All that July the crowds waited in the fields surrounding that one wherein the combat was to take place. Bets were taken; pockets were picked; men and women lay about on the grass, amusing themselves in sundry ways whilst they waited.

And as the sun rose high, the gallants and brightly-clad ladies began to take their seats in the pavilion, which was decorated with cloth of gold and cloth of silver spattered with the lilies of France. There was Montmorency himself; the Guise brothers, the Cardinals, the Bishops, the Chamberlain― all the high officials of the court; and with them the ladies-in-waiting to the Queen.

On either side of the field were the tents of the combatants. In de Vivonne’s tent― so confident was he of victory― had already been prepared a banquet to celebrate his triumph. He had borrowed the finest plate from the richest households of the court for this occasion; soups, venison, roast meats of all varieties, sweets and fruit, and great butts wine, it was said, were in that tent; indeed the appetizing odours were floating out to the crowd. Everyone’s hope of victory with de Vivonne. De Vivonne was the King’s man; and it was believed that de Chabot had no stomach for the fight.

How delighted was the crowd with the glittering yet sinister sight which met its eyes. Just below the seat in which sat grim-faced Montmorency were five figures, all masked, all draped in black. These were the executioner and his assistants. When de Chabot was slain, it would be their lot to drag him to the gibbet as though he were a felon. It was a glorious and wonderful show― well worth waiting for. There was not a peddler, a prostitute nor a conjurer, a merchant nor a student in that vast crowd who would not have agreed to that.

Now the royal party was stepping out, so the show was all but due to begin.

The heralds blew several fanfares on their trumpets, and now there appeared the royal group led by good King Henry. The crowd cheered itself hoarse. They loved the King― though, declared some, sighing for the magnificence of the most magnificent of kings, he was not such a one as his father had been. But others, who were too young to remember the charm of Francis, thought that none could he better than their good and virtuous King who was so faithful to his mistress.

And here she was beside him, just as though she were his wife and Queen in name. And there again it showed the depth of his love for her, since in all other matters he would have the strictest etiquette observed. She, with him, acknowledged the cheers of the crowd, smiling graciously, beautiful in her black-and-white which made her look so pure and lovely that the coloured garments of those surrounding her seemed suddenly garish.

And then― the Queen. The crowd was silent. No cheers for the Italian woman. Perhaps they applauded the King and his mistress so heartily because of their dislike for the Italian woman.

‘Dauphin Francis!’ was hissed among the unforgetful crowd.

Catherine heard this. But one day, she thought, they will shout for me. One day they will know me for the true Queen of France in every respect. It was the old hope of ‘One Day’.

She could feel the child within her. Here I sit, she thought, pale-faced and quiet, with never a thought, some may imagine, but of the child soon to be born. Little do they know that I wait not because I was born patient, but because I have learned patience. Little do they know that they would not be gathered here to witness this mortal combat but for the fact that in the first place, I set the matter in motion. She smiled graciously and laid her hands on her pearl-studded stomacher.

Madalenna leaned towards her. ‘Your Majesty is well?’

‘Quite well, I thank you. A little faintness. It is to be expected.’

In the crowd they would have noticed the gesture, for there was little they missed; they would have seen Madalenna’s anxious query.

‘You see,’ Catherine wished to say to her subjects. ‘He has his mistress, but I shall bear his children. I alone can bear him kings and queens.’

The herald of Guinne, his silken tabard shimmering in the hot sun, stepped forward and blew a few notes on his trumpet. There was an immediate stillness in the air while the crowd waited for the announcement.

‘This day, the tenth of July, our Sovereign Lord the King granted free and fair field for mortal combat to Francis de Vivonne assailant and Guy de Chabot assailed to resolve by arms the question of honour which is at issue between them. Wherefore I make known to all, in the King’s name, that none may turn aside the course of the present combat, aid nor hinder either of the combatants on pain of death.’

As soon as the herald ceased to speak, a great cheer went up. The excitement was intense, for the combat was about to begin.

De Vivonne came from the tent accompanied by his second― one of Diane’s protégés― and friends numbering at least five hundred strong. They wore his colours― red and white― while before the hero of the day was carried his sword, shield, and banner on which was the image of St Francis. With this company, before which drummers and trumpeters de Vivonne walked all round the field to the cheers of the people. When he had done this, he went into his tent while de Chabot with his second, but with far fewer supporters in black-and-white, did the same.

Next came the ceremony of testing the weapons to be used which, as assailed, Guy de Chabot was to choose. This gave rise to a good deal of controversy, and arguments ensued while the afternoon wore on. The heat was intense, but Catherine scarcely felt the discomfort. This, she had determined should be a day of triumph for her. Today, Henry was going to feel a little less pleased with his Diane than he had ever been before. Catherine did not expect to win her husband from his mistress on such an issue, but it would be such affairs as this, piled one on top of the other, that would eventually, she was sure, turn him from his mistress to his waiting wife.

Diane was leaning forward in her seat, frowning at the delay. What was the trouble? Diane wished the affair done with; her enemy lying dead, a lesson to all those who dared flout the King’s mistress.

Madame, thought Catherine, there is, I hope, a great surprise awaiting you. This trouble over the weapons was the beginning. What joy it had been to wrap herself in a shabby and all-concealing cloak and keep the appointment she had made with Monsieur de Chabot at the home of the astrologers Ruggieri. It was not de Chabot who had chosen the weapons that would used today; it was Catherine. De Chabot had spent hours taking lessons at that house from an Italian fencing-master.

Ha! laughed Catherine to herself. There is much we Italians can do which these French cannot. We know better than they how to remove people who stand in our way! How pleasant now to sit back languidly in her seat and to know why there was this dispute about the weapons, while Diane leaned forward, not comprehending, wondering, as did the restive crowd, why the spectacle did not proceed.

De Chabot declared that he wished to fight on foot, with armour, shields, and two-edged swords, and with short daggers of the old-style― the heavy and hampering kind. De Vivonne was nonplussed by this choice, and for the first time was uneasy.

Diane’s frown had deepened. It was for Montmorency, who for the day was Master of the Ceremonies, to give judgment. And there he sat, the grim-faced old fool, determined to be just.

Catherine wanted to laugh outright. She saw further plans to be made. The King’s mistress and the King’s favourite advisor and best-loved counsellor could, in time, become enemies, jealous of the favour of the King. There would be an opportunity for exploiting her cunning.

In the meantime, to Diane’s disgust, Montmorency had decided that, spite of his strange choice, de Chabot must have his way.

From each of the four corners of the field a herald came, shouting: ‘Nobles, Knights, Gentlemen, and all manner of people! On behalf of the King I expressly command all that, as soon as the combatants shall meet in combat, all present are to preserve silence and not to speak, cough, spit, or make any sign with foot, or eye which may aid, injure, or prejudice either of the said combatants. And, further, I expressly command all on behalf of the King, that during the combat they are not to enter the lists or assist either of the combatants in any circumstances whatsoever on peril of death.’

After this, first de Vivonne, then de Chabot, with their companies of supporters behind them, made one more progress round the field whereupon each must kneel on a velvet cushion and swear that he had come to avenge his honour and that there was in his possession no charms nor incantations, and that his sole confidence was in God and the strength of his arms.

They were conducted to the middle of the field, their swords and their daggers placed in their belts, while the Norman herald shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Laissez aller les bons combatants!’ The great moment had come. The two men slowly advanced towards one another.

Catherine, her hands lying in her lap, felt the mad racing of her heart. There was no colour in her face; otherwise she gave no sign of the intense excitement she was experiencing.

She knew that de Vivonne was not happy. The weapons were too cumbersome for a man accustomed to the swift rapier. He had been outwitted. If only de Chabot was as good now as he had been when facing the Italian fencing-master in the house of the Ruggieri, all would go as she wished.

She would have brought some charm with her that would have ensured de Chabot’s victory, if she had dared; but that oath the men had taken before the priest, and she had known must be taken before the combat began, had made her dismiss the idea. Some supernatural force, other than the one she would call upon with her charm, might be turned against her if she dabbled in such matters.

De Vivonne was springing on his opponent; the crowd caught its breath as he aimed a blow at de Chabot’s head. But de Chabot remembered.

Ah, my beloved Italy, thought Catherine . You can show France how to fight. De Chabot, while feigning to parry the blow with his sword took it on his shield, and stooping to do so, thrust his sword into de Vivonne’s knee.

Bravo! Bravo! thought Catherine, glancing toward Henry and Diane, and emulating their looks of consternation, It was not serious, but to the braggart de Vivonno, the finest dueller in France, it came as a complete surprise, and as he staggered back, de Chabot was able to give him another blow on the same spot, and this time, a more violent one.

It is done, exulted Catherine.

And she was right.

His tendons had been severed, and de Vivonne staggering back with an awful cry, let his sword fall from his hand as his blood spurted over the green grass.

The crowd roared. The combat was over. It was victory for de Chabot― and Catherine de’ Medici.

But my victory, thought Catherine, is the greater because none but myself and de Chabot know it is mine. The breathless crowd waited. What now? Would de Chabot dispatch his victim and hand him over to the executioner for the gibbet or would he spare his life on receiving a confession that de Vivonne had lied and that de Chabot’s cause was the just one?

De Chabot answered the question by shouting: ‘De Vivonne, restore my honour; and ask mercy of God and the King for the wrong you have committed.’

The wretched de Vivonne, in direst pain, still was sufficiently aware of his surrounds to remember ambition. He tried to get up, but failing wretchedly, sank back on the grass.

The moment for which Catherine had waited. De Chabot had left his victim and was kneeling before the King.

‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I entreat you to esteem me a man of honour. I give de Vivonne to you. Let no imputation, Sire, rest either on his family or upon him on account of his offence; for I surrender him to you.’

Henry had never felt so embarrassed. Here he was, defeated before his court and the citizens of his capital; for de Vivonne’s cause had been his‚ and it was Henry’s honour that de Vivonne was defending.

Catherine’s elation was complete.

Now, my darling, she was thinking, who is to blame for bringing you to this unhappy pass? Whose action, in the first place, set the scandal abroad? Look into the face of her who sits beside you. She is the guilty one. Hate Diane for this; not de Chabot. Oh, my love, why waste time on one who bungles so, when here is your clever Queen who, with your power to help her, could outwit all the men and women of France? How she loved him― even. as he sat there, looking foolish and ashamed.