Catherine went to see Gaspard de Coligny in his home at Châtillon, where he was enjoying a life of temporary seclusion with his family. How different Gaspard seemed with his wife and his family and the domestic calm all about him! She realised that these joys in which he was now indulging with such obvious content were what he wanted from life, but he was a man with a cause, a faith; and if he were called upon to fight for it, he must leave everything to do so. Here, then, was another of these fanatics.

Catherine sought an early opportunity of disclosing to Coligny the meaning of her visit. She joined him in his gardens where he was at work. He enjoyed his gardens and he had produced at Châtillon one of the loveliest Catherine had ever seen.

‘Monsieur de Coligny,’ said Catherine when she found herself alone with the Admiral, ‘what trouble you caused us when you had dealings with an assassin named Poltrot de Méray!’

Coligny’s face stiffened. Did he, Catherine wondered, arrange to have that shot fired which sent Francis of Guise reeling from his horse to lie senseless on the ground? He was obviously no common murderer, but might he not kill for the Faith? Oh yes, Catherine decided, as long as he could make his excuses with his God, he would kill. ‘I did it, Lord, for you …’ As long as he could say that with what he would consider a clear conscience, he would do anything, she was sure.

‘I believed,’ said Coligny, ‘that the matter had been settled.’

‘Not to my satisfaction, I fear. That is what I wish to speak to you about. De Méray was your man, was he not?’

‘He was my man.’

‘Your spy, Monsieur?’

‘He worked for me.’

Catherine smiled, and Coligny went on: ‘Madame, what fresh trouble is this? Have I not answered every question satisfactorily?’

‘Oh, just a little private interest, that is all.’ Catherine wished he would discuss the murder with her. It would be interesting to compare notes on such a subject with such a man. ‘You heard this man plotting to kill the Duke and you did nothing about it?’

‘I agree to that.’

Catherine nodded. Doubtless he had hinted to de Méray that he wished Guise were dead, but did not care to have the guilt on his own soul. Perhaps he had offered to pay money to this man if he would bear the burden in the eyes of their God. The methods of these people made her want to laugh out loud. De Méray, talking of his plot to kill the Duke and talking of it in Coligny’s hearing, had meant: ‘Do you approve, master?’ And Coligny’s silence had meant approval. Perhaps, thought Catherine, as she had thought on other occasions, I and these people are not so very different.

‘I did not come, however, to talk of past events, Monsieur,’ said Catherine. ‘The little Guise is a fiery personality. In him I fear we have another Duke Francis. Young still, but perhaps the more reckless for that. He is declaring open feud between his house and yours, for although we know that you had no hand whatsoever in the murder of the Duke of Guise – your very noble confession that you heard the plot discussed exonerates you completely – yet this fiery young fellow will not have it so. Now, you know, Admiral, that these feuds are distasteful to me. I would have peace in this kingdom.’

‘What would you have me do, Madame?’

‘I cannot have my Admiral suspected of murder. I propose to hold a banquet at Amboise – no, let it be at Blois – and there I wish to proclaim your innocence in this matter. The guests of honour will be yourself and the Guises. I want you to show your friendship to each other, to extend your hand and give the kiss of peace. I want all to know that there is friendship between you, and that the House of Guise no longer doubts your innocence in the unfortunate death of its kinsman.’

‘Madame, this is impossible. We have so recently been fighting a bitter war – they in one camp, I in another.’

‘That is why it must be done, dear Admiral. I cannot have that rash boy going about speaking of these matters, inflaming his followers. We have peace – an uneasy one, it is true – and we must make it a lasting one. This must be done for the sake of that rash boy, if not for yours.’

‘You think that by taking my hand and kissing my cheek he would become my friend, Madame?’

‘I wish to proclaim to all that there is no enmity between you. You must do this. I insist. I command.’

Coligny bowed.

‘You will be there at Blois to do as I wish?’ said Catherine.

‘It is your command, Madame.’


* * *

High above the village stood the imposing Castle of Blois. Its embrasured windows looked down on the wide stream of the Loire, bounded by the hills and vineyards of Touraine. There was uneasiness in the village; all knew that inside the château the Queen Mother had organised a banquet to promote friendship between the Colignys and the Guises. This was disquieting, for if trouble were to break out in the castle, it would extend to the surrounding villages. Huguenots trembled and thought of the massacre at Vassy, when Duke Francis of Guise had slaughtered Huguenots while they knelt at worship. Catholics told themselves to be ready to rally to the little Duke.

They had seen Duke Henry riding near the castle, handsome and remarkably like his father, so that Huguenots trembled to behold him, while Catholics exulted. The Admiral they had also seen – stern of face, handsome, though in a different manner from the arrogant and dashing Henry of Guise. A great and a good man, it was said; and yet if he had had a hand in the murder of that young boy’s father, it could be well understood that there was danger of strife within the castle walls to-day.

Catherine was pleased with the arrangements she had made. Once the two men had kissed in friendship, the young Duke must cease vowing vengeance on the Admiral. The fact that Coligny had come to Blois should show him that the Admiral wished to be friends. And, on his part, when the Admiral took the boy in his arms, he must think of him, not as the son of his old enemy, but as a young boy who had lost his father.

There was one other who occupied Catherine’s thoughts on that day – the Prince of Condé, who was now a widower. It was said that the Prince of Condé grieved deeply for his Princess, but he was living as gaily as ever. Catherine felt uncomfortable when she remembered how once she had not been so wise as she was to-day; she had thought a little too often and too tenderly of that man. How easy it would have been to have committed follies on his account! There should be no more folly. At least King Henry had been faithful to one mistress, and Catherine had known who was her enemy.

She felt strengthened in her wisdom. She learned, it was true, often through bitter lessons, but when a lesson was mastered, it should be mastered for life. No more tender feelings, then. Men were made not to love, but to serve her.

These men gathered together here at Blois were here to serve her. It suited her that they should be friends … outwardly at least. She wanted no more civil strife, for every time it occurred she and her family were in danger. She should not feel the least regret that Condé was a philanderer bringing disrepute on his party, for Condé’s weakness added to her strength. That was how men should be used – not to give a brief erotic pleasure. If she had at one time fancied she would enjoy a lover, she no longer did. She was grateful to her tally of years, for it had brought her wisdom; it had stilled her longing for what was, at best, transient; it had made her grasp with both hands and hold firmly to what should henceforth be the love of her life – power.

In the great hall at Blois were assembled men and women of the highest rank. The light came through the coloured glass of the embrasured windows, shining on the jewels and rich garments of her guests. Catherine had decided that she herself would proclaim the innocence of Coligny before them all, and command that kiss of friendship between the Admiral and Henry of Guise.

There was Anna d’Esté, the widowed Duchess of Guise, keeping close to the side of her son. Surely Anna need not have appeared in such deep mourning! Catherine laughed to herself. Poor Anna! Meek as a lamb. She would be glad enough, if allowed by her ferocious son and her brother-in-law, to accept reconciliation. Anna hated bloodshed. Catherine remembered how she had protested at the Amboise massacre. She could not bear to see men tortured; she could not bear to see them butchered. Hardly the sort of woman to have mated with Le Balafré; yet it was said that he had been fond of her for her gentleness, and that theirs had been a comparatively happy marriage. Besides, her rank doubtless compensated the ambitious Duke for her mildness. Yes, Catherine felt sure that it was Anna’s son and her brothers-in-law who had insisted on that ostentatious mourning.

There was Duke Henry beside her, already proclaiming to the world, with his arrogant demeanour, that he was head of the great House of Lorraine and Guise – the most feared, the most important in the country. Margot was eyeing him in an unseemly manner for which she should be punished later. When Margot met her mother’s eyes she smiled innocently, but Catherine’s expression grew a shade colder as she surveyed her daughter, and she knew that she had caused icy shivers to run through that body which, a moment before, had thrilled at the handsome arrogance of Henry of Guise.

There too was the Cardinal of Lorraine, the marks of his dissipation already marring the almost incomparable beauty of his features. It was said that there was nothing sufficiently licentious to please the Cardinal now; his erotic senses must be titillated as regularly as his palate. His mistresses were numerous. In his Cardinal’s robes, adorned with magnificent jewels, he attracted every eye, the debauched man of the Church, the Catholic lecher. He bowed to Catherine, and his gaze as he met hers was haughty.