by Jean Plaidy
‘You have my permission,’ he said in his most royal manner.
‘I thank you with all my heart, Sire.’ She seized his hand and kissed it.
‘Dearest Aunt,’ he said, ‘I am glad to be able to please you.’
‘You have given your word,’ she said, ‘and I know that nothing will make you break it. May I go, Sire, and give this wonderful news to my son?’
‘Go by all means,’ said Charles.
She retired, while he sat smiling, thinking that it was sometimes very pleasant to be a King.
Catherine walked up and down the apartment while Charles sat miserably watching her – not a King now so much as a foolish boy.
‘Have you no more intelligence,’ demanded Catherine, for once shaken out of her calm, ‘than to let that wily she-wolf come and snatch the heir of Navarre from under our noses? What hope will you have, my lord, of subduing the Huguenots, when you let your most precious hostage go? You give him away. No conditions. Nothing! “I want my son,” she says, “my little Henry. He needs his Maman!” And you, like the little fool you are, say: “You may take him, dearest Aunt. He is only a boy …” Fool! Idiot! He was a hostage. The heir of Navarre … in our hands! If Jeanne of Navarre had dared threaten us – and I mean you and your brothers – I would have threatened her with the death or the imprisonment of her precious boy. And you, you fool, would give him back! I shall not allow it. The boy shall stay here. And never dare give an order again without my permission. Never grant a request without first asking me if you may do so.’
‘But she is his mother, and she asked for him with tears in her eyes. They have been so long separated. I could not refuse her.’
‘You could not refuse her! And others have heard you grant this request, I doubt not?’
Charles was silent.
‘This was so, was it not?’ demanded his mother.
‘Yes. Others heard.’
‘Fool! To think I should have such a son! Your brother Henry would never have behaved with such folly. But I shall cancel the order. Navarre shall not be allowed to leave the court. His mother shall go alone. Stop stammering and trembling, and sign this order.’
‘But I gave my word.’
‘You will sign this at once.’
Charles cried shrilly: ‘I am tired of being told that Henry would do this and Henry would do that. Henry does not happen to be the King of this realm. I am. I am … and when I say …’
‘Sign this,’ said Catherine. She pushed him into a chair and put the pen into his hand. He looked over his shoulder; her face was near his – very pale, her eyes enormous. He trembled more than before. He felt that she saw right through to his soul.
He began to write.
‘That is well,’ she said. ‘Now we can remedy your rash act. Oh, my son, I know you do this out of the kindness of your heart, but always remember that I am here to love and advise you. Never decide such weighty matters without first consulting your mother, whose one thought is to make you happy and’ – her face came closer to his – ‘and … safe. Why, Charles, my dear son, what you have done might let loose civil war. And what if your enemies should be triumphant? Eh, what then? What if they took you prisoner? You would not relish lying in a dank dungeon … close to the torture-rooms … the rats your companions … until …’
‘Pray cease,’ whimpered the King. ‘You are right. You are always right. Navarre must not go. I have signed it. You will stop his going. You will stop it.’
She nodded. ‘That,’ she said, ‘is my wise little King.’
But Jeanne was not so easy to handle as Charles had been. The two women faced each other, and each felt that overwhelming hatred between them which had always been there, and yet at times was greater than at others.
‘My dear cousin, I cannot allow you to take the boy away, I look upon him as my own. Moreover, if he is to marry my daughter, he must be brought up with her. You know it has always been our wish to let the young people get fond of each other … as these two are doing. It does my heart good to see them together.’
‘Madame,’ Jeanne replied, ‘all that you say is true. But my son has spent so much time at the court, and it is well that he should be reminded of his own kingdom.’
‘We will see that he does not forget that. No, Madame. I love the boy too well to let him go.’
‘I also love him,’ insisted his mother, ‘and, but for the fact that I feel he should be allowed to visit his dominions, I should be delighted to leave him in your care.’
Catherine smiled. ‘I am going to keep him because, Madame, I know what is best for him. You have only recently come to Paris, and therefore you do not see as clearly as I do what is happening here. I know that it is best for little Henry that he stays with his cousins and learns the manners of our court. I must confess that when he first came to us I was a little astonished. He had the manners of a barbarian. Now there is a great improvement in him. I should not like to see him turned into a country lout.’
Catherine watched the angry colour flood Jeanne’s face.
Jeanne said: ‘Madame, you need have no qualms on that score. My son would have the best tutors available.’
‘But these are more easily obtainable in Paris than in Béarn. My dearest cousin, I insist on his remaining here.’
But Jeanne was wily, and did not allow the matter to rest there.
Later, when Charles and Catherine were surrounded by members of the court, she had the effrontery to bring the matter up again.
‘I cannot believe,’ she said, ‘that any obstacle will be put in the way of my taking my son with me.’
Catherine answered coolly: ‘But that, Madame, is a matter which we have settled.’
‘The King,’ Jeanne persisted, ‘graciously promised that my son should accompany me when I left Paris. Many will bear witness to that. I feel sure, Madame, that when you said this promise was cancelled, your Majesty was joking, for I know that it would bring too great a discredit on His Majesty to suppose him capable of breaking his word.’
The King flushed slightly. He felt bold now, surrounded by so many courtiers.
‘You are right, Madame,’ he said. ‘The promise shall be fulfilled, for I made it and it must be so.’
Catherine, for once, had the humiliation of seeing herself defeated. Nor could she protest in such company. She would have liked to kill Jeanne and Charles as they stood there. Instead she smiled calmly.
‘So be it,’ she said. ‘The King has spoken. Madame, I rely on you to ensure that the peace and repose of France shall not be put in danger.’
Jeanne bowed. ‘Your Majesty honours me by asking my cooperation in maintaining such a state of affairs. I shall never fail in my devotion to my sovereign.’ She paused; then she added: ‘Only the peril or destruction of my own house could make me change those sentiments.’
And the next day Jeanne set out from Paris, and riding with her was her son.
Catherine proved herself to have been right when she had explained to her son what a foolish thing he had done in giving up to Jeanne their most precious hostage. Civil war had broken out once more in France.
At one time the King and his court had to fly from Meaux to Paris for fear of Condé’s troops; Catherine was more shaken by this event than by any that had happened for months. The killing of French Protestants by Catholics and Catholics by Protestants merely made her shrug her shoulders, but the thought of the royal House of Valois in danger always terrified her. Coligny’s plan, she knew, had been to kidnap the King and set Condé up in his place.
Those were bitter days for Catherine. The Queen of England, the Duke of Savoy, and the Marquis of Brandenburg sent money and men to Condé’s aid. In despair, Catherine appealed to Spain, but although that country was willing to give aid, Spain never gave anything without taking something in exchange; and Catherine feared Philip more than she feared Condé. Therefore she arranged the Peace of Langjumeaux. But Catherine could not forget her fears of what might have happened if the
Huguenots had been successful in capturing the King; and in spite of the new peace there began plots and counter-plots. Catherine plotted to capture Condé and young Henry of Navarre. Condé – now married again – narrowly escaped capture, and orders were given that he should be pursued and that the Catholics should be incited to fresh massacres of Huguenots. The wars started once more; and Jeanne, with her son, Condé and Coligny, had made their headquarters in the Huguenot stronghold of La Rochelle.
There was one great happiness which Catherine enjoyed at this time, and that was due to the reputation her son Henry was gaining on the battlefield. It was the more gratifying because it was so unexpected. Who would have thought that Henry, with his dandyism, his love of fine jewels and garments, always surrounded by those handsome and effeminate young men, would be the one to distinguish himself as a soldier!
Henry was clever. Even his enemies admitted that. He was witty and a devotee of the fine arts. He was very good-looking, though in a way which the French called ‘foreign’. His long dark eyes showed clearly his Italian origins; his white, perfectly formed hands were the most beautiful at court, and it was his great delight to set them off with sparkling jewels. And this effeminate Henry was becoming a great general! He was also becoming very ambitious, and already he was waiting impatiently for the throne. He was, like his mother, calculating how long young Charles could be expected to live.
Catherine had suffered a loss recently in the death of her daughter Elisabeth, who had died in childbirth. She had not loved Elisabeth as she loved Henry, but she had been proud of her daughter’s position in the world, and it had given her pleasure to contemplate Elisabeth on the throne of Spain. But Henry, that beloved son, compensated her for all else. It was the delight of her life to find that he listened to her as he listened to no other, that he brought all his plans to her and that he rarely acted without consulting her. In all her trials, in all her fears, there was Henry to be a comfort to her.
The mother of Henry of Navarre surveyed her son with nothing like the same complacency. He was just fourteen, but those years he had spent at the French court had, it seemed, already made a man of him. He was popular enough; the citizens of La Rochelle cheered him wherever he went. They could smile at those very qualities which alarmed his mother.
In Jeanne’s train there was a young girl, Corisanda d’Andouins, who was not very much older than Henry. This girl had recently been married to the son of the Count of Gramont, a man whom Jeanne greatly respected and whose friendship she felt to be important to her cause. But young Henry, having such little respect for the marriage laws that he could completely disregard them, had fallen violently in love with Corisanda.
He followed the girl everywhere, and Jeanne discovered that secret meetings were taking place. The whole of La Rochelle was discussing this affair between the heir of Béarn and Madame Corisanda.
Jeanne watched in alarm the indications of what her boy was to become. She remonstrated with him. He was good-natured and lazy. He agreed with her quite charmingly, but this, he explained, was love. He lifted his shoulders in an elegant fashion which he must have learned at the French court. His mother was old-fashioned; she was of the country, and she did not understand. Love? Love was all-important. His mother must have no fears for him; he would lead his men into battle; but when it was a matter of love – ‘Ah then, my mother, that is a matter between the mistress and the lover.’
Jeanne cried: ‘You mean that this woman is already your mistress? You … a boy?’
‘Not such a boy!’ he said, holding his head high.
All Jeanne’s puritanical instincts rose in revolt; but when she looked into that vital young face and was aware of that immense sensuality, she knew that protest was in vain. Here again was his father, her father, her uncle, Francis the First. They were men, and whether they were strong or weak in battle, there must always be women to give them what they asked.
‘How think you the Huguenot citizens of France will view this licentiousness in their leaders?’ she asked him.
He lifted his shoulders. ‘The French, be they Catholics or Huguenots, will always understand what it means to love.’
And with that he left her to keep his engagement with the erring Corisanda.
Margot was growing up; she had long been aware of this, but others were noticing it now.
There was strife between the royal brothers. Charles was jealous of his mother’s preference for Henry. He never felt safe in Henry’s presence. Henry watched him continually. And, as Charles often confided to Marie Touchet, Henry was not a Frenchman whom one could understand; he was an Italian, and Frenchmen were suspicious of Italians.
Henry came home from his victorious campaign, grown more handsome, more ambitious. He noticed his sister Margot and how she had grown up since he had last seen her. He saw too in her something which the other members of his family did not possess. Margot was little more than a child; she was as yet undeveloped; but it was not difficult to see that there was a good deal of sense in that vain little head.
Henry decided to utilise it. He knew that he and Charles would always be enemies, and he decided to have Margot on his side.
He asked her to take a walk with him in the grounds of Fontainebleau, and Margot, sensing the importance of this, since she guessed the matter was too momentous to be discussed indoors, was gratified. She was always ready for excitement and intrigue.
As she walked with him through the green alley of the palace garden, Henry put his arm about his sister’s shoulders – a gesture which delighted Margot, for she was no less aware of Henry’s position with their mother than Charles was, and the favour of Henry was greatly to be desired on that account. Margot feared her mother more than anyone on Earth, but at the same time she earnestly longed for her approbation. A friendship with Catherine’s darling might result in her finding favour with Catherine.
‘You may have noticed, dear Margot,’ said Henry, ‘that, of all my brothers and sisters, I have always loved you the best.’
Margot smiled happily, for if Henry regarded her in that light, so must her mother.
‘We have had many happy times together,’ went on Henry, ‘but we are children no longer.’
‘No, Henry. Indeed we are not. You are a great soldier. You have made a name for yourself.’
He pressed her hand and, putting his face close to hers, he said: ‘Margot, my power lies in keeping in the good graces of our mother, the Queen.’
Margot agreed with that.
‘And, Margot, I am away from the court so much. The wars continue. My brother the King is always beside her. He flatters her and obeys her in everything.’
‘But she would never love any as she loves you, Henry. It has always been so.’
He said: ‘I have many enemies who might do me harm with my mother … when I am not here to protect myself.’
‘Charles thinks of little else but making love to Marie Touchet and hunting wild creatures.’
‘He makes hate as well as love, and he will not always be content to hunt beasts. One day he will take my Lieutenancy from me and try to lead the army himself. I wish to have someone here at court to uphold my cause with the Queen. You, dearest sister, are my second self. You are faithful and clever. Do this for me. Be with my mother always – at her lever, at her coucher. Listen to what is said, and find some means of letting me know. Make her confide in you. You understand?’
Margot’s eyes were sparkling. ‘Yes. I understand, Henry.’
‘I will speak to her of you. I will tell her how fond I am of you. I will tell her that you are my beloved sister, my second self. As for you, you must not be so much afraid of her. Speak up when she addresses you. In doing those things for me, you will do much for yourself.’
Henry put his hands on Margot’s shoulders and looked into her eyes; he saw there what he wanted. Henry was the hero of the war; and Margot, a young and impressionable girl, was ready to adore him; she was ready to be his slave and to work for him agai
nst the King.
Henry took her along to Catherine and told his mother how fond he was of his sister, and of the part he had asked her to play for him at the court. Catherine drew her daughter to her and kissed her on the forehead.
‘So you are to guard your brother’s interests at court, dear Margot?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘You will have to give up your silliness, your frivolity. You will have to watch your brothers … and their friends.’
‘That I will do, Mother.’
‘Well, my daughter, I shall help you in this. Henry, my son and your brother, is as dear to me as my life. Is he so to you?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
Catherine then embraced her son and, as her mother’s cold hands touched her, Margot felt that she had become a member of a trinity; and this was none the less exciting because the trinity might be an unholy one.
Growing up was an enchanting experience. Margot had other matters with which to concern herself now. She played the spy with all the verve of which she was capable. She was coming to the fore; she was always at her mother’s lever and coucher; she was often in the company of the King; she was ready to continue in her adoration of her absent brother.
But there was one other trait in Margot’s nature which both her mother and her brother had temporarily forgotten. If Margot was to grow up, she would do so in more ways than one. She was continually occupied with her dresses; she became the most fashionable lady of the court; she wore a golden wig over her long black hair one day, and a red one the next. All fashions inaugurated by Margot were provocative, designed to titillate the senses of the male.
And Henry of Guise came to court.
Henry too had grown up; they were man and woman now, not boy and girl. He sought the first opportunity of being alone with Margot to tell her of his feelings.
‘I always loved you,’ he told her as they strolled in the gardens.