She hesitated. But this was not the moment to tell him of the dream. She said: ‘Our daughter― she looks so tragic. It worries me, Henry. It frightens me.’

There was real fear in her eyes, but it was not for Elizabeth. He believed it was, though, and he sought to soothe her.

‘It will pass, Catherine. It is because she is such a child.’

‘She looks so tragic.’

‘But we know these things pass. They are not so bad as they seem.’

She was talking desperately; her one desire being to keep him with her.

‘What do we know of Philip?’

‘That he is King of Spain, that he is the most powerful man in Europe― that his match with our daughter is one of which we may be justly proud.’

She threw herself at him and clung to him. ‘You do me so much good, Henry. You are so sound, so full of good sense.’

Her trembling hands stroked his coat, and, looking up at him, she saw that he was smiling benignly. He did not know that it was a passionate wife who clung to him. He thought it was an anxious mother.

‘There, Catherine. Your anxiety is natural,’ he said. ‘But we must delay no longer. Let us go down to the arena. Can you not hear how impatient they are to start the tournament?’

He took her hand and led her from the room.

When they left the palace and the trumpets heralded their approach, the crowd cheered wildly.

‘Vive le Roi! Vive la Reine! ’ shouted the people.

Yes, thought Catherine. Long live the King! Long live Queen! And for the love of the Virgin let us get on with tournament!


* * *

All through that day Catherine’s uneasiness was with her. The sun shone hotly on the gallery in which she sat with the Duke of Savoy and the ladies of the court, but not more hotly than her hatred of Diane, sitting close to her, white-haired and regal, as certain now of the King’s affection as she ever was Henry was the hero of that day. That was right, thought, Catherine, right and fitting. He had given a wonderful display, riding a spirited horse which had been a gift from the Duke of Savoy.

He had chosen for his opponent a young captain of the Scottish guard, a certain Montgomery, a noble-looking youth and a clever combatant.

Watching, there was one moment of terror for Catherine, for the young Scotsman all but threw the King from his horse. A ripple of horror ran through the crowd. Catherine leaned forward, holding her breath, praying. But the King had righted himself.

‘Hurrah!’ shouted the loyal crowd, for the King was now thrusting boldly at the young man. And then: ‘Hurrah! Vive le Roi! ’ For the King had thrown the young Scotsman and victory was his.

Catherine felt that the palms of her hands were wet. How nervous she was!

Why, it was nothing but sport. She listened to the joyous shouting of the crowd.

It was fitting that the King of France should win in the fight with a foreigner.

Henry came to the gallery, and it was near Diane that he sat. While they took refreshments, he discussed the fight with the Duke of Savoy and the ladies, and, wishing to compliment young Montgomery on his fight, the King had him brought to the gallery.

‘You did well,’ said the King. ‘You were indeed a worthy opponent.’

Montgomery bowed.

‘Come,’ said the King, ‘take refreshment with us.’

Montgomery was honoured, he said, to take advantage of such a gracious suggestion.

Watching the young man, Henry said suddenly: ‘Methinks that, had you been fighting with another, you might have thrown him.’

Montgomery flushed slightly. ‘Nay, Sire, yours was the greater skill.’

This remark was applauded by the Duke and the ladies, but, watching the King and knowing him so well, Catherine was aware of the niggling doubt in his mind. It was very likely true. Young Montgomery was a splendid specimen of manhood; Henry was strong, but he had seen forty years.

Henry said: ‘There should be no handicaps in true sport. The laurels that come by way of kingship cannot be worn with dignity.’

Montgomery did not know what to answer to this, and the King immediately announced that he wished to break another lance before sunset and that Captain Montgomery should be his opponent ‘Sire,’ said the Duke of Savoy, ‘the day is hot and you have acquitted yourself with honour. Why not put off the breaking of this lance until tomorrow?’

‘I am impatient,’ smiled Henry, ‘to face this young man once more. I cannot wait until tomorrow. My people will be delighted to see me in action again today. They are a good and loyal crowd and it is my duty to serve them.’

The young Scotsman was anxious. He was desperately afraid that he might make himself unpopular by proving himself the victor. He was young; the King was ageing; it was a delicate matter.

He made an attempt to excuse himself, but this attempt made the King more sure than ever, that, had the young man wished, he could have unseated him.

‘Come,’ said Henry, with some impatience, ‘and do your best.’

There was no gainsaying the King’s command. The two rode out together.

The delighted crowd cheered anew; and then, in that sudden breathless silence when the two men faced each other, lances raised, a young boy in one of the lower galleries pushed himself forward and, white of face and strained of eye, shouted in a loud, ringing voice: ‘Sire, do not fight!’

There was a hush over the vast assembly. Then someone seized the boy and hustled him away. But Catherine, sensing now that disaster was upon her, rose in her seat. She swayed dizzily. Diane was beside her, supporting her.

‘ Madame la Reine is feeling ill,’ she heard Diane say. ‘Pray, help me―’

Catherine was helped back to her seat. It was too late to do anything now, she knew. The combat had started, and in a few seconds it was all over.

Montgomery had struck the King on the gorget a little below his visor; the Scotsman’s lance was shattered, the stump slid upwards raising the King’s visor, and the splinter entered the King’s right eye.

Henry, striving to suppress his groans, tried to lift his lance and failed. There was a shocked stillness everywhere while he fell forward.

In a second, his gentlemen had reached him and seized his swaying body; they were stripping him of his armour.

Catherine, standing now, straining to see the face that she loved, caught a glimpse of it covered in blood, while Henry fell, fainting into the arms of his men.

Beside Catherine stood Diane, her fingers clutching the black-and-white satin of her skirt, and the white of her gown was not whiter than her face.


* * *

The King was dying, for the steel had entered his eye, and there was nothing that could be done. All the great doctors, surgeons and apothecaries, all the learned men of France were at his bedside. Philip of Spain sent his celebrated surgeon, André Vésale. But nothing could save the King.

He lay tossing in agony while violent fever overtook him. He spoke of one thing only. No blame for this should be attached to Montgomery. That was his urgent wish. The people were saying that the young man was a Protestant and that he had been primed to do this; but the King, in his agony, was determined that all should remember how the boy had had no wish to fight, and that he must be told not to grieve, as he had but obeyed the King.

Consciousness eluded Henry. He lay silent and could not be revived with rose-water and vinegar.

Paris had changed from a city of joy to one of mourning while its people stood about near Les Tournelles waiting for news. But though the doctors dressed the wound and were even able to remove some splinters, though they purged the King with rhubarb and camomile, and bled him, still they could not save his life.

The days passed and with them passed the King’s agony; for he remained in a stupor from which none could rouse him.


* * *

The Queen was desolate, pacing up and down her apartments, having the children brought to her, embracing them all in turn, sending them away that she might weep alone.

Oh my darling, she thought. I have lost you all these years to her; now am I to lose you to death? How cruel was life! She had watched Diane grow older, and she had believed her own day must come; but now death was threatening to take him, and she knew it would succeed, for such things were revealed to her. She lay on her bed and thought of him as she had first seen him, a shy and sullen boy, preparing to hate her; she thought of his coming to her, at Diane’s command, of the years of suppressed passion, of the hope that had waxed and waned through the long tormented years.

And what of Diane?

Catherine laughed suddenly and bitterly as she clenched and unclenched her long white fingers.

Ah, Madame, she thought, you were everything to him. Now you have lost everything. Reports were constantly brought to her by people who thought to cheer her.

‘The King is a little better. He seems to have fallen into a quietness.’

Better? She knew, with that curious instinct of hers, that he could not recover.

She sent an imperious message to Diane. The crown-jewels were to be returned to her at once; and with them all the presents that Henry had given her.

‘Hold nothing back,’ ran the Queen’s revealing message, ‘for I have noted well each one.’

When this message was taken to Diane, she lifted her grief-stricken face to the messenger and smiled bitterly. She was realizing now that she had never really known the Queen. There were a few at court who secretly spoke of Catherine as Madame Serpent; Diane could now believe that those people understood Henry’s widow better than she had done.

‘Is the King dead, then, that I am treated thus?’ she asked.

‘No, Madame,’ she was told, ‘but it is believed he can only linger a little longer.’

Diane stood up and answered imperiously: ‘So long as an inch of life remains to him I desire my enemies to know that I fear them not, and that, as long as he is alive, I shall not obey them. But, when he is dead, I do not wish to survive him, all all the bitternesses which they may be able to inflict upon me will be only sweets in comparison with my loss. And whether my King be alive or dead, I do not fear my enemies.’

When these words were repeated to her, Catherine knew that once more her enemy had the better of her. In love, she had acted carelessly again.

She rocked herself to and fro in her misery. Never to see him again. Never to watch him jealously as he bent his head to listen to Diane. There could never be another man for Catherine. Love was dead with Henry, and her passion would be buried in the tomb with him.

Mary Stuart, weeping for her father-in-law, could not keep the shine of expectancy out of her eyes. In a few days she would be the Queen of France.

Young Francis, who had loved his father dearly, was being so courted now by the de Guises, was being so prepared for kingship by his clever little Mary, that he too felt excitement mingling with his sorrow.

It will be the de Guises who will rule France now, not the Queen-Mother!

thought Catherine in the midst of her grief and the realization was brought home to her that she desired power almost as much as she had desired her husband. I do not forget that this I owe to Mary Stuart! She fell to fresh weeping.

Henry, come back to me. Give me a chance. Diane grows old, and I am not so old. I have never known the true love of a man, and if you leave me now I never shall. Word went through the palace: ‘The Queen is prostrate in her grief.’


* * *

The body of the King was embalmed and laid in a leaden coffin. With great solemnity and lamentation, it was borne to Notre Dame, and from there to Saint-Denis, with a great company of all the highest in the land.

The Cardinal of Lorraine officiated; he it was who pronounced the funeral oration as the coffin was lowered into the vault.

Montmorency broke his baton and threw its fragments over the coffin, whereupon the four officials did likewise. It was a touching scene.

And when it was done, the ceremonial cry rang out: ‘Le Roi est mort. Vive le Roi François!’ Then the trumpets sounded. The ceremony was over. King Henry was in his grave, and sickly, pock-marked Francis was the King of France.