‘Yes, Madame.’

‘Who is he?’

‘Poltrot de Méray.’

‘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 Duchess 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 Orléans.

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 God 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 Balafré 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 Méray accused.’

‘And that villain, that scoundrel, is the murderer of my father. De Méray 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 noble 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 Méray money to buy a horse, so he said – not to bring about the assassination 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 assured that when the time comes we shall not spare the assassin 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 God; 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 God 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. ‘God 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.