Antoine bowed his head. He tried to shut out the picture of a martyred Jeanne. He tried to see himself received triumphantly into Heaven. There would be a good place for him, an honoured place, for he had embraced the true faith, and all would be forgiven once a straying sheep had returned to the fold.
‘Then we are all agreed that a warrant must be issued for the arrest of Jeanne of Navarre,’ said the Duke of Guise.
Antoine did not speak, and his silence was taken as agreement.
‘On a charge of heresy,’ added the Cardinal. He then embraced Antoine. ‘This, Monseigneur, is an act worthy of you,’ he declared. ‘May God give you a good and long life.’
‘So be it!’ said the Duke.
The session was at an end.
Antoine left the council chamber, trying to reassure himself; that was not easy, for he felt like Judas.
* * *
It was not long before Jeanne heard that a warrant was being issued for her arrest, for she had many friends at court. Overcome by this fresh evidence of the perfidy of the man she loved – for she knew that such an order would come through the Triumvirate, of which Antoine was now a member – Jeanne was glad that there was need for immediate action which would prevent her brooding.
‘Fly at once,’ she was warned, ‘for there is not an hour to be lost. You will not be safe until you are in your own dominions. And if you are caught – apart from all the horrors which would await you – what a blow this would be to the Huguenot cause!’
She realised the truth of this and, taking her little four-year-old daughter, set out at once with her attendants.
Since that occasion when her son Henry had defended her against his father, the boy had been taken from her and kept in his father’s apartments at Saint-Germain; and as she could not go without Henry, she must journey first to Saint-Germain to see him and, if possible, to take him away with her.
As she rode there her thoughts were bitter. Not content with taking her son from her, Antoine had been callous enough to put him in the care of Vincent Lauro, the Jesuit. Her enemies were determined to rob her of her son as well as her husband.
Her friends had warned her that it was folly to think of calling at Saint-Germain, for she would not be allowed to take the boy; she could depend upon it that he was well guarded, and she would merely imperil her own safety. But Jeanne would not listen. She must see Henry. She must – even if she could not take him with her – have a few words with him, to remind him of his obligations to her and to his faith.
She forced her way to him past his new tutors and the attendants, who were really guards. The little boy ran to her and embraced her warmly.
‘Oh, my mother, have you come to take me home to Béarn?’
Antoine, who had immediately been warned of her coming, burst into the apartment; he stood, his arms folded, while he surveyed his wife with cold dislike, his son with sternness.
‘You must stay here with me,’ said Antoine, answering the boy’s question. ‘I am your father and you are under my control.’
‘But I wish to go with my mother!’ cried the bold little boy.
‘Try to be sensible,’ said Antoine. ‘I do not wish to have you punished more than you have been already.’
‘Mother, must I stay?’
She nodded, for she knew that guards were in the palace and she could not risk any injury to her son. He was bold and he would, she knew, try to fight them; but he would obey his mother.
‘I fear so.’ She held him against her breast. ‘Henry, my dearest son.’
‘Oh, Mother … dearest Mother.’
She whispered to him: ‘Never forget my counsels, darling. Be true to me always and true to the faith.’
He whispered back: ‘Mother, I will. I swear it.’
‘Soon all will be well and we shall be together.’
‘Yes, Mother.’
‘But just for a little while we must be separated.’
He nodded.
‘Darling son, never attend mass. No matter what they do … always refuse. If you did not refuse, you could not be my son.’
‘I know,’ he said.
‘Then you will be true and strong, my dearest boy?’
‘Yes, Mother, I will be true and strong. I am a Huguenot. I will never forget it, no matter what they do to me. I will never forget you and that one day I shall be with you.’
It was so sad to leave him. Again and again they kissed each other. Antoine watched them with some emotion. He had no wish to hurt either of them. He did not forget for a moment his relationship to them both. This was all Jeanne’s fault. Why could she not become a good Catholic and set everything to rights?
He rang for the boy’s tutor, and Henry, now weeping bitterly, was led away.
Antoine then spoke to Jeanne: ‘Do not waste more time here, I beg of you. They are about to arrest you. Fly, I implore you. I beg of you. Your safest way is to make for Béarn via Vendôme. You can rest awhile at my château at Vendôme … but do not stay too long. It is your only hope of safety.’
Jeanne stared at him in amazement. ‘But you are on their side. Should you not detain me … arrest me?’
‘Go!’ cried Antoine. ‘Go before you drive me to it … as you have driven me to so much. Your sharp tongue is intolerable. Do not let it drive me to this.’
She said: ‘Poor Antoine! That is your great failing. You are never able to make up your mind whose side you are on.’
She took a last look at him, so elegant, so glittering in his fashionable garments. What bitterness was hers that she should still love him … even now that he had betrayed her!
She hurried away from Saint-Germain, and at the Paris hotel in which she stayed the night while preparations for her flight went on, the Huguenots gathered under her window, so that those who had been sent to arrest her dared do nothing, with the result that she was able to leave the capital.
But it was not intended that she should reach safety. The Guises, noting the hesitancy of Antoine, suggested that he should be the one to give orders to the citizens of Vendôme to arrest Jeanne when she arrived in their town, for it had not taken them long to draw from him the fact that Jeanne had arranged to call at his château in that town before making the rigorous journey south.
* * *
After many days of hardship, tired out with the journey, Jeanne came to Vendôme. In the great château which had belonged to her husband’s ancestors, she rested and made plans for continuing the journey as soon as possible.
Her little daughter Catherine was a great comfort to her. The child was only four years of age, but old for her years, able to understand that her mother was unhappy and to try to comfort her. Jeanne felt that if only she could have had young Henry with her, she would not have cared very much about anything else. How could she go on loving a husband who had so betrayed her? This was not just a momentary infidelity with La Belle Rouet, not just a passing love affair. That she supposed she could, in time, have forgiven. But that he could make himself a party to this plan to destroy her, to take her kingdom, and worse still subject her to the possibility of an agonising death, seemed to her so wantonly cruel that she would always remember this against him.
It was while she was resting in her bed with her daughter beside her that one of her attendants asked for a word with her. He was admitted to her presence – a hardy Gascon, a faithful Huguenot, ready to defend her with his sword against any number of the enemy.
He showed great agitation and without formality addressed her. ‘Madame, forgive the intrusion, but we are in acute danger. We have walked into a trap. The King of Navarre has given orders to the citizens that we are not to leave the town, but are to be held captive until forces arrive to take us back to Paris.’
Jeanne closed her eyes. Here was the final betrayal. The trap had been set by the man she had loved, and she had walked blindly into it – perhaps because at that last interview at Saint-Germain she had believed there was still some good in him, that he really mean
t to help her escape from his friends.
But the truth was that he had lacked the courage to detain her then; he had hesitated once more – and as soon as she was out of his sight, he had given himself wholeheartedly to the plan to destroy her.
‘What are your orders, Madame?’ asked the Gascon.
She shook her head. ‘We can do nothing but wait.’
‘The streets are full of guards, Madame. But we could mayhap fight our way through.’
‘We are not prepared to fight guards. All my followers would be cut to pieces in ten minutes.’
‘But, Madame, shall we be taken without a blow?’
‘They will take me,’ she said. ‘The rest of you will doubtless go free. Take my daughter back to Béarn if that be possible.’
‘Mother, I wish to go with you,’ said little Catherine. ‘I wish to face the Inquisition if you do.’
Jeanne embraced her daughter. Sweet Catherine! What did she know of the torture chambers, of the horrors inflicted by the Catholic Inquisition on those whom they considered to be heretics? What did she know of the chevalet and the autos-dafé, of agony and death, the cries of men and women in torment, the odour of burning flesh?
‘That,’ said Jeanne firmly, ‘you shall never do, my love.’ She turned to the Gascon. ‘Stand on guard. Forget not my instructions, and remember … my daughter.’
He bowed in obedience, but his eyes were fierce. He wanted to fight for his Queen.
All through the long hours of the night, Jeanne lay awake, waiting for the sound of marching feet, the shouts of the troops who would come to storm the château and take her prisoner. They would be her husband’s men, she did not doubt; the Guises and de Chantonnay would wish it to be her husband’s guards who put the chains upon her and carried her on the first stage of her journey to the stake.
Her daughter had fallen asleep beside her. Jeanne kissed her tenderly. She was so young to be left; she was only four years old. So it was only four years then since she and Antoine had been so happy together over the birth of their child.
And, during that long night, she suddenly became aware of strange noises in the town. She went to her window; the sky was beginning to be red, not with the streaks of dawn but with the reflection of fire. She could smell the smoke; and as she stood there, apprehensively peering out into the gloom, she heard the shouts of men.
She dressed in great haste and, before she had completed this, her Gascon was at her door.
‘Madame,’ he cried, ‘the town is being looted. A band of mercenaries has come into it. The news has just been brought to the château by one who wishes you well. The townsfolk are busy protecting their lives and their property. Now is the time for us to slip away unnoticed … for no one will care now whether we go or stay. But there is not a moment to lose …’
Jeanne was exultant. All her old energy came back to her.
‘Our prayers are answered,’ she cried. ‘Come, we must leave here as fast as we can. We must thank God … but later. Now, there is no time to think of thanksgiving. First we must be sure that we make the most of this heaven-sent opportunity. We must slip quietly out of Vendôme before the dawn …’
She turned to her daughter. ‘Catherine, wake up, my darling. We are going now.’
‘To the Inquisition?’ asked Catherine sleepily. ‘No, my love, to freedom.’
* * *
Riding south from Vendôme, Jeanne’s party were saying that what they had just witnessed was a miracle. God had sent the band of looting mercenaries to Vendôme that the Queen might make her escape. Jeanne smiled tranquilly. She guessed that the Prince of Condé had been warned of her danger, for those mercenaries were Huguenot mercenaries, and their orders had evidently been: ‘Occupy Vendôme. Create a diversion all through the night, and keep it up until the Queen of Navarre is too far for pursuit.’
Bravo Condé! He was as wayward as his brother, but he was true to the cause which he believed to be right. She must thank God for her brother-in-law while she wept bitter tears for her husband.
Farther south they went, at the end of each day tired out with hours of riding, each night sleeping deeply from exhaustion; and then on again towards that border which they must cross before they reached safety.
When they reached the town of Caumont it was to discover that the Catholic army under Montluc was only a few miles in their rear. The long and tedious journey, made in such trying circumstances, resting at castles where Jeanne believed she had friends – and how could she trust any, now that he whom she had thought she might trust above all others had failed her? – all this had taxed her strength and she was suffering acutely, not only from physical but from mental exhaustion.
But she must push on without delay, and this she did, reaching her frontiers with only an hour or so to spare; but there she had the joy of finding her loyal subjects assembled in full force to receive and protect her.
The flight was over, and Jeanne had won. Yet, thinking of all she had left behind – the husband to whom she was trying in vain to be indifferent, the son whom she adored – it was an empty, bitter triumph.
CHAPTER III
Catherine was filled with rage and terror. Francis of Guise, with the King of Navarre and the Maréchal de Saint-André, had come to Fontainebleau and compelled her and the King to return to Paris, whence they had then been removed to Melun; and, although they were treated according to their rank, it was made clear that they would not be allowed to leave Melun unescorted.
Catherine was exposed in all her dissembling. The student of Machiavelli was unmasked. Letters which she had sent to Condé had been captured and read by the last people who should have seen them, for in these letters Catherine had explained how intolerable was her position and that of little King Charles under the Triumvirate, and begged Condé to rescue her. She had promised him support and, taking her at her word, Condé had plunged the country into civil war – a civil war which, the Duke of Guise continually pointed out to Catherine, had been set in motion by her own duplicity.
He declared that she was no true Catholic. On the one hand she had conspired with them so that Antoine de Bourbon might be turned from the Reformed Faith; on the other hand she was at the same time plotting with Condé, and it was she who had encouraged the Huguenots to such an extent that they had resorted to war.
The Huguenots on their part declared that she had cheated them, that she was a deceitful and cunning woman; and that all the time she was speaking sweet words to them she was plotting against them with the Catholic King of Spain.
In vain did Catherine try to justify herself in the eyes of the Duke and the Cardinal, Antoine and the Spanish Ambassador. Those letters to Condé were not what they would seem, she assured them; they had been written in code. Oh, she admitted that they appeared to contain promises of help, but they were meant to convey something quite different. She became a little coy in her explanations. She had to admit that she cherished a fondness for the gallant little Prince of Condé.
The cold eyes of the Duke were murderous; the thin lips of the Cardinal curled; the Spanish Ambassador did not mince his words and was quite abusive, which alarmed her greatly, for this showed that he no longer considered her of any great importance.
Rumour was now circulating about her and Condé. People said that she was madly in love with him, and that she longed to marry him and make him the King of France at the expense of her children.
Catherine wondered at herself. She had been very reckless in her behaviour to this man, and that was unusual in her. But now that she saw herself and her children in great danger, she had no wish but to see Condé destroyed, with the Guises, Antoine and the rest. What a weak fool she had been to have felt the attractions of the gallant Prince in the first place! What was the excitement of love compared with that which came through wrestling for power?
She waited in terror for some dreadful fate to overtake her. The man who frightened her more than any other was the Duke of Guise. He could not be allowed to li
ve. When Francis had been on the throne he had been the most important man in France, and he was rapidly regaining that position. But how difficult it would be to accomplish his death! It must be done, but not by poison. People would point to her at once if the Duke died of poison; they would whisper about the Italian woman and her poison closet. He must die, though. He was her bitterest enemy, and he now realised that he was not dealing with a weak woman, but a cunning one, whose sly twists and turns were unpredictable.
Meanwhile, the civil war was raging and Condé was triumphant. Orléans, Blois, Tours, Lyons, Valence, Rouen, and many other towns were in his possession. The Kingdom was split in two. The Catholics, in increasing alarm, sent appeals to the King of Spain.
What security was there for Catherine and her children? Neither Huguenot nor Catholic trusted her. She was hated now throughout the country as she had been at the time of the death of Dauphin Francis. She had been unfortunate, she assured herself. She did not realise that she had been cunning rather than clever, that she had misjudged those about her because she judged them by herself.
All over the country the Huguenots were gaining power. They marched on, singing their favourite song, which poked fun at Antoine de Bourbon, who had so recently been one of their leaders:
‘Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette …’
They despised Antoine, the turn-coat; they distrusted the Queen Mother. But while they mocked the one, they hated the other.
* * *
Outside the city of Rouen, Antoine of Navarre lay sick. He had been severely wounded in the battle for the city. For several weeks the Huguenots had held Rouen against the Catholic army which Antoine led. Even now while he lay on his bed in camp, he could hear the sound of singing inside the city’s walls:
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