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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 va.s.sals in Vendome, through which I shall pa.s.s. 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 l.u.s.tful 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 s.n.a.t.c.h 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 Bearn. 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 Conde'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 Conde 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 Conde'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 Conde. 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 Conde and young Henry of Navarre. Conde now married again narrowly escaped capture, and orders were given that he should be pursued and that the Catholics should be incited to fresh ma.s.sacres of Huguenots. The wars started once more; and Jeanne, with her son, Conde and Coligny, had made their headquarters in the Huguenot stronghold of La Roch.e.l.le.

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 Roch.e.l.le 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 Roch.e.l.le was discussing this affair between the heir of Bearn 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.