by Jean Plaidy
‘Keep Navarre under control.’
‘That shall be done. My daughter, you may go now. Your brother is sorry that he misjudged you.’
Margot was glad to escape. She felt gleeful. Alençon was gone. Next it would be the turn of Navarre.
Catherine went to her daughter’s apartment. Navarre was with her.
‘It is that favourite of the King’s who works him up into these rages,’ said Catherine. ‘It surprises me that du Guast is allowed to live. There must be many who would like to see him out of the way. There is much crime in our country. Innocent men are murdered for a few francs, they tell me; and yet Monsieur du Guast is allowed to live! The ways of God are strange indeed.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Navarre, ‘the gentleman will not live much longer, for although the good God works in a mysterious manner, the ways of men—and women—are more transparent.’
Catherine felt uncomfortable under that shrewd scrutiny.
She went to the apartment which her son had recently vacated. There she found some of his most intimate friends. She looked sadly about her and wiped her eyes.
‘You must forgive me, my friends,’ she said, ‘for you are my friends, since you love my son. It is a worried mother whom you see before you. I pray the saints will preserve Monsieur d’Alençon.’
‘Is is true, Madame,’ asked one, ‘that the King has threatened his life?’
Nay. That is the kind of tale that is bruited abroad. My son is surrounded by evil advisers, I fear. I would God would free him from all evil men. Perhaps He may, for the mignons have their enemies. It surprises me that he—and you know, my friends, that I refer to the greatest and most destructive of them all—it amazes me that he has not been murdered in his bed, for such murder would be easy, and who would be able to name the murderer? I am sure Monsieur d’Alençon would be safer than he is now if that deed were committed; I am sure he would be ready to reward with his favours the one who should rid him of such a menace. But I talk too much. I know, my friends, that you will pray with me this night for my younger son’s safety.’
She left them, wiping her eyes as she went.
Du Guast lay in his bed. It was ten o’clock and he was tired. He could hear the first of the October gales stripping the leaves off the trees and rustling the hangings at the windows of his bedchamber.
He was well content with life, for he considered that the King was ready to be swayed whither he, du Guast, intended. The King adored his favourite and du Guast was growing richer every day. His latest acquisitions had been some rich bishoprics, which he had been able to sell for vast sums. He could, he believed, call himself the uncrowned King of France. It amused him to think of. all the arrogant princes—men like Guise and Navarre—who were of little account when compared with Louis Bérenger du Guast. But it was more gratifying to contemplate the Queen Mother than any of those others in this connexion.
He was tired and preferred sleep even to such contented contemplation.
He dozed, but was almost immediately awakened by the sound of groans close to his bed. He opened his eyes, startled, and peered into the darkness. He thought that he must have been dreaming.
He had closed his eyes again, but the sound of his bed- curtains being pulled apart made him open them quickly. He could make out the shadowy shapes of several men who stood about his bed. One of them clapped a hand over his mouth as he opened it to scream.
He did not have time to think with regret of the great wealth he had amassed, to ask himself whether the Princes of Navarre and Guise were not better off than he was; nor was there time to wonder whether, after all, the power of the Queen Mother was as great as it had ever been.
There was no time to do anything but to die.
Catherine had quietly assumed control of the King, who, stricken with grief, declared nothing could compensate him for the death of his favourite. Epernon, Joyeuse and Caylus tried to arouse his interest in clothes and jewels, while they vied with each other in trying to win the place of first favourite which had become vacant by du Guast’s death. The King’s lap-dogs seemed to comfort him more than anything, and he and his wife the Queen, rode together round Paris looking for new ones which they might add to their collection; but everywhere he went, the King complained, he was reminded of his lost darling; and the people called out unkind and obscene remarks after his carriage as he drove about.
He blamed Margot for the murder of du Guast, and his hatred of his sister was intense. Catherine, fearing that he might have her murdered, suggested that she be kept a prisoner, a hostage for Alençon. ‘If we keep her under lock and key,’ she said, ‘we shall know that she is not helping Alençon; besides, he is fond of her, and he will not be too rash if he knows that she may have to answer for his misdeeds.’
Henry nodded. ‘You are right. Let us lock her up.’
It was like old times, thought Catherine; she had only had to rid herself of du Guast, and she and Henry resumed their old relationship. How foolish she had been—and how unlike herself—to lose heart as she had done! She could always gain control over her sons by careful action.
Henry grew a little brighter; he was grieving less, and he was beginning to bestow a great deal of attention on Epernon. She must watch that young man and be certain that he did not become too influential; it would not be so easy to remove another favourite.
But what a mischievous family was hers! Alençon was determined on revenge, determined on power; he was now mustering an army and was in touch with the two Montmorencys, Thoré and Méru; he was calling together the subjects of Navarre. He had written several letters to various people of the court—and unfortunately they had not fallen into Catherine’s hands and the object of these letters was to discredit the King and his mother.
‘It was very necessary for me to escape,’ he wrote, ‘not only for the sake of my liberty, but because news was brought to me that His Majesty was about to take some advice concerning me which was moulded on the counsels of Cesare Borgia.’
That was a direct stab at his mother, for her knowledge of those morceauxItalianizés was alleged to have been acquired from the Borgias.
Alençon also wrote that he had heard the news which was circulating about Montgomery and Cossé, who had been in prison ever since they had been arrested at the time of the affair of La Mole and Coconnas. There had been orders to strangle these two men in their dungeons, but their jailers had refused to carry out such sentences. Nor would they administer the morceaux, no matter whence came the instructions.
‘I have narrowly escaped,’ wrote Alençon. ‘There are spies in my camp. Last evening when we were at dinner, wine was offered to me. It was very well mixed, sweet and delicious, but when I gave it to Thoré and he tasted it, he commented on its extreme sweetness, and it struck me that there was too much sweetness in that wine. So I would drink no more, nor allow my friends to do so; and although shortly afterwards we were very sick, we were saved through the grace of God and the good remedies which were at hand. My friend, you see why it was necessary for me to leave my brother’s court.’
The King raged against his brother; the restraint in which he ihiada appealed Margot and Navarre must be kept was increased. He appealed to his mother to end this intolerable situation.
She said that she would ask Alençon to see her, and as a sign of her good faith would take Margot with her. She would urge her younger son to come to peace with his brother, explaining to him what an evil thing it was when members of a family fell out.
‘Go, Mother,’ said the King. ‘You alone are clever enough to deal with this.’
She kissed him fondly. ‘You realize now, my son, how close your good is to my heart?’
‘I do,’ he answered.
Catherine felt all her energy return; and very soon, with Margot and their trains, she set out for Blois, where it was decided that the meeting should take place.
Alençon was truculent.
Catherine watched him with a certain sadness; she was a little a
shamed of this son of hers. He was conceited in the extreme and he had few qualities which recommended him to her. Her mind turned to Henry of Guise, and she thought, fleetingly how different she would have felt if that young man had been her son.
Alençon had assumed the air of a conqueror and explained his demands to her as though she were a vassal of a defeated state.
She laughed outright at him.
‘Do you realize, my son, that you are a rebel against the King, and that it is only because you are my son that I come to talk to you thus?’
‘A rebel with an army behind him, Madame.’
‘If you were not my son and the King’s brother, you would not dare to talk thus. You would have lost your head ere this.’
‘That was a good attempt which was made to poison me through my wine, Madame.’
‘That was but fancy on your part—fancy bred by a guilty conscience.’
‘Then Monsieur Thoré, as well as myself and everyone present who tasted that wine, was very fanciful, Madame.’
She refused to show her impatience. ‘Now, my son, I have come here to reason with you. Your sister is here and you will be glad to see her, I know. Will you not return to Paris and try to live in reasonable peace with your brother?’
‘Madame,’ he answered, ‘I know you sent men to capture me and take me back a prisoner. That failed, so you come to cajole me back; but I see that I should be a prisoner when I reached pads.’
‘You have behaved like a traitor to France. I know that you have written to Elizabeth of England and the Elector of Brandenburg for help.’
‘There are many Frenchmen who would not call me a traitor to France.’
Her impatience got the better of her then. ‘You . . . a Huguenot? Why so?’ She laughed loudly and ironically. ‘Simply because your brother is a Catholic. Had he supported the Huguenots, depend upon it you would have thrown in your lot with the Catholics. You cannot deceive your mother. You want your brother’s throne and you do not mind whether Huguenots or Catholics help you to it. Well, what are these suggestions you have to make?’
‘I wish to be given this town of Blois. Here I will take up my residence.’
‘A hostile Blois!’ cried Catherine. ‘Another La Rochelle.’
‘Madame, there are many men willing to serve me. The Marshals Montgomery and Coss& whom you have tried to murder—unsuccessfully, God be thanked! —must be released at once.’
‘I will consider these matters,’ said Catherine; and she retired to her apartments, wondering how she could best deal with this son whom she despised and who seemed to hate her, and yet, on account of his brother’s unpopularity, was becoming a power in the land.
At length she decided that the marshals must be freed. It was impossible, after all the rumours, to murder them in prison. The King would have to placate them in some way.
While she was pondering her son’s proposition concerning Blois, news came that Thoré and Méru had started fighting in the south. Guise was fortunately at hand to deal with them. He did this with the utmost success at Dormans, and the battle ended with such defeat for the Huguenots that Alençon was in no position to argue.
The streets of Paris were full. Beggars and vagabonds had come in from miles round to share in the occasion. The poor looked less dejected. This was a great day, it was said, in the history of France.
The King stood at the window of his apartment in the Louvre. He was sullen and angry. It was true that peace had been restored at an, important moment with a victory for himself and the Catholics; but jealousy was in the King’s heart and he kicked even his lap-dogs away when they approached. His mignons could do nothing to enchant him.
Out in the streets he could hear the shouting people. Thus they should shout for their King; but they never shouted like that for Henry the Third. There were no sly obscenities flung at the man who now rode among them.
He came through the Port St Antoine, a head taller than any of his men, riding with natural grace and dignity; and a great shout went up from the throats of merchants, from women who leaned from their windows to catch a glimpse of his handsome face, from the beggars, from the students, from the pickpockets.
‘Vive le bon Duc!’
And so he came, fresh from Dormans; and when the people saw the wounds he had received in that battle they went wild with joy, for it seemed to them that here was a sign from Heaven. The cheek of Henry of Guise was slashed by a scar which many declared was exactly the same as that which had been so proudly carried through the last years of his life by Francis of Guise, Le Balafré.
The.peopIe cheered madly. ‘Vive le Balafré! Behold! Here is a miracle. Le Balafré has returned.’
They kissed the hem of his cloak; they scrambled and fought that they might get near him to press their rosaries against him. Many wept, and tears ran down the Duke’s own cheeks. The eye above the scar watered when he was emotional, as his father’s had done, while the other eye seemed to smile at the people who pressed about him.
‘It is the great Duke Francis come down from Heaven to save us!’ cried the superstitious. ‘This is a sign. This is an omen. ‘The evil days are coming to an end. Le Balafré has looked down from Heaven and seen our sufferings. He is giving us his son to lead us away from our misery . . . away from the Valois vipers. Long live the scarred one! This is a sign from Heaven.’
In the Louvre the King listened in furious anger to the acclamations of the mob.
Meanwhile, the Duke rode on. He was asking himself if he had really heard someone in the crowd cry: ‘To Rheims, Monseigneur! To Rheims with Le Balafré!’
There was consternation throughout the Louvre, for Henry of Navarre was missing and his gentlemen could give no account of him. He had not returned the previous night for his coucher. They had waited for some hours, they told the King and Catherine, but they had not been very seriously perturbed knowing their lord’s amorous habits. The palace was searched, but discreetly, on Catherine’s instructions. Navarre could not be found.
The King threatened to summon Margot from her bed, where she lay suffering from an illness which had rendered her very weak indeed. Catherine remonstrated. ‘Do not show your concern. Do not let the people know that you attach such importance to this man.’
And after a time the King allowed himself to be soothed by his mother, and the secret search went on, but without success.
Henry, with his Queen and his mother, went as usual to Sainte-Chapelle to attend Mass, giving no sign of their anxiety. As they were leaving the church, Catherine was startled to feel a light touch on her arm, and turning, looked straight into the mocking eyes of Navarre himself.
‘Madame,’ he said, with a low bow, ‘I present to you one Whom you have so missed, and for whose sake you have been distressing yourself.’
Catherine laughed with relief. ‘Oh, we were not unduly concerned, my son,’ she said. ‘We were well aware that you could take care of yourself.’
The King frowned at his brother-in-law, but he was too relieved to feel angry. Catherine thought: off on some romantic adventure, I suppose. We were foolish to worry about Navarre. He is too lazy to be over-concerned with matters of state. He likes the life here at the court among the ladies even though he is restricted. It might be that his disappearance was just to tease. That would be typical of him. He is a joker, nothing more.
Two days later Navarre suggested to Guise that they make up a party and hunt the stag in the forest of Bondy, close to Paris. They could, pointed out Navarre, visit the fair of Saint-Germain that morning and enjoy themselves there before going off to the hunt.
No one was perturbed at this suggestion. Navarre would be surrounded by Guise’s men in addition to the two members of the King’s Guard whose duty it was to accompany him everywhere he went.
Catherine watched them set off—Navarre and Guise riding together.
‘I would,’ Navarre was saying to Guise, ‘that you might ride incognito, for I declare this adoration which the people of Paris
have for you, can be embarrassing.’
‘The scars of battle amuse them,’ said Guise.
‘Le Balafré Fils!’ cried Navarre. ‘Vive le Balafré! The people have changed their cry. Once I heard nothing in Paris but that other one—Jezebel. And now it is always Le Balafré. These people must either abhor or adore. They never do things by halves, these ladies and gentlemen of Paris.’
‘The hero of today is the enemy of tomorrow,’ said Guise lightly. ‘It does not do to attach too much importance to the cries of the mob.’
‘Ah, but the Paris mob has always been faithful to you. I have heard it said that you are the King of Paris. That is a fine title. “The King of Paris!” It suits you, Monsieur.’
Guise was not displeased. He was human enough to enjoy flattery, and, moreover, he was beginning to wonder if this show of friendship meant that Navarre was considering throwing in his lot with him. Guise had not a very high opinion of Navarre’s stability, but friendship was always welcome when a man was as full of projects as was the Duke of Guise.
They went through the fair arm in arm.
‘See!’ cried Navarre. ‘The people even love me this morning! It is because they see that their hero is my friend, and any friend of Monsieur de Guise is a friend of theirs. I like my new popularity.’
He bowed; he smiled; he ogled the women; and he enjoyed himself thoroughly in his light-hearted way.
He had so successfully allayed Guise’s suspicions that it was not until he had lured the Duke away from the fair that the latter realized that he had left his followers behind in the bustling crowd, while a dozen or so of Navarre’s Bearnais surrounded him and the two guards.
‘You will now come and hunt with me in the forest, Monsieur de Guise?’ asked Navarre.