‘Passions run high in these times,’ said Catherine. ‘You are a Huguenot, Monsieur. Oh, do not hesitate to confess it to me. You have my sympathy. Do you not know that? I would not care that you should run the risk of facing such an accusation.’

‘Madame, you are too kind, too considerate. When men are sick, I think of all I can do for them … of consequences later.’

‘But, Monsieur, you are too useful a subject to be lightly lost. Tell me truthfully. You can see that I am a woman who knows how to bear her troubles. I have had enough, I can assure you, during my life. I can bear a little more. My son is sick, is he not?’

‘Very sick, Madame.’

‘And death is near.’

‘Death is very near.’

‘And the chances of success?’

‘There is just a chance, Madame, a frail chance. As you remember in the case of your father-in-law …’

‘Ah yes, tell me about the case of my father-in-law. I would hear it all. I must decide whether I can allow my son to face this ordeal.’

Paré talked; and Catherine, hurrying to ask questions whenever he showed signs of stopping, kept him talking. Outside, the December wind howled through the trees, and on the couch Mary Queen of France and Scotland lay sobbing as if her heart were broken.

At length Catherine said: ‘I cannot decide. It is too big a thing for me. Oh, Monsieur, was ever mother presented with such a problem? If my husband were only here! Oh, Monsieur Paré, bear with me. Remember I am a widow left with little children to care for. I want what is best for them, for they are more to me than my life.’

Mary had risen from the couch and rushed past them, and Catherine knew immediately whose help she intended to enlist.

‘Monsieur,’ said Catherine to Paré, ‘return with me to the King’s chamber, and pray with me that God and the Virgin may lead us to the right decision.’

They were kneeling by the bed when Mary came in with her uncles.

Catherine stood up. She looked at the face of her son and she knew that the intervention had come too late.

The Duke said: ‘Monsieur Paré, you can save the King’s life?’

Paré went to the bed and looked at the young King. ‘Nothing, my lord Duke, can save the King’s life now, for there are only a few minutes of it left to him.’

Mary flung herself on her knees, calling to her husband, to look at her, to smile at her, to live for her. But although Francis turned his head towards her, he did not seem to be aware of her.

The Cardinal was bending over him, and briefly Francis appeared to recognise the man who had overshadowed and spoilt the last years of his life. In Francis’s eyes that terror with which he had been wont to look at the Cardinal showed itself for a second or so; and it might have been that, seeing the boy was about to leave this life, the Cardinal was suddenly conscience-stricken; and perhaps he realised that in Francis’s mind were lurking the horrors which he had witnessed during the massacre of Amboise and which had, ostensibly, been perpetrated at his commands.

The Cardinal murmured in an urgent whisper: ‘Pray, Sire, and say this: “Lord, pardon my sins and impute not to me, Thy servant, the sins committed by my ministers under my name and authority.”’

Francis’s lips moved; he tried to follow the lifelong habit of obedience; but it may have been that the Cardinal’s words bewildered him as they did those others who heard them, for it was the first and only time in his life that the Cardinal of Lorraine had shown that he possessed a conscience.

Francis’s head sank back on the pillow, and there was no sound in the room but the moaning of the wind through the leafless trees and Mary Stuart’s heartbroken sobbing.


* * *

In his dungeon under the Castle of Amboise, Condé sat disconsolately at table, contemplating his fate. The stale stench of the dungeon nauseated him. He thought tenderly of his wife, their two sons and his dear little daughter. Perhaps he would never see them again. What a fool he had been to ignore the advice of Eléonore and Jeanne and to have made the journey to Orléans, to have walked straight into that trap which had been prepared for himself and his brother!

What was the meaning of the Queen Mother’s strange friendship? Was she in love with him? Condé shrugged his shoulders. Many women had been in love with him. He smiled reminiscently. Sometimes he wished – as he knew Antoine did – that he had not been blessed with such a saintly woman for a wife. What gaiety there had been in the days before his marriage; always there had seemed to be the light adventure, romance, some different woman to enchant him with some novelty of passion. And yet, how could they – he and his brother, so alike in looks and character – ever be unfaithful to two such women as Jeanne and Eléonore!

He sighed. This was not the time for such thoughts. What was the motive of the Queen Mother? Could she really have him in mind as her lover-to-be? God forbid! That woman! There were occasions when the very thought of her sent shivers even down this brave man’s spine. Her way of entering his cell often startled him; one minute she was not there and the next she would be standing quietly in the shadows, so that he had the impression that she had been standing outside, listening to his conversation with his jailers, and had silently glided in like the snake to which some people had compared her.

Oh, he had been gallant; he had been charming. How could it have been otherwise? She could save him, if anyone could. But for what?

He flicked a cobweb off his fine coat. This dungeon disgusted him. He could smell the sweat of others who had lived here before him; now and then he was aware of the unmistakable odour of blood, for his cell was not very far from those shambles they called the torture-rooms. Death awaited him, and his time was short. The Queen Mother had not visited him recently. Had she turned back once more to his enemies, the Guises? They were more useful friends just now than the Bourbons could be.

His thoughts went to Eléonore. One of his jailers, whom he had managed to charm, had told him that she had been to Orléans when he had been there, in the hope of seeing him. Dear sweet wife, the best of mothers! He knew he was unworthy of her.

He was melancholy to-day because he was bored. He needed continual excitement, and now there was nothing to do but await death. Death! He had never thought of it seriously before, although he had courted it a hundred times. Could this be the end, then, of the Prince of Condé? Was this the finale of that tragi-comedy which his life had been, the end of his grandiose schemes for sitting on the throne of France? He was ambitious, and because he had been born near the throne, it had, all his life, stood there before his mind’s eye as a possible acquisition.

What was happening above him? He looked at the dismal ceiling of his cell; he looked at the wall down which the moisture trickled. When it was dark the rats came and looked at him hopefully; yet not far from this spot the noble Loire flowed by in sunshine.

One of his jailers passed by the table. He whispered so that the other jailer could not hear: ‘Monsieur, King Francis is dead. Your life is saved!’

Condé stared before him, too full of emotion to speak. He thought of the river and the buds on the trees just beyond his prison; he pictured the tears in his wife’s eyes and the smiles on the faces of his children. King Francis was dead, and it was King Francis who had condemned Condé to death. Condé went on thinking of all those things which he had believed he would never see again.


* * *

In his impetuous way, Antoine wrote openly to his wife of what was happening at court:MY DARLING, – How our fortunes have changed! How delighted you would be to see the position of your husband here at court! The Queen Mother consults me in all things. Why did you ever think that she was not friendly towards us? She is going to urge that the images of the Virgin be taken from the churches. My dear wife, you can picture the consternation in some quarters. The Spanish Envoy, Monsieur de Chantonnay, is furious. He reports this to his master, and one can imagine with what effects! The Queen Mother will shortly pledge herself to full toleration of the Reformed Faith. Think what this means, my love, and what we have achieved. I know you think I should have insisted on sharing the Regency; but, my dear one, I am Lieutenant-General, and that post, I do assure you, is not a small one. I would rather work with the Queen Mother as my friend; and surely, in view of all she has done for our Faith, you cannot deny that she is our friend?I must tell you that my dear brother Louis is well and free. How could the brother of the Lieutenant-General remain a prisoner? No! There was nothing to do but free him. He was noble, as you can guess. The King’s death meant that it was possible for the Queen Mother to release him, for she says that it was by the will of King Francis that he was made a prisoner – so naturally, with the King’s death, our brother was released. But, as I say, he was proud, and at first he would not accept release until his honour was cleared. Is that not like our brother? He was, however, removed to a better lodging than the dungeon he had been occupying at Amboise and at length the Queen Mother arranged for his name to be cleared. She has a very friendly feeling towards Louis, as he has towards her. Ah, my dear wife, at last we Bourbons are getting that respect which is due to us. You would have wept to see Louis and his family together on the day he joined them. The two boys and the little girl threw themselves at him, and all those about them wept, as did Louis and Eléonore, with those little ones. They are now all happy together, and all goes well with the House of Bourbon.I was glad to hear you had decided to plant the mulberries along the meadow slope where we used to play Barres. Ah! How I remember those games of ours!I hope my little comrade son is in good health, and also our dearest little daughter. Commend me to them.I will end my note in assuring you that neither the ladies of the court nor any others can ever have the slightest power over me, unless it be the power to make me hate them.

Your very affectionate and loyal husband,

ANTOINE.

When Jeanne read this letter she felt uneasy. What was happening at court? She knew Antoine too well to believe that he could be making a real success there. How was the Queen Mother using him? How long would this benevolence of hers last towards the new faith?

Moreover, was he not a little too insistent on his fidelity? Should that have been necessary if they were all she believed them to be to each other?


* * *

Little Charles, the new King, did not know whether to be proud or frightened of the new honour which was his. It was startling to find that wherever he went, men and women smiled on him, bowed low to him, treated him with such ceremony as seemed odd when he was reminded that he was only ten years old.

He had to attend many solemn meetings; there were proclamations and declarations to be signed. It was certainly bewildering, when you were ten years old, to find that you were the King of France.

But he had nothing to fear; his mother told him so; for all he had to do was obey her. That was easy, since he had done that all his life. But there were others round him besides his mother. There was his Uncle Antoine, who was very important now; his mother had explained that Uncle Antoine was now Lieutenant-General of France, which meant that, with her, he was the ruler of France until he, little Charles, was old enough to take on that immense responsibility.

Then there were the great Guises. They were very angry because Francis had died and he was now the King. They seemed subdued at present, but Charles was terrified of their watching eyes which never seemed to leave him.

There were his tutors, Monsieur Birago and the Comte de Retz. They had opened up a strange world to him, and it was very interesting to learn so much about life. They wanted him to be more like his brother Henry. He wished he could be, because his mother would have liked him better if he were more like her favourite; but it was difficult to be what you were not. He tried hard, but those tutors of his liked such strange things; they showed him pictures which embarrassed him; they said it was great fun beating each other on the bare flesh. That seemed very strange to Charles as it was what people did when they were angry, or as a punishment. But the Italian tutors said: ‘There is much you have to learn, Sire. This is a different sort of beating.’