‘I am a King now, Nurse. How I wish I were a boy again, and that I could slip out of the Louvre, out of Paris, to some quiet spot with you and Marie and the dogs and my falcons and my little pied hawk to bring down the small birds for me. To escape from this . . . with you all. How happy I should be!’

‘But you have nothing to fear, my love.’

‘I do not know, Nurse. Why cannot my subjects be at peace? I care for them all, be they Huguenots or Catholics. Why, you yourself are a Huguenot.’

‘I wish that you would pray with me, Chariot. There would be great comfort for you in that.’

‘Perhaps I will one day, Madelon. But it is all this hate about me that frightens me. Monsieur de Guise hating my dear Admiral, and the Admiral cold and haughty with Monsieur de Guise. That is not good, Madelon. They should be friends. If those two were friends, then all the Huguenots and all the Catholics in Paris would be friends, for the Catholics follow the Duke, and the Huguenots the Admiral. That is it! That is what I must do. I must make them friends. I will insist. I will demand it. I am the King. By the good God, if they will not give each other the kiss of friendship, I will . . . I will . .

Madeleine wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘There! You are right, my little King. You are right, my Chariot. You will insist, but now you will rest awhile.’

He touched her cheek lightly with his lips. ‘Why are not all the people in Paris gentle like you, dearest Nurse? Why are they not all like Marie and my wife?’

‘It might be a dull world made up of such as I,’ she said.

‘A dull world, you say. Then it would be a happy one. No fears . . . no death . no blood. Go, Nurse darling, go and tell Marie to come, and I will talk to her and see what she has to say about a friendship between Monsieur de Guise and Monsieur l’Amiral.’


* * *

Catherine’s benign expression hid the cynicism she felt as she witnessed the farce which was now being enacted before her.

The kiss of peace which Henry of Guise was giving Coligny! Her mind went back to a similar scene which had taken place six years before in the château at Blois. She herself had organized that scene and with the two same actors. Of course, at that time Guise had been a boy, completely without subtlety, unable to hide the blushes which rose to his cheeks, unable to quell the fire in his eyes. Then he had said: ‘I could not give the kiss of friendship to a man who has been called my father’s murderer.’

How the years change us! she thought. Now this. Duke—no longer a boy—was ready to take the Admiral in his arms and plant on his cheeks the kisses of friendship, even while he was plotting to kill him.

‘How good it is,’ murmured Catherine ‘when old enemies become friends!’

Madame de Sauves, who happened to be near her, whispered: ‘Indeed yes, Madame.’

Catherine allowed herself to smile graciously on the woman. She was playing her part well with the bridegroom, playing both the seductress and the virtuous wife. Catherine had said: ‘The Baron de Sauves would be proud of his wife if he could see the way in which she repulses that young rake of Navarre.’ At which the woman had smiled demurely and lifted those wonderful blue eyes of hers to the face of the Queen Mother, as though asking for fresh instructions. But there were no further instructions . . . yet.

Catherine was seriously worried. That old fool, the Cardinal of Bourbon, was hedging. He could not, he declared, perform the ceremony until he had the Pope’s consent. And how could he receive word from the Pope when Catherine herself had arranged that no mail should come from Rome! She and Charles would have seriously to threaten the old man if he held out much longer.

He could be coerced, she was sure. He was getting old now, and, after all, he was a Bourbon. His brothers had not been noted for their strength. Both Antoine de Bourbon and Louis de Condé, brothers of the Cardinal, had been successfully tempted from the path of duty by members of Catherine’s. Escadron. Not that the Cardinal could be seduced in that way; but there were other methods.

And when he had consented, it would be necessary to let the people of Paris believe that the Pope had agreed to allow the marriage to take place. That would be simple.

But still she was worried. The grey shadow which haunted her life seemed more ominous than ever—that man who had been her son-in-law. In his gloomy Escorial he would be aware of all that was happening in France, and if he did not like what happened he would blame the Queen Mother. His ambassadors were spies and she was well aware that they sent long accounts of her, activities to their master.

Alva had sent a special agent to inquire into her intentions. She admitted that in Spain’s eyes she must appear as an enemy. There was an alliance with England, recently signed; she was trying hard to bring about the marriage of her son Alençon with Elizabeth of England.; there were signs that Coligny had almost .persuaded the King to keep his word and support the Netherlands against Spain and now there was the marriage of the Princess of France with the Huguenot Navarre. She doubted not that Philip of Spain was thinking of war . . . war with France; and a war, with Spain’s powerful armies and mighty armadas, was the bogey which haunted Catherine’s days and nights. She saw in it disaster—disaster to herself and her sons, and that which she dreaded more than anything on Earth, the fall of the House of Valois. To keep her sons on the throne she had followed a devious policy, twisting this way and that in order to seize every advantage, never sure today which way she would go tomorrow, supporting Catholics, favouring Huguenots, so that with good reason they likened her to a snake, with poisonous fangs, since, when she schemed for the sake of the House of Valois, she did not hesitate to kill.

She remembered a conversation which she had had at Bayonne, whither she had gone in great state to meet her daughter, the Queen of Spain; but more important than her encounter with her daughter had been that with the Duke of Alva, deputy for Philip, with whom she had had that important conversation.

Then it had been necessary to make promises, to declare herself a staunch Catholic, and she had begged Alva not to be misled when for purposes of policy she appeared to support their enemies. She had offered Alva the heads of all the Huguenot chiefs—but at the right moment. ‘It must happen,’ she had said, ‘as though by accident, when they are gathered in Paris; for what reason, as yet we cannot say.’

She wanted this marriage between the King of Navarre and her daughter because she knew that any power she enjoyed in France must come to her through her children. In the event of a civil war, resulting in a victory for the Huguenots, the crown of France might be placed on the head of the Bourbon King of Navarre; the daughter of Catherine de’ Medici would then be the Queen of France. Catherine need not, therefore, lose her position as Queen Mother. She would, naturally, do all in her power to prevent such a calamity overtaking the House of Valois; she would not hesitate to use assassins or the deadly morceaux. But it was well to consider all eventualities. Margot would not be so easy to control as Charles had been and as she hoped her beloved Henry would be; but she would still be Catherine’s daughter. This marriage then was an insurance against possible future mishap, for Catherine had seen great Huguenot victories in her time; and the sight of all those followers of Coligny—Téligny, Rochefoucauld, Condé, and young Navarre—confirmed her opinion that she was wise in changing her course as it suited her.

The marriage must take place soon, although afterwards it would be imperative and urgent to pacify Philip of Spain; and if she were fortunate it might be that the murder of Coligny, whose death His Most Catholic Majesty had long desired, would be sufficient to satisfy him. And if not? Vividly there came to her memories of that conversation with Alva at Bayonne. the right moment . . . when all the Huguenots are gathered in Paris on some pretext or other . . .

Was this the pretext? Was this the right moment?


* * *

The King was being dressed for the wedding, and there was a certain dismay among his friends and attendants, for his mouth was working in a way which all had seen before, and the whites of his eyes were shot with red. What would be the result of this wedding which was the talk of Paris, the talk of France?

‘This wedding will be blood-red,’ said the people of Paris. And the King knew that they whispered those words.

The Cardinal of Bourbon had been persuaded to perform the ceremony; he had been shown that he would find extreme disfavour in the eyes of the King and, what was more serious, in those of the Queen Mother if he did not comply with their wishes. Charles and his mother had had the news spread through Paris that the Pope’s dispensation was in their hands. So there was nothing now to delay the ceremony.

So the King trembled, and as he was dressed in the most magnificent garments yet seen—for his clothes, with his jewelled cap and dagger, alone cost six hundred thousand crowns—those about him wondered how long he would be able to smother his smouldering madness and whether it would break out before the wedding was a fait accompli.


* * *

Busy as she was, Catherine found time to admire her darling. How beautiful he was! More beautiful than any, and more. magnificent than the King himself. His dark beauty was set off by a hundred sparkling jewels; and he was as delighted with himself as his mother was.

Catherine admired the cap with its thirty pearls, each one weighing twelve carats. How soft the pearls looked in contrast with the sapphires and rubies and the hard glitter of diamonds—and how they became her darling!

She kissed him tenderly. ‘If I could have one wish granted, my dear,’ she whispered, ‘it would be that you were King of France this day. To think that you were born one year too late hurts me deeply.’

‘But one day, Mother . . .’ he murmured, his long eyes alight with ambition.

‘One day, my darling. Your brother looks sickly today,’ she added.

‘He has looked sickly for so long.’

‘Have no fear, my darling. All will be well.’

She smiled, but, in spite of outward calm, she was uneasy. She felt like one who, imagining herself to be a goddess, had stirred up a troublous sea, only to find that she was no goddess, but merely a frail human being in a flimsy craft. She was determined to steer to safety. Let them get the wedding over and then, as compensation, Philip should be offered Coligny.

‘The marriage at least was not of my making,’ she would say, as though to imply: ‘And that other deed was. I did it to show you that I am your friend.’ That would satisfy Philip. But would it? Fanatic he might be, but he certainly was no fool.

She was never one to think more than a move or two ahead, and today she must think only of the wedding and Coligny. After that? . . . There were gathered here in Paris a mighty force of Huguenots and Catholics. She had said: ‘When the time comes, I shall know what to do.’ And she would know. She had no doubt of that. So much for the present.


* * *

The bride was haughty, pale-faced and sullen. She stormed at her women.

‘I have prayed all these nights and days. I have begged the Virgin and the saints to help me. Is it all of no avail? It must be that this is so, for here is this most hateful day, the day of my wedding. I have spent my nights in weeping . .

Her women soothed her. They knew that her, nights had been spent in love-making with the Duke of Guise, but Margot often managed to convince others as she convinced herself. Now she saw herself as the reluctant bride, the tool of her brother and her mother, forced to marry a man whom she hated. Did she hate Henry of Navarre? He was not without his attraction. She had felt mildly interested when he had cocked a shrewd eye at her and winked in an extremely vulgar and provincial manner. Perhaps she did not exactly hate him; but it was far more dramatic to hate than to feel mildly indifferent, therefore she must declare she hated Henry of Navarre.

For all her misery she could not help but delight in her own appearance. She touched the crown on her head. How well it became her! By this marriage she would be a Queen, and even her beloved Henry of Guise could not have made her a Queen; yet this coarse fellow whom she hated was a King. She put on her cape of ermine; then she stood still admiring herself while the blue cape glittering with the crown jewels was put about her. She looked over her shoulder at the long train which would need three to carry it—and they must be Princesses. Nothing else would be suitable for a Queen. She laughed with pleasure, and then remembered that she was a most reluctant bride.