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

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

‘I see,’ said Antoine slowly.

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

‘No, Madame,’ said Antoine.

‘Well, do you agree?’

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * *

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

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

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

‘Madame …’ began Mary.

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

‘But Francis said …’

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

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

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

Mary hesitated for a moment before she bowed and retired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Catherine shut the door and went back to the bed.

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

‘Nothing worries me, Mother.’

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

‘Oh yes!’ said Francis fervently.

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

‘If only it were possible!’

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

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

‘Francis … my little one!’

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

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

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

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

‘Yes; he is a very great man.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

‘My poor boy! And you will do this?’

She stroked his tumbled hair from his forehead.

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

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

There was a footstep outside the door.

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

‘He was not in his apartments, Madame.’

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

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

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


* * *

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

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

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

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

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