She laughed with great bitterness. ‘Well,’ she cried, ‘if your doubts on either side are equal, I beg of you to choose the religion which is likely to do you least prejudice.’

She had laughed at him; once more she had mocked. Antoine hardened and swung away from her. It had always been thus. She had never made things easy for him; she would not meet him halfway.

He remembered once more that she stood in his way to greatness.


* * *

Catherine was terrified. She felt that her first real adventure into foreign policy might cost her her life. She was exposed now, whereas previously she had worked in the dark. She was surrounded by powerful enemies; spies from Rome and Spain. The Guises were against her; the Catholics suspected her of being in league with the Huguenots, and the Huguenots did not trust her. She had tried to follow the teachings of Machiavelli, but she had not succeeded. The serpent was in the open, uncoiled for all to see, and, realising the poison she carried in her fangs, both sides were ready to crush that cold, inhuman head.

The King of Navarre had joined the Catholic Triumvirate which had been set up to deal with the Huguenot menace; and he had walked through Paris at the head of the Catholic procession and attended mass in public at the Church of St. Geneviève. This meant that he was now openly pledged to the Catholic religion.

Catherine knew that Jeanne was in imminent danger. But what of herself? There were religious riots all over the country. Huguenots were despoiling Catholic churches, breaking up images, setting fire to altars, killing Catholics wherever they could. Catholics retaliated fiercely, surprising congregations and butchering them as they kneeled at prayer, setting fire to Huguenot meeting-places. A mother bringing a child from a christening which had been carried out in the Reformed manner was set upon and her child killed before her eyes. The Council of Poissy, which was to have bred toleration, seemed to have made matters worse. There was dissension everywhere, and the hatred between the Catholics and Protestants was rising to a frenzy all over the country. In Paris – always staunchly Catholic – the Huguenots were persecuted at every turn; but there were towns, such as La Rochelle, where the Protestants were in the majority, and here atrocities were committed against men, women and children in the name of the Reformed Faith.

Catherine listened to the council of the Triumvirate through a tube which hung behind the arras in the council chamber at the Louvre and led into her own apartments.

In clear tones, Francis of Guise said: ‘The Queen Mother’s interference in matters of state becomes intolerable. It is my suggestion that we get rid of her.’

Listening with horror, Catherine strained to hear everything. She thought of those four men who made up the Triumvirate, now incorrectly named, since Antoine had joined it and made it a council of four. There were the Guise brothers – the Duke and the Cardinal – the Maréchal de Saint-André and Antoine.

‘Exclude her from the Regency!’ she heard Antoine cry.

Saint-André said: ‘Why not rid ourselves of her by drowning her in the Seine? It could easily be accomplished without discovery, for I fancy there is no person in France who would take the trouble to investigate the lady’s disappearance.’

Catherine listened to no more. She did not realise that what had been said about throwing her into the Seine had been said jocularly. Had she been in the place of these men, she would have chosen an early opportunity of disposing of an enemy; she imagined that they were prepared to do the same.

She lost no more time, but went to the King’s apartment and told him that they must leave for Fontainebleau at once; and this they did, galloping off in secret that night.

Meanwhile, the Council had stopped talking about the Queen Mother, to discuss what they considered a more serious matter, that of Jeanne of Navarre.

‘There is only one course open to us,’ said Francis of Guise. ‘She must be arrested as a state prisoner at the earliest possible moment.’

Listening to this, Antoine turned pale. Jeanne … a state prisoner, confined to one of the dungeons! Proud Jeanne! And what then? Turned over to Spain, to the dreaded Inquisition. Torture … the terrible torture of the Spanish Inquisition. He could imagine Jeanne as she faced the Inquisitors. She would never give way. She would suffer the rack, the water torture, any vileness they could think of. They could tear her flesh with red-hot pincers and pour molten lead into her wounds, but she would never give way.

The Cardinal of Lorraine had laid his hand on Antoine’s shoulder. ‘It sometimes happens,’ said the smooth voice of the Cardinal, ‘that it becomes necessary, for the sake of true religion, to act in a manner which is repulsive to us.’

Antoine bowed his head. He tried to shut out the picture of a martyred Jeanne. He tried to see himself received triumphantly into Heaven. There would be a good place for him, an honoured place, for he had embraced the true faith, and all would be forgiven once a straying sheep had returned to the fold.

‘Then we are all agreed that a warrant must be issued for the arrest of Jeanne of Navarre,’ said the Duke of Guise.

Antoine did not speak, and his silence was taken as agreement.

‘On a charge of heresy,’ added the Cardinal. He then embraced Antoine. ‘This, Monseigneur, is an act worthy of you,’ he declared. ‘May God give you a good and long life.’

‘So be it!’ said the Duke.

The session was at an end.

Antoine left the council chamber, trying to reassure himself; that was not easy, for he felt like Judas.


* * *

It was not long before Jeanne heard that a warrant was being issued for her arrest, for she had many friends at court. Overcome by this fresh evidence of the perfidy of the man she loved – for she knew that such an order would come through the Triumvirate, of which Antoine was now a member – Jeanne was glad that there was need for immediate action which would prevent her brooding.

‘Fly at once,’ she was warned, ‘for there is not an hour to be lost. You will not be safe until you are in your own dominions. And if you are caught – apart from all the horrors which would await you – what a blow this would be to the Huguenot cause!’

She realised the truth of this and, taking her little four-year-old daughter, set out at once with her attendants.

Since that occasion when her son Henry had defended her against his father, the boy had been taken from her and kept in his father’s apartments at Saint-Germain; and as she could not go without Henry, she must journey first to Saint-Germain to see him and, if possible, to take him away with her.

As she rode there her thoughts were bitter. Not content with taking her son from her, Antoine had been callous enough to put him in the care of Vincent Lauro, the Jesuit. Her enemies were determined to rob her of her son as well as her husband.

Her friends had warned her that it was folly to think of calling at Saint-Germain, for she would not be allowed to take the boy; she could depend upon it that he was well guarded, and she would merely imperil her own safety. But Jeanne would not listen. She must see Henry. She must – even if she could not take him with her – have a few words with him, to remind him of his obligations to her and to his faith.

She forced her way to him past his new tutors and the attendants, who were really guards. The little boy ran to her and embraced her warmly.

‘Oh, my mother, have you come to take me home to Béarn?’

Antoine, who had immediately been warned of her coming, burst into the apartment; he stood, his arms folded, while he surveyed his wife with cold dislike, his son with sternness.

‘You must stay here with me,’ said Antoine, answering the boy’s question. ‘I am your father and you are under my control.’

‘But I wish to go with my mother!’ cried the bold little boy.

‘Try to be sensible,’ said Antoine. ‘I do not wish to have you punished more than you have been already.’

‘Mother, must I stay?’

She nodded, for she knew that guards were in the palace and she could not risk any injury to her son. He was bold and he would, she knew, try to fight them; but he would obey his mother.

‘I fear so.’ She held him against her breast. ‘Henry, my dearest son.’

‘Oh, Mother … dearest Mother.’

She whispered to him: ‘Never forget my counsels, darling. Be true to me always and true to the faith.’

He whispered back: ‘Mother, I will. I swear it.’

‘Soon all will be well and we shall be together.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

‘But just for a little while we must be separated.’

He nodded.

‘Darling son, never attend mass. No matter what they do … always refuse. If you did not refuse, you could not be my son.’

‘I know,’ he said.

‘Then you will be true and strong, my dearest boy?’

‘Yes, Mother, I will be true and strong. I am a Huguenot. I will never forget it, no matter what they do to me. I will never forget you and that one day I shall be with you.’

It was so sad to leave him. Again and again they kissed each other. Antoine watched them with some emotion. He had no wish to hurt either of them. He did not forget for a moment his relationship to them both. This was all Jeanne’s fault. Why could she not become a good Catholic and set everything to rights?

He rang for the boy’s tutor, and Henry, now weeping bitterly, was led away.

Antoine then spoke to Jeanne: ‘Do not waste more time here, I beg of you. They are about to arrest you. Fly, I implore you. I beg of you. Your safest way is to make for Béarn via Vendôme. You can rest awhile at my château at Vendôme … but do not stay too long. It is your only hope of safety.’