Margot would be the Queen of Navarre. Well, that had been a good enough title for the sister of Francis the First, and it should be good enough for the present Marguerite de Valois, for wicked little Margot. Catherine decided that if she ever got up from this sick-bed she would start negotiations immediately. Once she had the young Prince of Navarre at court it should not be difficult to change him into a Catholic, in spite of his mother’s teaching. She was looking forward to another conflict with Madame Jeanne.

Now her thoughts had turned to another Henry, her beloved son, her ‘All’. She knew that there was fighting round about Jarnac and that Coligny and Condé together stood in opposition to her darling. Two men – Condé and her son – were now in danger, and for both of these men she had felt tenderness. She had enjoyed those conversations with gallant Condé, the gay philanderer; she had cherished those moments when his kiss had lingered on her hand. But it was nonsense to think of such things. Who wanted love when there was power to be won?

She might have prayed for her son’s victory, but she did not really believe in prayer. There was no God for her; there was only Catherine, the Queen Mother, the power behind the throne. There were no miracles except those performed by clever people like herself.

How hot it was in this room! Her sight seemed to be fading. There were shadowy figures about her bed. Ah, there was the King, her little mad Charles; and with him her daughter, wanton Margot, as yet unwed, yet more versed in the ways of love than many a matron of years’ standing. There were others in the room, but she felt that they were too remote to be recognised.

What was happening at Jarnac? The dawn was breaking and the battle would soon begin. There was a cold sweat all over her, and she was afraid.

She wanted to call for Cosmo or Lorenzo Ruggieri. But she was no longer in the sick-room at Metz. She was somewhere out of doors, for she could feel the wind blowing on her face. Then suddenly she heard the voice of her son Henry; it was raised in prayer; then she heard him addressing his men, and she realised that she must be on the battlefield at Jarnac.

‘Condé … Condé … Condé …’ She heard the name coming to her clearly over the cold air.

‘Condé must be killed before nightfall …’

Catherine’s lips moved. Not Condé … not the gallant little Prince. She did not want him for a lover, but he was so agreeable, so charming.

Now she heard Condé’s voice. He too was talking to his men; she caught the note of fanaticism which she had noticed so many times in so many people. ‘Louis de Bourbon goes to fight for Christ and his country.’

She must have said something aloud, for the sound of her voice had broken the spell and she was back in the sick-room.

‘Mother,’ said Charles. ‘Mother, do you wish for a prelate?’

A prelate? So she was near death. Death! What was death? A beginning again … a new fight for power in a fresh sphere?

Then the room faded and she was back on the field of battle. She saw Condé clearly in the light of morning, his handsome head thrown back, a smile on his lips; and then suddenly he was down; she saw him lying on the ground, the blood at his lips, the death rattle in his throat.

‘Look!’ cried Catherine. ‘See how they flee! Condé is dead. He lies in the hedge there. He can never recover. His wound is too deep. Condé … ah, Condé … he is no more. But Henry … my darling … Henry is victorious once more. The battle is yours. Condé is dead. Coligny has fled. All honour to you, my love, my darling.’

The King turned to Margot and said: ‘She dreams of the battle. She has thought of nothing else since she knew my brother was to fight to-day.’

Margot watched her mother without pity, without love. There was no pity nor love in Margot; there was only perpetual bitterness, a poignant memory, and a deep longing for the man she had vowed to hate.

‘Is the end near?’ asked the King.

None was sure, but all looked grave.

The end of Catherine de’ Medici, the end of the Italian woman! What changes would that bring to France?

But in the morning Catherine was better; and when, a few days later, news of the Battle of Jarnac was brought to Metz, it was thought that to hear of her son’s victory would cheer her and help her through her convalescence.

She was sleeping lightly and Charles, with Margot and others, stood at her bedside.

‘Mother,’ said Charles gently, ‘the battle is won. This is another victory for Henry. Condé is dead.’

She smiled serenely; she was her old self now, rapidly recovering from her fever.

‘And why should you be so tedious as to awaken me and tell me that?’ she demanded. ‘Did I not know? Did I not tell you … as it was happening?’

Those in the room with Charles and Margot exchanged glances. Margot paled; Charles trembled. This woman, their mother, was no ordinary woman, no ordinary Queen; she had strange powers not given to others.

It was small wonder that she could terrify them as no one else on Earth had power to do.


* * *

After the great news of the victory of Jarnac, a strange gloom fell on the court. The King, more jealous of his brother than of any living person, was thrown into melancholy. ‘Now,’ he told his little Marie, ‘my mother will glorify him more than ever. She longs to see him on the throne. Oh, Marie, I am frightened, because she is no ordinary woman, and what she desires comes to pass. She wishes me dead, and it is said that when my mother wishes a person dead, then he is as good as dead.’

But Marie took the King into her arms and assured him that this was not so. He must be calm and brave and not think of death. He must remember he was the King.

Charles tried; but he hated his brother. He refused to let him have the cannon he asked for, which was foolish and could only lead to trouble; and he knew that if he made trouble like that, matters would be brought to a head and that vague danger which haunted him all the time would come nearer to him.

Margot was anxious. Henry of Guise was fighting with the Catholic army, and she dreaded that what had happened to Condé might happen to Henry of Guise. When he was not at court, it was safe to admit to herself that her passion for him was as strong as ever. If Henry died, she would not wish to live. She prayed hourly that he might come safely home, if only to his wife.

Catherine had her difficulties. She was quite well now, but she was being tormented by Alava, the Spanish envoy; he reproached her bitterly. She had not followed up her advantages; she had been too lenient towards the Huguenots. His Most Catholic Majesty was not pleased with the Queen Mother.

‘My lord,’ said Catherine, in mock despair, ‘what could I do? I no longer have the power that I had. My sons are becoming men, and I am just a weak woman.’

‘Madame, you rule your sons, and it is you who have given Coligny the leisure to get an army together.’

‘But, my lord, what can I do? I am as good a Catholic as you … as your master … but what can I do?’

‘Have you forgotten, Madame, the conversation you had with the Duke of Alva at Bayonne?’

‘Not a word of that, I beg of you. Such a plan would be useless if bruited abroad.’

‘It must be carried out, and it must be soon. Kill the leaders … every one. Coligny must die. The Queen of Navarre must die. They cannot be allowed to live. Madame, I hear you have means at your disposal. You have a known reputation in this art of removal. And yet the most dangerous man and woman in your kingdom – the most dangerous to yourself and your throne – are allowed to live and to build up an army to fight against you.’

‘But, my lord, Coligny is not here. He is in camp. The Queen of Navarre would not come if I asked her. I have despatched Coligny’s two brothers – Odet and Andelot – the latter in England. Was not that subtle? He dies suddenly, in that austere land. Of what – very few know. I had my friends in his suite.’

‘That was well done. But what use destroying the minnows when the salmon flourishes?’

‘We shall get our salmon, my friend, but in good time.’

‘His Most Catholic Majesty would ask, Madame, when is good time? When your kingdom has been wrested from you?’

She put her head close to that of the Spaniard. ‘My son Henry is on his way to me. I will give him something … something which I know how to prepare myself. He shall have his spies in the Admiral’s camp, and before long, my lord, you will have heard the last of Monsieur de Coligny.’

‘I trust so, Madame.’

After that conversation and another with her son Henry, Catherine waited to hear news of the Admiral’s death. She had given her son a subtle poison which would produce death a few days after it was administered. Her son’s Captain of the Guard had been brought into the plot, for he was on good terms with Coligny’s valet. A satisfactory bribe – and the deed would be done.

She waited now for one of her visions. She wished to see Coligny’s death as she had seen that of Condé. But she waited in vain.

Later she heard that the plot had been discovered.

Coligny was a man of wide popularity, adored by too many; it was not easy to remove such a man.

Catherine began to grow terrified of Coligny. She did not understand him. He fought with such earnestness; he drew men to him. He had some quality which was quite outside Catherine’s understanding; and for that reason she wished to have peace with him. And so she arranged for the Peace of Saint-Germain, in which, so that she might be at peace with this man whose righteousness was so alien to her, she gave way to many of his demands. She had to grant liberty of worship in all towns that were already Protestant; Protestants were to be admitted to office with Catholics, and on equal terms; four towns were to be handed over to Coligny as security for Catholic good faith – Montaban and Cognac as a bastion in the south, La Charité in the centre, and La Rochelle to guard the sea.