The King flushed slightly. He felt bold now, surrounded by so many courtiers.

‘You are right, Madame,’ he said. ‘The promise shall be fulfilled, for I made it and it must be so.’

Catherine, for once, had the humiliation of seeing herself defeated. Nor could she protest in such company. She would have liked to kill Jeanne and Charles as they stood there. Instead she smiled calmly.

‘So be it,’ she said. ‘The King has spoken. Madame, I rely on you to ensure that the peace and repose of France shall not be put in danger.’

Jeanne bowed. ‘Your Majesty honours me by asking my cooperation in maintaining such a state of affairs. I shall never fail in my devotion to my sovereign.’ She paused; then she added: ‘Only the peril or destruction of my own house could make me change those sentiments.’

And the next day Jeanne set out from Paris, and riding with her was her son.


* * *

Catherine proved herself to have been right when she had explained to her son what a foolish thing he had done in giving up to Jeanne their most precious hostage. Civil war had broken out once more in France.

At one time the King and his court had to fly from Meaux to Paris for fear of Condé’s troops; Catherine was more shaken by this event than by any that had happened for months. The killing of French Protestants by Catholics and Catholics by Protestants merely made her shrug her shoulders, but the thought of the royal House of Valois in danger always terrified her. Coligny’s plan, she knew, had been to kidnap the King and set Condé up in his place.

Those were bitter days for Catherine. The Queen of England, the Duke of Savoy, and the Marquis of Brandenburg sent money and men to Condé’s aid. In despair, Catherine appealed to Spain, but although that country was willing to give aid, Spain never gave anything without taking something in exchange; and Catherine feared Philip more than she feared Condé. Therefore she arranged the Peace of Langjumeaux. But Catherine could not forget her fears of what might have happened if the Huguenots had been successful in capturing the King; and in spite of the new peace there began plots and counter-plots. Catherine plotted to capture Condé and young Henry of Navarre. Condé – now married again – narrowly escaped capture, and orders were given that he should be pursued and that the Catholics should be incited to fresh massacres of Huguenots. The wars started once more; and Jeanne, with her son, Condé and Coligny, had made their headquarters in the Huguenot stronghold of La Rochelle.

There was one great happiness which Catherine enjoyed at this time, and that was due to the reputation her son Henry was gaining on the battlefield. It was the more gratifying because it was so unexpected. Who would have thought that Henry, with his dandyism, his love of fine jewels and garments, always surrounded by those handsome and effeminate young men, would be the one to distinguish himself as a soldier!

Henry was clever. Even his enemies admitted that. He was witty and a devotee of the fine arts. He was very good-looking, though in a way which the French called ‘foreign’. His long dark eyes showed clearly his Italian origins; his white, perfectly formed hands were the most beautiful at court, and it was his great delight to set them off with sparkling jewels. And this effeminate Henry was becoming a great general! He was also becoming very ambitious, and already he was waiting impatiently for the throne. He was, like his mother, calculating how long young Charles could be expected to live.

Catherine had suffered a loss recently in the death of her daughter Elisabeth, who had died in childbirth. She had not loved Elisabeth as she loved Henry, but she had been proud of her daughter’s position in the world, and it had given her pleasure to contemplate Elisabeth on the throne of Spain. But Henry, that beloved son, compensated her for all else. It was the delight of her life to find that he listened to her as he listened to no other, that he brought all his plans to her and that he rarely acted without consulting her. In all her trials, in all her fears, there was Henry to be a comfort to her.

The mother of Henry of Navarre surveyed her son with nothing like the same complacency. He was just fourteen, but those years he had spent at the French court had, it seemed, already made a man of him. He was popular enough; the citizens of La Rochelle cheered him wherever he went. They could smile at those very qualities which alarmed his mother.

In Jeanne’s train there was a young girl, Corisanda d’Andouins, who was not very much older than Henry. This girl had recently been married to the son of the Count of Gramont, a man whom Jeanne greatly respected and whose friendship she felt to be important to her cause. But young Henry, having such little respect for the marriage laws that he could completely disregard them, had fallen violently in love with Corisanda.

He followed the girl everywhere, and Jeanne discovered that secret meetings were taking place. The whole of La Rochelle was discussing this affair between the heir of Béarn and Madame Corisanda.

Jeanne watched in alarm the indications of what her boy was to become. She remonstrated with him. He was good-natured and lazy. He agreed with her quite charmingly, but this, he explained, was love. He lifted his shoulders in an elegant fashion which he must have learned at the French court. His mother was old-fashioned; she was of the country, and she did not understand. Love? Love was all-important. His mother must have no fears for him; he would lead his men into battle; but when it was a matter of love – ‘Ah then, my mother, that is a matter between the mistress and the lover.’

Jeanne cried: ‘You mean that this woman is already your mistress? You … a boy?’

‘Not such a boy!’ he said, holding his head high.

All Jeanne’s puritanical instincts rose in revolt; but when she looked into that vital young face and was aware of that immense sensuality, she knew that protest was in vain. Here again was his father, her father, her uncle, Francis the First. They were men, and whether they were strong or weak in battle, there must always be women to give them what they asked.

‘How think you the Huguenot citizens of France will view this licentiousness in their leaders?’ she asked him.

He lifted his shoulders. ‘The French, be they Catholics or Huguenots, will always understand what it means to love.’

And with that he left her to keep his engagement with the erring Corisanda.


* * *

Margot was growing up; she had long been aware of this, but others were noticing it now.

There was strife between the royal brothers. Charles was jealous of his mother’s preference for Henry. He never felt safe in Henry’s presence. Henry watched him continually. And, as Charles often confided to Marie Touchet, Henry was not a Frenchman whom one could understand; he was an Italian, and Frenchmen were suspicious of Italians.

Henry came home from his victorious campaign, grown more handsome, more ambitious. He noticed his sister Margot and how she had grown up since he had last seen her. He saw too in her something which the other members of his family did not possess. Margot was little more than a child; she was as yet undeveloped; but it was not difficult to see that there was a good deal of sense in that vain little head.

Henry decided to utilise it. He knew that he and Charles would always be enemies, and he decided to have Margot on his side.

He asked her to take a walk with him in the grounds of Fontainebleau, and Margot, sensing the importance of this, since she guessed the matter was too momentous to be discussed indoors, was gratified. She was always ready for excitement and intrigue.

As she walked with him through the green alley of the palace garden, Henry put his arm about his sister’s shoulders – a gesture which delighted Margot, for she was no less aware of Henry’s position with their mother than Charles was, and the favour of Henry was greatly to be desired on that account. Margot feared her mother more than anyone on Earth, but at the same time she earnestly longed for her approbation. A friendship with Catherine’s darling might result in her finding favour with Catherine.

‘You may have noticed, dear Margot,’ said Henry, ‘that, of all my brothers and sisters, I have always loved you the best.’

Margot smiled happily, for if Henry regarded her in that light, so must her mother.

‘We have had many happy times together,’ went on Henry, ‘but we are children no longer.’

‘No, Henry. Indeed we are not. You are a great soldier. You have made a name for yourself.’

He pressed her hand and, putting his face close to hers, he said: ‘Margot, my power lies in keeping in the good graces of our mother, the Queen.’

Margot agreed with that.

‘And, Margot, I am away from the court so much. The wars continue. My brother the King is always beside her. He flatters her and obeys her in everything.’

‘But she would never love any as she loves you, Henry. It has always been so.’

He said: ‘I have many enemies who might do me harm with my mother … when I am not here to protect myself.’

‘Charles thinks of little else but making love to Marie Touchet and hunting wild creatures.’

‘He makes hate as well as love, and he will not always be content to hunt beasts. One day he will take my Lieutenancy from me and try to lead the army himself. I wish to have someone here at court to uphold my cause with the Queen. You, dearest sister, are my second self. You are faithful and clever. Do this for me. Be with my mother always – at her lever, at her coucher. Listen to what is said, and find some means of letting me know. Make her confide in you. You understand?’