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

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

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

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

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

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

‘That is what I suggest.’

‘You think it possible in his case?’

‘Monsieur, I do think it possible.’

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

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

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

‘I have, Monsieur.’

‘And for Antoine?’

‘Mademoiselle du Rouet.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isabelle came to her bed and lay down beside her.

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

Louise nodded.

‘To me also,’ said Isabelle.

‘And who is your quarry?’

‘You’ll never guess.’

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

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

‘Mine is a King.’

‘A King!’

‘Antoine … King of Navarre.’

Isabelle began to laugh.

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

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

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

‘So yours is Condé?’

‘You are envious.’

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

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

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

‘Will I not!’

‘He is devoted to his wife.’

‘So is Antoine.’

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

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

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

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

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

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