The Italian Woman

CHAPTER III

Catherine was filled with rage and terror. Francis of Guise, with the King of Navarre and the Maréchal de Saint-André, had come to Fontainebleau and compelled her and the King to return to Paris, whence they had then been removed to Melun; and, although they were treated according to their rank, it was made clear that they would not be allowed to leave Melun unescorted.

Catherine was exposed in all her dissembling. The student of Machiavelli was unmasked. Letters which she had sent to Condé had been captured and read by the last people who should have seen them, for in these letters Catherine had explained how intolerable was her position and that of little King Charles under the Triumvirate, and begged Condé to rescue her. She had promised him support and, taking her at her word, Condé had plunged the country into civil war – a civil war which, the Duke of Guise continually pointed out to Catherine, had been set in motion by her own duplicity.

He declared that she was no true Catholic. On the one hand she had conspired with them so that Antoine de Bourbon might be turned from the Reformed Faith; on the other hand she was at the same time plotting with Condé, and it was she who had encouraged the Huguenots to such an extent that they had resorted to war.

The Huguenots on their part declared that she had cheated them, that she was a deceitful and cunning woman; and that all the time she was speaking sweet words to them she was plotting against them with the Catholic King of Spain.

In vain did Catherine try to justify herself in the eyes of the Duke and the Cardinal, Antoine and the Spanish Ambassador. Those letters to Condé were not what they would seem, she assured them; they had been written in code. Oh, she admitted that they appeared to contain promises of help, but they were meant to convey something quite different. She became a little coy in her explanations. She had to admit that she cherished a fondness for the gallant little Prince of Condé.

The cold eyes of the Duke were murderous; the thin lips of the Cardinal curled; the Spanish Ambassador did not mince his words and was quite abusive, which alarmed her greatly, for this showed that he no longer considered her of any great importance.

Rumour was now circulating about her and Condé. People said that she was madly in love with him, and that she longed to marry him and make him the King of France at the expense of her children.

Catherine wondered at herself. She had been very reckless in her behaviour to this man, and that was unusual in her. But now that she saw herself and her children in great danger, she had no wish but to see Condé destroyed, with the Guises, Antoine and the rest. What a weak fool she had been to have felt the attractions of the gallant Prince in the first place! What was the excitement of love compared with that which came through wrestling for power?

She waited in terror for some dreadful fate to overtake her. The man who frightened her more than any other was the Duke of Guise. He could not be allowed to live. When Francis had been on the throne he had been the most important man in France, and he was rapidly regaining that position. But how difficult it would be to accomplish his death! It must be done, but not by poison. People would point to her at once if the Duke died of poison; they would whisper about the Italian woman and her poison closet. He must die, though. He was her bitterest enemy, and he now realised that he was not dealing with a weak woman, but a cunning one, whose sly twists and turns were unpredictable.

Meanwhile, the civil war was raging and Condé was triumphant. Orléans, Blois, Tours, Lyons, Valence, Rouen, and many other towns were in his possession. The Kingdom was split in two. The Catholics, in increasing alarm, sent appeals to the King of Spain.

What security was there for Catherine and her children? Neither Huguenot nor Catholic trusted her. She was hated now throughout the country as she had been at the time of the death of Dauphin Francis. She had been unfortunate, she assured herself. She did not realise that she had been cunning rather than clever, that she had misjudged those about her because she judged them by herself.

All over the country the Huguenots were gaining power. They marched on, singing their favourite song, which poked fun at Antoine de Bourbon, who had so recently been one of their leaders:

‘Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette …’

They despised Antoine, the turn-coat; they distrusted the Queen Mother. But while they mocked the one, they hated the other.

Outside the city of Rouen, Antoine of Navarre lay sick. He had been severely wounded in the battle for the city. For several weeks the Huguenots had held Rouen against the Catholic army which Antoine led. Even now while he lay on his bed in camp, he could hear the sound of singing inside the city’s walls:

‘Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette …’

They despised him; even though they knew he was outside their walls with a mighty army, they made fun of him. Antoine de Bourbon, L’Échangeur, the little quail who changed his coat to suit himself.

Antoine felt low in spirit. The pain from his wounds was intense; he lay tossing and turning. His surgeons were with him, one on either side of the bed, and he realised with a sudden flash of humour that it was characteristic of L’Échangeur that one of these was a Jesuit, the other a Huguenot.

Was this death? he wondered. Memories of the past would keep recurring. At times he wandered a little. Sometimes he thought the warm winds of Béarn blew upon him and that Jeanne was there, as she had been in the first days of their marriage, discussing with him some domestic detail.

There was a woman in the camp with him, a woman who had followed him and who was nursing him devotedly. She was at his side now, holding wine to his lips. He could smell the perfume she used; he was aware of her soft, yielding body under her rich brocade dress – La Belle Rouet. He took her hand and kissed it. She had really loved him after all; it was not because he was a King that she had borne his child. Why had Jeanne not come to see him when he was wounded? It was her duty to have come.

The sweat stood out on his face – the sweat of anger against Jeanne; tears filled his eyes because he had failed, had been unable to live up to the high ideal she had set before him.

The last time he had seen his wife was when at Saint-Germain she had come to see their boy. He had been on the point then – though she did not know it – of throwing away all that was promised him by the Spanish King, of giving up his place in the Triumvirate. Yes, he assured himself weakly, he had all but fled with Jeanne to Béarn. But then he had changed his mind – which was what must be expected of L’Échangeur; he had given orders that she should be detained in Vendôme.

She had defied him, he reminded himself. She had gone back to Béarn and had set about bolstering up the Reformed Faith there. She had sent help to Condé’s troops. Ah, his brother! What did his brother think of him now? Dearest Louis – they had been close. But religion, as so often happened, had broken the bonds of brotherhood, and they were fighting against each other now.

That was a mean revenge he had taken on Jeanne when little Henry had lain at the point of death at Saint-Germain. Louise had been taking care of the boy at that time. The little fellow had a very bad attack of the smallpox and when Jeanne had heard the news she had been frantic in her anxiety. She had begged Antoine and the Queen Mother to let her have her son with her. But Catherine had refused. She had said: ‘It is the only hold we have over the boy’s mother.’ But Catherine had allowed the child to be sent to the Duchess of Ferrara to be cared for, and that was all the satisfaction Jeanne received. Yet, had he insisted, he could have come to some terms with the Queen Mother; he could have arranged for the boy to be sent to his mother. There had been occasions when he had meant to, but when the Queen Mother had stated her wishes it had been easier to fall in with them.

Tears stung his eyes. He was depressed; he was in pain. His physicians told him that he was not mortally wounded. He would see the entry into Rouen.

‘Louise!’ he called; and she came to his side at once. ‘Let us have gaiety, music, dancing – or I shall go mad.’

She was glad to see the change in his mood. She called in the gayest of the men and women who had followed his army – his court friends. Louise lay on his bed beside him and put her arms about him. There was music and dancing and the latest court scandals were retold. He felt wretchedly ill, but with such distraction he could deceive himself into thinking that he was as much alive as any.

His physicians reasoned with him:

‘Monseigneur, you need rest. The wounds must be allowed to heal.’

‘Rest!’ he cried. ‘I don’t want rest. Rest makes me think, and I do not want to think. I want to hear laughter and wit. I want to see my friends dance. I want to hear their songs. Be silent, or I’ll have your tongues cut out. Let me live my life as I want to.’

So the distractions continued. He kept La Belle Rouet with him. ‘Why not?’ he cried. ‘My wife does not come to see me. A man must live. A man must love.’

‘Nay, Monseigneur,’ begged his doctors. ‘Your state does not permit you.’

‘To the devil with you!’ cried Antoine. ‘I’ll find my own diversions.’

His army took Rouen. He declared his intention to be carried into the city on a litter, and he wanted Louise carried with him. He wanted to see the fun; he wanted to ask the Huguenots if they would sing Caillette now!

He was laid on his litter, but he did not see the inside of the town, for he fell into a deep fainting fit before he reached its walls.

When he recovered he found that he was back in camp.

Lauro bent his head down to him. ‘Monseigneur, your Majesty must prepare to meet your God.’

‘Is it so, then?’ said Antoine; and he began to tremble as the memory of his weakness came back to him. He wished the tent to be cleared of all but the doctors, the prelate and his mistress.

He opened his eyes and looked in bewilderment from one face to another. ‘I … I …’ He found it difficult to speak. ‘I … I am a Catholic by profession, but, now that my end is near …’

It seemed to him that Jeanne’s steadfast brown eyes were watching him, that she was smiling at him now. It was not my fault, Jeanne, he thought. I loved you. In the beginning, I did. If we had been humble people … if we could have lived there in Béarn … farming our land together, planting our mulberries, watching them grow, we should have been happy. I should have been the gay one; you the sober wife. You would have kept me beside you. But you were a Queen and you made me a King. The position was too tempting for me. I became greedy for more power. I did not know what I wanted. One moment I was sure, the next I was unsure.

At length he spoke: ‘Now that my end is near, my heart returns to the Protestant Faith.’

‘Repent,’ he was urged. ‘Think of your sins, Monseigneur. Repent that you may enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.’

He looked at the man who had spoken, and recognised him. ‘Ah, Raphael,’ he said slowly. ‘You have served me for twenty years, and this is the only time that you have ever warned me of my miserable mistakes.’

Then he began to think of his sins, to enumerate them, and to ask God for forgiveness.

‘Oh, Lord,’ he prayed, ‘if I recover, I will send forth Lutheran missionaries to preach the gospel throughout France.’

He heard someone whisper: ‘It is too late to talk thus.’

Ah yes. He understood. It was too late.

‘Jeanne,’ he moaned, ‘why did you not come? You should have made the journey that you might be with me.’

He did not die at once. His brother, the Cardinal of Bourbon, came to him, and Antoine begged him to ask forgiveness for him of that other brother, Louis, the Prince of Condé, whom he had loved so dearly before religion had come between them.

‘I will die a Huguenot!’ cried Antoine, thinking of Louis and of Jeanne. ‘It matters not whether people believe me to be sincere. I am resolved to die in accordance with the Confession of Luther.’

It was decided that he must be moved to more comfortable quarters, and one misty November day he was taken on to a boat and rowed down the Seine towards Saint-Maur. This was not wise, for the rocking of the boat was very painful to him, and when they carried him ashore he knew that his last moments had come.

The Guises had sent a monk to pray for him and, too weak to resist, Antoine listened to his prayers; and when they were over he murmured: ‘Amen.’

Because of this the Guises said he died a Catholic, and if he had declared himself a Huguenot when he was dying, well, that was only to be expected of L’Échangeur.

In her stronghold of Béarn, Jeanne received the news.

She stared stonily before her. It is nothing to me, she assured herself. I had finished with him. I hated him … at our last meeting, if not before. When he refused to let me have my son, I knew I could never feel any tenderness towards him again.

Nevertheless, it was not Antoine the turn-coat, the unfaithful husband, the cruel father, of whom she must think, but Antoine the gay Prince at the christening of King Francis, Antoine the lover in a silver galleon triumphantly seizing his love. It was Antoine, lover and husband, whom she must remember.

And the tears rolled down the cheeks of the widow of the King of Navarre.

Catherine was in residence at her favourite Castle of Blois. Life was a little more secure than it had been a few months ago. The towns which had been taken by the Huguenots were being slowly won back; she herself was no longer a prisoner of the Guises; for she had been their prisoner; she knew it and they knew it, although they had tried so hard to disguise this fact.

Now she had lulled them to a certain feeling of security, and she must keep them thus. She must act with greater caution. She had learned an important lesson, and as she had been learning through bitter lessons all her life, she was not likely to forget this one.

She was glad that Francis of Guise was busily engaged in warfare. She was happier with that man out of the way. At the moment he was fighting for Orléans. Who knew what would happen to him! France’s greatest soldier, yes; but Catherine’s greatest enemy.

Catherine’s thoughts turned from the Duke of Guise to her son Charles, the King,

Charles was growing up. He was only thirteen, it was true, but thirteen was a considerable age for a Valois King. They would have to marry him soon. Catherine smiled grimly. The boy still thought he was going to have Mary of Scotland. But perhaps his memories of her were growing dim by now. He was changing. One expected him to change. He could not remain static. He had to grow up. He was a strange boy, with many sides to his personality. There was a streak – more than a streak – of madness in him and it was widening as the years passed, the unbalanced fits were growing more frequent.

Yet he was clever. He could, at times, be eloquent, but he was too easily moved. She had seen his face work with emotion during a sermon or the reading of a poem which he thought particularly beautiful; she had seen his mouth twitch – though not with madness – and tears stream from his eyes. He himself wrote poetry, and he was modest enough to declare it to be worthless. Ronsard was one of his constant companions. He struck up friendships with his musicians – humble folk like that boy servant of the Duke of Bavaria, just a musician who had a gift for playing the lute; and the King of France would take him for his boon companion. Nor would the King be denied his pleasures; his brow would darken and he would frown, even at his mother, if called from his music and his poetry-reading. He would sit till long past midnight with the writers and musicians, and at such times he would be very happy. Then there would be no madness, only an aloof enchantment. Catherine would look in on him and his friends and find them all together, talking in low, earnest voices while the candles burned low; and he would turn to look at the intruder without seeing her, even though she was his mother, of whom, on all other occasions, he was deeply aware.

His tutors could do nothing with him at such times.

And then that mood would pass and he would be touched with black melancholy. Sometimes he would stay in his bed all day, and this was a sure sign that the madness was on him. Perhaps at midnight, he would be seized with a wild mood of hilarity, and he would awaken his friends – a different set of friends from the poets – and insist that they follow him; he would make them put on masks and carry lighted torches. It was alarming to see him at such times, his eyes glinting through his mask, his mouth working, the madness on him, the lust for violence. He and his friends would creep out of the palace and go to the apartments of one of their friends, whom they would thrash into unconsciousness. This was hardly a suitable pastime for the thirteen-year-old King of France, thought Catherine.

If there was not a flagellating party, he would hunt with such recklessness that none could keep up with him; he would thrash his horses and dogs with the energy which he used on his friends. A more harmless madness was that of imitating a blacksmith and hammering iron until he was exhausted.

Then he would return to normal; he would be gentle, loving, pliable; and it would invariably seem that when he had recovered he would have little remembrance of those terrifying bouts.

What should one do with such a son? Catherine did not have to wonder. She knew. She did not wish Charles to remain on the throne when Henry was ready to take it. Therefore she could look complacently on these fits of madness. Soon the periods of gentleness would grow less; and later they would disappear altogether. And then what would Charles the Ninth of France become? A maniac! Maniacs must be put away; they could not be allowed to breed sons. So much the better, since there was another waiting to take the throne of France.

Charles showed few signs of sexual perversion, in spite of his tutors. He was not voluptuous, nor inclined to amorousness. He was not like Margot – that minx who must be very closely watched – or young Henry of Guise, or that rough little Henry of Navarre. Those three would be lusty and lustful before long. No! He was not as they were; nor was he as his brother Henry. His passion for Mary of Scotland showed a lamentable normality in such matters; and it seemed that even expert tuition in perversion could not achieve the desired result.

Never mind! Charles was growing more and more unbalanced, and each fit of insanity left him weaker, not only in mind but in body.

Her thoughts of the King were broken up by the arrival of a messenger. She saw him ride into the courtyard, for the clatter of hoofs had brought her quickly to the window.

Something was afoot. Guise had taken Orléans. That must be the case, for those were the Guise colours down there. Well, she would feign great rejoicing, for it was very necessary that the Catholics should believe her to be of their faith. She must win back their respect, their belief in her as a good Catholic.

She went down to greet the messenger, but his face was grave; he had no news of victory, that was certain.

‘What news?’ asked Catherine.

‘Terrible news, Madame,’ cried the messenger. ‘It is my lord Duke. He has been shot. He lies near to death.’

Margot was there beside her mother. The child had no restraint. She ran to the messenger, plucking at his sleeve. ‘He is not dead! He must not die. Henry could not bear it if he died. Oh, Madame, my mother, we must send … send surgeons … we must send …’

‘Be quiet!’ said Catherine; and Margot even forgot her anxiety for the father of the boy she loved in her sudden fear of her mother.

‘Tell me everything,’ said Catherine.

‘Madame, my lord Duke was making a tour of inspection before riding back to the castle and his lady wife. He had taken off his armour, for the battle was over. And then, from behind a hedge, there was a shot. My lord fell to the ground senseless. We got him to the castle, but he bleeds … he bleeds terribly, Madame.’

‘We must send surgeons!’ cried Margot. ‘At once. Oh, at once. There must be no delay.’

‘And,’ said Catherine, ‘they have caught the assassin?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Poltrot de Méray.’

‘All that matters,’ cried Margot, ‘is that we must be in time to save the Duke …’

‘I will send surgeons at once,’ said Catherine. ‘Go back and tell the Duchess that help is on the way. I shall send my best surgeons to save the Duke.’

Margot hung on her mother’s arm. ‘Oh, thank you … thank you. We must save the Duke.’

Catherine gripped her daughter’s arm so tightly that Margot wanted to scream. But she knew better than to do that. She allowed herself to be led away.

Catherine took her up to her apartment and locked her in an ante-room. Margot lay sobbing. Henry’s father was hurt, perhaps dying. She was terrified of her mother, for, having shown her feelings in a way which she knew her mother would consider tasteless, she knew she was going to be severely punished. But for the moment she could think of no one but Henry, whom she loved more than anyone on Earth, of his devotion to his father, of the terrible grief he would suffer if the Duke were to die.

Catherine was talking to her surgeon, talking quietly through half-closed lips. He knew what she wished in regard to the Duke. He was to go and serve him as he knew his mistress would serve that great fighter, if she had his skill and could go in his place.

The man bowed and retired, and very soon he was riding with all speed to Orléans.

Catherine went to her daughter and herself administered the beating.

‘Ten years old!’ she said. ‘And behaving like an ill-bred peasant.’

Margot dared not evade her mother’s blows as she did those of others. She lay, accepting them, her body flinching from them, but her mind unaware of them almost, as she prayed silently: ‘Holy Mother, do not let Henry’s father die. You could not let Henry be hurt like that. The Duke is not only Henry’s father; he is the greatest man in France. Holy Mother, save him.’

Catherine prayed neither to God nor the Virgin. But she too was thinking of the Duke; she was thinking of the handsome, scarred face, distorted with pain, the agony of death in those haughty eyes, the eyes of the man whom she had come to regard as her greatest enemy.

Riding beside the handsome young boy who was now the head of the House of Lorraine, Margot was weeping silently.

He was so handsome, this Henry of Guise, with his fair curly hair, which seemed such a contrast with his manly face and his well-proportioned figure. Already he showed signs of the man he would become. Margot wanted to comfort him, to tell him that his grief was her grief, and that it would always be so.

‘Talk of it, Henry,’ she said. ‘Talk of it, my dearest. To talk of it will help you.’

‘Why should it have happened to him?’ demanded Henry. ‘Because of treachery, I tell you. I will not rest until I see his murderer dead at my feet.’

‘His murderer has died a horrible death, Henry. He has suffered torture. There is comfort in knowing that the man who killed Le Balafré lies dead and useless now.’

‘My father has not been avenged as I would have it,’ cried Henry angrily. ‘That miserable, low-born creature was the tool of others. I do not consider that my father has been avenged. You know what he said at the torture. You know whom he accused?’

‘Coligny,’ said Margot, her eyes flashing. ‘Coligny … the pious … the good man! That is he whom Poltrot de Méray accused.’

‘And that villain, that scoundrel, is the murderer of my father. De Méray said Coligny paid him money to murder my father. That is good enough for me.’

Margot said: ‘But Coligny has told my mother that it was to buy a horse that he gave the man money, and that it had nothing to do with murdering the Duke.’

Henry dug his spurs into his horse and galloped ahead, that Margot might not see the tears in his eyes. He would never forget how they had carried in his father, his great father, his noble father whom he loved to idolatry. Henry could not bear to think of that once arrogant figure stretched out on a litter, bleeding, unable to speak clearly. Henry had vowed there and then: ‘I will not rest content until I see his murderer dead before me. This I will work for. This I will achieve, and until I have achieved it, I will despise myself.’ It was a vow; a dedication. And who was his enemy? He might have known. He might have guessed. It was none other than Gaspard de Coligny, the virtuous man, the man who gave Poltrot de Méray money to buy a horse, so he said – not to bring about the assassination of Francis Duke of Guise.

His wily uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, had talked to him very seriously. ‘Henry, my nephew, remember what this means to you … to our house. You are its head. You are vehement; you are young and rash. Gaspard de Coligny is the greatest enemy of our house. He is the leader of the heretics. Henry, my dear nephew, we must protect our Faith; we must protect our house. One day, who knows, it may be a Prince of Lorraine who sits on the throne of France. How do we know, Henry, whether that might not be you, my nephew? Your father was a great man; he was strong and brave; he was the greatest man in France. Shall I tell you why? It was because he was possessed of rare calm, of great discretion; he knew when to act and – what was more important – he knew when not to act. You must walk in his footsteps. You must imitate your father in all you do. And then, nephew, who knows? Valois? Bourbon?’ The Cardinal laughed. ‘Dear nephew, I wonder whether your opinion of these Princes is the same as mine.’

‘My uncle,’ young Henry had said, ‘you are right; but I have one wish, and that is to avenge my father.’

‘You will avenge him best by doing what he would want you to do. Rest assured that when the time comes we shall not spare the assassin of your father. That time is not yet, but I’ll swear to you that before the end of your life you shall see the lifeless body of the Admiral at your feet. That foot of yours shall kick him as he lies.’

Henry had covered his face with his hands, forgetting vengeance, forgetting this talk of a crown, remembering only that the one he loved most in the world – more than Margot even, more than any – was lost to him.

Margot rode up to him. ‘Henry,’ she cried, ‘do not mind that I should see your tears. Look! See mine! For I love you, Henry, and your grief is my grief; and when we are married that is how it shall be all the days of our lives.’

He reached for her hand and pressed it; then they rode on together.

‘I hate Coligny,’ he said, for he was unable to stop talking of this matter.

‘I hate him too,’ said Margot.

‘He admitted that he overheard the plot to kill my father. He admitted that, hearing it, he did nothing about it. Is that not like him? He is so good … so virtuous … he cannot tell a lie.’

‘Hypocrite and heretic!’ cried Margot.

‘He said: “The words I utter in self-defence are not said out of regret for Monsieur de Guise. Fortune can deal no better stroke of good for the Kingdom and the Church of God; and most especially it is good for myself and my house.” Those were his words.’

‘He shall die for them,’ said Margot.

‘He shall! If I wait for years, mine shall be the hand that holds the sword which shall pierce his heart.’

As they rode through the streets of Paris they were recognised. An old market woman called out: ‘Long live the little Duke of Guise!’

Others caught up the cry. ‘A Guise! A Guise!’

Their horses were surrounded and Margot looked on, smiling proudly. She saw that the eyes of those who watched shone with admiration for the gallant figure of the boy; he had beauty which was beloved of Parisians. Perhaps they thought of their King with his bouts of madness; perhaps they thought of his brother Henry, who might one day be King; handsome, Henry was, it was true, but with long, sly Medici eyes and an Italian way of talking – an effeminate youth with earrings, necklaces and garments of an exaggerated fashion. Perhaps they thought of Hercule, the pockmarked little Prince. These were the children of the Italian woman, and the Parisians could not take them to their hearts, even though they were also the sons of good King Henry. But this boy with his virile, masculine beauty was a boy they could admire and love; besides, he was now a pathetic figure. His father – their idol – had been recently murdered. They were pleased to see him in company with a Princess of the reigning house. With tears in their eyes and love in their voices, they cheered the little Duke of Guise and the Princess Margot.

Henry was sufficiently the son of his father to know how to deal with such a situation.

He doffed his cap and spoke to them:

‘Good people of Paris, dear Parisians, who have always shown love and friendship to my house and my father …’ His voice shook a little, and a cry of ‘The good God keep you!’ rose from the crowd. ‘My father,’ went on Henry, ‘my most gallant father, now lies murdered; but you must know that I will never let the murderer go free.’

The crowd cheered madly. The excitable Parisians were delighted with their little Duke.

‘Power to your arm!’ they cried. ‘God preserve you. All power to Lorraine. A Guise! A Guise!’

And many came forward to kiss the little boy’s hand as though he were the King of France himself.

When he and Margot rode into the courtyard of the Palace, Henry was smiling a little and Margot was delighted; the incident had done something to soothe his grief.

‘Oh, Henry,’ she cried, ‘how they love you! Who knows, one day you and I may be King and Queen of France.’

When Margot went up to her apartments her mother was there.

Catherine was smiling, and Margot did not trust her mother’s smiles. It was, however, a smile of pleasure, for Catherine was thinking that her affairs had taken a turn for the better. Antoine of Navarre was dead; Francis Duke of Guise was dead; she had no longer any need to concern herself with these men, and that, to say the least, was a great relief. Montmorency was the prisoner of the Huguenots, and Condé was in the hands of the Catholics. Oh yes, matters were certainly taking a turn for the better. If someone could dispose of the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Spanish Ambassador, all those who had grown to know her too well for her peace of mind would be removed.

‘Well, my daughter,’ she said, ‘did you enjoy your jaunt with the King of Paris?’

Margot did not know what to answer. She expected a punishment, but none came. The Queen Mother was smiling as she continued with her secret thoughts.

The court of France was making its royal progress to the Spanish frontier, where King Charles and the Queen Mother were to meet Elisabeth of Spain and Philip’s Ambassador, the wily Duke of Alva.

The journey was a slow one; the train consisted of nearly a thousand men and women; great nobles each with his retinue made up the procession. There must be the transportation of household goods, including beds; there must be cooking utensils and food; there must be garments for state occasions. Catherine, with her two sons, Charles and Henry, required extensive impedimenta; and young Margot, fully conscious of her person, though still only a child, was already beginning to be a leader of fashion and must also carry a large wardrobe.

Henry of Navarre rode with them, often side by side with Margot. Why, thought Margot, was it not that other Henry, her beloved King of Paris, instead of this boy with the alert black eyes and the untidy black hair which grew straight up from his head in the ungainly fashion of Nérac, who did not care that his hands were sometimes unclean and who now and then broke out into the coarse Béarnais dialect?

Margot looked down her Valois nose at him, but he did not show any resentment. Margot meant nothing to him. He liked girls, but if Margot did not like him, there were others who did. He did not care what class of girls they were – peasant girls, beggar girls, princesses – they were all girls to Henry of Navarre, and if Margot, Princess of France, was not attracted to him, she was one of the few who were not.

Charles the King was quiet on the journey. He was realising that he would never marry Mary Queen of Scots. She was only a memory to him now – beautiful, but distant, almost unreal; and his mother was trying to arrange a match with the Queen of England for him. He did not like the thought of marriage with that woman, for he had heard such tales of her. She was a virago; she would bully him, so he had heard. But his mother had said that was nonsense. He was the King of France, and if he married the Queen of England he would be the King of England as well; it would be for her to live in France with him, and he could command her to do so; they could set a Lieutenant-General over England, so that life would be much the same as it was now, except that he would have two crowns instead of one.

He did not want this marriage, but his mother thought it would be good; therefore it must be so. Sometimes he wondered whether she wanted the throne for his brother Henry. Everything Henry did was right. Henry was the only one who was not afraid of her; she adored Henry; she wanted everything for him. Perhaps she wanted Charles out of the way, settled in England, so that his brother Henry could take the throne of France! Charles did not know, but he was full of misgivings.

He had wanted to protest against this English marriage. The Queen of England did not seem to want it, nor did her Ambassador, who had such long conversations with him and his mother. As Charles rode in that grand procession, he could still hear his mother’s voice, suave and persuasive; he could still see the cold face of the English Ambassador.

‘Your first objection is the age of my son. But if the Queen Elizabeth will put up with it, I will put up with the age of the Queen,’ said his mother; and Charles had quickly said what he had been told to say: ‘I should be very pleased if your mistress would be as pleased with my age as I am with hers.’ The English Ambassador said his Queen would never consent to live in France. ‘A Lieutenant-General could govern her kingdom,’ said Charles’s mother. ‘The English would not obey a Lieutenant, and Lieutenants grow insolent, says my Queen.’ ‘Ah,’ sighed Charles’s mother, ‘my good sister Elizabeth already calls herself the Queen of France, but she is so only in name. Through this marriage she could be the Queen of France indeed.’ The Ambassador had terrified Charles by turning and speaking to him, with that accent of the English when they spoke French, as though to speak French was somehow comic and shameful: ‘If you were but three or four years older, if you had but seen the Queen, and if you were really in love with her, I should not be astonished at this haste.’ Under his mother’s eyes, Charles had replied: ‘But in good sooth I love her.’ And at that the English Ambassador had smiled, and, with that bluntness on which the English prided themselves, replied: ‘At your age, Sire, none knoweth what love is.’ Charles grew hot at the thought of it.

He had been glad to get away from the conference; he was glad to think of the coming meeting with his sister. It was five years since he had seen her. Then she had been sad – sad to leave her native France for a country and a husband she had never seen.

What a tragic thing was this marrying of royal people, though not so bad for a prince as for a princess, for princesses lost their country, their nationality, when they married foreign husbands. His sister Elisabeth was a Spaniard now.

He hoped nothing would come of the negotiations with England. Who knew, there might be negotiations with Scotland one day; then he could truthfully say: ‘I love the Queen of Scotland.’

On they went, staying at various castles on the way, where banquets, balls and masques were given in their honour.

Margot was enjoying all this; the only drawback was the absence of Henry of Guise; she could, however, give herself up wholeheartedly to teasing Henry of Navarre. She criticised the way he rode his horse.

‘Like a peasant,’ she told him.

‘I’ll ride faster than you.’

‘We must race one day.’

‘Now,’ he suggested.

‘I do not choose to do so now.’

‘Come, you have said it. Let us put it to the test.’

‘And break from the procession! You have the manners of a peasant. Do they teach you nothing of etiquette in Nérac?’

‘I learn what is good for me,’ said Henry of Navarre, his eyes glinting.

When they rested at the next castle and went hunting in the forest, Henry reminded her of her challenge.

Margot prevaricated, gauging the strength of the boy. He had no gallantry. Henry of Guise would not thus challenge a princess.

‘I do not wish to ride against you. I dislike you.’

Henry was angry; he retorted, like the blunt Béarnais he was: ‘You will have to learn to like me, for one day I shall be your husband.’

‘Do not dare to say such things to me.’

‘I shall dare to say what is truth.’

Margot could smile slyly; she knew that one of the objects of this journey down to the Spanish frontier was to renew negotiations for her marriage to Don Carlos, and her brother Henry’s to the old widowed sister of King Philip. But Henry of Navarre did not know this, nor did his stern old mother. Margot was not half Medici for nothing; she was an adept at the art of eavesdropping, particularly when she herself was under discussion.

She betrayed nothing of this. Let him think that one day he would be her husband. It amused her. Let him tremble to contemplate the trouble in store for him with the Princess Margot as his wife!

‘So you think you will be my husband, then?’

‘It is arranged.’

‘That remains to be seen. It could not be for years.’

‘But the marriages of princes and princesses are arranged when they are young.’

‘You should feel honoured, Monsieur of Navarre, to have a marriage arranged for you with a Princess of France, for even if it does not come to pass, it has been arranged, and that is an honour you should recognise.’

‘Honour?’ he said, the hot blood staining his brown face red. ‘If you are a Princess, I am a Prince.’

‘My father was a great King. He was the great King Henry the Second of France.’

‘My father was the King of Navarre.’

Margot began to chant: ‘ “Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette.” ’

At which Henry of Navarre turned to her and would have struck her, had she not galloped off and joined the group about her brother Charles. Then she turned and put out her tongue at Henry of Navarre.

Catherine stepped into the boat which was to carry her across the river, on the other side of which she would meet her daughter. Everywhere about her was the glitter of pageantry, proclaiming to all the importance of this occasion. Leafy arches had been erected, under which the procession passed on its way to the river. The heat was great, and Catherine felt it intensely on account of her heavy figure. She was excited; her face was pale, and her eyes seemed larger and more prominent than usual. This was not so much a meeting with a daughter – now nineteen – whom she had not seen since she was fourteen, as a meeting with the Queen of Spain, the consort of the man Catherine feared more than any on Earth. Her daughter? She did not exactly love her – she loved no one but her son Henry – but she was proud of her, proud of the exalted position she occupied as the wife of the mightiest monarch in the world. Her other daughter, Claude, whom she had visited on her way through France, meant little to her. Claude, a docile, charming girl, was only the wife of the Duke of Lorraine; it was a very different matter, coming face to face with the Queen of Spain.

On the other side of the river were assembled the Queen of Spain and those who accompanied her to the border. Philip had not deigned to come; he had more weighty matters to occupy him; but representing him had come the great Duke of Alva.

The fiery heat of the midsummer sun was unbearable, and several of Catherine’s soldiers died of suffocation in their armour before the arrival of the Queen of Spain.

Catherine greeted her daughter warmly; Elisabeth was aloof, solemn, correct; in five years they had made a Spanish lady of the little French girl. Yet Catherine noticed, even in that first ceremonial greeting, that Elisabeth had not entirely forgotten the fear she had once had of her mother.

In great pomp they crossed the river, and the next day they rode into the town of Bayonne with greater magnificence than any in that town had ever seen before. Elisabeth rode between her brother Henry and the Cardinal of Bourbon, with a hundred gentlemen about them. The chief citizens of the town of Bayonne, richly dressed in scarlet, held a canopy over the Queen of Spain as they escorted her to the Cathedral, whence, after listening to music and prayer, she went to the Royal Palace, where little King Charles was lodged. Catherine noticed that the men of Spain who were in attendance were mounted on miserable mules and wore no state dress; she knew by this that Philip of Spain intended to snub her; he was implying by this lack of respect that he did not care for what his Ambassador had told him of Catherine’s recent manoeuvres with the Huguenot Party.

Little Charles gave his sister, as a present, a horse with a saddle ornamented with precious stones and pearls; other gifts were exchanged, and the tournaments, balls, masques and banquets, which were to last for days, began. The peasants danced their native dances before the royal visitors and their suites; others played on the musical instruments which were indigenous to their particular region. The Provençaux played their cymbals; the Champenois showed their skill with the hautbois, while the Bourgignons joined them; and the Poitevins performed on the bagpipes. Great prominence was given to all things Spanish; music from Spain figured largely in the entertainments; Spanish dances were danced by all; and Ronsard had composed poems for the occasion which were read aloud, and all these praised the greatness of Spain.

But the two parties had not met merely to dance together and to praise each other. Under cover of these festivities they met as opponents in the game of statecraft – Catherine with little King Charles for France, and Elisabeth with the experienced Duke of Alva for Spain.

The Duke of Alva was about fifty-five at this time, a finely made man with all the solemnity and dignity of a Spanish don. His thin face, with its yellowish skin, looked like that of a man already dead, but Catherine was aware of those keen and piercing eyes and all the shrewdness which lay behind them. She knew she would have need of all her cunning, and that King Charles would be of little use to her in their game of wits.

They met – the four of them; and when they did so Catherine felt a momentary anger against the Queen of Spain. She had never liked children who were not docile to her command, and Elisabeth, very lovely now with the abundant black hair which she had inherited from her father, and those black eyes and the dazzling, white skin, seemed more Spanish than French, far more the wife of King Philip of Spain than the daughter of Catherine de’ Medici. Elisabeth hated those whom she called ‘heretic’ as much as did her husband; and it was startling to see her beautiful face grow almost ugly with hatred whenever the word Huguenot was mentioned.

She talked to Catherine of the religious troubles in France, but Catherine did not wish to discuss these matters with one who had become as rigorously Catholic as her royal husband.

‘Your husband suspects me of favouring the Huguenots,’ said Catherine.

‘What cause have you to think, Madame, that the King mistrusts your Majesty?’ asked Elisabeth. ‘Only evil-minded people could give you such ideas.’

Catherine sighed. Here was some of that deceit of which she herself was mistress. She said: ‘Oh, dearest daughter, you have become very Spanish.’

‘You are afraid of war with Spain,’ said Elisabeth, ignoring the comment. ‘If that is so, why do you not talk to the Duke? That is why he is here, Madame – that you may come to terms which will bring peace to our two countries.’

Catherine turned to the Duke and talked of the marriages she wished to arrange. First, Don Carlos and Margot. They could see for themselves what a bright little Princess Margot was, and Don Carlos would be surely enchanted with her. And, second, Philip’s sister Juana and Prince Henry. It was true that Juana was a little old for Henry, but in royal marriages a difference of age must not be looked upon as a barrier.

The Duke of Alva smiled his thin smile. ‘I notice that you do not mention religion, Madame. And that, I assure you, should be the main subject of our discussion.’

As there was no help for it, Catherine began to talk of all that had happened in recent years in her country – always from her point of view; but Alva insisted on giving his version of affairs, which was a little different from that of Catherine.

‘Well,’ said Catherine at length, ‘what is the remedy which will put an end to our troubles? Tell me that.’

‘But, Madame,’ said Alva suavely, ‘who knows better than you do? Is it not you who should say what has to be done? Tell me, and I will pass on your wishes to my royal master.’

‘Your royal master knows better than I do what is happening in France!’ retorted Catherine. ‘Tell me by what means he proposes to suppress the Huguenots.’

‘To take up arms would be useless,’ said Alva. ‘Strong measures must suffice. Banish the sect from France.’

The Queen of Spain put in: ‘Why does not my brother, King Charles, chastise all who rebel against God?’

Charles looked in fear at his mother, who said sharply: ‘He does all that is possible.’ She saw the fanatical gleam in the eyes of her daughter and in those of Alva. To avoid the subject of religion, she tried to speak once more of the proposed marriages, but Alva stopped her. He dispensed with the customary etiquette and solemnity of Spain and spoke bluntly:

‘Madame, we must settle this matter of religion. Give it your consideration, and we will discuss it later. I shall tell you the wishes of my master, and I think you will agree with him.’

And so it was that later, in a quiet gallery of the Bayonne Palace, Alva and Catherine talked earnestly together. It was comparatively cool in the shaded gallery, sheltered as it was from the great heat of the midsummer sun. Alva in his darkly severe Spanish dress and Catherine in her long black robes paced back and forth, their garments flapping as they walked, like the wings of giant birds.

‘… the heads of Condé and Coligny, Madame, should be severed from their bodies,’ said Alva quietly. ‘Condé is a man whom many will follow, but he is not a great man. Nevertheless, we shall not be safe from these heretics until he is dead. The Admiral of France too must die. He is a leader of men, a man who knows how to bind men to him. He is a great soldier; and yet you allow him to lead your enemies!’

‘My lord Duke, how could I lay hands on such a man?’

‘Madame, Monsieur de Guise was a great man, yet he was shot by a spy of Coligny’s. Coligny works fast, while you hesitate. Can this hesitation be due to your fondness for these Huguenots?’

‘You have been listening to evil tales concerning me. I have no love for the Huguenots. I am a true Catholic.’

‘I wonder how your Majesty can administer justice when it has to pass through the hands of your Chancellor, Michel l’Hôpital … the Huguenot!’

‘He is not a Huguenot, my lord Duke.’

‘You, Madame, must be the only person in France who does not think so. In your husband’s lifetime he was known as a Protestant, and as long as he is Chancellor, Huguenots will be favoured. My Catholic King wants to know what you propose to do to remedy these matters. This is the reason why the Queen and I are here at Bayonne.’

Catherine could only reply: ‘I am a true Catholic. You must believe this.’

‘Your Majesty will have to prove it.’

‘That I will do. But … in my own way. I will not plunge my country into civil war. These things must be done slowly, cautiously, and over a long time. I have a notion that I might, on some pretext or other, gather in one spot all the most influential of the Huguenots, all their leaders and thousands of their followers.’

‘And then, Madame?’

Catherine’s eyes shone. ‘Then, my lord Duke, I would suggest that the Catholics should deal with them, take them by surprise.’

The Duke nodded. ‘His Catholic Majesty would need to see such evidence before he felt he could have complete confidence in your good faith.’

Catherine went on talking as though she had not heard him. ‘It would be in Paris – for Paris is our most loyal city, Paris is Catholic. Yes, some pretext … I know not what as yet. For that we must wait. This must not have the air of being arranged; it must happen naturally … a sudden annihilation of the heretics by those of the true faith. All the important leaders would surely die – Condé, Coligny, Rochefoucauld … every one of them and all their followers, every single Huguenot in the city.’

‘I will carry your plans to his most Catholic Majesty.’

She laid her fingers to her lips. ‘Never let it be mentioned in despatches. It is a matter for our ears alone and those of his Majesty. I do not know when it will be possible, but I give you my word that it shall be. I must wait for the opportunity … the perfect moment. It may not be for years. His Majesty must trust me till then.’

‘If this scheme were put into effect,’ said Alva, ‘I doubt not that his Majesty would recognise you as a friend. He would never wish to make war on such a friend.’

‘He shall see,’ said Catherine. ‘All I ask is patience – patience and secrecy.’

Alva was so satisfied with that conversation that he gave up the rest of the time to discussing the proposed marriages; and at last came the moment for the two parties to say farewell.

Fondly the Queen Mother kissed her daughter. As for Charles, he was so affected by the parting that he burst into bitter tears. It seemed to him that it was indeed a terrible thing to be a princess of a royal house, to marry and to leave your home and country for a strange land, a strange people. He could not restrain his tears, even though he knew that the Spaniards, such sticklers for etiquette, must be very shocked at the sight of them. His mother and his ministers regarded him coldly.

‘But I cannot help it,’ said Charles. ‘I do not care if she is the Queen of Spain. First she was my sister. I remember how I used to love her, and I do not want to be parted from her.’

Charles watched on the river bank while his sister, accompanied by her train, was carried away from him. He wept so bitterly that, afterwards, people said he must have had some premonition that he would never see her again.

Catherine was mistaken when she thought that the conversation in the gallery had not been heard by any but herself and Alva.

Young Henry of Navarre had a guilty conscience. He had been separated from his mother for what seemed a long time, but he did not forget her teachings. He was being brought up with the little Princes and Princess of France. There were occasions when he saw his mother; he had seen her as they had journeyed down to Bayonne; he knew how she longed to take him back to Béarn with her and bring him up in their own religion. But this was forbidden; it was forbidden by King Charles, and that meant that it was forbidden by the Queen Mother. Henry was in awe of Catherine as everyone else was, and he kept out of her way as much as possible. She was not unkind to him; in fact, she had implied that she found his quick wits amusing. Sometimes he thought that she compared him with Charles and Hercule, and not unfavourably. ‘He is droll, that little Henry of Navarre,’ she would say. Or: ‘Would that his mother could see him now!’ Then she would laugh loudly in that rather terrifying way of hers, so that he knew that he had done something of which his mother would not approve, and he would be unhappy about it until he forgot.

He was, he feared, not a very good little boy. He imitated the Princes; he swaggered about the court; he used oaths, and listened to, and repeated, coarse jests. He had learned a good deal of matters of which he knew his mother would rather he remained in ignorance; and he neglected to learn those things which she would have wished him to learn. Already he knew that there was something about him which made him very attractive to the opposite sex. Women liked to kiss and fondle him; and he was not averse to being kissed and fondled, for the truth was that he liked them every bit as much as they liked him. He longed to be fourteen, so that he could be a real man.

When his mother had last seen him at Macon, on the journey down to the border, she had been more shocked than usual. He had overheard her express her fears to the Queen Mother, who had laughed aloud and said: ‘Oh come. Do you want him to be a prude? He is a Prince who will have to live among men and women. Let him grow up. Let him be a man … for it is my opinion that that is something neither you nor I will be able to prevent.’

And his mother had said to him: ‘Henry, my son, try not to follow in the footsteps of these licentious people whom you see about you. That is not the right way to live. Try to remember always that you are a Huguenot.’

He nodded, very anxious to please her, very sorry that he was as he was, liking so much those things which it was not good for him to like.

‘I am forced to go to mass with the Princes,’ he said.

‘I know, my son.’

‘It is much against my will, but I never forget what you have told me.’

‘They can send you to mass, my son, but they can never make you participate in it.’

‘They will not. I swear they will not.’

That satisfied her in some measure, and he was determined to show her how he loved her and that he would remember all that she had taught him.

He was an intelligent boy and very interested in everything that went on around him; and he knew there were times when his mother was in acute danger. He knew too that what happened to his mother affected him closely. The times were dangerous, and he was a boy who knew how to keep his ears open.

The Pope had excommunicated his mother, and had wanted to declare Henry and his sister illegitimate on the grounds that his mother was never really married to his father because she had previously been married to the Duke of Clèves. There was yet another plot to kidnap his mother and take her before the Inquisition, to torture her into changing her faith, and then finally to burn her at the stake. This would have been brought about but for the plot’s reaching the ears of the Queen of Spain. Elisabeth, Catholic though she was, had been unable to bear the thought of such a near relative’s enduring such a fate, and she had warned Jeanne in time.

Henry did want his mother to know that, although he was forced to attend mass and was becoming very like the Princes of France, he never forgot her and was true to the Reformed Faith.

He had seen some of the methods of spying in palaces; and it was not very difficult for a little boy to secrete himself in the great gallery where he had discovered the Queen Mother was to confer with the Duke of Alva.

He was excited by this adventure; imagining, all the time, what would happen to him if he were caught. With madly beating heart, he hid himself in a cupboard, covered himself with old clothes which he found there, and with his ear to the cupboard door, caught snatches of that momentous conversation between Catherine and Alva. As soon as possible, Henry escaped from the cupboard and went to one of his attendants, a man named de Calignon; and he told this man all that he had heard.

De Calignon said that he was a wily little diplomat, and later that day showed him a letter in code which he was despatching at once to the Queen of Navarre.

Henry was delighted. He felt that he could now swear and swagger, kiss and be kissed to his heart’s content. Surely a little wickedness might be forgiven such a wily diplomat?

Since she had become a widow, Jeanne had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the cause of the Huguenots. Energetic in the extreme, she needed some such great cause, that she might forget the bitterness of her married life. Now at least she was free from Antoine, free of those continual thoughts of him which had tormented her for so long. All her hopes now were in her children, and Henry, her heir, was the one who caused her great anxiety. He was a delightful boy, but he was his grandfather and her uncle, King Francis the First, all over again. That much was obvious; he was already showing signs of the sensuality which had characterised these men. Had she been able to look after him herself – which was her dearest wish – this would not have worried her unduly. His virile masculinity would have been guided into the right channels. But what could happen to such a child at the decadent Valois court? The cynical attitude of the Queen Mother disturbed her. Catherine would be amused by the boy’s frolics, delighted by them, and no doubt she encouraged them.

Her sweet little daughter gave her no such anxieties. Catherine was pretty and clever, yet meek and docile, a lovely little girl of whom to be proud. Jeanne was proud of Henry, of course – proud and afraid on his account.

Jeanne knew that ever since the death of Antoine her danger had been acute. Since there had been a temporary lull in the civil war, other methods had been used to attack her – more sly, more insidious than the sword.

She had been excommunicated. Much she cared! For the Pope of Rome she had nothing but contempt. But when she remembered how nearly she had come to being captured by the Inquisition, she could not help shuddering. She was no coward, but she knew something of the terrible tortures inflicted by those men. Sometimes she dreamed that she was in their hands, that the cruel eyes of the torturers gleamed at her, that harsh hands, wielding red-hot pincers which would tear her flesh, were laid upon her; she dreamed she heard the crackle of faggots at her feet.

There was danger all around her. She had been robbed of her beloved son; her kingdom and his was in perpetual danger. Indeed, had it been in the interest of France to support Spain, she would now have lost her territory; she would have been a prisoner in the dark dungeons of the Inquisition. Catherine, oddly enough, had been her friend in this; Catherine had defended her against Spain; but Jeanne did not for a moment forget that this was a matter of expediency for Catherine, as Catherine did not want to see Spaniards encroaching on more Navarre territory.

Jeanne grew cold now, thinking of the plot to make her children illegitimate, to seize her person and carry her off to Spain. She was never free from the unpleasant attentions of Spain. She knew a little of the character of the tyrant of Madrid, who ruled such a large section of the world. He had once asked the hand of Jeanne in marriage, and the marriage had not taken place. For that slight to his most Catholic Majesty death was too good for Jeanne of Navarre. The same characteristic showed in his attitude to Elizabeth of England. He wished to see the utter destruction of Jeanne of Navarre and Elizabeth of England, for both had been offered the hand of the King of Spain, and neither had taken it.

The plot had failed, but very narrowly. Its object had been to put her in one of the prisons of the Holy Office and her children into a Spanish fortress. When she and they were disposed of, the Spanish troops would seize Lower Navarre. There were many people in this plot apart from King Philip, and one of these was the licentious, crafty Cardinal of Lorraine. Jeanne believed fervently that God was with her, for a certain Dimanche, who had been taking messages to Spain, had fallen ill and in his delirium had disclosed the plot. This had come to the ears of Elisabeth of Spain, who, braving the wrath of her husband – as no one else would have dared to do – had warned Jeanne in time, so that she had been able to fortify her frontiers to such effect that the plot was defeated.

But in what an uneasy world she lived where so many longed for her destruction!

She would win in the end. She was sure of that. Fanaticism had taken the place in Jeanne’s heart so recently occupied by her love for her husband and her desire for domestic peace.

Nothing mattered but the Faith; nor did it seem to her of any great consequence by what road she and her followers travelled to their goal, as long as they reached it.

Francis, Duke of Guise, had been murdered. Coligny said that he had not bribed Poltrot de Méray to assassinate the Duke. But what did it matter if he had done so? What mattered such a lie in a good cause? What mattered murder? If Coligny had been instrumental in bringing about the death of an enemy, then all good Huguenots must rejoice.

Jeanne had changed gradually. Her passionate love of sincerity had become clouded over. Bitter humiliation, frustration, misery, danger … and her Faith … had made of the honest woman a fanatic who could smile at murder.

And now came the report of what her little Henry had overheard in the gallery of Bayonne. A massacre of Huguenots was planned – a greater and more terrible massacre than any that had taken place before.

Jeanne lost no time in writing to Coligny and Condé, warning them of what her son had overheard of the conversation between the Queen Mother and the Duke of Alva. She knew that this was going to rouse fresh trouble. She knew that it was very likely that the bloody strife would break out again.

It mattered not. Nothing mattered but the Huguenot cause. It did not even matter that her son would continue to live at the decadent Valois court, that he would become profligate in his habits. How could it, when he could act the spy with such effect?

In the Castle of Condé, the Princess Eléonore was feeling weak and ill, and she knew that her end was very near.

Her husband was no longer a prisoner of the Catholics, and she could send for him, but she did not immediately do so. Sadly she thought of him, of their early life together, of his gay optimism and how he had taught her to be gay. How happy they might have been – as happy as Jeanne and her Antoine might have been – but for their position in this troubled country.

She and her husband had been everything to one another in the early days; it was she who had fired him with the desire to fight for the Faith. She had always known that he lacked her religious instincts, that he was first of all a soldier who must have excitement and adventure; but once he had adopted his cause, he did remain loyal to it. He did not, as his brother had, deny his Faith as well as his obligations to his wife. Poor Jeanne, what she must have suffered! What bitter humiliation had Antoine showered upon her!

There were continual prayers at the Castle of Condé. Eléonore’s children were with her, and she prayed that the lives they led would be straight and honourable. She tried to shut out of her mind the thought of Louis with the beautiful wanton, Isabelle de Limeuil.

Why had he not remained faithful to her? How could he have been so weak, knowing all the time that Isabelle was a spy of the Queen Mother’s? What charm had this woman to tempt him in such circumstances? It was not as though he were a fool, as poor Antoine had been. Perhaps it was that love of excitement in her husband which had made him such an easy victim of the plots of the Queen Mother – that puckish determination to court danger.

And the Queen Mother had deliberately wrecked the happy home, not only of the Princess of Condé, but also that of Jeanne of Navarre. Poor Louis! He was so attractive, and women had always found him irresistible. It had always been so – more with him even than with Antoine. It was not only his relationship with Isabelle de Limeuil that had set the country talking scandal against the Prince of Condé, for there had been others besides Isabelle. Calvin had written to Louis, protesting; Coligny had begged him to mend his ways. Louis always meant to; he was very sorry for his weakness; but then – a goblet of wine, a gay song and a pair of bright eyes, and he was caught again.

She had been sleepless with anxiety; she had been filled with misgivings; and one morning when she came down from her apartments it was obvious from her expression that a great peace had come to her; she knew that very soon she would be leaving this world’s troubles for ever.

She sent a messenger to the Prince to tell him that she could not live long, but she instructed the messenger to break the news gently, that he might not suffer any great shock.

‘You must tell him,’ she said, ‘that I have one aspiration. It is that our spirits may continue to be bound together. Tell him also that I conjure him to keep watch over our children in my stead, that they may be brought up in the fear of God.’

When Condé received the messenger and heard the news of his wife’s sickness, he was overcome with grief. Mercurial in temperament, there was nothing for him now but the very depth of his despair. He made all haste to the Castle of Condé, and there he flung himself beside his wife’s bed and poured bitter reproaches on himself and his conduct.

‘You must live, my love, that I may prove to you that there has never been any in my life but you. You must give me the chance to show how deeply I love you.’

The tears he shed were genuine; but she also knew that what he meant this week he would cease to mean next. Such men were Louis and his brother Antoine, and because they were so, not only must their wives and children suffer, but the great cause of their religion be put into jeopardy.

Eléonore stroked his hair.

‘My darling,’ she said, ‘you have given me great happiness. I would not have you different, for if you had been different, how could you have been my love?’

‘I have not loved you as you deserve to be loved. I am a rogue. Tell me so. Tell me you hate me, for I deserve that. I deserve to be unhappy for the rest of my life.’

He was so handsome, with his head flung back and the tears on his cheeks, so earnest in his protestations. But how long would it be before he was swearing eternal fidelity to Isabelle de Limeuil or Madame de Saint-André? How long before they, and others too, would hear from those handsome lips that they were the loves of his life?

Charming Condé, so unstable in his emotions, yet so resolute in battle! Why had these Bourbons, so gifted with their charm and beauty, both been so fickle? Were the characters of these men responsible for the failure of the Reformation in France? They could not resist women, even those they knew to be the spies of the Queen Mother.

But what was the use of regretting now? The end was near for Eléonore.

‘Oh, my darling!’ cried Louis. ‘My dearest wife! Blessed will the moment be when God commands us to meet in eternity!’

‘Do not reproach yourself, my love,’ said Eléonore. ‘Only look after our children and remember that I have loved you. Remember the happiness of our days together. Remember the sober, prim little girl you married and whom you taught to laugh. Promise to look after our children and I shall be well content.’

She had her son brought to her and begged him to honour King Charles, the Queen of Navarre, his father and his Uncle Gaspard. ‘Never forget the allegiance to the Faith I have taught you,’ she implored him.

The boy was weeping, and she asked her husband to take him away and to leave her for a while. When they had gone she lay back smiling, her lips shaping the words of a prayer: ‘Oh, God, my winter is past and my spring is come …’

When Condé knew that she was indeed dead there was no stemming his grief. It seemed to him that his infidelities came back to mock him; he remembered so much that shamed him.

‘Oh, what a scoundrel am I!’ he groaned.

His little daughter came to him and tried to comfort him. He lifted her in his arms and said to her: ‘Try, my darling, to be like her. If you are as she was, I shall love you more and more. Girls are said to take after their fathers, but you must try to be like your mother. In her you would find nothing that could not serve as a cherished ideal.’

He stayed in the Palais de Condé mourning for some weeks; he kept his children about him and talked continually of their mother; he longed to have his life over again, he said; he longed to turn back the clock.

But Condé’s moods changed rapidly, and this one of remorse had lasted longer than usual. There was work to be done, he declared. He could no longer stay with his family.

Isabelle was waiting for him, more alluring, more beautiful than ever. He told her of his new resolutions to lead a better life. Isabelle listened and commiserated. She knew that it would not be difficult to obliterate those new resolutions of the most charming sinner in France.

Back at court after the trip to Bayonne, Catherine had found that the feud between the Colignys and the Guises was growing dangerous. Young Henry of Guise, whom she had thought of as nothing more than a boy, seemed, with his new position and responsibilities, to have become a man. Youth though he was, he was head of his house, and he could not forget nor forgive his father’s death. Catherine saw that such enmity – as seemed always to be the case – was more than the quarrel of one man with another, more than the quarrel even of one family with another; it was once more the quarrel between one religious faction and another, just as the quarrels of Diane de Poitiers and Madame d’Étampes had been in the reign of the first Francis; and in these quarrels were the sparks which set the fire of civil war raging throughout France.

Catherine went to see Gaspard de Coligny in his home at Châtillon, where he was enjoying a life of temporary seclusion with his family. How different Gaspard seemed with his wife and his family and the domestic calm all about him! She realised that these joys in which he was now indulging with such obvious content were what he wanted from life, but he was a man with a cause, a faith; and if he were called upon to fight for it, he must leave everything to do so. Here, then, was another of these fanatics.

Catherine sought an early opportunity of disclosing to Coligny the meaning of her visit. She joined him in his gardens where he was at work. He enjoyed his gardens and he had produced at Châtillon one of the loveliest Catherine had ever seen.

‘Monsieur de Coligny,’ said Catherine when she found herself alone with the Admiral, ‘what trouble you caused us when you had dealings with an assassin named Poltrot de Méray!’

Coligny’s face stiffened. Did he, Catherine wondered, arrange to have that shot fired which sent Francis of Guise reeling from his horse to lie senseless on the ground? He was obviously no common murderer, but might he not kill for the Faith? Oh yes, Catherine decided, as long as he could make his excuses with his God, he would kill. ‘I did it, Lord, for you …’ As long as he could say that with what he would consider a clear conscience, he would do anything, she was sure.

‘I believed,’ said Coligny, ‘that the matter had been settled.’

‘Not to my satisfaction, I fear. That is what I wish to speak to you about. De Méray was your man, was he not?’

‘He was my man.’

‘Your spy, Monsieur?’

‘He worked for me.’

Catherine smiled, and Coligny went on: ‘Madame, what fresh trouble is this? Have I not answered every question satisfactorily?’

‘Oh, just a little private interest, that is all.’ Catherine wished he would discuss the murder with her. It would be interesting to compare notes on such a subject with such a man. ‘You heard this man plotting to kill the Duke and you did nothing about it?’

‘I agree to that.’

Catherine nodded. Doubtless he had hinted to de Méray that he wished Guise were dead, but did not care to have the guilt on his own soul. Perhaps he had offered to pay money to this man if he would bear the burden in the eyes of their God. The methods of these people made her want to laugh out loud. De Méray, talking of his plot to kill the Duke and talking of it in Coligny’s hearing, had meant: ‘Do you approve, master?’ And Coligny’s silence had meant approval. Perhaps, thought Catherine, as she had thought on other occasions, I and these people are not so very different.

‘I did not come, however, to talk of past events, Monsieur,’ said Catherine. ‘The little Guise is a fiery personality. In him I fear we have another Duke Francis. Young still, but perhaps the more reckless for that. He is declaring open feud between his house and yours, for although we know that you had no hand whatsoever in the murder of the Duke of Guise – your very noble confession that you heard the plot discussed exonerates you completely – yet this fiery young fellow will not have it so. Now, you know, Admiral, that these feuds are distasteful to me. I would have peace in this kingdom.’

‘What would you have me do, Madame?’

‘I cannot have my Admiral suspected of murder. I propose to hold a banquet at Amboise – no, let it be at Blois – and there I wish to proclaim your innocence in this matter. The guests of honour will be yourself and the Guises. I want you to show your friendship to each other, to extend your hand and give the kiss of peace. I want all to know that there is friendship between you, and that the House of Guise no longer doubts your innocence in the unfortunate death of its kinsman.’

‘Madame, this is impossible. We have so recently been fighting a bitter war – they in one camp, I in another.’

‘That is why it must be done, dear Admiral. I cannot have that rash boy going about speaking of these matters, inflaming his followers. We have peace – an uneasy one, it is true – and we must make it a lasting one. This must be done for the sake of that rash boy, if not for yours.’

‘You think that by taking my hand and kissing my cheek he would become my friend, Madame?’

‘I wish to proclaim to all that there is no enmity between you. You must do this. I insist. I command.’

Coligny bowed.

‘You will be there at Blois to do as I wish?’ said Catherine.

‘It is your command, Madame.’

High above the village stood the imposing Castle of Blois. Its embrasured windows looked down on the wide stream of the Loire, bounded by the hills and vineyards of Touraine. There was uneasiness in the village; all knew that inside the château the Queen Mother had organised a banquet to promote friendship between the Colignys and the Guises. This was disquieting, for if trouble were to break out in the castle, it would extend to the surrounding villages. Huguenots trembled and thought of the massacre at Vassy, when Duke Francis of Guise had slaughtered Huguenots while they knelt at worship. Catholics told themselves to be ready to rally to the little Duke.

They had seen Duke Henry riding near the castle, handsome and remarkably like his father, so that Huguenots trembled to behold him, while Catholics exulted. The Admiral they had also seen – stern of face, handsome, though in a different manner from the arrogant and dashing Henry of Guise. A great and a good man, it was said; and yet if he had had a hand in the murder of that young boy’s father, it could be well understood that there was danger of strife within the castle walls to-day.

Catherine was pleased with the arrangements she had made. Once the two men had kissed in friendship, the young Duke must cease vowing vengeance on the Admiral. The fact that Coligny had come to Blois should show him that the Admiral wished to be friends. And, on his part, when the Admiral took the boy in his arms, he must think of him, not as the son of his old enemy, but as a young boy who had lost his father.

There was one other who occupied Catherine’s thoughts on that day – the Prince of Condé, who was now a widower. It was said that the Prince of Condé grieved deeply for his Princess, but he was living as gaily as ever. Catherine felt uncomfortable when she remembered how once she had not been so wise as she was to-day; she had thought a little too often and too tenderly of that man. How easy it would have been to have committed follies on his account! There should be no more folly. At least King Henry had been faithful to one mistress, and Catherine had known who was her enemy.

She felt strengthened in her wisdom. She learned, it was true, often through bitter lessons, but when a lesson was mastered, it should be mastered for life. No more tender feelings, then. Men were made not to love, but to serve her.

These men gathered together here at Blois were here to serve her. It suited her that they should be friends … outwardly at least. She wanted no more civil strife, for every time it occurred she and her family were in danger. She should not feel the least regret that Condé was a philanderer bringing disrepute on his party, for Condé’s weakness added to her strength. That was how men should be used – not to give a brief erotic pleasure. If she had at one time fancied she would enjoy a lover, she no longer did. She was grateful to her tally of years, for it had brought her wisdom; it had stilled her longing for what was, at best, transient; it had made her grasp with both hands and hold firmly to what should henceforth be the love of her life – power.

In the great hall at Blois were assembled men and women of the highest rank. The light came through the coloured glass of the embrasured windows, shining on the jewels and rich garments of her guests. Catherine had decided that she herself would proclaim the innocence of Coligny before them all, and command that kiss of friendship between the Admiral and Henry of Guise.

There was Anna d’Esté, the widowed Duchess of Guise, keeping close to the side of her son. Surely Anna need not have appeared in such deep mourning! Catherine laughed to herself. Poor Anna! Meek as a lamb. She would be glad enough, if allowed by her ferocious son and her brother-in-law, to accept reconciliation. Anna hated bloodshed. Catherine remembered how she had protested at the Amboise massacre. She could not bear to see men tortured; she could not bear to see them butchered. Hardly the sort of woman to have mated with Le Balafré; yet it was said that he had been fond of her for her gentleness, and that theirs had been a comparatively happy marriage. Besides, her rank doubtless compensated the ambitious Duke for her mildness. Yes, Catherine felt sure that it was Anna’s son and her brothers-in-law who had insisted on that ostentatious mourning.

There was Duke Henry beside her, already proclaiming to the world, with his arrogant demeanour, that he was head of the great House of Lorraine and Guise – the most feared, the most important in the country. Margot was eyeing him in an unseemly manner for which she should be punished later. When Margot met her mother’s eyes she smiled innocently, but Catherine’s expression grew a shade colder as she surveyed her daughter, and she knew that she had caused icy shivers to run through that body which, a moment before, had thrilled at the handsome arrogance of Henry of Guise.

There too was the Cardinal of Lorraine, the marks of his dissipation already marring the almost incomparable beauty of his features. It was said that there was nothing sufficiently licentious to please the Cardinal now; his erotic senses must be titillated as regularly as his palate. His mistresses were numerous. In his Cardinal’s robes, adorned with magnificent jewels, he attracted every eye, the debauched man of the Church, the Catholic lecher. He bowed to Catherine, and his gaze as he met hers was haughty.

‘Welcome, my lord Cardinal,’ said Catherine. ‘It does me good to see your pious face.’

‘May I be so bold as to say that it does me good to see your Majesty’s honest one? Madame, you are a light in our court. Your shining virtues are an example to everyone; and above all, your Majesty’s deep sincerity puts us all to shame.’

‘You flatter me, Cardinal.’

‘Nothing, dear Madame, was farther from my mind.’

‘Then I will not flatter you, dear Cardinal. I will only say that the whole of France should take as an example the piety and virtue of such a man of God.’

She turned to greet another. She was thinking: One of these days that lecher shall take a goblet of wine, shall eat of roast peacock, or perhaps finger some beautiful jewel – and then, no more of Monsieur le Cardinal!

But what was the use of thinking thus? She must continually guard against her impulse to destroy these notable people. Francis of Guise was dead – let that suffice for the moment – for who knew what the result of his death would be?

If a member of the Flying Squadron became impertinent, if a minor statesman became intransigent, then the procedure was simple; but with these prominent men and women it was always necessary to work in secret, to approach the object by devious roads, along which it was imperative to leave no traces. She would have to postpone dealing with the Cardinal.

Coligny was approaching. Ah, there was a man who was as easy to read as a book. Now he was looking stern, and his cold features said quite clearly: It is no wish of mine to be here. I have no desire for the friendship of the Catholic Guises. I was commanded to come. I gave my word that I would come; so come I did.

‘Well met, Admiral,’ said Catherine. ‘It pleases me to see you here.’

‘I but obeyed your command, Madame.’

Catherine tried to infuse into her expression that deep sincerity which had been the object of the Cardinal’s jibe. But Coligny, that straightforward, honest man, was not the wily Cardinal. If the Queen Mother appeared sincere to him, Coligny would not doubt that she was so.

‘Forgive a weak woman’s desire for peace in her realm, dear Admiral.’

He bowed. ‘I have no desire at any time but to carry out your Majesty’s wishes.’

He passed on, and Catherine looked about her; she did not see the Duke of Aumale among the assembly, although she had commanded his presence.

She called to the Duchess of Guise: ‘Madame, I do not see your brother Aumale here.’

‘No, Madame. He is not here.’

‘Why not?’

‘Madame, he suffers from a fever.’

Catherine’s eyes narrowed. ‘A fever of pride!’ she said angrily. She beckoned young Henry of Guise to her side. How attractive he was! And how handsome! And what a man he would be one day!

‘I am grieved not to see your uncle Aumale,’ she said.

‘I am sorry that your Majesty should be grieved.’

‘A fever?’ she said.

‘Madame, you sent no express command to him.’

‘I said I wished your family to be present.’

‘Madame, he thought that, as your Majesty wished our family to be represented, you would only need myself and my uncle, the Cardinal.’

‘I wished Aumale to be here,’ said Catherine haughtily. ‘It is no good excuse to plead a fever.’

‘Madame,’ said the boy, ‘it is not pleasant for members of my family to show friendship to their enemies.’

‘Have a care, boy,’ she said. ‘I’ll have you thrashed if you give yourself airs. You are not yet a man, you know. A short while ago you were in the nursery. It would be well for you to remember that.’

Many watching eyes noticed the sudden heightened colour of the young Duke.

‘My dear Duke,’ continued Catherine more gently, ‘it would be well for you to remember your youth and the need for obedience.’

Henry bowed formally and left the Queen Mother.

It would not be a good policy, Catherine realised, to have the Colignys and the Guises sitting near each other at table; she had taken the precaution of ensuring that they were separated by other guests. And when the feast was over, Catherine rose to address the assembly:

‘Lords and ladies, you know that I have asked you here for a purpose this day, and my purpose is to put an end to evil rumour; for rumour is a foolish thing and when it is without truth it is an evil thing indeed. We mourn the untimely death of our dearly beloved Duke Francis of Guise, our greatest soldier, slain by the hand of a cowardly assassin. That in itself was a foul deed, and we offer to the bereaved family our sincerest condolence while we mourn with them for one we loved as our own brother. But the rumours which have circulated since his death have been as evil as that bloody deed, and there is one man among us here – one of our finest men, a man whom we all honour and revere – who has been accused of complicity in the murder of the Duke.

‘Lords and ladies, these rumours are evil. They are proved to be slanders. The assassin has confessed them to be lies; and for that reason I have brought together here my greatly respected Admiral of France and the one who has perhaps suffered more than any of us from this horrible deed. I mean, of course, Duke Francis’s son, Duke Henry of Guise, who is now the head of his house and who will, I know, bring it honour and glory as his father did before him. Admiral Gaspard de Coligny and Henry Duke of Guise, come forth.’

They stepped forward slowly towards the Queen Mother: the Admiral pale-faced, his mouth sternly set, the Duke with the rich colour in his face and his head held high.

Catherine stood between them. ‘Give me your hand, Admiral,’ she said. ‘And yours, my lord Duke.’

She placed their two right hands together. Henry’s was limp in that of the Admiral; his left hand rested on his sword.

There was silence while the two enemies faced each other and made it quite obvious to all that they had no liking for what the Queen Mother was pleased to consider a reconciliation. But Catherine had little understanding of others. Had she been in Coligny’s place, she would have made a great show of embracing Henry of Guise, hoping thereby to assure the spectators of her wish for friendship. If she had been Henry of Guise, she would have accepted Coligny’s embrace while she made her plans to destroy him. Catherine’s greatest weakness was her lack of understanding of others.

‘I would have you show us that you are friends, and that all enmity is forgotten in the kiss of peace,’ she said.

Coligny leaned forward to kiss Henry on the cheek, but the young Duke stood up straight and said, so clearly that all in the room might hear it: ‘Madame, I could not kiss a man whose name has been mentioned in connection with the tragic death of my father.’

Catherine would have liked to slap that arrogant young face, and to call to the guards to have him taken down to one of the dungeons where his proud spirit might be broken. But she smiled pathetically as though to say: ‘Ah, the arrogance of youth!’

She patted him on the shoulder and said something about his recent loss, and that he had shaken hands, which they would all accept as sufficient proof of his friendly feelings towards the Admiral.

There were murmurings throughout the hall. The ceremony had become a farce. Catherine knew it, but she would not admit it; and, looking at the tall, proud figure and the flushed face of that arrogant boy, she knew that as soon as Francis of Guise had been laid in his grave, there was another, made in his own shape, to take his place, to torment her, to give her cause for anxiety in the years to come.

That murmuring in the hall, Catherine knew, meant approval. It meant: ‘The Duke is dead. Long live the Duke!’

The King of France was happy; never in the whole of his life had he been so happy. He was in love, and his love was returned.

He had met Marie on one of his journeys through his realm. She was as young as he was, and as shy. She had not realised when she had first met him that he was the King of France; and that was what was so enchanting about the affair. She loved him, not his rank; and for the first time in his life the one he loved loved him.

Mary of Scotland had become a dream. Marie Touchet, the provincial judge’s daughter, was the reality. Marie was delightful, so young, so innocent, so unworldly. She had wanted to run away when she knew that her lover was the King of France.

‘Dearest Marie,’ he had said, ‘that is of no account. It is I, Charles, whom you love, and you must go on loving me, for I need love. I need love as no other man in France needs it.’

It was possible to tell her of his black moods of melancholy and how, when they were over, it was necessary to go out and do violence. ‘Now I have you, my darling, it may be that there will not be these moods. I have black fears, Marie – terrible fears which descend upon me by night, and I must shout and scream and see blood flow to soften these moods.’

She comforted him and soothed him, and they made love. He had installed her in the palace. His mother knew of his love for Marie.

‘So you are a man after all, my son!’ she said with a hint of grim amusement in her voice.

‘How do you mean, Madame?’

‘Just that, my dear boy. You are a man.’

‘Mother, you like Marie, do you not?’ His eyes were fearful. Catherine smiled, looking into them; he knew that if she did not like Marie, Marie would not stay long in the palace and he would not long enjoy the comfort and joy she brought him. His hands trembled while he waited for his mother’s answer.

‘Marie? Your little mistress? Why, I scarcely noticed her.’

‘How glad I am!’

‘What? Glad that your choice of a mistress is such that she is noticed neither for her wit nor her beauty?’

‘Madame,’ he said, ‘those who remain unnoticed by you are the safest.’

She looked at him sharply, and saw that obstinacy in his face which she had noticed before. He would not lightly let her take his mistress from him. And why should she? What harm could the little Touchet do? She was of no importance whatever. Touchet was safe enough.

‘Ah, enjoy yourself, my son,’ she said. ‘The duties of kingship are hard, but the privileges are rewarding. No woman, however virtuous, can resist a King.’

He stammered: ‘You do Marie wrong. She did not know … who I was. She loved me ere …’

Catherine patted his shoulder. ‘There, my son. Your mother but teased you. Go and enjoy your little Touchet to your heart’s content, I like her well enough. She is such a mild little playfellow.’

He kissed her hand, and she was pleased with him; he still obeyed her; that was what she wanted.

They had not been able to make a pervert of him. Nevertheless, it was hardly likely that he would procreate offspring. It would be an interesting experiment to let him be tried out on the little Touchet. If there was no child within a reasonable time, it might be safe to get him married and satisfy the people of France.

Henry was growing up. He was seventeen. Young yet for kingship, but in a few years’ time he would be ready. She must watch Charles, though. He must not think that, because he took a mistress, he was like other young men. He was not quite sane; he must never be allowed to forget that.

Charles had changed. Marie inspired him, gave him confidence, listened to his accounts of how his mother favoured his brother Henry. ‘He is to her as her right eye, Marie. There are times when I believe she wants the throne for him.’

‘Then she cannot have it for him,’ said Marie with sound provincial common sense. ‘Not while it is yours.’

In Marie’s company he felt truly a King.

One day his attendants came to him and told him that the Queen of Navarre, who was at court, wished to have a word with him.

He received her warmly, for he was fond of Jeanne, who was so calm and serene; she had the very qualities which he lacked and which he longed to possess. It was true that she was a Huguenot but – and he had determined that none should know this – Marie had confessed to him that she had leanings towards the Huguenot Faith, and though he had bidden her to tell no one, he felt a friendliness for the Huguenots that he had never felt before.

Jeanne was ushered into his presence. She kissed his hand.

‘You have something to say to me, dear Aunt,’ said Charles. ‘Shall I ask my mother if she will join us?’

‘Sire, I beg of you, do no such thing, for I would rather talk to you alone.’

Charles was flattered. People usually requested his mother’s presence, because they knew that nothing important could be decided without her.

‘Proceed then,’ said Charles, feeling just as a King should feel.

‘Sire, as you know, I am leaving Paris in the next few days to visit Picardy. I have long been separated from my son, and I think that the time has come for him to be presented to his vassals in Vendôme, through which I shall pass. I ask your most gracious permission for him to accompany me.’

‘But, my dear Aunt,’ said the King, ‘if it is your wish, certainly Henry shall go with you.’

‘Then I have your permission, Sire?’

He saw the joy in her face, and tears rushed to his eyes. How delightful it was to be able to give so much pleasure by granting a small request! It mattered not to him whether the noisy lustful Henry of Navarre left the court or not.

‘You have my permission,’ he said in his most royal manner.

‘I thank you with all my heart, Sire.’ She seized his hand and kissed it.

‘Dearest Aunt,’ he said, ‘I am glad to be able to please you.’

‘You have given your word,’ she said, ‘and I know that nothing will make you break it. May I go, Sire, and give this wonderful news to my son?’

‘Go by all means,’ said Charles.

She retired, while he sat smiling, thinking that it was sometimes very pleasant to be a King.

Catherine walked up and down the apartment while Charles sat miserably watching her – not a King now so much as a foolish boy.

‘Have you no more intelligence,’ demanded Catherine, for once shaken out of her calm, ‘than to let that wily she-wolf come and snatch the heir of Navarre from under our noses? What hope will you have, my lord, of subduing the Huguenots, when you let your most precious hostage go? You give him away. No conditions. Nothing! “I want my son,” she says, “my little Henry. He needs his Maman!” And you, like the little fool you are, say: “You may take him, dearest Aunt. He is only a boy …” Fool! Idiot! He was a hostage. The heir of Navarre … in our hands! If Jeanne of Navarre had dared threaten us – and I mean you and your brothers – I would have threatened her with the death or the imprisonment of her precious boy. And you, you fool, would give him back! I shall not allow it. The boy shall stay here. And never dare give an order again without my permission. Never grant a request without first asking me if you may do so.’

‘But she is his mother, and she asked for him with tears in her eyes. They have been so long separated. I could not refuse her.’

‘You could not refuse her! And others have heard you grant this request, I doubt not?’

Charles was silent.

‘This was so, was it not?’ demanded his mother.

‘Yes. Others heard.’

‘Fool! To think I should have such a son! Your brother Henry would never have behaved with such folly. But I shall cancel the order. Navarre shall not be allowed to leave the court. His mother shall go alone. Stop stammering and trembling, and sign this order.’

‘But I gave my word.’

‘You will sign this at once.’

Charles cried shrilly: ‘I am tired of being told that Henry would do this and Henry would do that. Henry does not happen to be the King of this realm. I am. I am … and when I say …’

‘Sign this,’ said Catherine. She pushed him into a chair and put the pen into his hand. He looked over his shoulder; her face was near his – very pale, her eyes enormous. He trembled more than before. He felt that she saw right through to his soul.

He began to write.

‘That is well,’ she said. ‘Now we can remedy your rash act. Oh, my son, I know you do this out of the kindness of your heart, but always remember that I am here to love and advise you. Never decide such weighty matters without first consulting your mother, whose one thought is to make you happy and’ – her face came closer to his – ‘and … safe. Why, Charles, my dear son, what you have done might let loose civil war. And what if your enemies should be triumphant? Eh, what then? What if they took you prisoner? You would not relish lying in a dank dungeon … close to the torture-rooms … the rats your companions … until …’

‘Pray cease,’ whimpered the King. ‘You are right. You are always right. Navarre must not go. I have signed it. You will stop his going. You will stop it.’

She nodded. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is my wise little King.’

But Jeanne was not so easy to handle as Charles had been. The two women faced each other, and each felt that overwhelming hatred between them which had always been there, and yet at times was greater than at others.

‘My dear cousin, I cannot allow you to take the boy away, I look upon him as my own. Moreover, if he is to marry my daughter, he must be brought up with her. You know it has always been our wish to let the young people get fond of each other … as these two are doing. It does my heart good to see them together.’

‘Madame,’ Jeanne replied, ‘all that you say is true. But my son has spent so much time at the court, and it is well that he should be reminded of his own kingdom.’

‘We will see that he does not forget that. No, Madame. I love the boy too well to let him go.’

‘I also love him,’ insisted his mother, ‘and, but for the fact that I feel he should be allowed to visit his dominions, I should be delighted to leave him in your care.’

Catherine smiled. ‘I am going to keep him because, Madame, I know what is best for him. You have only recently come to Paris, and therefore you do not see as clearly as I do what is happening here. I know that it is best for little Henry that he stays with his cousins and learns the manners of our court. I must confess that when he first came to us I was a little astonished. He had the manners of a barbarian. Now there is a great improvement in him. I should not like to see him turned into a country lout.’

Catherine watched the angry colour flood Jeanne’s face.

Jeanne said: ‘Madame, you need have no qualms on that score. My son would have the best tutors available.’

‘But these are more easily obtainable in Paris than in Béarn. My dearest cousin, I insist on his remaining here.’

But Jeanne was wily, and did not allow the matter to rest there.

Later, when Charles and Catherine were surrounded by members of the court, she had the effrontery to bring the matter up again.

‘I cannot believe,’ she said, ‘that any obstacle will be put in the way of my taking my son with me.’

Catherine answered coolly: ‘But that, Madame, is a matter which we have settled.’

‘The King,’ Jeanne persisted, ‘graciously promised that my son should accompany me when I left Paris. Many will bear witness to that. I feel sure, Madame, that when you said this promise was cancelled, your Majesty was joking, for I know that it would bring too great a discredit on His Majesty to suppose him capable of breaking his word.’

The King flushed slightly. He felt bold now, surrounded by so many courtiers.

‘You are right, Madame,’ he said. ‘The promise shall be fulfilled, for I made it and it must be so.’

Catherine, for once, had the humiliation of seeing herself defeated. Nor could she protest in such company. She would have liked to kill Jeanne and Charles as they stood there. Instead she smiled calmly.

‘So be it,’ she said. ‘The King has spoken. Madame, I rely on you to ensure that the peace and repose of France shall not be put in danger.’

Jeanne bowed. ‘Your Majesty honours me by asking my cooperation in maintaining such a state of affairs. I shall never fail in my devotion to my sovereign.’ She paused; then she added: ‘Only the peril or destruction of my own house could make me change those sentiments.’

And the next day Jeanne set out from Paris, and riding with her was her son.

Catherine proved herself to have been right when she had explained to her son what a foolish thing he had done in giving up to Jeanne their most precious hostage. Civil war had broken out once more in France.

At one time the King and his court had to fly from Meaux to Paris for fear of Condé’s troops; Catherine was more shaken by this event than by any that had happened for months. The killing of French Protestants by Catholics and Catholics by Protestants merely made her shrug her shoulders, but the thought of the royal House of Valois in danger always terrified her. Coligny’s plan, she knew, had been to kidnap the King and set Condé up in his place.

Those were bitter days for Catherine. The Queen of England, the Duke of Savoy, and the Marquis of Brandenburg sent money and men to Condé’s aid. In despair, Catherine appealed to Spain, but although that country was willing to give aid, Spain never gave anything without taking something in exchange; and Catherine feared Philip more than she feared Condé. Therefore she arranged the Peace of Langjumeaux. But Catherine could not forget her fears of what might have happened if the Huguenots had been successful in capturing the King; and in spite of the new peace there began plots and counter-plots. Catherine plotted to capture Condé and young Henry of Navarre. Condé – now married again – narrowly escaped capture, and orders were given that he should be pursued and that the Catholics should be incited to fresh massacres of Huguenots. The wars started once more; and Jeanne, with her son, Condé and Coligny, had made their headquarters in the Huguenot stronghold of La Rochelle.

There was one great happiness which Catherine enjoyed at this time, and that was due to the reputation her son Henry was gaining on the battlefield. It was the more gratifying because it was so unexpected. Who would have thought that Henry, with his dandyism, his love of fine jewels and garments, always surrounded by those handsome and effeminate young men, would be the one to distinguish himself as a soldier!

Henry was clever. Even his enemies admitted that. He was witty and a devotee of the fine arts. He was very good-looking, though in a way which the French called ‘foreign’. His long dark eyes showed clearly his Italian origins; his white, perfectly formed hands were the most beautiful at court, and it was his great delight to set them off with sparkling jewels. And this effeminate Henry was becoming a great general! He was also becoming very ambitious, and already he was waiting impatiently for the throne. He was, like his mother, calculating how long young Charles could be expected to live.

Catherine had suffered a loss recently in the death of her daughter Elisabeth, who had died in childbirth. She had not loved Elisabeth as she loved Henry, but she had been proud of her daughter’s position in the world, and it had given her pleasure to contemplate Elisabeth on the throne of Spain. But Henry, that beloved son, compensated her for all else. It was the delight of her life to find that he listened to her as he listened to no other, that he brought all his plans to her and that he rarely acted without consulting her. In all her trials, in all her fears, there was Henry to be a comfort to her.

The mother of Henry of Navarre surveyed her son with nothing like the same complacency. He was just fourteen, but those years he had spent at the French court had, it seemed, already made a man of him. He was popular enough; the citizens of La Rochelle cheered him wherever he went. They could smile at those very qualities which alarmed his mother.

In Jeanne’s train there was a young girl, Corisanda d’Andouins, who was not very much older than Henry. This girl had recently been married to the son of the Count of Gramont, a man whom Jeanne greatly respected and whose friendship she felt to be important to her cause. But young Henry, having such little respect for the marriage laws that he could completely disregard them, had fallen violently in love with Corisanda.

He followed the girl everywhere, and Jeanne discovered that secret meetings were taking place. The whole of La Rochelle was discussing this affair between the heir of Béarn and Madame Corisanda.

Jeanne watched in alarm the indications of what her boy was to become. She remonstrated with him. He was good-natured and lazy. He agreed with her quite charmingly, but this, he explained, was love. He lifted his shoulders in an elegant fashion which he must have learned at the French court. His mother was old-fashioned; she was of the country, and she did not understand. Love? Love was all-important. His mother must have no fears for him; he would lead his men into battle; but when it was a matter of love – ‘Ah then, my mother, that is a matter between the mistress and the lover.’

Jeanne cried: ‘You mean that this woman is already your mistress? You … a boy?’

‘Not such a boy!’ he said, holding his head high.

All Jeanne’s puritanical instincts rose in revolt; but when she looked into that vital young face and was aware of that immense sensuality, she knew that protest was in vain. Here again was his father, her father, her uncle, Francis the First. They were men, and whether they were strong or weak in battle, there must always be women to give them what they asked.

‘How think you the Huguenot citizens of France will view this licentiousness in their leaders?’ she asked him.

He lifted his shoulders. ‘The French, be they Catholics or Huguenots, will always understand what it means to love.’

And with that he left her to keep his engagement with the erring Corisanda.

Margot was growing up; she had long been aware of this, but others were noticing it now.

There was strife between the royal brothers. Charles was jealous of his mother’s preference for Henry. He never felt safe in Henry’s presence. Henry watched him continually. And, as Charles often confided to Marie Touchet, Henry was not a Frenchman whom one could understand; he was an Italian, and Frenchmen were suspicious of Italians.

Henry came home from his victorious campaign, grown more handsome, more ambitious. He noticed his sister Margot and how she had grown up since he had last seen her. He saw too in her something which the other members of his family did not possess. Margot was little more than a child; she was as yet undeveloped; but it was not difficult to see that there was a good deal of sense in that vain little head.

Henry decided to utilise it. He knew that he and Charles would always be enemies, and he decided to have Margot on his side.

He asked her to take a walk with him in the grounds of Fontainebleau, and Margot, sensing the importance of this, since she guessed the matter was too momentous to be discussed indoors, was gratified. She was always ready for excitement and intrigue.

As she walked with him through the green alley of the palace garden, Henry put his arm about his sister’s shoulders – a gesture which delighted Margot, for she was no less aware of Henry’s position with their mother than Charles was, and the favour of Henry was greatly to be desired on that account. Margot feared her mother more than anyone on Earth, but at the same time she earnestly longed for her approbation. A friendship with Catherine’s darling might result in her finding favour with Catherine.

‘You may have noticed, dear Margot,’ said Henry, ‘that, of all my brothers and sisters, I have always loved you the best.’

Margot smiled happily, for if Henry regarded her in that light, so must her mother.

‘We have had many happy times together,’ went on Henry, ‘but we are children no longer.’

‘No, Henry. Indeed we are not. You are a great soldier. You have made a name for yourself.’

He pressed her hand and, putting his face close to hers, he said: ‘Margot, my power lies in keeping in the good graces of our mother, the Queen.’

Margot agreed with that.

‘And, Margot, I am away from the court so much. The wars continue. My brother the King is always beside her. He flatters her and obeys her in everything.’

‘But she would never love any as she loves you, Henry. It has always been so.’

He said: ‘I have many enemies who might do me harm with my mother … when I am not here to protect myself.’

‘Charles thinks of little else but making love to Marie Touchet and hunting wild creatures.’

‘He makes hate as well as love, and he will not always be content to hunt beasts. One day he will take my Lieutenancy from me and try to lead the army himself. I wish to have someone here at court to uphold my cause with the Queen. You, dearest sister, are my second self. You are faithful and clever. Do this for me. Be with my mother always – at her lever, at her coucher. Listen to what is said, and find some means of letting me know. Make her confide in you. You understand?’

Margot’s eyes were sparkling. ‘Yes. I understand, Henry.’

‘I will speak to her of you. I will tell her how fond I am of you. I will tell her that you are my beloved sister, my second self. As for you, you must not be so much afraid of her. Speak up when she addresses you. In doing those things for me, you will do much for yourself.’

Henry put his hands on Margot’s shoulders and looked into her eyes; he saw there what he wanted. Henry was the hero of the war; and Margot, a young and impressionable girl, was ready to adore him; she was ready to be his slave and to work for him against the King.

Henry took her along to Catherine and told his mother how fond he was of his sister, and of the part he had asked her to play for him at the court. Catherine drew her daughter to her and kissed her on the forehead.

‘So you are to guard your brother’s interests at court, dear Margot?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘You will have to give up your silliness, your frivolity. You will have to watch your brothers … and their friends.’

‘That I will do, Mother.’

‘Well, my daughter, I shall help you in this. Henry, my son and your brother, is as dear to me as my life. Is he so to you?’

‘Yes, Madame.’

Catherine then embraced her son and, as her mother’s cold hands touched her, Margot felt that she had become a member of a trinity; and this was none the less exciting because the trinity might be an unholy one.

Growing up was an enchanting experience. Margot had other matters with which to concern herself now. She played the spy with all the verve of which she was capable. She was coming to the fore; she was always at her mother’s lever and coucher; she was often in the company of the King; she was ready to continue in her adoration of her absent brother.

But there was one other trait in Margot’s nature which both her mother and her brother had temporarily forgotten. If Margot was to grow up, she would do so in more ways than one. She was continually occupied with her dresses; she became the most fashionable lady of the court; she wore a golden wig over her long black hair one day, and a red one the next. All fashions inaugurated by Margot were provocative, designed to titillate the senses of the male.

And Henry of Guise came to court.

Henry too had grown up; they were man and woman now, not boy and girl. He sought the first opportunity of being alone with Margot to tell her of his feelings.

‘I always loved you,’ he told her as they strolled in the gardens.

‘And I … you, Henry.’

Margot could not keep her hands from the fine coat or the golden curly hair and beard. Margot was not the only one who thought there was no man in France, or in the world, to compare with Henry of Guise; others said that the Guises made all other men seem insignificant when they came among them.

‘We will be married,’ declared Henry. ‘I know that it can be arranged.’

‘It must be arranged,’ agreed Margot.

He took her hands, and kissed them eagerly with burning kisses which made Margot’s passions flame.

‘It will not be so easy as it would have been if my father was alive,’ Henry warned her.

Margot was in his arms, all desire and urgency.

‘Nevertheless, it must be,’ she said.

‘Margot … I cannot wait for marriage.’

Margot laughed. ‘Nor I!’

‘Where can we be alone?’

Intrigue was exciting, but passionate intrigue was the most delightful thing in Margot’s world. How could she have set such store on spying for her brother Henry when she could be the mistress of this completely fascinating Henry?

It was not difficult for Margot to find a place where they could be together.

And after that there was nothing of any importance for Margot but these passionate meetings with her lover. She was insatiable. She could never have enough of Henry. He was her lover – the only person on Earth, she discovered, who was really important to her. For him she would die. She declared that she would never marry any other man. The meetings grew more frequent, and the more frequent the more necessary they became to Margot. Sensual, passionate in the extreme, she had discovered something which she could not do without.

She was impetuous. She wanted an immediate marriage. Henry was more cautious. He was as passionate, as sensual as Margot – they were as well matched a pair as any lovers could be – but while for Margot there was nothing but love, for Henry there was also ambition. He was the Duke of Guise, head of the mighty House of Lorraine besides being Margot’s lover, and his upbringing would not allow him to forget that. And even while he was making passionate love to Margot he could not help remembering that she was a Princess of the House of Valois, and therefore a match with her would be the most suitable he could possibly make.

‘We must not be careless,’ said Henry.

‘Oh, Henry, my darling, what do we care?’

‘We must care, Margot; for nothing must stand in the way of our marriage. We can never be completely happy until then. Just think what marriage would mean to us … always together.’

She kissed him wildly. ‘I will never let you leave me. I will follow you to camp. You do not imagine that I should let you go alone!’

‘No,’ he said. ‘We must never be parted. That must be our aim. Margot, you are so impetuous. We must wait … and watch … and act carefully. What if people tried to separate us?’

She pressed her body against his. She was not really thinking of anything but the desire of the moment. He laughed, but he was a little uneasy. Margot was an ideal mistress and he adored her; but there were times when he wondered what violence of passion, what sensuality he had awakened. He had never known anyone like this gay little Princess of France with the flashing dark eyes and the eager, sensual lips, the clinging hands, the urgent desire. He was young and virile himself, but he found Margot astonishing.

She would not discuss anything seriously. She wanted him at once … this moment. Never mind if they were in the gardens. Who would come to this spot? Who would dare say a word against the Princess Margot and the Duke of Guise?

‘My darling,’ said Henry, ‘I want you as much as you want me, but I want our marriage. I want to make sure of our union. I want it to be firm and secure … for the rest of our lives.’

She ran her fingers through his hair. ‘But, Henry, of course it shall be.’

‘The Queen Mother does not love me; nor does the King.’

‘But you are a Prince and I am a Princess; and I will have none other but you.’

‘I know. I know. But caution, my darling!’

But she was not listening. She was laughing up at Henry, and he, young and passionate as herself, could not help but find her irresistible.

The lovers thought their love unnoticed, but this was not the case; and one of the important people who had seen how matters stood between the Princess Margot and the young Duke of Guise was the Duke’s uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine.

The Cardinal was amused as well as delighted. He himself had known many erotic adventures – in fact, he was at his wit’s end nowadays to find some new diversion that could attract him. He was ready to give a good deal to any young and handsome person – man or woman – who could show him a little novelty. But regarding this affair of his nephew and the Princess he was not displeased, although Henry was being a young fool in this, and he thought it his duty to warn him.

He asked the boy to come to his apartments and, making sure that they were unobserved and that there were no means of communication behind the hangings, he told the Duke what was in his mind.

‘None of the diabolical instruments of that old serpent the Queen Mother can reach us, nephew, so let us talk without reserve. I notice that you are enjoying a charming interlude with the Princess Margot.’

Henry flushed a little. ‘If you mean that I love her, that is so.’

The Cardinal lifted his beautiful white hand and studied the rubies and sapphires which adorned it. ‘I wish to congratulate you. What a delightful mistress she must be! You are a fortunate man.’

Henry bowed stiffly. In view of his uncle’s reputation, he did not care to discuss Margot with him, or to contemplate those lecherous eyes and read the thoughts behind them.

‘I would prefer not to discuss my relationship with the Princess,’ he said.

‘But that is exactly what we must do. Oh, mistake me not. Do not think I wish to question you as to the most exciting experience you must be enjoying. I can imagine that it is charming – incomparable, in fact – for I doubt if there is, even at this court, a young lady who is so naturally knowledgeable in the greatest of our arts. But you are young, you are sensitive and you are in love; and you do not care to discuss your mistress with a man of my reputation. You see, nephew, I understand. I read your thoughts. Well, let us discuss the practical rather than the romantic. Nephew, I am proud of you. The House of Lorraine is proud of you. If you had made the Princess your wife instead of your mistress, we should be even more proud of you; for what we would like more than anything, dear boy, is to see the Houses of Lorraine and Valois united. The marriage would be an ideal one.’

‘It would indeed,’ said the young Duke. ‘And it is my earnest desire that it should be brought about.’

‘I wish to help you in that, but do not imagine that you can go to the King and the Queen Mother and say, “I offer my hand and fortune to the Princess Margot.” It is not so easy as that. The serpent has other plans for her loving daughter.’

‘I shall do everything in my power to flout them.’

‘Yes, yes. But reasonably, sensibly. You must not walk about the court with the Princess, both of you letting your looks and your gestures proclaim to the court what a good time you are giving each other.’

‘But … we have not!’

‘Your faces, your smiles have spoken. They tell us that Margot is a maid no longer. Margot proclaims to the world all that she has enjoyed and all that she intends to enjoy … even if you do not. This must not continue. Whether the Queen Mother knows of this yet, or whether affairs of state occupy her too closely, I cannot say; but if she did discover it, I would beg of you to watch your food and wine. Always make one of your attendants taste first. Never buy gloves, books or a garment from any but a man you are sure you can trust. Catherine and her Italians have learned more tricks in their lifetimes than we French have acquired through the centuries. Have a care, nephew. Catherine is negotiating a match for Margot with the Prince of Portugal. She would not therefore at this time be in favour of a match with our house.’

‘There have been so many negotiations for Margot. First Henry of Navarre, then Don Carlos, now the Prince of Portugal.’

‘That does not mean that one of these may not come to something.’

‘I shall never allow that.’

‘Now listen, my nephew: it is all very well to be gallant and noble in the presence of your mistress. With your old statesman uncle you must be frank. You want to marry Princess Margot. I, and all our house, will help you in this. Therefore I beg of you to go carefully. Try to hide your intentions for a time, until the moment comes when it is good policy to show them. Dear boy, you are as close to me as though you were my own son – closer, in fact, for are you not the head of our house? My brothers, your uncles, all have discussed this matter with me, and we have agreed that nothing could advance our house more than this marriage with the Princess. But you must take care. We do not wish to see you in your grave. Your brothers, Charles and Louis, have not your qualities. You must therefore take our considered advice in this matter, which is this: continue to enjoy your mistress; bind her closer to you; but act with more secrecy, and, moreover, it will be as well if you pay court to another lady to divert suspicion. That should not be difficult, for I have heard it said that there is no young man at the court of France who can compare with Henry, Duke of Guise; and there are few women who could resist him. Your success with Mademoiselle Margot, I imagine, did not demand a great effort on your part. My boy, you have charm, you have good looks, you have power and rank. In fact, you have everything. Do not dissipate these assets, but use them to good advantage. Now, the Princess of Clèves watches you, my boy, with languishing glances; she is pining for you. It would not seem amiss if you paid court to her, for she would be a good match.’

‘I have no intention of marrying anyone but Margot.’

‘Of course you do not wish to marry any but Margot; nor do we wish it. But on account of the Queen Mother and her spies, pay a little court to the Princess of Clèves. Do not let the Queen Mother think that you have hopes of Margot, for I greatly fear that if she did she would not be very pleased. My dearest Henry, it is fatal when the Queen Mother turns those cold eyes upon a man and decides he has become a nuisance to her.’

‘Such an affair is repulsive to me.’

‘Oh, come come! Are you the head of a great house or are you a love-sick boy? Explain to Margot if need be. She will not be colder, I imagine, if she thinks you look elsewhere.’ The Cardinal laid his arm about Henry’s shoulders. ‘A great destiny may be yours,’ he whispered. ‘Look at Catherine’s sons: Charles, a little madman; Henry, a pervert; Hercule, that strutting coxcomb! And then … Navarre? A lazy good-for-nothing. I have seen in him something which tells me that he will be wax in the hands of women. Condé? Condé will not live long, depend upon it. Either some battle or the Queen Mother will finish him. Ah, my lord Duke, there are many between our house and the throne, I know, but the citizens of Paris love you as they loved your father. I have heard their shouting in the streets. Paris thinks for France, decides for France.’

Henry drew away; he could hear the shouts of the Parisians in his ears. King … King of France! And Margot his Queen!

The Cardinal smiled at the flushed, handsome face.

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘A marriage with a royal Valois Princess would doubtless clinch the matter. My boy, do not, in your reckless folly, spoil that chance. Act the statesman even while you act the lover.’

Margot was in a fury of jealousy, and Henry found it difficult to calm her.

How dared he look as he had looked at Catherine de Clèves? She had seen his smile; she had also seen the way the woman had answered it.

He tried to explain: ‘Margot, I love you more than anything in the world. I want no one but you. But others have noticed our love, and this must not be.’

‘Who? ‘Who?’ she demanded. ‘And what do I care? They will notice that you are playing me false with that creature. I hate her. I will have her banished. I could not believe that you could treat me so.’

It was necessary to make ardent love to her, to soothe her, to assure her a hundred times of his devotion to her alone. Then when she lay quiet beside him he decided to explain.

‘My uncle, the Cardinal, knows what is between us.’

‘That lecher! That man of God!’ she cried.

‘I know, my darling. But he has great wisdom. He says it is unsafe for us to show our love.’

‘Unsafe? He is a coward. He wears a suit of mail under his church robes. He fears someone may stab him, as he deserves to be stabbed.’

‘We must be wise, my Princess, my love. Our hearts would be broken if aught came between us.’

She wept and clung to him.

‘Swear to me that you do not love her.’

‘I love no one but you, Margot. I must pay some court to her, because to some we have made our love known. We must think of the future. We must marry, but at the moment everything would be against us. Your mother is negotiating for the Prince of Portugal. What do you think would happen if it were known that you and I have already been what we have been to one another?’

‘I do not know and I do not care. I only care that we should continue to be that to one another. I am afraid of my mother … oh, so terribly afraid. There is something in her that frightens me. But I would brave her anger; I would brave anything for this, Henry.’

He could only caress her, murmur endearments, undying fidelity, let himself be drawn into more passionate lovemaking.

‘Margot,’ he said at length, ‘understand me. Our whole future depends on this. When you see me smile at the Princess of Clèves, remember that my heart belongs to the Princess Margot.’

‘For every smile you give her, you must give me two. If you ever kiss her hands, you must pay twenty kisses to make up for that.’

She clasped her arms about his neck and strained herself against him. ‘Henry, my love, I adore you.’

‘And you will understand? You will know that every thing I do is to make our future secure, that I have no thought, no wish beyond my union with you?’

She drew his face down to hers, and her kisses, tender at first, grew warmer and more wild.

‘Oh, Margot, Margot,’ said the Duke of Guise, ‘there was never one like you in the whole of the world.’

She laughed. ‘If all women were like me there would be no wars, no politics. There would be no time for anything but love-making. But then, all men would have to be like you to make the women desire them so much – and there is no one in the world like you, my beloved.’

It was difficult to be wise with such a woman; when he was with Margot, Henry forgot that vision of a crown which, by sagacious diplomacy, might be his one day.

Margot, deep in her love affair, had completely forgotten that other Henry, her brother, for whom she had promised to play the spy.

Henry, returning from the wars, found her changed, and he, like the Cardinal of Lorraine, knew the meaning of the change in her. He was angry that she should have forgotten her promises to him, but when he discovered who her lover was, his anger increased to a fury.

Henry was clever enough to understand his sister’s nature. Margot made a good spy, but Margot was born to love men. Her lover would be all-important to her; she would betray anything or anybody – even her own brother – for the sake of the man she loved. Henry of Guise was probably already in possession of any secret he cared to know. Margot was the sort who would hold nothing back from the object of her passion.

It was perfectly simple to see what Guise was after. He wanted more than Margot; he wanted alliance with the Royal House. And Margot, the little fool, did not realise that the greatest enemy to the House of Valois was the House of Guise and Lorraine.

Henry sought out his sister.

‘You little fool!’ he cried. ‘You traitress! What is all this of you and Henry of Guise?’

Margot opened her lovely dark eyes very wide and looked at her brother in astonishment. Her lover had made it clear that, as they hoped for their marriage, they must at the moment keep their intentions secret. ‘I do not understand you,’ said Margot.

Henry took her by the shoulders and shook her.

‘You and he have been together …’

‘What makes you say so, Monsieur? And take your hands from me. Do not bring your camp manners to court.’

Henry was furious; Margot was to have been his creature. Now she was entirely Henry of Guise’s.

‘You have ignored my interests,’ he accused.

‘Indeed, there was nothing to report.’

‘You were too busy looking into the eyes of Henry of Guise.’

‘And you, my lord, have been listening to idle gossip.’

Henry left her and went to his mother.

‘You know of this affair between Margot and Guise?’

Catherine knew. She had, through her tubes, heard certain conversations between the lovers. The shamelessness of Margot made her laugh. Her spies had been secreted in certain places and had given her details of what had taken place between those two. It seemed to Catherine that she had a wanton for a daughter, a reckless, passionate girl who pursued Henry of Guise with complete lack of shame, just as she always had done since she was a child.

‘My dear son, Sebastian of Portugal will soon be here, and he will be made your sister’s husband.’

‘And in the meantime you allow her to behave as she does with Guise?’

‘It is too late to stop that now.’

‘The scandal …’

‘There will always be scandal concerning Margot. Besides, she goes into a new country where this scandal will not be known. I have made it clear to all those who have spoken of the matter to me that it would be better to remain silent on the subject.’

‘So meanwhile our lovers continue to enjoy each other.’

‘And never did two enjoy each other more!’ Catherine burst into coarse laughter. ‘And, my darling, you are back, and it is good to see you.’

‘Mother, she should be working for me.’

‘My darling, have you not learned yet that there is only one who works for you?’

‘I know it.’ He kissed her hand and, kneeling, let her fondle his hair. He was thinking of a very charming young man who had come to his notice recently: De Guast. What beauty! What elegance! He wanted nothing so much as to be with his new friend. It was irritating to find that Margot had betrayed him, to have to endure this very possessive love of his mother’s.

‘Mother,’ he said, ‘you do not take this affair of Margot’s in any great seriousness. Why? The Guises are our enemies. They are too powerful, too ambitious. Duke Henry is Duke Francis all over again.’

‘I am watching everything, my dear one. I shall let nothing injure you. I have them watched. When necessary, Monsieur de Guise shall receive his congé.’

‘For my sake,’ said the enraged Henry, ‘I beg of you to speed up my sister’s marriage with the Prince of Portugal.’

‘For your sake, my darling, I would lie down and die.’

He kissed her cheeks. She was happy, as she always was when he gave her a caress for which she had not asked. She smiled at him yearningly. This was how she had felt towards that other Henry who had humiliated her so shamefully with Diane de Poitiers. Loving a son was, she decided, a happier affair than loving a husband. She drew him to her and kissed him fondly. ‘Oh, my darling,’ she said, ‘it makes me happy to have you home.’

‘I am happy to be with you, Mother dear … And you will speed on the arrangements with Portugal?’

‘I will, my son.’

Margot was angry, but she did not believe for a moment that the marriage with Portugal would come to anything. Henry would not allow it. Henry and his powerful family wanted their marriage, and the Guises rarely failed in anything they undertook.

Her family were against her. Her brother Henry had now played on the emotions of her brother Charles; and in spite of the fact that she despised Charles, she had to remember that he was the King. It was always easy to work on Charles by telling him he was in danger of assassination. Brother Henry had told Charles some story about Henry of Guise’s ambitions to marry their sister and that, being a Guise – the son of Le Balafré – he already imagined he had some right to the throne of France. What a King he would make! thought Margot. And what a Queen she would be! The very thought made her clench and unclench her hands with the longing for him. The citizens of Paris adored him. Who would not adore him? All her loyalty was for him. If he wished to snatch the crown from her brother – well, then she would do everything within her power to help him. There was no loyalty for Margot but to her lover. No one else in the world mattered. If she could help to bring him the crown of France for a wedding present, she would be happy, even if, to do it, she had to see her brothers lying dead. It would be but a small reward for all the pleasure he had given her.

Her brothers hated her now. Charles had screamed at her; Henry had been sarcastic about her. What did she care? They could not touch her love.

Charles had cried: ‘I tell you I will not have that spy at court. I’ll have him killed. I am the King, am I not?’

‘It would not seem so, to look at you now, Sire,’ Margot had retorted.

She was daring, reckless, but had she gone too far?

Charles foamed at the mouth. ‘Have her whipped!’ he cried. ‘I’ll do it myself.’

He ran at her with eyes flashing; he was certainly terrifying in his madness; she must remember that he was the King; he could give an order and have her taken to a dungeon. When his madness was on him he might do this.

She ran to Marie Touchet and begged for her protection.

‘Marie, my dear, I have offended the King. Plead with him for me.’

And good-hearted Marie did, soothing the King as only she could soothe him. His sister Margot was but a child. He should remember that. She was so sorry to have offended him.

‘She … she is a wanton. She … she gives herself and our secrets to Henry of Guise.’

‘But if she loves, my dearest lord, can we blame her? Do not we also love?’

Margot wanted to laugh at that. Mild Marie Touchet and mad Charles … to be compared with her and Henry!

But she had learned her lesson. She must not be so rash. She might put Henry in danger if she were; after all, he had managed to make some people think he was contemplating marriage with the Princess of Clèves.

Her brother Henry was not wild, like Charles, but he was very angry with her. He frightened her more than Charles did, for she knew he discussed her with their mother.

One day Catherine sent for her, and as she entered the Queen Mother’s apartments she began to tremble; she felt the sweat in the palms of her hands as she used to when she was a little girl.

‘Come here,’ said Catherine.

Margot went to her and curtsied. Her lips touched her mother’s hand.

‘Rise now,’ said Catherine. ‘No ceremony, my daughter.’ Her lids slid down over her eyes. Madame le Serpent, thought Margot, waiting, deciding whether or not now is the time to strike.

Catherine started to walk up and down the apartment.

‘My daughter, it is time you married. You are no longer a child, and princesses must marry early.’ Margot’s heart began to pound. ‘I have taken a good deal of trouble on your account already, and have, I think, succeeded in making a brilliant match for you.’

Margot began: ‘Madame …’ But Catherine looked at her in astonishment that she should have dared to interrupt, and Margot was immediately silent.

‘Sebastian, the King of Portugal, is considering whether he will take you as his wife.’

Margot gulped and tried to speak.

Catherine went on: ‘As you know, he is the nephew of the King of Spain, and Philip himself puts no obstacle in the way of the match. I am sure that when Sebastian himself sees you in all your maidenly beauty, he will be eager to make you his wife. Now, my daughter, you will be ignorant of the duties of the married state, and you may need instruction in such matters. Do not forget that I am your mother and that I shall be willing to help you and tell you what you wish to know of such matters of which you, as a maiden, will be ignorant.’

Margot flushed scarlet; she knew that her mother was aware of her love affair. She wanted to show defiance as she had to Charles and Henry, but she was numbed by that cold terror which she always felt in the presence of her mother.

‘Speak, my daughter! Speak, Marguerite, and tell me that you are happy because of this match I have arranged for you. Tell me, what is your will in all this?’

The cold eyes held Margot’s, and the girl felt as though she were in the presence of a supernatural being, something inhuman and horrible that was threatening death to her love, and life-long misery. She remembered her lover’s instructions to be calm, to indulge in temporary deceit for the purpose of winning in the end.

‘I … I have no will of my own, Madame,’ she heard herself say. ‘I only have that will which depends on yours.’

Catherine burst into loud laughter. She took Margot’s ear and pulled her towards her.

‘No will but mine … and that of Monsieur de Guise, eh?’

Margot cried out in pain, but her mother gripped her ear the harder. Then she put her lips close to that ear and began to whisper that she knew what Margot believed to have been known only to herself and her lover. All Catherine’s coarseness came out now. The loud laugh on her lips, the crude words, made Margot flinch.

‘Harlot! Wanton! Do you know no better? It is you who have seduced him … not he you. It is you who have importuned Monsieur de Guise to take you to his bed. Marriage! What of that? The Princess of France, for whom I have tried to arrange one of the grandest marriages the world has ever known, is a harlot, begging the favours of the Duke of Guise. “Henry … take me … take me … Now … now … I cannot wait. I long so for you …” ’ Catherine began to laugh. ‘Monsieur de Guise must have found the conquest of the Princess of France the easiest he ever undertook.’

And with these scornful words, Catherine flung Margot from her; and Margot, who would have been quick-witted, who would have made her escape from any other, lay where she had fallen, as though petrified, unable to move, while her mother, portly and vengeful, swept slowly and majestically towards her.

‘Get up!’ she cried; and Margot rose immediately.

Catherine slapped Margot’s face, her rings cutting into the girl’s cheek.

‘Ah!’ said Catherine. ‘That must not be. We must not let your future husband know that we have had to beat you for wantonness with the Duke of Guise.’ Catherine pulled Margot towards her. ‘And why do you think Guise has made you his mistress? Because he loves you? Because he is as mad for you as you so shamelessly are for him? Never! Because, foolish wanton, the Cardinal of Lorraine told him to seduce you in the hope that, having been his mistress, it would be impossible for you to marry him whom I have chosen for you. That is their scheme. “Henry, I long for you.” “And I for you, Margot. And for all that you can bring me. Not your wanton body, you fool, but your name, your rank, for besides being a harlot you are the daughter of a royal house, the most noble house in France.” ’

‘You lie,’ said Margot. ‘He loves me … me.’

‘You little fool. Monsieur de Guise is not the sort to say “No” when a woman begs so insistently.’

‘You lie …’

Catherine took Margot by the sleeve of her gown and dragged her to a couch. She pushed her down and bent over her. ‘You may well show fear. You dare to tell me, your mother, that I lie! You dare to solicit favours of Monsieur de Guise! You dare to become the mistress of the man who threatens your brother the King and the whole of your family!’

This was one of those rare occasions when Catherine’s control broke. She imagined she heard Margot’s voice: ‘Henry, I long for you.’ She imagined she heard the deep, passionate response of Henry of Guise. But it was not these two she pictured; it was another Henry, oh, long ago, loving his mistress as he never could his wife.

In a sudden rush of fury, she tore off Margot’s clothes and beat her savagely.

‘Not the face this time!’ she cried. ‘We must not show the King of Portugal that we have a wanton for a daughter. We must beat you where the marks of a beating will not be seen … except, perhaps, by Monsieur de Guise.’

Margot lay panting under the fury of her mother, who had picked up a cane with a jewelled handle which Charles used when he left the palace on flagellating orgies. It came down again and again on Margot’s body; and all the time it seemed to Catherine that she was watching two lovers through a hole in the floor of the palace at Saint-Germain. It was not, it seemed to her then, Margot who lay there, but Diane.

Eventually her passion was spent. She reflected that it was a rare thing for her to indulge in such emotion. Yet it had been irresistible. Margot had called up too many memories. It had been foolish of her to compare Henry of Guise with Henry of Valois, simply because they both bore the same name.

Margot lay limp on the couch, and Catherine stared down at her bruised body.

‘Go,’ said Catherine. ‘Put on your dress. Later I will discuss with you the arrangements for the greeting of the King of Portugal.’

And while Margot, in her own apartments, was bathing her wounds, terrified lest some mark should spoil the perfection of her body, Catherine reproached herself for that outburst of fury.

Looking back was something in which she knew it was folly to indulge. There were too many dangers of the moment for past insults and humiliations to be of any importance.

Margot was preparing to meet her suitor. Her dress was of cloth of gold; her jewels magnificent; and her eyes were as hard and as brilliant as the diamonds she wore. She was saying to herself: ‘I will never marry him. I will marry Henry. There will be a way, and we will find it.’

She had seen Henry of Guise earlier that day. He was constantly in the company of the Princess of Clèves, being so much wiser than she could ever be. He knew of that interview she had had with her mother; he begged her to be calm, discreet. It was for Henry’s sake that she had feigned meekness and pretended to submit to her mother’s commands.

She had said to Henry when they met: ‘I must see you later. I want to come to you in my rich gown and my jewels. I have said I will wear them to greet my bridegroom. You are my bridegroom.’

‘It is dangerous,’ he said.

But Margot’s passion carried her beyond the thought of danger. She must see him. It was so long since they had made love. Two days ago … It was an age! To-night, after the ceremonial meeting with the King of Portugal, they would meet. Did he know that small chamber close to his own apartments in this palace of the Louvre? She would come to him there, and he must be ready for her. They would spend the whole night together. They must. She would not be put off with a mere hour. They must be together all through the night. It was only with such a prospect before her that she could face the ordeal of the evening’s ceremony.

He had agreed to be at the rendezvous, and Margot, having dressed herself with the greatest care, knew she had never looked so beautiful.

‘Ah!’ said one of her women. ‘You look like a Princess who is going to meet her lover.’

Margot embraced her warmly, and the woman knew what that meant.

‘Keep my doors locked to-night,’ whispered Margot.

‘My dearest lady Princess, be careful.’

‘Have no fears for me.’

‘It is dangerous, my lady.’

Margot laughed; she loved danger if it meant love-making with Henry of Guise.

‘Ah, my Princess, I can understand. There is no one like him in the whole of France.’

‘There is no one like him in the whole world,’ corrected Margot.

She conducted herself with decorum at the ceremony of meeting her suitor, who was deeply impressed with the wild beauty of the Princess. It was true, he concluded, that she was the most fascinating lady at the court of France.

Henry of Guise was there, watching. Margot wondered if he suffered similar pangs to those she felt when he bent his handsome head towards that of Catherine of Clèves.

Catherine watched too. The girl was defiant, but she knew she must obey. During her chastisement she had cringed in a manner which had been quite gratifying. Margot was wild; she was passionate, more desirous – and perhaps therefore more desirable – than a woman should be; but Catherine believed she knew how to manage Margot’s affairs with satisfaction.

For Margot the evening seemed endless; the bright lights were too dazzling. She was charming to the King of Portugal and his attendants. She gave the impression that the match would not be distasteful to her; but all the time she was scarcely aware of her suitor; she was only aware of Henry, now talking to the Princess of Clèves, now dancing with her, while the latter – the little fool that she was! – looked as though all she desired on Earth was the smile of the young Duke of Guise.

Margot fretted and waited; and during those long hours of ceremony she yearned for her lover.

At last it was over, and the palace was quiet.

Margot was ready, waiting in her robes of state, for the moment when she should slip out and along to that little chamber where Henry would be waiting for her. Her women ran about eagerly, touching her dress here and there, putting a fold of her gown in place, telling her she was more beautiful tonight than she had ever been; they looked into the corridor to make sure that no one was lurking there; and then Margot was speeding through corridors, up stairs to her meeting with her lover.

She clung to him while they murmured words of love. He told of his jealousy, she of hers. She lit the candles that he might see her in all her finery.

‘You were more beautiful than ever to-night,’ he said.

‘It was because I was coming here to you. If I had not been coming to you, I should have been ugly … hating them all. Oh, Henry, shall I ever cease to love you like this?’

‘Never,’ he said, ‘I hope.’

He had made a bed of his velvet cloak; she saw it and laughed. ‘We have known so many strange beds. When shall we know our marriage bed?’

‘Soon, Margot, soon. But we must be doubly cautious now that this man from Portugal is here.’

The candles guttered out, and they lay in the darkness. The night passed and, when the first signs of the new day were in the sky, Margot regretted its passing.

‘The most wonderful night of my life!’ she sighed. ‘I shall remember it always.’

‘There will be many such when we are married. Then we shall have no fear of discovery.’

She was laughing, demanding more kisses. Neither of them heard the door open, so engrossed were they in each other; nor did they see the figure standing there watching them. The door was quietly closed again, and not long after there was a great commotion in the corridor which even they could not fail to hear.

‘Keep very still,’ said Henry. ‘Make no sound.’

He had risen silently, but before he had his coat on and his sword at his side, the door burst open. The King stood there; his clothes had been hastily thrown on; his eyes were bloodshot and his mouth working. Behind him stood several of the attendants of his bedchamber.

He screamed an order. ‘Take them to my mother’s apartments. With all speed. No delay.’

The lovers were surrounded. Four men were needed to overcome the struggles of Guise. Two seized Margot; and the pair were then hustled along the corridors to the apartments of the Queen Mother.

Catherine, startled out of her sleep, stared at the intruders, but it did not take her long, when she saw who the captives were, to realise what had happened. Charles, the little fool, had once more acted without his mother; by this impetuous act he had exposed the liaison between his sister and the Duke of Guise to the whole court. And Sebastian, the King of Portugal, was in the Palace of the Louvre at this very hour!

Catherine did not know whom she hated more at this moment – her stupid son Charles or her wanton daughter, Margot.

Angry as she was, she did not lose her self-control.

‘Monsieur de Guise,’ she said, ‘your presence is not needed here.’

Henry bowed and left the room. It was the only thing he could do. He flashed a warning glance at Margot, begging her to be calm and diplomatic.

Catherine glanced at all those assembled, and her look said clearly that it would be the worse for them all if they mentioned to any what they had seen this morning. ‘All may leave with Monsieur de Guise,’ she said. ‘His Majesty and I wish to be alone with the Princess.’

When the room was empty but for the three of them, Catherine went to the door and locked it. She signed to Charles to attack his sister, and he, nothing loth, took his stick and approached the terrified girl. Margot ran to her mother, who flung her back to the King. Charles was biting his lips so that blood mingled with the foam there.

‘We must try to beat some sense into this little fool,’ said Catherine. ‘On the very night when she meets her suitor, she keeps an assignation with her lover. Beat her. Let her learn what it costs to bring disgrace on us all.’

Catherine now unleashed her fury. Margot’s rich gown was torn in shreds and, bleeding and exhausted, she begged them to spare her. But she was not to be spared.

Margot had suffered many beatings in her lifetime, but nothing so severe as this. At length she sank unconscious to the floor. Charles kicked her as she lay there; the sight of blood always inflamed him, and a mood of frenzy had come upon him.

Catherine, looking on, considered the possibility of Margot’s death. It would not be the first time that a disobedient child had been beaten to death, but Margot’s death would be most inconvenient. Catherine’s rage had passed. Moreover, the room was light, for the day had now come.

‘Enough!’ she cried to Charles.

But it was not easy to stop Charles. He wanted to see blood flow. It was always thus when his madness was on him. He wanted to have Henry of Guise’s head off.

‘Kill him! Kill him!’ he screamed. ‘Torture him … And Margot shall see it all. Let her be there. Let her watch him, naked and sweating under the torture, and see then if she recognises her handsome lover.’

‘Silence!’ commanded Catherine.

The King’s face was distorted as he stared wildly at his mother; his lips were twitching; his glaring eyes were bloodshot; moisture trickled from his mouth. He was prancing about the unconscious body of his sister. He wanted to kick her to death, yet when he recovered his sanity he would be filled with remorse if he had hurt her.

‘My dear son,’ said Catherine, putting an arm about his twitching form, ‘have a care. You know these Guises. What if they turned the tables on you? What if you were naked … sweating, eh? Remember who is the man you wish to torture. Remember Le Balafré. Remember the Cardinal. Have a care, my son.’

‘He must die! He must die!’ panted Charles.

‘He shall die,’ soothed Catherine. ‘But my way … Mother’s way … not yours. Lie on the couch, my darling, and rest. Leave this to your mother. She knows best. She does not want them to take her darling boy … her dear little King, and torture him.’

‘They could not. They could not. I am the King.’

‘You are the King, and a wise King, because you will do what I say. Rest now, my son, and leave this to me. Am I not always right? I will see that the arrogance of Monsieur de Guise is subdued. I will see that there is no more love-making with your sister.’

Catherine led him to a couch and soothed him; she stroked back his hair and wiped his mouth with her kerchief. He lay back, his eyes closed.

Catherine then unlocked her door and called to her attendants.

‘The Princess has fainted. Bring water. We must bathe her. She has had a fall. Hurry … I command you.’

They brought the water, and she herself bathed Margot’s bruised body, adjusted her dress and helped the girl back to her apartments.

She announced: ‘The Princess will rest for a few days. See that she keeps to her apartments. I will make her excuses.’

Then Catherine went back to her bed. She appeared to be sleeping when the ceremony of the lever was about to begin, and when aroused she wore her usual calm expression.

Catherine spent much time, during the days that followed, with those creatures of hers – the Ruggieri brothers and René, the perfumer, who made such beautiful gloves and sold such exquisite jewels in his little shop on the quay opposite the Louvre.

She had made sure that she was alone in her apartment before unlocking her secret cupboard; she had dressed herself in the garments of a market-woman so that no one would recognise the majestic Queen Mother in the portly woman with the basket on her arm and the shawl which covered her head and half her face.

She left by the secret passage, which she realised must be known to a few besides herself, since it had been in existence long before she had come to France. But she used it frequently, and it provided her with a certain amount of secrecy. She certainly could not leave by the main gates of the palace, dressed in these garments.

As she made her way to the house of the Ruggieri, so conveniently near the river that it was possible to leave by a back entrance and take the boat which was moored there, she could not resist mingling with the market crowds, exchanging a word here and there, trying to get them to speak of the royal house.

‘Wars … wars … wars …’ said one woman. ‘Why should our country be bathed in blood?’

‘For the good of the Faith,’ said the stout woman in the shawl.

‘For the good of the Faith! For the good of great nobles who would snatch power from one another.’

‘Oh … we shall have a grand marriage soon in Paris,’ said Catherine.

‘The Portuguese gentleman will be getting a handful, so they say.’

Catherine laughed coarsely and came closer to the woman,

‘There are rumours about the little Princess, I believe.’

‘Have you not heard? She is madly in love with the Duke of Guise – the good God bless him! – and she has been his mistress for many years … since they were in their cradles almost. They say that our Margot is mad for him … that she is such another as our great King Francis, her grandfather. There was a man! He couldn’t look at a woman without wanting to take her to his bed. They say Margot is such another.’

‘Then it is well, is it not, that she should be married quickly?’

‘Well for her … or for him?’

Catherine passed on. So the rumours concerning Margot had already travelled beyond the palace walls!

The Ruggieri received her with the pleasure which they always expressed when she came to visit them. They took her at once into their secret apartment.

‘What I need,’ she said, ‘is a present for a gentleman. It is a gentleman of the highest rank – fastidious in his tastes. It must be very charming, and most cleverly devised for such a man.’

The brothers looked uneasily at one another, as they always did when asked to help despatch the important enemies of Catherine. They were very happy to assist in the removal of the insignificant who happened to be in their mistress’s way, but they were terrified of supplying their wares for use against the great.

‘If,’ said Catherine, ‘it will help you not to know the name of the gentleman, I will not tell it.’

But they knew. Any rumour that had left the palace walls would be sure to find its way into the Ruggieri stronghold; and every market-woman and fishwife, it seemed, was gossiping over the love affair of the Princess Margot and the Duke of Guise.

The Ruggieri brothers were not eager to assist in the removal of a man of such high rank.

Still, their fear would make them subtler; and subtlety was what was needed in such an affair.

‘I will give you twenty-four hours in which to think of something. It must be something which will not arouse suspicions. Not a book … not gloves. It must be something which has never been tried before. But it must have speedy results.’

Catherine left the brothers trembling at her command. They knew they had been asked to help in the removal of the head of the most powerful family in the country. How could they escape implication? They could not shut out of their minds the sly, clever face of the Cardinal of Lorraine, the power of his family. And the Queen Mother was asking them to help her remove the handsome young Duke of Guise!

Catherine left them and came out into the streets.

She did not notice that one of the women who had been in that group with whom she had paused to chat kept a little way behind her as she made her way to René’s shop before going back to the Louvre. For the time she had forgotten that the spy system of the House of Guise and Lorraine was as efficient as her own.

She made her way to the secret passage, where she changed her garments. She came through to her own apartments, unlocked her doors and went along to see her daughter.

Margot was in bed. Fortunately, her face had suffered little damage, but the girl could not move for the cuts and bruises on her body. She lay, pale and wan – very unlike her usual vivacious self. She shrank under the bedclothes at the sight of her mother.

Catherine laid a hand on her brow.

‘Ah, my daughter, you are a little better, I think. Let me see how you hurt yourself when you fell in my apartments.’ She drew back the bedclothes and pulled up Margot’s nightgown. ‘Poor child! A pity to spoil your beauty, for you are very lovely, daughter. Is she not?’ Catherine turned to the attendants who stood by, and looked from them to Margot, cowering in the bed.

‘There is no lady at court more beautiful than the Princess,’ they agreed.

‘I will send my own special unguents for these wounds. I do not think there is any serious damage done. She will be healed in a week or so.’

Catherine pulled up the bedclothes and tucked them in with the solicitude of a fond mother.

Then she went back to be dressed for the ball which was to take place that night.

Her thoughts were busy while her women dressed her hair and arranged her jewels. She must keep a sharp eye on Charles. He was impetuous. He might easily expose the fact that there was a plot afoot to remove the Duke of Guise. Her beloved Henry, fortunately, had good sense, and he would show the right sort of friendship to Henry of Guise – just enough to allay his fears, and not so much that it would confirm his suspicions. But she could expect no such cleverness from her little madman, Charles.

She went to the King’s apartment and, dismissing all his attendants, spoke warningly to him.

‘I beg of you, when you see Guise to-night, do nothing rash.’

‘No, Mother. But I hate him. He is trying to take my throne. I am sure there will never be peace in this realm while the Guises are so powerful.’

‘That is true; but we must take every care. Promise me that you will not shout at him when you see him. For the love of the Virgin, do not let him see that you are thirsting for his blood.’

‘Nay, my mother. I am not such a fool as you think.’

‘Of course you are not. You are my clever little King.’

‘All the same,’ said Charles, ‘I shall not rest until he has been punished for what he has done to Margot.’

‘Rather let him be punished for what he may do to you and your brother, my darling.’

But what was the good of talking to Charles! He was hopeless. He was mad.

And in the magnificent ballroom, when Henry of Guise was announced, Catherine watched with dismay the angry colour flood the face of the King. Before she could prevent him, he was at the door, barring the way of the Duke.

‘Whither are you going, sir?’ demanded Charles in a high voice which could be heard all over the ballroom, for all had stopped talking to listen.

‘Sire,’ replied Guise, with excellent restraint, ‘I am here to serve your gracious Majesty.’

‘Monsieur,’ said Charles, with what he thought to be admirable calm, ‘I have no need of your services, so you may depart.’

Henry of Guise bowed low and immediately left the palace.

He knew now that he was in imminent danger, and Catherine felt that it would be as well to prepare potions – not only for the dangerous Duke of Guise, seducer of her daughter, but for that little fool who was known as the King of France.

In the hotel which was the stronghold of the family of Guise in Paris there was an immediate conference that night.

The Cardinal of Lorraine was there with his brothers, Louis the Cardinal of Guise, Claud the Duke of Aumale, Francis the Grand Prior, and René the Duke of Elboeuf. There were also the young Duke’s brothers and sister – Charles, Louis and Catherine; his widowed mother would not move from the side of her son, whom she regarded continually with an expression alternating between adoration and fear.

It was rarely that the entire family was assembled together in this way; but they had come hastily to Paris, summoned thither by the Cardinal of Lorraine, whose spies had informed him that for some time the Queen Mother had marked down Duke Henry as one of her victims.

The Cardinal of Lorraine was speaking. ‘At any moment now the blow may be struck. Henry, my nephew, if you have ever been in danger, you are in danger now.’

‘I can protect myself,’ said Henry.

‘You would protect yourself on the field of battle, my boy. You would meet any, I know, in combat, and emerge the victor. But when the serpent slyly coils about you – so quietly that you do not know your body is encircled – what can you do? Take your sword and strike off its head? Do not think of such a foolish thing! The fangs are inserted, and only in the last agonies of death do you see the slimy snake uncoil itself and quietly slip away.’

‘You must leave Paris at once,’ said the frightened Duchess. ‘My darling, you must take horse and fly to Lorraine. I will come with you. I cannot bear that you should leave my sight.’

But Aumale and his brothers shook their heads.

‘Flight is no good,’ said the Grand Prior. ‘Doubtless she has her creatures in Lorraine.’

‘What then?’ cried the Duchess. ‘Would you have him stay here?’

The Cardinal of Lorraine straightened his rich robes.

‘No. There is one way out of this and one way only. I must have been inspired when I advised my nephew to pay court to Madame de Clèves. The Queen Mother, the crazy King and his brothers are terrified. They are afraid that Margot will marry Henry in spite of them all. That is why they are determined to remove the cause of their fear. We must show them that their fears are groundless. Show them that, and Henry is no more in danger than he ever was, than any of us are continually. It is very simple. Henry must with all speed relinquish his plan to marry the Princess. He must show he is sincere in this by an immediate marriage with the Princess of Clèves.’

‘That I will not do!’ cried Henry. ‘I have promised to marry Margot, and I stand by my word.’

‘Very fine and noble!’ said the Cardinal of Lorraine. ‘But do we want Margot to marry a corpse? You see, my dear family, how very wise I was in selecting the Princess of Clèves. She is worthy to marry into our family. A marriage with Marguerite de Valois would have been more desirable, but there is only one way now to save our beloved Henry, and that is by his immediate marriage to the lady of Clèves.’

‘It is quite impossible,’ said Henry. ‘I prefer to face any danger than do that.’

‘Nonsense! If you do not, you face certain death.’

‘I prefer it to dishonour.’

‘Oh, come, foolish boy. You are too romantic. The family of the Princess of Clèves will agree to this marriage as eagerly as the lady herself. As for our Princess Margot, well, you will no doubt be able to take your pleasure with her after she has forgiven you.’

‘You do not understand, my uncle, what you suggest. You do not know.’

‘I have been in love, my boy. I was once young and romantic, even as you are. But love palls; it is like rich fruit, delicious while it is ripe; but it cannot last for ever. But the good of a great and noble house is the most important thing in the life of its members. My boy, it is not of yourself and your love that you must think now, but of your family’s honour. We must show the Queen Mother and her sons that she cannot destroy members of our house. We know when to take a step backwards; we know when we must adjust our policy; but we will have no more assassinations. We must not let them think that when we displease them it is easy to dispose of us.’

‘I am pledged to the Princess Margot,’ said the young Duke. ‘I will take none other.’

The Cardinal of Lorraine shrugged his shoulders; the Duchess wept; the Duke’s brothers pleaded with him; his sister implored him to save his life; and his uncles called him a fool.

All night they argued with him; and in the early hours of the morning, the gibes of the Cardinal of Lorraine, the good sense of his family, and most of all the passionate tears of his mother, caused the young Duke to give way.

Once he had given his consent, the Cardinal of Lorraine lost no time in presenting himself at the Louvre and asking for an audience with the Queen Mother.

‘I have come,’ said the Cardinal, ‘to ask your Majesty’s most gracious consent to the marriage of my nephew Henry, Duke of Guise, to Catherine, Princess of Clèves.’

Catherine did not allow her expression to change in the smallest degree.

‘Well, Monsieur le Cardinal, that seems a very satisfactory match. The House of Clèves, I think, is worthy – or as worthy as any could be – of the House of Guise and Lorraine. I am sure my son, the King, will have nothing to say against such a match.’

‘Then I have your consent? He may make his arrangements with the lady?’

‘With all speed, Monsieur le Cardinal. With all speed.’

The Cardinal bowed low.

Catherine went on: ‘Let the wedding take place at once. I wish to honour our visiting royalty with as many ceremonies as we can give him. I think that the marriage of the Duke of Guise and the Princess of Clèves should provide us with an excellent occasion for making merry.’

‘So be it,’ said the Cardinal.

And Catherine dismissed him.

She was pleased. Ruggieri and René were slothful when it came to employing their arts against the great. They could never get rid of the thoughts of torture-chambers; and such thoughts were not conducive to the best work.

And once Henry of Guise was the husband of Catherine of Clèves, this little trouble would be over; and she was the first to admit that one should always take the easiest way out of a difficulty.

The marriage should take place in a few days’ time, and all she had to concern herself with now was to make sure that there was no meeting between Margot and Henry of Guise until after the marriage ceremony. That was not difficult. Margot was too sick and wounded to leave her bed just yet. Catherine must warn the girl’s attendants – in her own special way of warning – that anyone who whispered to Margot that her lover was about to be married would wish they had not been so rash – if they lived long enough to make such a wish!

A very satisfactory conclusion to a difficult affair!

Catherine came into her daughter’s apartment and signified that she wished to be left alone with her.

‘Margot,’ she said, ‘you will make your reappearance today, and you are looking as well as ever after your indisposition; but I am afraid that I have news which will be a shock to you, and I feel that it would be better if you learned it through me than in any other way.’

Margot lifted her great dark eyes to her mother’s face and waited in apprehension.

‘Monsieur de Guise was married a few days ago.’

Margot stared. ‘But … that is not possible.’

‘Quite possible, my daughter.’

‘But … who?’

‘To your friend … Catherine … the Princess of Clèves.’

Margot was stunned. It could not be. After everything that had happened between them, after all their protestations! She had trusted Henry completely, and he had said that he would never marry anyone but her.

‘My child, this is a shock to you. I know your feelings for this young man – indeed, they were most unmaidenly, and they carried you far, I fear, along the road of impropriety. Well, Henry of Guise knows when he must obey the wishes of his family – as you know that you must obey yours – and so he married the lady. By his attentions to her, I should say that he is not displeased. She is a good-looking young woman and as madly in love with him as … others have been.’

Margot lay still.

‘Now, my daughter,’ said Catherine, ‘you must not show your feelings or you will have the whole court laughing at you. You have been fooled as far as Monsieur de Guise is concerned. You gave yourself too easily. Now you must show your pride. When you appear to-night, remember that you are a Princess of France. There must be no more retirement, for I have let it be known that you are recovered. See how brave you can be. Show the court that you can snap your fingers at a faithless lover.’

When her mother had gone, Margot called her women to her. Was it true, she demanded, that Monsieur de Guise was married? Then why had she not been told?

They hung their heads. They dared not say. Margot stormed at them; she raged; but she did not weep.

She insisted that they dress her with the utmost care; she had grown thin in the last week or so, but she was none the less beautiful for that. Bitterness, anger, bewilderment had given a new wildness to her beauty.

She was gay to-night, and her mother watched her with approval.

Catherine knew – and Margot knew – that everywhere sly eyes were on her. In the banqueting hall, in the salle du bal, all were hoping for some excitement from the inevitable encounter between the Princess and the Duke.

Margot received his wife calmly; she complimented her on her looks and congratulated her on her marriage. Catherine of Clèves was a little frightened of those wild, glittering black eyes, but at the same time she was so happy to have married the man she had loved for so long that she could not care even if the Princess Margot hated her.

Margot coquetted gaily – first with one noble gentleman and then with another. Those wild, provocative glances, which until now had all been for Henry of Guise, were evenly distributed among the handsomest and most eligible of the noblemen.

They were enchanted by Margot, for Margot was completely sensuous; that overwhelming sex consciousness, that adoration of physical love, that promise of what she and she alone could give were irresistible.

Margot knew that Henry of Guise was watching her; and she was glad of that, since the whole performance was for him. She was desperately trying to put hate where love had been, loathing in the place of longing.

In the dance he came near enough to speak to her.

‘Margot, I must talk to you.’

She turned her head.

‘If you only knew, my love, my darling! If only you would listen to what I have to tell you.’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I have no wish to speak to you.’

‘Margot, darling, give me five minutes alone with you.’

‘I have no wish to speak to you.’

‘I will wait in the first of the green alleys. Our old meeting-place … do you remember?’

‘You may wait, for all I care.’

But her voice had broken and he could hear the sob in her throat.

‘In half an hour,’ he begged.

She could not trust herself to speak, so she turned her head away and shrugged her shoulders.

‘I will wait,’ he said, ‘all night if necessary.’

‘Wait all through to-morrow – if you care for such things.’

‘Margot,’ he implored; and the sound of her name on his lips was more than she could bear. She moved away from him.

She thought of his waiting. Was he waiting? He had said he would wait. But could she trust him to keep his word? He had said he would marry her, that nothing should stand in the way of their love; and, only a few days after that wonderful night they had spent together, he had married the Princess of Clèves.

She must go to see if he waited. I hate him now, she told herself, and it will be just to see if he really is waiting.

She saw him at once – the tall, familiar figure, the handsomest man at the court of France. He came forward with a lover’s eagerness. ‘Margot, my love, you came. I knew you would.’

She would not give him her hands; she was afraid to let him touch her. She knew her own weakness; and her desire, she knew, would be stronger than her pride.

‘Well, traitor,’ she said, ‘what do you want?’

‘To put my arms about you.’

‘Shame! And you a husband … of a week, is it?’

‘Margot, it had to be.’

‘I know. You had sworn to marry me, but it had to be Catherine of Clèves. I wish you joy of her – that silly, simpering creature! You could have done better than that, Henry.’

He had her by the shoulders, but she wrenched herself free at once.

‘Cannot you see that I hate you now? Do you not understand that you have insulted me … humiliated me … betrayed me!’

‘You loved me,’ he said, ‘even as I loved you.’

‘Oh no, Monsieur,’ she answered bitterly; ‘far more than that, I would never have been led away. I would have faced death rather.’

‘Margot, you would have suffered more if I had died. You would not then have had even this pleasure you now enjoy in tormenting me. They planned my death – your mother, your brothers. My family were convinced that the only thing I could do was to marry Catherine if I would save myself. Darling, this is not the end for us. You are here. I am here. It is not what we planned, but we can still see each other, renew all that joy we have in each other.’

‘How dare you?’ she cried. ‘How dare you? Do you forget that I am a Princess of France?’

‘I forget everything but that I love you, that I can never know a moment’s happiness without you.’

‘Then know this also: I hate you. I loathe you and despise you. Never try to speak to me. Never try making your vile suggestions to me again. I have been a fool, but do you not think that I will find others to love me? Do not think that you can desert me, betray me … and then, when you want me again, that I shall come back like a … like a dog!’

She turned and ran back to the palace.

That evening she danced more gaily than she ever had before. She laughed and coquetted. Her eyes conveyed many a promise, and she was utterly bewitching; but when she retired to her apartments, and her women had undressed her, she threw herself on to her bed and wept so long and so passionately that they were afraid.

At last she fell silent and lay still; and in the morning when her women came to waken her, they found her skin flushed and clammy and her eyes glassy; she was in a high fever.

Catherine and the King thought that the affair of Margot and Henry of Guise had been settled to their satisfaction; the Cardinal of Lorraine and his family thought they had retreated in time from a highly dangerous situation; Henry of Guise had come out of the affair with acute melancholy which would not subside until the Princess Margot was once more his mistress. But the Princess herself lay ill – not caring if she were to die. She tossed and turned in a fever, suffering from that indifference to life which is called a broken heart.

Catherine lay very ill at Metz. She knew that no one expected her to live. She could smile seeing the hope in their faces. There was hardly anyone who would be likely to grieve for her.

As she lay in her bed, she was aware vaguely of the people about her; she was not sure where she was. At times she thought that she was in the Palace of Saint-Germain, and that in the room below, Henry, her husband, was making love to Diane. At others she thought she was riding in the forest near Fontainebleau or Amboise, and that, beside her, rode the King – King Francis, her father-in-law – and the ladies of his Petite Bande.

Then she would have moments of full consciousness. She would remember that her beloved son Henry was bravely fighting the Huguenot army, that King Charles was becoming more and more mad and must soon give place to his brother, who was growing more and more worthy of kingship. Then she would think that Margot must be married soon. The marriage with Sebastian had fallen through, as Philip of Spain now wanted him for one of his female relatives; but Margot should be married, for Margot was a wicked, wanton girl. She had taken another lover and scandalous stories were whispered about her; some said that she still had her eyes on Henry of Guise, and that only her stubborn pride prevented her from taking up her relationship with him where it had ceased on his marriage to Catherine of Clèves. They said that Margot took this new lover in order to flaunt him in the presence of young Henry of Guise, and that there was a smouldering passion between these two which must blaze up sooner or later. Catherine’s first duty was to find a husband for Margot – and who was there but the boy to whom her father had pledged her when they were little more than babies? Henry of Navarre! It would mean summoning him to court. By all accounts, he was as profligate as Margot, so they would make a good pair. Let them marry and satisfy each other – if satisfaction were possible to either of them.

Margot would be the Queen of Navarre. Well, that had been a good enough title for the sister of Francis the First, and it should be good enough for the present Marguerite de Valois, for wicked little Margot. Catherine decided that if she ever got up from this sick-bed she would start negotiations immediately. Once she had the young Prince of Navarre at court it should not be difficult to change him into a Catholic, in spite of his mother’s teaching. She was looking forward to another conflict with Madame Jeanne.

Now her thoughts had turned to another Henry, her beloved son, her ‘All’. She knew that there was fighting round about Jarnac and that Coligny and Condé together stood in opposition to her darling. Two men – Condé and her son – were now in danger, and for both of these men she had felt tenderness. She had enjoyed those conversations with gallant Condé, the gay philanderer; she had cherished those moments when his kiss had lingered on her hand. But it was nonsense to think of such things. Who wanted love when there was power to be won?

She might have prayed for her son’s victory, but she did not really believe in prayer. There was no God for her; there was only Catherine, the Queen Mother, the power behind the throne. There were no miracles except those performed by clever people like herself.

How hot it was in this room! Her sight seemed to be fading. There were shadowy figures about her bed. Ah, there was the King, her little mad Charles; and with him her daughter, wanton Margot, as yet unwed, yet more versed in the ways of love than many a matron of years’ standing. There were others in the room, but she felt that they were too remote to be recognised.

What was happening at Jarnac? The dawn was breaking and the battle would soon begin. There was a cold sweat all over her, and she was afraid.

She wanted to call for Cosmo or Lorenzo Ruggieri. But she was no longer in the sick-room at Metz. She was somewhere out of doors, for she could feel the wind blowing on her face. Then suddenly she heard the voice of her son Henry; it was raised in prayer; then she heard him addressing his men, and she realised that she must be on the battlefield at Jarnac.

‘Condé … Condé … Condé …’ She heard the name coming to her clearly over the cold air.

‘Condé must be killed before nightfall …’

Catherine’s lips moved. Not Condé … not the gallant little Prince. She did not want him for a lover, but he was so agreeable, so charming.

Now she heard Condé’s voice. He too was talking to his men; she caught the note of fanaticism which she had noticed so many times in so many people. ‘Louis de Bourbon goes to fight for Christ and his country.’

She must have said something aloud, for the sound of her voice had broken the spell and she was back in the sick-room.

‘Mother,’ said Charles. ‘Mother, do you wish for a prelate?’

A prelate? So she was near death. Death! What was death? A beginning again … a new fight for power in a fresh sphere?

Then the room faded and she was back on the field of battle. She saw Condé clearly in the light of morning, his handsome head thrown back, a smile on his lips; and then suddenly he was down; she saw him lying on the ground, the blood at his lips, the death rattle in his throat.

‘Look!’ cried Catherine. ‘See how they flee! Condé is dead. He lies in the hedge there. He can never recover. His wound is too deep. Condé … ah, Condé … he is no more. But Henry … my darling … Henry is victorious once more. The battle is yours. Condé is dead. Coligny has fled. All honour to you, my love, my darling.’

The King turned to Margot and said: ‘She dreams of the battle. She has thought of nothing else since she knew my brother was to fight to-day.’

Margot watched her mother without pity, without love. There was no pity nor love in Margot; there was only perpetual bitterness, a poignant memory, and a deep longing for the man she had vowed to hate.

‘Is the end near?’ asked the King.

None was sure, but all looked grave.

The end of Catherine de’ Medici, the end of the Italian woman! What changes would that bring to France?

But in the morning Catherine was better; and when, a few days later, news of the Battle of Jarnac was brought to Metz, it was thought that to hear of her son’s victory would cheer her and help her through her convalescence.

She was sleeping lightly and Charles, with Margot and others, stood at her bedside.

‘Mother,’ said Charles gently, ‘the battle is won. This is another victory for Henry. Condé is dead.’

She smiled serenely; she was her old self now, rapidly recovering from her fever.

‘And why should you be so tedious as to awaken me and tell me that?’ she demanded. ‘Did I not know? Did I not tell you … as it was happening?’

Those in the room with Charles and Margot exchanged glances. Margot paled; Charles trembled. This woman, their mother, was no ordinary woman, no ordinary Queen; she had strange powers not given to others.

It was small wonder that she could terrify them as no one else on Earth had power to do.

After the great news of the victory of Jarnac, a strange gloom fell on the court. The King, more jealous of his brother than of any living person, was thrown into melancholy. ‘Now,’ he told his little Marie, ‘my mother will glorify him more than ever. She longs to see him on the throne. Oh, Marie, I am frightened, because she is no ordinary woman, and what she desires comes to pass. She wishes me dead, and it is said that when my mother wishes a person dead, then he is as good as dead.’

But Marie took the King into her arms and assured him that this was not so. He must be calm and brave and not think of death. He must remember he was the King.

Charles tried; but he hated his brother. He refused to let him have the cannon he asked for, which was foolish and could only lead to trouble; and he knew that if he made trouble like that, matters would be brought to a head and that vague danger which haunted him all the time would come nearer to him.

Margot was anxious. Henry of Guise was fighting with the Catholic army, and she dreaded that what had happened to Condé might happen to Henry of Guise. When he was not at court, it was safe to admit to herself that her passion for him was as strong as ever. If Henry died, she would not wish to live. She prayed hourly that he might come safely home, if only to his wife.

Catherine had her difficulties. She was quite well now, but she was being tormented by Alava, the Spanish envoy; he reproached her bitterly. She had not followed up her advantages; she had been too lenient towards the Huguenots. His Most Catholic Majesty was not pleased with the Queen Mother.

‘My lord,’ said Catherine, in mock despair, ‘what could I do? I no longer have the power that I had. My sons are becoming men, and I am just a weak woman.’

‘Madame, you rule your sons, and it is you who have given Coligny the leisure to get an army together.’

‘But, my lord, what can I do? I am as good a Catholic as you … as your master … but what can I do?’

‘Have you forgotten, Madame, the conversation you had with the Duke of Alva at Bayonne?’

‘Not a word of that, I beg of you. Such a plan would be useless if bruited abroad.’

‘It must be carried out, and it must be soon. Kill the leaders … every one. Coligny must die. The Queen of Navarre must die. They cannot be allowed to live. Madame, I hear you have means at your disposal. You have a known reputation in this art of removal. And yet the most dangerous man and woman in your kingdom – the most dangerous to yourself and your throne – are allowed to live and to build up an army to fight against you.’

‘But, my lord, Coligny is not here. He is in camp. The Queen of Navarre would not come if I asked her. I have despatched Coligny’s two brothers – Odet and Andelot – the latter in England. Was not that subtle? He dies suddenly, in that austere land. Of what – very few know. I had my friends in his suite.’

‘That was well done. But what use destroying the minnows when the salmon flourishes?’

‘We shall get our salmon, my friend, but in good time.’

‘His Most Catholic Majesty would ask, Madame, when is good time? When your kingdom has been wrested from you?’

She put her head close to that of the Spaniard. ‘My son Henry is on his way to me. I will give him something … something which I know how to prepare myself. He shall have his spies in the Admiral’s camp, and before long, my lord, you will have heard the last of Monsieur de Coligny.’

‘I trust so, Madame.’

After that conversation and another with her son Henry, Catherine waited to hear news of the Admiral’s death. She had given her son a subtle poison which would produce death a few days after it was administered. Her son’s Captain of the Guard had been brought into the plot, for he was on good terms with Coligny’s valet. A satisfactory bribe – and the deed would be done.

She waited now for one of her visions. She wished to see Coligny’s death as she had seen that of Condé. But she waited in vain.

Later she heard that the plot had been discovered.

Coligny was a man of wide popularity, adored by too many; it was not easy to remove such a man.

Catherine began to grow terrified of Coligny. She did not understand him. He fought with such earnestness; he drew men to him. He had some quality which was quite outside Catherine’s understanding; and for that reason she wished to have peace with him. And so she arranged for the Peace of Saint-Germain, in which, so that she might be at peace with this man whose righteousness was so alien to her, she gave way to many of his demands. She had to grant liberty of worship in all towns that were already Protestant; Protestants were to be admitted to office with Catholics, and on equal terms; four towns were to be handed over to Coligny as security for Catholic good faith – Montaban and Cognac as a bastion in the south, La Charité in the centre, and La Rochelle to guard the sea.

The Huguenots rejoiced at all they had won, and Catherine felt at peace temporarily, so that she might turn her mind to domestic matters.

Negotiations for the marriage of Charles were now in progress. That farcical attempt to make a marriage between Elizabeth of England and Charles was at an end, but Catherine did not abandon altogether the idea of a union with England. She would substitute another of her sons as suitor to the Virgin Queen in Charles’s place, and as no satisfactory arrangement had been made for Charles with Elizabeth of England, he should have Elisabeth of Austria.

Charles studied the pictures of his bride-to-be, liking the pale beauty, the meekness of expression.

‘I doubt that such a one will give me much cause for anxiety,’ he said.

The marriage gave Catherine little cause for anxiety also. It seemed very clear now that Charles would never produce healthy children; nor would marriage and its attendant excitements tend to lengthen the life of such a hysterical and unbalanced creature as this son; and so, on a misty November day in the year 1570, Charles the Ninth of France was married to Elisabeth of Austria.

In the town of La Rochelle another but very romantic wedding was taking place. Jeanne of Navarre, preparing herself for the ceremony, thought with friendly envy of her dear friend Gaspard de Coligny, and prayed that he might acquire that rich happiness which he deserved. And he would, she was sure. He was made for such happiness. His first marriage had been ideal. His wife had worshipped him; and Coligny had been one of those husbands of whom women like Jeanne dreamed.

He had suffered bitterly on the death of his wife, but his life was so full and busy, and there was, Jeanne knew, one thing in it which must always come before wife and family, before the consideration of his personal happiness; and that was honour, the long and weary fight for the cause which he believed, with Jeanne, was the only true religion for the French.

It was a simple wedding, after the Huguenot fashion. And how noble was the bridegroom in the dignity of his years and that stern handsomeness that could only accompany a righteous and an honourable nature! Jeanne’s eyes filled with tears, as she compared this bridegroom with another – more handsome perhaps in a worldly way, in his gorgeous apparel, the fashionable court gentleman – Antoine! It was so long ago, but it would never be forgotten by her.

Beside her stood her son, handsome with his dark hair and lively black eyes which were fixed on one of the women there in the church; his thoughts were not those which should come to a young man at such a time. The full, sensuous lips were curved into a smile. She tried not to think of him as the young philanderer, the lazy sensualist, but as a man of battle, the son who had sworn to serve the Huguenot cause as his mother and the great Gaspard de Coligny had taught him to do.

The bride was young and beautiful, a widow, earnest and devout, laying such devotion at Coligny’s feet as he had received from his first wife; that devotion which, so effortlessly, he seemed to inspire in so many.

She had come from Savoy, this Jacqueline d’Entremont; a widow of great property, for years she had been an ardent admirer of Coligny’s. He was a hero to her as he was to so many Huguenot ladies; she had told Jeanne that she had followed his adventures with enthusiasm, and each day her longing to serve him had increased. When she had heard of his wife’s death she had determined to comfort him, and against the wishes of her family and the Duke of Savoy, she had travelled to La Rochelle. Here she met Coligny himself and, so great was her love that he had after a little while found that he could not be indifferent to it, and later that he returned it.

‘May the Lord bless them both,’ prayed Jeanne.

As for herself, she was growing old; she was now just past forty. She should not be so foolish as to feel envious of her friend’s happiness.

And how pleasant it was, in the weeks that followed, to see the happiness of these two and to have some share in it. Friendship between Jeanne and Jacqueline grew as once it had grown between Jeanne and her sister-in-law, the Princess Eléonore of Condé.

Then came the letters from court.

These were letters from the woman who represented herself as a poor mother, anxious for the welfare of her country. Now that there was peace in this tortured land, she needed such a great man as Coligny to help her and her son to govern. Coligny must come with all speed to Blois, for she was most eager to consolidate this uneasy peace. The Queen Mother had succeeded in having the Spanish envoy, Alava, recalled to Spain, so there would be no awkward meeting of the Huguenot leader with the emissary of Philip of Spain. Would Coligny not come and help a poor weak woman? Would he not give that advice which was so sorely needed and might result in years of peace for his country?

Coligny read the letters and was excited by them. An invitation to court from which for ten years he had been more or less an exile! What could he not do if he had the ear of the King and Queen Mother? He began to dream of war against Philip of Spain, of an extended French Empire.

When he told Jeanne and Jacqueline what the letters contained, they were horrified. Jeanne was reminded of another occasion, when her Antoine had been called to court.

‘It is a trap!’ she cried. ‘Can you not recognise the insincerity of the Queen Mother?’

‘My dearest husband, I beg of you, take care,’ cried Jacqueline. ‘Do not walk into this trap. They mean to kill you. Remember the plot which was foiled only just in time … the plot to poison you while you were in camp.’

‘My beloved wife, my dear good friend and sovereign, this is a chance which should not be missed.’

‘A chance for your enemies to kill you?’ demanded Jeanne.

‘A chance to put the case for the Huguenots before the rulers of this land. A chance to bring about the Reformation in France. This is a call from Heaven. I must go to court.’

At length they knew it was useless to try to dissuade him, and the happiness of the bride was clouded with great misgiving. The Queen of Navarre felt resigned; no one, it seemed, understood the deadly quality of the Queen Mother as she did. Catherine was surely behind that plot to poison Coligny in camp. What fresh mischief was being planned in that tortuous mind concerning him?

They would see; meanwhile Jeanne increased her prayers for the Admiral’s safety.

With two hundred and fifty men, Coligny rode up the hill towards the Castle of Blois. He was conscious of the tension among his followers. They, like his wife and Jeanne and the people of La Rochelle, thought it folly to ride straight into the trap his enemies had probably prepared for him. He was anxious to calm their fears. There was no good purpose, he said, in looking for evil; when it was found, let them try to stamp it out, but until it was manifested, let there be trust.

There was none to greet the party when they arrived at the castle, and this was ominous. Coligny called to a man who appeared in the courtyard, and asked that he might be conducted at once to the Queen Mother.

When he was eventually taken to her, King Charles was with her. Coligny knelt at the King’s feet, but Charles begged him not to kneel. He embraced the Admiral with great friendliness, and lifted his eyes to the stern, handsome face.

‘I am glad to see you here, my father,’ he said, using that form of address which he himself had given Coligny during that earlier friendship of theirs. ‘We shall not let you go now we have got you.’

There was no mistaking the honest intentions of the young King; he had always been fond of the Admiral.

Catherine watched the pair closely. She greeted the Admiral with a warmth which completely disguised her hatred. Her smile seemed as frank as her son’s; and Coligny accepted the smile at its face value.

They took Coligny to the apartments of the King’s brother Henry, Duke of Anjou.

Henry was in bed; he was, so Catherine had explained to Coligny, slightly indisposed, and for this reason had been unable to greet the Admiral with the ceremony due to him. Henry was clad in a garment of crimson silk, and there was a necklace of precious stones about his neck, which stones matched those in his ears. The room was like a woman’s room; an odour of musk hung about it. Seated close to the bed were two of Henry’s favourites, very beautiful young men, their garments fantastically exaggerated and almost feminine, their faces painted, their hair curled. They bowed to the King and the Queen Mother, but the glances they gave to Coligny were insolent.

Henry, languidly and with no attempt at sincerity, said that it delighted him to see the Admiral at court. He would be forgiven, he knew, for not leaving his bed. He was most indisposed.

Coligny’s hopes were high.

But that evening as he walked from his apartments to the banqueting hall, in a dimly lighted corridor he came face to face with the Duke of Montpensier. Coligny knew Montpensier for a firm Catholic and a man of honour. Montpensier made no secret of his hatred for the Huguenot cause, but his hatred of treachery was equally intense.

‘Monsieur,’ whispered Montpensier, ‘are you mad? To have come here in this manner is folly! Have you no idea of the sort of people with whom we have to deal? You are rash indeed to walk dark corridors such as this one alone.’

Coligny said: ‘I am under the King’s roof. I have the King’s pledge for my safety.’

Montpensier put his mouth close to Coligny’s ear.

‘Do you not know, man, that the King is not master in his own house? Take care.’

Coligny thought, as he went down to the banqueting hall, that there might be much in what Montpensier said; but he felt that he had received a call from on high; and the Huguenot cause was dearer to him than his own life.

The King was delighted to have Coligny at court.

‘Such a man as this,’ he told Marie, ‘I would fain be. He knows no fear. He does not care if assassins lie in wait for him. He would meet his death willingly, eagerly … if he thought it was God’s Will. Would that I were like Coligny!’

‘I love you as you are, my dearest Sire.’

He laughed, and caressed her.

‘The Huguenots cannot be wicked,’ he said. ‘Coligny is one, and he is the noblest man I know. Ambroise Paré is the greatest surgeon in France, and he is one. I said to him, “Do you cure Catholics as well as Huguenots, Monsieur Paré? Or when you wield the knife, do you sometimes let it slip … when your patient is a Catholic?” And he said to me, “Sire, when I wield the knife, I do not remember whether my patient is a Catholic or a Huguenot. I do not think of faith at such a time. I think only of my skill.” And that is true, Marie. There is something fine about such men. I would I were like them. Must I spend my whole life longing to be like others? I should like to write verses as Ronsard does, to be a great leader as is my dear friend Coligny, to be handsome and brave and have many women loving me, like Henry of Guise; and I should like to have won great battles and be my mother’s favourite, as is my brother Henry.’

His brow darkened at the thought of his brother. He hated Henry as he hated no other, for he knew that Henry hated him; he was wondering if a plot was being prepared by Henry and his mother, a plot to take the crown from him and place it on Henry’s head.

Henry hated Coligny as much as Charles loved the man. Catherine had prevailed on Henry to receive Coligny, but Henry had sulked and pretended to be ill. Henry was obviously dangerous – dangerous to the King and to Coligny.

Charles’s friendship with Coligny grew. He would not let the Admiral out of his sight if he could help it. Coligny talked to the King of his plans for a united France, in which he wished to include the Netherlands.

‘The Netherlands would then know peace, Sire, and if we made successful war on Spain we might bring the Spanish Indies under the French flag. There would be an Empire – an Empire in which men could worship as they pleased.’

The King listened and applauded. He began to make concessions to the Huguenots. Coligny’s presence at court was making itself felt; so was his influence with the King. Some Catholics who had massacred Protestants at Rouen were executed. Coligny only had to request the King’s attention, and it was his. The Catholics of Paris were uneasy, while the Guises, during a temporary absence from court, planned the downfall of the Admiral.

Catherine too watched the growing influence of Coligny over the King, but she was not disturbed. Little mad Charles was her creature; his tutors, still at their task, were her creatures; and she did not think any man – even such a man as Coligny – could undo so quickly all that she had done over the years. She wished to keep Coligny at court. She had no wish to kill him yet. She hated him; she was suspicious of him, and she would watch him closely, but at the moment he was more useful alive. He was, with Jeanne of Navarre, her greatest enemy; even so, his time had not yet come. For one thing, she liked the idea of this war with Spain. Coligny was a great leader, the very man to lead the French in such a war. He would be invaluable if the plan came to fulfilment. War with Spain! Victorious war! Oh, to be free from the fear of that man of gloom, the Catholic tyrant of Madrid. He was the biggest bogy in Catherine’s life, although so many miles separated them. And another reason why she was not ready to get rid of Coligny yet was that she was anxious to marry Margot to Henry of Navarre. If she despatched Coligny, how could she ever lure Jeanne and her son to court? No! All honour must be done to Coligny until, through him, she had brought about this marriage of her daughter and the son of Jeanne of Navarre.

Her son Henry was being a little tiresome over this matter of Coligny. She made excuses for him. It was so difficult for him, so recently at war with the man, to have him here in the palace, to see him fêted, made the confidant of the King. Catherine had neither the authority nor the influence over this spoiled and beloved son that she had over her other children. He sulked and clearly showed his enmity to the Admiral.

So she must have Henry watched; she must spy on her darling; and she had discovered that he was in secret communication with the Guises, who were now at Troyes. They made no secret of their desire for the death of the Admiral; not only was he the leader of their enemies, the Huguenots, but they looked upon him as the murderer of Francis Duke of Guise, and this would never be forgotten nor forgiven.

Catherine was hurt that her dearest Henry should be plotting with the Guises without telling her. She went to him one day and, when they were alone, very gently let him know that she was aware of this secret plan.

Henry was surprised, but he smiled and, taking her hand, kissed it.

‘I had forgotten how clever you are, my mother.’

Catherine flushed with pleasure. ‘My darling, if I am clever, it is due to my love for you. It is because I watch all your interests with the greatest care. What of this plot?’

‘But you know.’

‘Tell me. I should like you to tell me all the same.’

‘There is to be a fête, a sort of masque, a sham tournament. We are going to build a fort at Saint-Cloud. I am to defend it and we are to arrange that Coligny shall lead his men to the attack. A sham battle, you see. That is how it will start; and then, suddenly, it will cease to be a sham. We shall, at a given moment, fire to kill. We shall kill them all … every Huguenot among them. What do you say to that, my mother?’

She looked into his flushed face, at his petulant mouth. She did not like it at all, but she would not tell him so, for if she did, and this did not come to pass, he would suspect her of having had a hand in stopping it, and be quite cross with her. It was no use; she could not bear his displeasure. She would not therefore explain to him that she hated Coligny as much as he did, and that she had decided on his death – but at the right time. She did not explain that if they killed him now Queen Jeanne would never come to court and bring her son so that a marriage might be arranged between him and Margot; why, if they were to wage war on Spain, this marriage of Huguenot Henry of Navarre and Catholic Margot would be the best thing possible. Catholics and Huguenots would march together against Spain. She could not risk his sulking, so she told him none of these things; she kissed him, admired his new ornaments, told him the plan was a clever one, and begged him to take care of his precious person, which was more dear to her than all else; and in the last statement at least she spoke with sincerity.

Then she went along to the King’s apartment and, dismissing all his attendants and taking her usual precautions to ensure that they were not overheard, she revealed to Charles the plot which had been concocted by his brother and the Guises.

Charles was speechless in his horror. There was foam on his lips and his eyes protruded horribly.

‘My darling,’ said Catherine soothingly, ‘there have been times when you have shown a little jealousy of your brother. You have thought that I cared more for him than for you. When such a stupid thought comes to you again, remember this: I know how you love the Admiral; I know of your admiration for this man; and so I am betraying your brother’s plot to you, in order that you may foil it and save the life of your friend.’

Charles’s body began to tremble and twitch.

Catherine continued: ‘Now you will know, will you not? You will not think yourself neglected in future. I love all my children. Their welfare is my one concern. But you, my son, are more than my child – you are my King.’

‘Oh, Mother!’ he said. ‘Mother!’ And he began to weep.

She embraced him, and he cried: ‘I will have Henry arrested for this! I will have him sent to the dungeons of Vincennes.’

‘No, no, my darling. You must not do that. You must be quiet and cautious. You must be clever. Let them build their fort at Saint-Cloud, and then you can give orders that it shall be destroyed, for you have decided to allow no mock battle to take place. You can say you are tired of mock battles and will think of some new masque … something of your own arranging. You see, that is clever. That is your mother’s way. And all the time they are making their preparations they will be making no fresh plans; you will therefore have the satisfaction of knowing that the Admiral is safe.’

Charles seized her hand and kissed it. Catherine sighed with relief. She had overcome that difficulty. She returned to her apartments to write a letter to Elizabeth of England, suggesting a match between the Queen and Catherine’s youngest son, Hercule; and she wrote also to Jeanne of Navarre, reminding her of the match which, long ago, Henry the Second had arranged between her son and Catherine’s daughter. She urged Jeanne to come to court with her daughter.

How annoying it was to have to deal with recalcitrant children!

‘What!’ cried the conceited little Hercule, Duke of Alençon. ‘You would marry me to the Virgin of England! Why, she is old enough to be my mother.’

‘And rich enough to be your wife.’

‘I tell you I will have none of it.’

‘You will have to be reasonable, my son.’

‘Madame, I would beg of you to reconsider this matter.’

‘I have already carefully considered it. Have you? Think! A crown … the crown of England will be yours.’

He was wild, that boy, conceited, arrogant and a lover of intrigue. She took him to Amboise and kept him a prisoner there. One could not be sure what such a wilful boy would do to wreck his proposed marriage with the Virgin Queen.

‘And now that I have my little frog safe at Amboise,’ said Catherine to the King, ‘I must set about the marrying of Margot.’

When Catherine received Margot in her apartments and told her who was to be her husband, Margot’s eyes blazed with contempt and horror.

‘I … marry Henry of Navarre! That oaf!’

‘My dear daughter, it is not every Princess who has the chance to become a Queen.’

‘The Queen of Navarre!’

‘Your great-aunt was a clever and beautiful woman – the most intellectual of her day – and she did not scorn the title.’

‘Nevertheless, I scorn it.’

‘You will grow used to the idea.’

‘I never shall.’

‘When you renew your acquaintance with your old friend, you will grow fond of him.’

‘He was never my friend, and I was never fond of him. I never could be. I dislike him. He is a coarse philanderer.’

‘My dear daughter! Then you will, I know, have some tastes in common.’

Margot steeled herself to conquer her fear of her mother and to answer boldly: ‘I was prevented from marrying the only man I wished to marry. I therefore claim the right to choose my own husband.’

‘You are a fool,’ said Catherine. ‘Think not that I will endure any of your tantrums.’

‘I am a Catholic. How could I marry a Huguenot?’

‘It may be that we shall make a Catholic of him.’

‘I thought I was to marry him because he is a Huguenot, so that the Huguenots might fight with the Catholics against Spain.’

Catherine sighed. ‘My daughter, the policy of a country may change daily. What applies to-day does not necessarily apply tomorrow. How do I know whether Henry of Navarre will remain Huguenot or Catholic? How do I know what France will require of him?’

‘I hate Henry of Navarre.’

‘You talk like a fool,’ said Catherine, and forthwith dismissed her daughter. She had no serious qualms about Margot’s ultimate obedience.

Margot went to her room and lay on her bed, dry-eyed and full of wretchedness.

‘I will not. I will not!’ she kept saying to herself; but she could not shut out of her mind the memory of her mother’s cold eyes, and she knew that what her mother willed must always come to pass.

There was a constant flow of letters from Catherine arriving at Jeanne’s stronghold in La Rochelle.

‘You must come to court,’ wrote Catherine. ‘I long to see you. Bring those dear children – as dear to me as my own. I assure you with all my heart that no harm shall come to you or to them.’

Jeanne thought of all those years when her beloved son had been withheld from her. What if she allowed him once more to walk into the trap! She could never forget what had happened to Antoine. He had been her dear and loving husband; their domestic life had been a joy; and then one day had come the summons to go to court; he had gone, and soon there were those evil rumours; quickly he had fallen under the spell of La Belle Rouet, as Catherine had intended he should. After that he had even changed his religion. It was as though the serpent’s fangs had pierced him, not to kill, but to infect him with that venom, that particular brand of poison which she kept for the weak. And Henry, Jeanne’s son, was young, and far too susceptible to the charms of fair women. What Catherine had done to the father, she no doubt planned to do to the son.

Jeanne sat down and wrote to the Queen Mother:

‘Madame, you tell me that you want to see us – and that it is not for any evil purpose. Forgive me if, when I read your letters, I felt an inclination to laugh. For you try to do away with a fear which I have never felt. I do not believe you eat little children … as folks say you do.’

Catherine read and reread that letter.

They were enemies – this Queen and herself. They had been so from the beginning of their acquaintance. Always Catherine was aware of a vague hatred of this woman, which was outside the normal irritation which her character – so different from Catherine’s – always aroused in the Queen Mother. Always Catherine was aware of an uneasiness when she thought of Jeanne. She would like to see her dead; she was, in any case, one of those people who the Duke of Alva had declared must be removed; she was dangerous, and her death would give undoubted pleasure to the King of Spain. ‘I do not believe you eat little children … as some folks say you do.’ One day perhaps, Jeanne would see that Catherine could be as deadly as those words implied.

But not yet. The marriage agreements had to be signed, and they must be signed by the Queen of Navarre, for she was the controller of her son’s fate.

Well, the bait was surely big enough to bring Jeanne to court – marriage for her son with the daughter of the House of Valois, the King’s sister, the daughter of the Queen Mother. Surely that must attract even the pious Queen of Navarre.

But Jeanne prevaricated. There were religious difficulties, she wrote.

‘That, Madame,’ answered Catherine, ‘is a matter that we must discuss when we are together. I doubt not that we shall come to a satisfactory arrangement.’

‘Madame,’ wrote Jeanne, ‘I hear that the Papal Legate is at Blois. I could not, you will understand, visit the court while he is there.’

It was true, for the Pope had sent him; fearing a match between Huguenot Henry of Navarre and the Catholic Princess, he was now suggesting Sebastian of Portugal once more for Margot.

But now Catherine fervently wished for war with Spain; she was fascinated by her dreams of a French Empire, and she wanted Coligny to lead France to victory. If she were to bring Catholics and Huguenots together to fight against Spain, the marriage between Henry of Navarre and Margot would help to bring this about.

‘Then come to Chenonceaux, dear cousin,’ she wrote to Jeanne. ‘There we will meet and talk to our heart’s content. Bring your dear son with you. I long to embrace him.’

Jeanne’s nights were haunted with troubled dreams, and in these dreams the Queen Mother figured largely. Her very words seemed to Jeanne to suggest sinister intentions. She ‘longed to embrace’ Henry. What she had in mind was to lure him away from his mother, to draw him into the sensuous life of the court, to get her sirens to work on him … to turn him into her creature as she had his father.

But the match with the Princess of France was a good one. Jeanne looked ahead into a hazy future. If, by some act of God, all Catherine’s sons died leaving no heir, well then, young Henry of Navarre was very near the throne, and a Valois Princess as his wife would bring him nearer.

So at last Jeanne set out for the court, but she did not take Henry with her. Instead, she took her little daughter Catherine.

She admonished Henry before she left: ‘No matter what letters arrive from the Queen Mother, no matter what commands, heed them not. Do nothing except you receive word from me.’

Henry kissed his mother farewell. He was quite happy to stay behind, for at this moment he was enjoying a particularly satisfactory love affair with the daughter of a humble citizen, and he had no wish to leave her arms for those of the spitfire Margot.

Margot was dressing to meet the Queen of Navarre.

‘That puritanical woman!’ she said to her women. ‘That Huguenot! I despise them both – the woman and her son!’

She painted her face; she put on a gown of scarlet velvet, cut low to expose her breasts. She would do all in her power to drive the good woman back whence she had come.

Catherine glared at her daughter when she saw her, but there was no time to send her back to her room to change her appearance. And when Catherine saw that Jeanne had arrived without her son, she was not sorry for Margot’s defiance.

Jeanne bowed low and received the kisses of ceremony. Catherine put her fingers under the chin of her little namesake and tilted the child’s face upwards. ‘My dear little god-daughter! I am delighted to see you at court, although I so deeply regret the absence of your brother.’

Catherine was determined that there should be no discussions on the subject which Jeanne had come to talk about until the ceremonies were over. She was amused to see Jeanne’s disgust at the court manners, and the boldness of the women. She was amused to watch Jeanne’s contemplation of her prospective daughter-in-law; she was as amused at Margot’s sly determination to make herself as unacceptable as possible by flaunting her extravagant clothes and her loose behaviour with the courtiers. Catherine laughed to herself. She knew that Huguenot Jeanne was at heart an ambitious mother, and that for all her piety she would be unable to resist this dazzling marriage for her son. Jeanne would be ready to endure a good deal in order to put Henry a step nearer to the throne.

The weeks that followed were painful to Jeanne, but full of amusement to Catherine, for Catherine delighted in prodding her enemy into anger. It was not difficult. The Queen of Navarre was notoriously frank. She said straight out that she disliked the licentiousness of the court, the masques and plays which were performed; these, Catherine told her, were done in her honour. But the plays were all comedies – for Catherine believed tragedies to be unlucky – ribald or risqué; and both the Queen Mother and her daughter slyly watched the effect of them on the Queen of Navarre.

During the weeks that followed Jeanne’s arrival, Catherine was constantly urging her to send for Henry; but Jeanne was firmly against this, and would not be persuaded. Moreover, she could not hide her impatience at Catherine’s determination not to discuss the matter which had brought Jeanne to court; she could not hide her distrust of Catherine. Catherine smiled calmly at Jeanne’s impatience, but her thoughts were the more deadly for her calm.

‘Your son would have to live at court,’ said Catherine at length, ‘and I do not think we could grant him the right to worship in the Huguenot manner.’

‘But some people here do worship in that manner.’

‘Your son would be of the royal house … with a Catholic wife. And when the Princess Marguerite visits Béarn, she must be allowed to attend mass.’

Several times Jeanne was on the point of leaving the court in very exasperation, until she realised that it was the Queen Mother’s wish that the marriage should take place, and that it was the mischievous side to her nature which compelled her to tease the Queen of Navarre.

‘I do not know how I endure these torments,’ Jeanne wrote to her son. ‘I am not allowed to be alone with anyone but the Queen Mother, and she takes a delight in plaguing me. All the time she is laughing at me. Oh, my son, I tremble at the thought of this court. There never was such licentiousness. It is not the fault of the King; he has his mistress installed in the palace in apartments close to his own, and he retires early on the excuse that he wishes to work on a book he is writing; but all know that he spends the time with his mistress. Others are not so discreet.’

There was one private interview between Jeanne and Margot. Margot was cold and haughty, expressing no desire for the marriage.

‘How would you feel,’ asked Jeanne hopefully, ‘about a change in your religion?’

‘I have been brought up in the Catholic religion,’ the Princess said, ‘and I would never abandon it. Even,’ she added maliciously, ‘for the greatest monarch in the world!’

Jeanne said angrily: ‘I have heard differently. It seems I have been brought to court on false reports.’

Jeanne was made continually aware of the falseness of the court. They did not say what they meant, these people. They were completely without sincerity. They alarmed her, for when they smiled, she knew their smiles hid deadly thoughts.

Coligny could help her very little. He was obsessed by his friendship with the King, with his plans for the conquest of Spain and the establishment of the Huguenot religion. He was, Jeanne felt sure, too trusting.

Catherine was watching events outside the court, while inside she played with Jeanne. The Guises were growing restive. There was a personal element in the Guises’ annoyance. Coligny they looked upon as the murderer of Duke Francis; they had wanted Margot to marry Duke Henry.

They now plotted with Spain. That accursed family! thought Catherine. They were always in the background of her life, foiling her schemes.

France was battered by civil war; Spain was strong. There returned to Catherine that awful fear of Philip which never left her for long; and she knew that sooner or later he must be placated. What was he thinking in his palace in Madrid? His spies would have been watching her closely. They would report that Coligny was at court and that the Queen Mother was planning a marriage for her daughter with the heretic of Navarre! It was obvious to Catherine that she must show Philip that, in spite of outward appearances, she was still his friend.

And so, listening to Jeanne, arguing, teasing, Catherine began to make plans. She would have to throw a very important personage to the King of Spain; she would have to carry out the first part of that pact which she had made with Alva at Bayonne.

Of course, she had always disliked Jeanne. There had always been that uncomfortable knowledge that her existence meant no good to Catherine. Philip would be pleased to see the woman out of the way. He would know with certainty then that the Queen Mother worked with him.

So while she talked with Jeanne her thoughts moved away from and beyond the marriage pact. She pictured the pact signed, Henry of Navarre at court bound to Margot, and then – the end of Jeanne of Navarre.

The Ruggieri? They were too timid. René would be the best man.

She must therefore get the contract signed, tie up the Prince, and make the marriage possible. Then she could proceed with her plans for war with Spain while she lulled Philip’s fears by removing the woman whom he recognised as one of his deadliest foes.

Charles would be useful at this stage. His friendship with Coligny must be extended to the Queen of Navarre. Catherine spent much time with the King, explaining to him the part he must play.

Accordingly he was seen a good deal with Jeanne; she was, he said, his dear aunt. He told her of his love for Coligny. He was very useful in subduing Jeanne’s fears.

‘If there should be any trouble with the Pope,’ said Charles, ‘we will get Margot married en pleine prêche.’

And so, at last, Jeanne of Navarre signed the marriage contract between her son and the Princess Margot; and thus was Catherine free to go ahead with her plans.

The court had moved to Paris, and with it went Jeanne of Navarre.

‘There must be preparations for the wedding,’ said Catherine, ‘and you will wish to take advantage of all that Paris can offer you. I myself will take you to my best dressmakers, my own glove-makers, my parfumeurs.’

Jeanne suppressed misgivings and went. Coligny assured her that this was a new dawn for the Huguenot Party, and that she could trust her son to adhere to his faith. She must realise that, pleasure-loving as he was, he was not weak as his father had been.

Catherine was delighted to be in her beloved Paris. It was exhilarating to slip out through the secret passage, a shawl about her head, and enter the shop on the quay opposite the Louvre.

René at once recognised her. He was delighted that it was to him that she came. For so long he had been the rival of the Ruggieri brothers.

She asked to be taken into his secret chamber, and thither she was conducted immediately.

‘Monsieur René,’ she said, throwing off her shawl and putting on her regal dignity, ‘I have a commission for you. You must let me know if you are willing to undertake it.’

‘My greatest desire, Madame,’ he said, ‘is to serve your Majesty.’

‘Wait before you commit yourself, my friend. The person involved is of very high rank.’ She scrutinised the face of the man, but he did not flinch. She went on: ‘Her death must be brought about swiftly and subtly. There may be suspicion, however cleverly it is performed. There may be an autopsy. I would not wish you to undertake this until you have considered all that it may mean. I have come to you because I believe you to be more fearless than your fellows.’

‘Madame, I shall be fearless in your Majesty’s service.’

‘How do your experiments go, Monsieur René?’

‘Very well, Madame. I have a substance which can be inhaled through the nose or through the pores of the skin.’

‘That is not so very novel.’

‘But a substance, your Majesty, which, a few days after it is inhaled, will leave no deposit in the victim’s body, a substance which will aggravate any disease from which the victim may be suffering, so that if the body is opened after death, it would appear that he, or she, has died of this disease.’

‘That is interesting, Monsieur René. And if the victim were not suffering from some disease, what then?’

‘Death would come, but it would be impossible for any to find out the cause.’

‘That in itself would arouse suspicion. Tell me, have you tested the reliability of the substance?’

‘I have buried four serving wenches, all of whom I treated with this substance.’

‘And how long was it before death came?’

‘A matter of days. Except in one case, Madame. She was suffering from an ulcer. Her death was immediate.’

‘So you are sure you can rely on this substance?’

‘Absolutely, Madame.’

‘It seems similar to your aqua Tofana.’

‘Similar, Madame. But this substance leaves no trace.’

‘Tell me how you have procured such a substance. You know these matters interest me.’

‘It is a complicated process, Madame, but similar to that which produces our venin de crapaud.’

‘Arsenic is one of the most dangerous of poisons, preserving the body as it does. If there should be an opening of the body after death …’

‘But this, I would tell your Majesty, does not contain arsenic. It is similar to the venin de crapaud only in its early stages of production. I have fed arsenic to toads and when the creatures are dead, after a certain period have distilled the juices of the body. These contain the virus of arsenic and, of course, the poisons of decomposition. Then I eliminate the arsenic. Nor is that all. But the process of the details would weary you, and it is complicated and not easy to explain.’

Catherine laughed. ‘Keep your secrets, Monsieur René. I shall respect them. Why should others reap the benefit of your experiments?’

‘If you would care to step into my laboratory, I would show your Majesty what I have prepared of this substance.’

Catherine rose and followed him through several dark passages until they came to an underground cellar. It was warm in here because of the great fire which burned in the stove, the smoke of which fire escaped through a pipe in the wall. On the benches were skeletons of animals, and on the walls had been drawn cabalistic signs. Catherine was well acquainted with the tools of the trade of such men as René and the Ruggieri. Her eyes glowed as she looked at the bottles which contained liquids of all colours, and the boxes of mysterious powders.

René took a phial of liquid of a sickly green colour which he showed her.

‘This, Madame, is the most valuable and deadly poison that has yet been made. In this it is possible to steep some article – a glove, a ruff, a trinket; the article absorbs the liquid immediately and is almost at once dry. The poison will remain in the article until it is placed in a certain temperature. The heat of the body, for instance, would draw the poison out in the form of vapour; it would be absorbed into the body through the pores of the skin.’

Catherine nodded. This was no great surprise. The men of her country were the cleverest poisoners in the world. They guarded their secrets jealously, and it was said that some carried them with them to the grave because they could not bear to share them. No matter what qualities a new poison was reputed to possess, Catherine was prepared to believe in it; she had seen enough in her lifetime to know that these sorcerers from her native land could manufacture poisons, the action of which would seem incredible to the rest of the world.

‘It is good that you have such confidence, Monsieur René,’ she said, ‘for when an eminent person dies, there is much suspicion, and if there should be an autopsy and poison were discovered – well, it might be remembered that the lady called at your shop.’

‘That is so, Madame. But I believe in my work. I have tested this substance. Moreover, my wish is to serve your Majesty with my life if need be.’

Catherine smiled. ‘You shall not be forgotten, Monsieur René. Now, if this lady comes here to buy gloves, a ruff or a trinket, you could take what she selects and treat it while she is here . . and let her go away with it?’

‘I could, Madame.’

‘Gloves would be simplest. Now listen. She shall come to buy gloves. You will show her of your best and, when she has selected them, you will treat them. In order to ensure that she wears them immediately, let those she is wearing when she arrives be soiled in some way. You have no doubt means here of doing this. Let her leave them for you to repair, and let her go away wearing the new gloves that you have treated. I would not wish the gloves to fall into other hands.’

‘It shall be as you command, Madame.’

‘That is well. And I should like a little of that … substance … for my own closet.’

‘Madame, it would not be safe. It is not as yet in the perfect form for keeping. When I can trust it, all my stock is at your Majesty’s disposal.’

Catherine smiled faintly. She understood René. He was not prepared to lose his sole right to such a valuable discovery.

She came out into the streets, drawing her shawl about her. So far, so good.

The Queen of Navarre lay sick in her room. She could not understand the sudden faintness which had come over her. She had had a pleasant enough afternoon, choosing some clothes she would need for the ceremonies which would follow the wedding. She was not interested in fine clothes, but she did not wish to appear dowdy among the Parisians, who she knew would be gorgeously apparelled.

She had bought a new ruff and new gloves. Catherine had been helpful, telling her where to go, accompanying her to some of the places. And finally she had gone to the glove-maker and parfumeur on the quay opposite the Louvre, and there she had bought a pair of those exquisite gloves such as were now worn at court. She had put them on there and then and come back to the palace wearing them, because of some slight accident to her old pair.

And then had come this strange faintness, this nausea. It had been necessary to take to her bed, for there was a violent pain in her chest. She was unable to attend the banquet that day; and the night that followed was passed in a fever of restlessness; a terrible lassitude had taken possession of her limbs, and by morning she had lost the power of them. She could scarcely breathe, and the pain in her chest had become an agony.

Her apartments in the Hôtel de Condé were filled with anxious men and women of the Huguenot Faith. The greatest physicians in the country were at her bedside, but none could discover the strange nature of her illness. Catherine sent her doctors. ‘I beg of you,’ said Catherine, ‘spare no effort to save the life of the Queen of Navarre. It would be terrible if she were to die now that we have settled the arrangements for the marriage in such an amicable manner.’

Jeanne asked that Coligny might be brought to her. She felt, vague and hazy though she was, that there was much she should say to him. She knew that Coligny was in great danger; that the Huguenot cause was in danger; she remembered something of what her little son had overheard in the gallery of Bayonne; but her mind was failing her, and she could not clearly recall what it was.

She knew that she was dying. ‘Your prayers,’ she said, ‘will avail me nothing. I submit myself to the Holy Will of God, taking all evils from Him as inflicted by a loving Father. I have never feared death. My only grief is that I must leave my children, and that they, at their tender age, are exposed to so many dangers.’

She begged them to cease their weeping.

‘Ought you to weep for me?’ she asked. ‘You have all seen the misery of my last years. God has taken pity on me and is calling me to the enjoyment of a blessed existence.’

She longed for death now, longed to escape from the pain of her body. But she thought of her children: her son, Henry, who was in such need of guidance; her dearest little Catherine, who was so young. What would become of them?

Catherine must return to Béarn. She was insistent on that.

‘Oh, please, please,’ she cried in a moment of acute consciousness, ‘take my little daughter home … take her far away from the corruption of this court.’

Then she began to speak of her son’s coming marriage, and Catherine, who stood by her bed, said: ‘Rest, my dear sister of Navarre. Fret not for the sake of your children. I will be a mother to them. Your son is to be my son through marriage … and I am the godmother of your daughter.’

Catherine put her lips to the clammy brow of her enemy. This was the woman for whom she had always felt uneasy hatred. Now was the end of the woman. Jeanne had sought to pit herself against Catherine, so now here she lay, a poor weak woman, dying, stripped of all her earthly possessions, of all earthly desires.

The Queen Mother was triumphant.

The Princess Margot looked on at the scene – a humble scene, for the apartment did not look like the death chamber of a Queen. There were no tapers, no priests, none of the ritual which attended a Catholic death.

She looked at the faces of the people in the room; she looked from the dying Queen to the woman who stood by the bed, the woman with the full pale face and large expressionless eyes from which now and then the delicate white hand wiped a tear.

Margot shivered. Death was terrifying, but she was not so much afraid of death as of the woman in black who conducted herself with such calm and sorrowful decorum.

‘The Queen of Navarre is dead!’

They were whispering this in the streets.

‘They say she visited René … the Queen Mother’s glove-maker. People have visited René before … and they fall into a decline … their teeth break like glass on their bread … their skin shrivels … and then they die.’

‘The Queen of Navarre has been poisoned!’

The Parisians were mainly Catholic, and they must therefore regard the Queen of Navarre as an enemy; yet they did not care to think that she had been lured to their city to be poisoned.

‘It is that woman!’ was whispered in the market-place, in the streets, on the quays. ‘It is the Italian woman at her tricks again. Was it not her glove-maker to whom the Queen of Navarre went?’

The people of Paris shuddered; they turned horrified eyes towards the windows of the Louvre; they whispered; they spat in contempt; and there was one name which was mentioned more than any other – that of Catherine de’ Medici, the Italian woman. ‘Italian! Italian!’ they hissed. These Italians were past-masters with the poison cup, and the very word ‘Italian’ was almost synonymous with ‘Poisoner’.

The Guises came riding to court.

The Queen of Navarre was dead. Here was one enemy out of the way. It might be that the Queen Mother, in favouring the Huguenots, had been playing just another of her tortuous, cunning games.

Margot watched them as they rode into the courtyard of the palace, and looked for the figure at their head; Henry of Guise had grown more handsome during his absence.

She was tired of resisting. Soon they would throw her to that oaf of Navarre; and when she thought of his clumsy hands caressing her, her longing for Henry of Guise was more than she could endure.

She met him, as if by chance, in one of the ill-lighted passages near her apartments.

He stood looking at her. She tried then to turn away, but he came swiftly forward and caught her; then she remembered afresh all the enchantment of his kisses.

‘Margot,’ he whispered, his voice tender and broken with passion.

‘Henry … they are going to marry me … to Navarre.’

‘I know, my love, my darling.’

‘I will not,’ she sobbed. ‘I hate him.’

He tried to soothe her. ‘My darling, how I have missed you! How I have longed for you! Why do we torment ourselves?’

She shook her head.

He went on: ‘It is stupid pride … fighting against what we know has to be. Margot, let us take what we can. Let us take what is left to us.’

Memories surged back to him as to her. He caressed her eager body.

‘There was never anyone like you, Margot.’

‘There is nothing,’ she said, ‘but this.’

‘Do you remember that little room where we were together? We will go there … to-night and every night.’

‘The wedding is months away,’ cried Margot. ‘Who knows … perhaps it will never be. Perhaps there will be a rising, and you will become King and marry me … as we used to plan. You would be all-powerful then, and you would see that nothing stood in our way.’

He stopped her impulsive words with kisses. The walls of the Louvre had ears.

‘To-night?’ he repeated.

‘At midnight.’

‘I shall be waiting … most eagerly.’

‘And most eagerly shall I come.’

‘Go now, my darling. Let us not be seen. Let us be wiser than we were.’

There was a last lingering kiss, one more passionate embrace; and Guise went back to his apartments, and joyously to hers went the Princess, who, but a short time before, had been the most miserable, and was now the happiest, woman in France.

There was tension in the Louvre. Catherine had realised suddenly what power Coligny had over her son Charles. She had forgotten that he, so malleable in her hands, would be equally so in those of others.

Surrounded by his courtiers, Charles spoke to his mother, his eyes flashing, his mouth working:

‘There are evil rumours concerning the death of the Queen of Navarre. It is said that she met her death through foul practices. I command therefore that the body should be opened and examined in order that the cause of her death may be ascertained.’

Catherine felt herself go cold. Her son’s gaze was malevolent; and she knew with sudden horror that he, like the whispering women in the streets, believed that she had killed Jeanne of Navarre. That in itself was not so shocking; but that he, though thinking such a thing, should demand an autopsy, was incredible. Did he want to incriminate his mother, the one person who, so she had believed, had dominated his life? Catherine had been outwitted – outwitted by that great, good man, Gaspard de Coligny. He had crept up slowly with his religion and his self-righteousness and had taken possession of the King’s feeble mind. Coligny wanted an autopsy, and the King, in spite of his mother, would see that there was one.

She stared into that poor weak face in which the whites of the eyes were beginning to turn red, the mouth to foam. Her voice was cold. She had put all her trust in René, and if René had spoken the truth all would be well.

‘My son, if it is your wish that an autopsy should take place, then so be it. To my mind, the Queen’s death was natural enough. She was not strong, and she had suffered a good deal; the effort of the journey to court and the strain of arranging the marriage has been too much for her.’

‘Nevertheless,’ cried the King, ‘I will have her body examined.’

He was a man now, twenty-one. Her mistake had been that she had considered him nothing but an unbalanced boy.

The doctors were closeted together. Catherine’s and the King’s physicians were with Jeanne’s. At any moment now the result of their examination would be known. If René had failed, thought Catherine, that would be the end of René, and there would be just another rumour attaching itself to the Queen Mother. Already she was hated. What did she care? Let them hate as long as they let her rule France.

Jeanne was dead. Philip of Spain would be smiling – or getting as near to smiling as he was able – into that beard of his. Elizabeth of England would hear the news with concern. Coligny was stricken down in grief. Jeanne’s boy Henry would not yet have heard, but soon he would be forced to come to court; he would be delivered into the hands of the Queen Mother, who would take him under her wing as one of her sons, to be dominated and guided in the way he should go.

There was nothing for her to fear – only hatred and suspicion. She had had her share of them already, and no one would dare harm the Queen Mother of France.

In the dim chamber the lovers lay in an enchanted weariness. Margot wept a little. ‘For happiness,’ she said, ‘because I have missed you and longed for you, and there is no one in the world who can take your place.’

Henry of Guise said angrily: ‘How happy we might have been, you and I! I shall never forget nor forgive the one who parted us.’

‘My mother terrifies me, Henry.’

‘I meant your brother. He is the one who has separated us. We might have married in time but for him. I mean your brother Henry, not the King. He is afraid of me – your brother Henry. One day I shall kill him … or he will kill me. I shall take my revenge for what he has done to us, and I shall kill Coligny to honour my father.’

‘Do not speak of hate when we have love,’ said Margot. ‘Now we are together let us enjoy it and think of nothing else. Let us not think of your revenge on my brother and Coligny, of my marriage with Navarre. Let us live in happiness while we may.’

She flung herself into his arms once more, but he felt her trembling. He tried to soothe her, but she said: ‘Henry, I cannot stop thinking of my mother. Do you think she poisoned the Queen of Navarre?’

He did not answer, and there was a long silence between them. But after a while they ceased to think of the Queen of Navarre, of Margot’s coming marriage and of revenge. They were together, and they had been apart too long.

Through the streets of Paris walked a stout woman with a shawl over her head. She joined a group in the market. They were, she knew, talking of the Queen of Navarre.

‘So it was an abscess on the lungs,’ said one woman.

‘So they say …’

Catherine said: ‘You think then that the physicians may have been wrong?’ She drew the shawl about her to hide her face.

‘How do we know what devilries the Italian woman is up to?’

Catherine laughed. ‘You think then that she can make abscesses on the lungs of her enemies?’

The group laughed with her. ‘She is a witch. She is a sorceress. These Italians … they know too much about poisons, and the poisons they give leave no signs. We should never have let them come into our country.’

Catherine moved away. She joined another group who were arguing together. Someone was saying: ‘The Queen was poisoned. It was the Italian woman who arranged it, mark my words. The Queen went to a glove-maker … the Italian’s glove-maker. The doctors can say what they like. It may be that they dare say no other. If they did, it might be that they too would soon be suffering from some mysterious illness which their friends could not understand.’

Catherine turned away and walked thoughtfully through the streets. Here was another of those occasions like that which had followed the death of the Dauphin Francis, who had died when his Italian cupbearer had given him water.

She was uneasy. The King must be watched. Coligny had too much influence over him. She would have to begin thinking very seriously about Monsieur de Coligny, for there must obviously be only one who was allowed to exercise authority over the King’s feeble mind.

She was strong. She would overcome all difficulties. She thought of herself now, and compared herself with the woman she had been on the death of her husband. Then she had had much to learn, and she had learned some of it. She was now in her prime, and in her hands was the power to lead those she loved, to destroy those who stood in her way – and she was fast learning how to use that power.

The Queen Mother drew her shawl closer about her and walked slowly and thoughtfully back to the palace of the Louvre.