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'echangeur.

In her stronghold of Bearn, Jeanne received the news.

She stared stonily before her. It is nothing to me, she a.s.sured 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 Orleans. 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.s 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 l.u.s.t 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 s.e.xual 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 l.u.s.ty and l.u.s.tful before long. No! He was not as they were; nor was he as his brother Henry. His pa.s.sion 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 Orleans. 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 a.s.sa.s.sin?'

'Yes, Madame.'

'Who is he?'

'Poltrot de Meray.'

'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 d.u.c.h.ess 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 Orleans.

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 G.o.d 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 Balafre 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 Meray accused.'

'And that villain, that scoundrel, is the murderer of my father. De Meray 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 n.o.ble 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 Meray money to buy a horse, so he said not to bring about the a.s.sa.s.sination 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 a.s.sured that when the time comes we shall not spare the a.s.sa.s.sin 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 G.o.d; 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 G.o.d 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. 'G.o.d 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 Conde 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 Amba.s.sador, 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 Amba.s.sador, the wily Duke of Alva.

The journey was a slow one; the train consisted of nearly a thousand men and women; great n.o.bles 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 Nerac, who did not care that his hands were sometimes unclean and who now and then broke out into the coa.r.s.e Bearnais 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 cla.s.s 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 Amba.s.sador, 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 Amba.s.sador.

'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 Amba.s.sador 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 Amba.s.sador 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 Amba.s.sador 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, b.a.l.l.s 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 Nerac?'

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