Catherine knew― with that unerring instinct of hers― that there would be no more children. This year she had given birth to twins― little Jeanne, who had died a few hours after her birth, and Victoire, who had lived a few months before she followed her twin. But between the births of the twins and the beloved Henry had been born to Catherine two other children. One was Margot, now three years old and as enchanting a child as young Mary Stuart; the other was Hercule, born less than a year after Margot. Catherine could rest from childbearing now. She had lost three children, but she had a goodly brood of seven, and four of them were boys.

She felt that she could congratulate herself on her children, though Francis, the Dauphin, caused both Henry and herself a good deal of anxiety. He had had a bad attack of smallpox, and on finally recovering was even more delicate than he had been before. Short in stature and not always very bright at his lessons, he was completely under the influence of the scheming little Scots Queen. He was thirteen, but looked no more than eleven; she was only fourteen, but she appeared to be quite seventeen. Young Charles, who was six, adored her, jealous because she was to marry his brother; Charles had turned out to be quite a little musician; he liked to play his lute to Mary, and to read verses to her. She was willing to listen, the little coquette, always ready for adulation; and Heaven knew there plenty of that for Mary Stuart at the court of a France. The child’s airs and graces might have been intolerable but for her charm. They often were intolerable to Catherine― who was indifferent to charm, except in her two Henrys― but she bore with the girl, for she had decided that one day Mary Stuart should answer for her sins.

Catherine loved her daughters, Elizabeth and Claude, though mildly, for they were pretty, charming girls. Young Margot, even at three, showed signs of becoming a stronger personality. Lovely to look at, and imperious already, she had easily won the hearts of Diane and her father; she was bolder with her mother than any of the others― except Henry― dared be. Catherine admired her young daughter, but her great love was already given to young Henry.

He was five now, her beloved child― a Medici in every respect. He was entirely hers. She had one great regret regard and that was that he was her third son, and not her first; she would have given much to have made him Dauphin of France. He was delightful; his beautifully shaped hands were her hands; his features were Italian; his eyes were the flashing Medici eyes. He was not, like his brothers, fond of the chase, though he rode well; Catherine had seen to that.

An ardent horsewoman herself, she insisted that all her children should learn how to manage a horse. It was not lack of courage that made him less eager for the chase and outdoor games. He preferred to shine intellectually rather than by physical prowess. His manners were gracious and charming.

Everyone noticed how she loved this child, for, as it had been with her husband, where her love was concerned she threw caution away.

‘The. Queen loves the little Henry as she loves her right eye!’ it was said.

And it was true. When she embraced him, when she listened to his rather lisping, delightful way of speech, when he showed off in his fine new jacket― for he loved his clothes and was more interested in them than were any of the girls in theirs― when he brought his lap dogs for her to caress, she would think to herself: ‘Oh, my beloved son, you are all Medici. Would I could put you on the throne of France.’ h When she thought of the future, she would see him, in her mind’s eye, mounting the throne. Is it truth I see? she would ask herself; and be unable to discover whether what she had seen was a vision of the future or a picture conjured up from her own powerful desires.

‘If only he might be King!’ she would sigh; and then: ‘He shall be King!’

Her longing to see into the future increased, and when she heard reports of a certain prophet, she had him brought to court that she might question him.

This was a black-bearded Jew from Provence, a certain Michel de Nostredame, but he had Latinized his name as did other scholars, and he was known as Nostradamus. He had been a doctor before he discovered his powers, and had studied at Montpellier at the same time as that quick-wit Francis Rabelais.

Catherine told him that she wished him to foretell the future of her children, and for this purpose she had him brought to the royal nurseries; and as the court was at Blois at the time, he lived there in the household of the royal children.

Many were the conversations she had with him. She grew to admire him for his knowledge and to respect him for goodness. He was a clever talker; she enjoyed his company.

He quickly realized that although she had engaged him to foretell the future of her children, it was the future of Henry in which she was most interested. He pointed this out to her and she agreed.

‘Leave the others and get to work on Henry’s future,’ she said.

He did this, and after some weeks he had news for her.

He pledged her to secrecy, for what he had to say he felt to be of great importance. He was a man who hated violence; as a doctor he had faced death many a time in poor towns where he had worked among plague-stricken victims, wrapped in a tarred cloak and wearing a mask to protect him from infection; he was ready to face danger to save life; he loathed having any part in that which might take life.

Catherine met him in his apartment where he did his work.

‘It is of your son Henry I would wish to speak, if it pleases your Majesty.’

Catherine said nothing could please her more.

‘I beg of you, Madame, keep this matter to yourself. I have future. Your son Henry will one day wear the crown.

She was overcome with joy, and promised that she would tell no one what she had heard. But when she was alone she began to think of the lives between.

Henry― beloved husband, whom she adored― was one, and the thought of his being supplanted, even by young Henry, was agony to her. This love for her son was great, but it could not be compared with her love for her husband. Young Henry was but compensation for the loss of greater joys. But, she assured herself, the King is young yet; he is strong and healthy― far more so than any of his children many years before him.

It is not of the King I must think. It is of the future of my darling Henry. Yet there was Francis to come before Charles and Charles before Henry.

What of them? They were young, only a few years older their brother. And yet― Nostradamus had said that Henry should wear the crown.

She was obsessed with a desire to see into the future. She set the brothers Ruggieri working; they must find out if Nostradamus had really glimpsed the future or was merely telling her what he must guess she wished to hear. The brothers worked eagerly, delighted to find the Queen’s thoughts diverted from her husband’s mistress to the future of her favourite son.

They were able to tell her that they also believed young Henry would wear the crown of France.

Then, often her eyes would grow bright as they fell upon the pock-marked face of Francis; and eagerly she would watch Charles toying with his food. Both these boys ate sparingly and were quickly out of breath.


* * *

Catherine watched the children at their studies. They were growing up fast.

In the last year or so young Francis, as Dauphin, had had his own establishment; very soon now he would do what he wished to do more than anything else in the world: marry Mary Stuart.

How sick he looked. He could not last long. And yet― Nostradamus had hinted that he would wear the crown; and the brothers had supported Nostradamus. Perhaps he was not so sickly as he looked. He was not attending now; he was in that state of excitement which Mary always aroused in him. He was longing for his marriage; Mary was nothing loth, sickly as he was. She loved his adoration; it was so complete.

They were all in awe of Catherine― even Mary. She had but to turn her brilliant eyes upon them and they would obey her.

She said sharply now as Mary was turning to whisper to Francis: ‘Now, Mary, you will translate for me.’

Mary translated the Latin prose in her quick and clever way. The child was so alert, so brilliant that it was not easy to find fault with her. Francis and Charles watched her with great admiration.

Need they both adore her so blatantly, wondered Catherine. Was that how it would be all through her life? Catherine believed so. The child herself believed it. Flushed and excited, she quickly reached the end of the passage Catherine had set her to translate.

‘Bravo!’ cried Francis.

‘Silent, my son,’ said Catherine sharply. ‘There was a mistake.’

‘But no!’ cried Mary indignantly.

‘But yes!’ said Catherine, and she pointed it out.

Mary was angry; and Francis and Charles were angry with their mother.

Even Elizabeth and Claude were on Mary’s side, although more in awe of their mother than were the boys, so they did not show it.

‘You did well, Mary,’ said Catherine, ‘but not quite so well as you thought.

If you had gone more slowly, taken more care, you would have done better. It is well to remember that too much pride often brings disaster.’

The girl flushed and went through the passage again. This time she was word perfect. There was no denying that she was a clever little thing.

‘Thank you. You elder ones may go now. I will hear Henry and Margot.’

But while she taught the younger children, she was aware of the older ones in a corner whispering together. Francis hung on Mary’s words, kept hold of her hand; all his yearning for her was in his eyes. And Charles was hating his elder brother, because he would have the honour of marrying Mary, and had Charles been born first, that honour would have been his.

Poor little Princess! thought Catherine. They were born to envy, to fear, and to hate. As for Mary Stuart, she was born to make trouble for those about her― and mayhap for herself, for the child would have to learn that she was not quite so important to others as she was to herself.

Before Catherine now were her two best-loved children, for although she sometimes thought that young Henry, with the older Henry, had all the affection she had to give, she could not help but be fond of this bright and beautiful little daughter of hers. It was such a pleasure to listen to her three-year-old impudence, to contemplate her beauty and to remind herself that this little Margot was her daughter.

But her attention strayed again and again to the older children, and while she took Henry on to her lap and put her arm about Margot, and appeared to pay attention to them, she was really listening to the group at the window.

Mary was on the window-seat, while Francis sat on a stool, holding her hand, which she allowed to lie limply in his while he gazed up at her. Charles was stretched out on the floor also looking up at her with rapt attention; while Claude and Elizabeth sat on stools close by.

Mary talking of religion, and Catherine frowned, for she considered the subject unsuitable.

During the last years the blood of many had stained the land of France.

Henry had sworn, after the tailor’s death, that he would never witness another burning, but that had not prevented many from being thrown to the flames. The Chambre Ardente had been busy during those years; heretics filled the damp and mouldy Conciergerie and the cruel Bastille; their groans had echoed through the hideous Salle de la Question: thousands had been left to fight the rats and die of starvation in the oubliettes of the Great and Little Chatelot. Many had met horrible deaths by the wheel and wild horses; some had their flesh torn with pincers and molten lead poured into their wounds; some were hung to roast over slow fires. The tongues of these victims were cut out so that the spectators could not be moved by their hymns and prayers. And all of this been done at the King’s command in the name of Holy Church.

And now little Catholic Mary― primed by uncles, the de Guises― talked to the Princes and the Princess of these things.

Catherine called them to her and they came defiantly. ‘It is not meet to speak of such things,’ she said severely.

‘Is it not meet to speak of what is, then?’ asked Mary.