It makes you look drab, Madame, like a serving-girl rather than a Queen.’

Jeanne turned away; she would not lower her dignity by bandying words with such a woman. But Louise followed her, while all present looked on.

‘Believe me, Madame, I know what the King, who is at present your husband, likes in a woman. He has told me often that I possess those attributes.’

‘I am not interested in what my husband looks for in a woman,’ said Jeanne, ‘because, Mademoiselle, I am not interested in my husband, and certainly not in you.’

‘Oh, but, Madame, Antoine is such a wonderful lover. I am sure you do not bring out the best in him.’

‘He must have seemed so to you,’ retorted Jeanne, ‘since you besmirched still further for his sake your already foul reputation. Now you may leave me. I have more important matters with which to concern myself.’

‘Madame, I have the King’s son.’

‘You have his bastard, I believe. Mademoiselle, bastards are as common in this land as the harlots who produce them, so that one more or less makes little difference, I do assure you.’

Jeanne swept away, but she was furiously angry.

Antoine was waiting for her in her apartment.

He said coldly: ‘It is my wish that you should accompany me to mass.’

‘Your wishes, my lord, are no concern of mine,’ retorted Jeanne.

She was disturbed to see her son Henry sitting on the window-seat; the boy laid aside his book to watch this scene between his parents.

Antoine ignored the presence of the boy. He took Jeanne by the wrist. ‘You are coming to mass with me. You forget that I am your master.’

She wrenched herself free and laughed at him. ‘You … my master! Save such talk for Mademoiselle de la Limaudière. Pray remember who I am.’

‘You are my wife.’

‘It is indeed gracious of you to remember that. I meant, remember that you speak to the Queen of Navarre.’

‘Enough of this folly. You will come with me to mass … at once.’

‘I will not. I will never be present at the mass or any papist ceremony.’

Little Henry got slowly down from the window-seat and approached them. He said haughtily: ‘Sir, I beg you, leave my mother alone.’

Antoine turned on his son, and something in the boy’s dignity angered him because it made him feel small and despicable.

‘How dare you?’ he cried.

‘I dare,’ said Henry, looking, Jeanne thought, like his grandfather, that other Henry of Navarre, ‘because I will not have my mother roughly handled.’

Antoine seized the boy and flung him to the other side of the room. Henry saved himself by clutching at the hangings. He recovered himself with dignity. Then he shouted: ‘Nothing will induce me to go to mass either!’

Antoine strode over to him and took him by the ear. ‘You, my lord, will go whither you are commanded.’

‘Whither my mother commands,’ flashed Henry.

‘No, sir. Whither your father commands.’

‘I will not go to mass,’ reiterated Henry. ‘I am a Huguenot like my mother.’

Antoine gave the boy a violent slap across the face. Jeanne watched proudly, exulting at the way in which the boy stood there, legs apart, glowering at his father. ‘A true Béarnais!’ his grandfather would have said.

Antoine was by no means a violent man, and he was disliking this scene even as his son exulted in it; he therefore wished to end it as speedily as possible. He was fond of the boy; he was proud of him, for all that he was an unkempt little creature without a trace of elegance; his wits were admirably sharp and there was no doubt of his courage.

Antoine called for an attendant, and when a man appeared he cried: ‘Send my son’s tutor to me.’ And when the tutor came he ordered that young Henry should be severely whipped for his impertinence.

Henry left the room chanting: ‘I will not go to mass. I will not go to mass.’ His black eyes were alight with excitement, fervour and love for his mother.

The door shut behind the boy and his tutor.

‘A pretty scene,’ said Jeanne, ‘and you, my lord, played the pretty part in it that I would expect of you. My son put you to shame, and I can see that you had enough grace to feel it. What a pity Mademoiselle de la Limaudière could not have been here as witness! I doubt whether her bastard will have the spirit of that boy.’

‘Be silent!’ commanded Antoine.

‘I will speak when I wish to.’

‘You are a fool, Jeanne.’

‘And you are a knave.’

‘If you do not become a Catholic immediately, I will divorce you.’

‘How can you do that, my lord?’

‘The Pope has promised it. He would not have me tied to a heretic.’

‘Divorce me and forgo my crown? That would not suit you, Monsieur.’

‘The crown would be mine if I were to divorce you.’

‘How could that be? My father left it to me.’

‘Part of Navarre was lost to Spain, and the whole of Navarre might be restored to me. Spain does not like heretics, even though they be queens. Spain would like to see me with a wife of my own faith.’

‘Mademoiselle de la Limaudière?’ she asked, but she had begun to tremble, thinking of that bold high-spirited boy who might grow up to find that, through his father’s knavery, he had no kingdom.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Antoine.

‘It is you who are the fool. Do you not see that these people plot against you as well as against me? They plan your degradation as well as mine. Sardinia! That barren island. And they made you believe it was a paradise.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Antoine,’ she said, ‘I think of our children. What will become of them? Your repudiation of me, I can see, will destroy me, but it will also be the ruin of our children.’

And then she did what he had rarely seen her do; she broke down and wept; and once the tears had started she could not stop them. Her tears moved him. He remembered all that she had been to him. Poor Jeanne! That this should have happened to them seemed incredible. It had come about so gradually that he had not noticed its creeping upon them. He thought of all the happiness they had shared, the days when she had been in camp with him, his return to her after the wars. He wavered, as he always wavered. He was not sure, even at this late hour, whether he should give up Jeanne or La Belle Rouet, not sure whether he would go on with his conversion or turn back to the Reformed Faith. He was beset by doubts, as he always was. He could never be sure which was the right road for him.

‘Jeanne,’ he said, ‘you had best make this step unnecessary by obeying me and making your peace with Rome and Spain. As for myself, I am undecided which religion is the true one. It is simply this, Jeanne – that while my uncertainty lasts, I am minded to follow the faith of my fathers.’

She laughed with great bitterness. ‘Well,’ she cried, ‘if your doubts on either side are equal, I beg of you to choose the religion which is likely to do you least prejudice.’

She had laughed at him; once more she had mocked. Antoine hardened and swung away from her. It had always been thus. She had never made things easy for him; she would not meet him halfway.

He remembered once more that she stood in his way to greatness.

Catherine was terrified. She felt that her first real adventure into foreign policy might cost her her life. She was exposed now, whereas previously she had worked in the dark. She was surrounded by powerful enemies; spies from Rome and Spain. The Guises were against her; the Catholics suspected her of being in league with the Huguenots, and the Huguenots did not trust her. She had tried to follow the teachings of Machiavelli, but she had not succeeded. The serpent was in the open, uncoiled for all to see, and, realising the poison she carried in her fangs, both sides were ready to crush that cold, inhuman head.

The King of Navarre had joined the Catholic Triumvirate which had been set up to deal with the Huguenot menace; and he had walked through Paris at the head of the Catholic procession and attended mass in public at the Church of St. Geneviève. This meant that he was now openly pledged to the Catholic religion.

Catherine knew that Jeanne was in imminent danger. But what of herself? There were religious riots all over the country. Huguenots were despoiling Catholic churches, breaking up images, setting fire to altars, killing Catholics wherever they could. Catholics retaliated fiercely, surprising congregations and butchering them as they kneeled at prayer, setting fire to Huguenot meeting-places. A mother bringing a child from a christening which had been carried out in the Reformed manner was set upon and her child killed before her eyes. The Council of Poissy, which was to have bred toleration, seemed to have made matters worse. There was dissension everywhere, and the hatred between the Catholics and Protestants was rising to a frenzy all over the country. In Paris – always staunchly Catholic – the Huguenots were persecuted at every turn; but there were towns, such as La Rochelle, where the Protestants were in the majority, and here atrocities were committed against men, women and children in the name of the Reformed Faith.

Catherine listened to the council of the Triumvirate through a tube which hung behind the arras in the council chamber at the Louvre and led into her own apartments.

In clear tones, Francis of Guise said: ‘The Queen Mother’s interference in matters of state becomes intolerable. It is my suggestion that we get rid of her.’

Listening with horror, Catherine strained to hear everything. She thought of those four men who made up the Triumvirate, now incorrectly named, since Antoine had joined it and made it a council of four. There were the Guise brothers – the Duke and the Cardinal – the Maréchal de Saint-André and Antoine.

‘Exclude her from the Regency!’ she heard Antoine cry.

Saint-André said: ‘Why not rid ourselves of her by drowning her in the Seine? It could easily be accomplished without discovery, for I fancy there is no person in France who would take the trouble to investigate the lady’s disappearance.’

Catherine listened to no more. She did not realise that what had been said about throwing her into the Seine had been said jocularly. Had she been in the place of these men, she would have chosen an early opportunity of disposing of an enemy; she imagined that they were prepared to do the same.

She lost no more time, but went to the King’s apartment and told him that they must leave for Fontainebleau at once; and this they did, galloping off in secret that night.

Meanwhile, the Council had stopped talking about the Queen Mother, to discuss what they considered a more serious matter, that of Jeanne of Navarre.

‘There is only one course open to us,’ said Francis of Guise. ‘She must be arrested as a state prisoner at the earliest possible moment.’

Listening to this, Antoine turned pale. Jeanne … a state prisoner, confined to one of the dungeons! Proud Jeanne! And what then? Turned over to Spain, to the dreaded Inquisition. Torture … the terrible torture of the Spanish Inquisition. He could imagine Jeanne as she faced the Inquisitors. She would never give way. She would suffer the rack, the water torture, any vileness they could think of. They could tear her flesh with red-hot pincers and pour molten lead into her wounds, but she would never give way.

The Cardinal of Lorraine had laid his hand on Antoine’s shoulder. ‘It sometimes happens,’ said the smooth voice of the Cardinal, ‘that it becomes necessary, for the sake of true religion, to act in a manner which is repulsive to us.’

Antoine bowed his head. He tried to shut out the picture of a martyred Jeanne. He tried to see himself received triumphantly into Heaven. There would be a good place for him, an honoured place, for he had embraced the true faith, and all would be forgiven once a straying sheep had returned to the fold.

‘Then we are all agreed that a warrant must be issued for the arrest of Jeanne of Navarre,’ said the Duke of Guise.

Antoine did not speak, and his silence was taken as agreement.

‘On a charge of heresy,’ added the Cardinal. He then embraced Antoine. ‘This, Monseigneur, is an act worthy of you,’ he declared. ‘May God give you a good and long life.’

‘So be it!’ said the Duke.

The session was at an end.

Antoine left the council chamber, trying to reassure himself; that was not easy, for he felt like Judas.

It was not long before Jeanne heard that a warrant was being issued for her arrest, for she had many friends at court. Overcome by this fresh evidence of the perfidy of the man she loved – for she knew that such an order would come through the Triumvirate, of which Antoine was now a member – Jeanne was glad that there was need for immediate action which would prevent her brooding.

‘Fly at once,’ she was warned, ‘for there is not an hour to be lost. You will not be safe until you are in your own dominions. And if you are caught – apart from all the horrors which would await you – what a blow this would be to the Huguenot cause!’

She realised the truth of this and, taking her little four-year-old daughter, set out at once with her attendants.

Since that occasion when her son Henry had defended her against his father, the boy had been taken from her and kept in his father’s apartments at Saint-Germain; and as she could not go without Henry, she must journey first to Saint-Germain to see him and, if possible, to take him away with her.

As she rode there her thoughts were bitter. Not content with taking her son from her, Antoine had been callous enough to put him in the care of Vincent Lauro, the Jesuit. Her enemies were determined to rob her of her son as well as her husband.

Her friends had warned her that it was folly to think of calling at Saint-Germain, for she would not be allowed to take the boy; she could depend upon it that he was well guarded, and she would merely imperil her own safety. But Jeanne would not listen. She must see Henry. She must – even if she could not take him with her – have a few words with him, to remind him of his obligations to her and to his faith.

She forced her way to him past his new tutors and the attendants, who were really guards. The little boy ran to her and embraced her warmly.

‘Oh, my mother, have you come to take me home to Béarn?’

Antoine, who had immediately been warned of her coming, burst into the apartment; he stood, his arms folded, while he surveyed his wife with cold dislike, his son with sternness.

‘You must stay here with me,’ said Antoine, answering the boy’s question. ‘I am your father and you are under my control.’

‘But I wish to go with my mother!’ cried the bold little boy.

‘Try to be sensible,’ said Antoine. ‘I do not wish to have you punished more than you have been already.’

‘Mother, must I stay?’

She nodded, for she knew that guards were in the palace and she could not risk any injury to her son. He was bold and he would, she knew, try to fight them; but he would obey his mother.

‘I fear so.’ She held him against her breast. ‘Henry, my dearest son.’

‘Oh, Mother … dearest Mother.’

She whispered to him: ‘Never forget my counsels, darling. Be true to me always and true to the faith.’

He whispered back: ‘Mother, I will. I swear it.’

‘Soon all will be well and we shall be together.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘But just for a little while we must be separated.’

He nodded.

‘Darling son, never attend mass. No matter what they do … always refuse. If you did not refuse, you could not be my son.’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘Then you will be true and strong, my dearest boy?’

‘Yes, Mother, I will be true and strong. I am a Huguenot. I will never forget it, no matter what they do to me. I will never forget you and that one day I shall be with you.’

It was so sad to leave him. Again and again they kissed each other. Antoine watched them with some emotion. He had no wish to hurt either of them. He did not forget for a moment his relationship to them both. This was all Jeanne’s fault. Why could she not become a good Catholic and set everything to rights?

He rang for the boy’s tutor, and Henry, now weeping bitterly, was led away.

Antoine then spoke to Jeanne: ‘Do not waste more time here, I beg of you. They are about to arrest you. Fly, I implore you. I beg of you. Your safest way is to make for Béarn via Vendôme. You can rest awhile at my château at Vendôme … but do not stay too long. It is your only hope of safety.’

Jeanne stared at him in amazement. ‘But you are on their side. Should you not detain me … arrest me?’

‘Go!’ cried Antoine. ‘Go before you drive me to it … as you have driven me to so much. Your sharp tongue is intolerable. Do not let it drive me to this.’

She said: ‘Poor Antoine! That is your great failing. You are never able to make up your mind whose side you are on.’

She took a last look at him, so elegant, so glittering in his fashionable garments. What bitterness was hers that she should still love him … even now that he had betrayed her!

She hurried away from Saint-Germain, and at the Paris hotel in which she stayed the night while preparations for her flight went on, the Huguenots gathered under her window, so that those who had been sent to arrest her dared do nothing, with the result that she was able to leave the capital.

But it was not intended that she should reach safety. The Guises, noting the hesitancy of Antoine, suggested that he should be the one to give orders to the citizens of Vendôme to arrest Jeanne when she arrived in their town, for it had not taken them long to draw from him the fact that Jeanne had arranged to call at his château in that town before making the rigorous journey south.

After many days of hardship, tired out with the journey, Jeanne came to Vendôme. In the great château which had belonged to her husband’s ancestors, she rested and made plans for continuing the journey as soon as possible.

Her little daughter Catherine was a great comfort to her. The child was only four years of age, but old for her years, able to understand that her mother was unhappy and to try to comfort her. Jeanne felt that if only she could have had young Henry with her, she would not have cared very much about anything else. How could she go on loving a husband who had so betrayed her? This was not just a momentary infidelity with La Belle Rouet, not just a passing love affair. That she supposed she could, in time, have forgiven. But that he could make himself a party to this plan to destroy her, to take her kingdom, and worse still subject her to the possibility of an agonising death, seemed to her so wantonly cruel that she would always remember this against him.

It was while she was resting in her bed with her daughter beside her that one of her attendants asked for a word with her. He was admitted to her presence – a hardy Gascon, a faithful Huguenot, ready to defend her with his sword against any number of the enemy.

He showed great agitation and without formality addressed her. ‘Madame, forgive the intrusion, but we are in acute danger. We have walked into a trap. The King of Navarre has given orders to the citizens that we are not to leave the town, but are to be held captive until forces arrive to take us back to Paris.’

Jeanne closed her eyes. Here was the final betrayal. The trap had been set by the man she had loved, and she had walked blindly into it – perhaps because at that last interview at Saint-Germain she had believed there was still some good in him, that he really meant to help her escape from his friends.

But the truth was that he had lacked the courage to detain her then; he had hesitated once more – and as soon as she was out of his sight, he had given himself wholeheartedly to the plan to destroy her.

‘What are your orders, Madame?’ asked the Gascon.

She shook her head. ‘We can do nothing but wait.’

‘The streets are full of guards, Madame. But we could mayhap fight our way through.’

‘We are not prepared to fight guards. All my followers would be cut to pieces in ten minutes.’

‘But, Madame, shall we be taken without a blow?’

‘They will take me,’ she said. ‘The rest of you will doubtless go free. Take my daughter back to Béarn if that be possible.’

‘Mother, I wish to go with you,’ said little Catherine. ‘I wish to face the Inquisition if you do.’

Jeanne embraced her daughter. Sweet Catherine! What did she know of the torture chambers, of the horrors inflicted by the Catholic Inquisition on those whom they considered to be heretics? What did she know of the chevalet and the autos-dafé, of agony and death, the cries of men and women in torment, the odour of burning flesh?

‘That,’ said Jeanne firmly, ‘you shall never do, my love.’ She turned to the Gascon. ‘Stand on guard. Forget not my instructions, and remember … my daughter.’

He bowed in obedience, but his eyes were fierce. He wanted to fight for his Queen.

All through the long hours of the night, Jeanne lay awake, waiting for the sound of marching feet, the shouts of the troops who would come to storm the château and take her prisoner. They would be her husband’s men, she did not doubt; the Guises and de Chantonnay would wish it to be her husband’s guards who put the chains upon her and carried her on the first stage of her journey to the stake.

Her daughter had fallen asleep beside her. Jeanne kissed her tenderly. She was so young to be left; she was only four years old. So it was only four years then since she and Antoine had been so happy together over the birth of their child.

And, during that long night, she suddenly became aware of strange noises in the town. She went to her window; the sky was beginning to be red, not with the streaks of dawn but with the reflection of fire. She could smell the smoke; and as she stood there, apprehensively peering out into the gloom, she heard the shouts of men.

She dressed in great haste and, before she had completed this, her Gascon was at her door.

‘Madame,’ he cried, ‘the town is being looted. A band of mercenaries has come into it. The news has just been brought to the château by one who wishes you well. The townsfolk are busy protecting their lives and their property. Now is the time for us to slip away unnoticed … for no one will care now whether we go or stay. But there is not a moment to lose …’

Jeanne was exultant. All her old energy came back to her.

‘Our prayers are answered,’ she cried. ‘Come, we must leave here as fast as we can. We must thank God … but later. Now, there is no time to think of thanksgiving. First we must be sure that we make the most of this heaven-sent opportunity. We must slip quietly out of Vendôme before the dawn …’

She turned to her daughter. ‘Catherine, wake up, my darling. We are going now.’

‘To the Inquisition?’ asked Catherine sleepily. ‘No, my love, to freedom.’

Riding south from Vendôme, Jeanne’s party were saying that what they had just witnessed was a miracle. God had sent the band of looting mercenaries to Vendôme that the Queen might make her escape. Jeanne smiled tranquilly. She guessed that the Prince of Condé had been warned of her danger, for those mercenaries were Huguenot mercenaries, and their orders had evidently been: ‘Occupy Vendôme. Create a diversion all through the night, and keep it up until the Queen of Navarre is too far for pursuit.’

Bravo Condé! He was as wayward as his brother, but he was true to the cause which he believed to be right. She must thank God for her brother-in-law while she wept bitter tears for her husband.

Farther south they went, at the end of each day tired out with hours of riding, each night sleeping deeply from exhaustion; and then on again towards that border which they must cross before they reached safety.

When they reached the town of Caumont it was to discover that the Catholic army under Montluc was only a few miles in their rear. The long and tedious journey, made in such trying circumstances, resting at castles where Jeanne believed she had friends – and how could she trust any, now that he whom she had thought she might trust above all others had failed her? – all this had taxed her strength and she was suffering acutely, not only from physical but from mental exhaustion.

But she must push on without delay, and this she did, reaching her frontiers with only an hour or so to spare; but there she had the joy of finding her loyal subjects assembled in full force to receive and protect her.

The flight was over, and Jeanne had won. Yet, thinking of all she had left behind – the husband to whom she was trying in vain to be indifferent, the son whom she adored – it was an empty, bitter triumph.