Part 18 (1/2)

Because of this the Guises said he died a Catholic, and if he had declared himself a Huguenot when he was dying, well, that was only to be expected of L'echangeur.

In her stronghold of Bearn, Jeanne received the news.

She stared stonily before her. It is nothing to me, she a.s.sured herself. I had finished with him. I hated him ... at our last meeting, if not before. When he refused to let me have my son, I knew I could never feel any tenderness towards him again.

Nevertheless, it was not Antoine the turn-coat, the unfaithful husband, the cruel father, of whom she must think, but Antoine the gay Prince at the christening of King Francis, Antoine the lover in a silver galleon triumphantly seizing his love. It was Antoine, lover and husband, whom she must remember.

And the tears rolled down the cheeks of the widow of the King of Navarre.

Catherine was in residence at her favourite Castle of Blois. Life was a little more secure than it had been a few months ago. The towns which had been taken by the Huguenots were being slowly won back; she herself was no longer a prisoner of the Guises; for she had been their prisoner; she knew it and they knew it, although they had tried so hard to disguise this fact.

Now she had lulled them to a certain feeling of security, and she must keep them thus. She must act with greater caution. She had learned an important lesson, and as she had been learning through bitter lessons all her life, she was not likely to forget this one.

She was glad that Francis of Guise was busily engaged in warfare. She was happier with that man out of the way. At the moment he was fighting for Orleans. Who knew what would happen to him! France's greatest soldier, yes; but Catherine's greatest enemy.

Catherine's thoughts turned from the Duke of Guise to her son Charles, the King, Charles was growing up. He was only thirteen, it was true, but thirteen was a considerable age for a Valois King. They would have to marry him soon. Catherine smiled grimly. The boy still thought he was going to have Mary of Scotland. But perhaps his memories of her were growing dim by now. He was changing. One expected him to change. He could not remain static. He had to grow up. He was a strange boy, with many sides to his personality. There was a streak more than a streak of madness in him and it was widening as the years pa.s.sed, the unbalanced fits were growing more frequent.

Yet he was clever. He could, at times, be eloquent, but he was too easily moved. She had seen his face work with emotion during a sermon or the reading of a poem which he thought particularly beautiful; she had seen his mouth twitch though not with madness and tears stream from his eyes. He himself wrote poetry, and he was modest enough to declare it to be worthless. Ronsard was one of his constant companions. He struck up friends.h.i.+ps with his musicians humble folk like that boy servant of the Duke of Bavaria, just a musician who had a gift for playing the lute; and the King of France would take him for his boon companion. Nor would the King be denied his pleasures; his brow would darken and he would frown, even at his mother, if called from his music and his poetry-reading. He would sit till long past midnight with the writers and musicians, and at such times he would be very happy. Then there would be no madness, only an aloof enchantment. Catherine would look in on him and his friends and find them all together, talking in low, earnest voices while the candles burned low; and he would turn to look at the intruder without seeing her, even though she was his mother, of whom, on all other occasions, he was deeply aware.

His tutors could do nothing with him at such times.

And then that mood would pa.s.s and he would be touched with black melancholy. Sometimes he would stay in his bed all day, and this was a sure sign that the madness was on him. Perhaps at midnight, he would be seized with a wild mood of hilarity, and he would awaken his friends a different set of friends from the poets and insist that they follow him; he would make them put on masks and carry lighted torches. It was alarming to see him at such times, his eyes glinting through his mask, his mouth working, the madness on him, the l.u.s.t for violence. He and his friends would creep out of the palace and go to the apartments of one of their friends, whom they would thrash into unconsciousness. This was hardly a suitable pastime for the thirteen-year-old King of France, thought Catherine.

If there was not a flagellating party, he would hunt with such recklessness that none could keep up with him; he would thrash his horses and dogs with the energy which he used on his friends. A more harmless madness was that of imitating a blacksmith and hammering iron until he was exhausted.

Then he would return to normal; he would be gentle, loving, pliable; and it would invariably seem that when he had recovered he would have little remembrance of those terrifying bouts.

What should one do with such a son? Catherine did not have to wonder. She knew. She did not wish Charles to remain on the throne when Henry was ready to take it. Therefore she could look complacently on these fits of madness. Soon the periods of gentleness would grow less; and later they would disappear altogether. And then what would Charles the Ninth of France become? A maniac! Maniacs must be put away; they could not be allowed to breed sons. So much the better, since there was another waiting to take the throne of France.

Charles showed few signs of s.e.xual perversion, in spite of his tutors. He was not voluptuous, nor inclined to amorousness. He was not like Margot that minx who must be very closely watched or young Henry of Guise, or that rough little Henry of Navarre. Those three would be l.u.s.ty and l.u.s.tful before long. No! He was not as they were; nor was he as his brother Henry. His pa.s.sion for Mary of Scotland showed a lamentable normality in such matters; and it seemed that even expert tuition in perversion could not achieve the desired result.

Never mind! Charles was growing more and more unbalanced, and each fit of insanity left him weaker, not only in mind but in body.

Her thoughts of the King were broken up by the arrival of a messenger. She saw him ride into the courtyard, for the clatter of hoofs had brought her quickly to the window.

Something was afoot. Guise had taken Orleans. That must be the case, for those were the Guise colours down there. Well, she would feign great rejoicing, for it was very necessary that the Catholics should believe her to be of their faith. She must win back their respect, their belief in her as a good Catholic.

She went down to greet the messenger, but his face was grave; he had no news of victory, that was certain.

'What news?' asked Catherine.

'Terrible news, Madame,' cried the messenger. 'It is my lord Duke. He has been shot. He lies near to death.'

Margot was there beside her mother. The child had no restraint. She ran to the messenger, plucking at his sleeve. 'He is not dead! He must not die. Henry could not bear it if he died. Oh, Madame, my mother, we must send ... send surgeons ... we must send ...'

'Be quiet!' said Catherine; and Margot even forgot her anxiety for the father of the boy she loved in her sudden fear of her mother.

'Tell me everything,' said Catherine.

'Madame, my lord Duke was making a tour of inspection before riding back to the castle and his lady wife. He had taken off his armour, for the battle was over. And then, from behind a hedge, there was a shot. My lord fell to the ground senseless. We got him to the castle, but he bleeds ... he bleeds terribly, Madame.'

'We must send surgeons!' cried Margot. 'At once. Oh, at once. There must be no delay.'

'And,' said Catherine, 'they have caught the a.s.sa.s.sin?'

'Yes, Madame.'

'Who is he?'

'Poltrot de Meray.'

'All that matters,' cried Margot, 'is that we must be in time to save the Duke ...'

'I will send surgeons at once,' said Catherine. 'Go back and tell the d.u.c.h.ess that help is on the way. I shall send my best surgeons to save the Duke.'

Margot hung on her mother's arm. 'Oh, thank you ... thank you. We must save the Duke.'

Catherine gripped her daughter's arm so tightly that Margot wanted to scream. But she knew better than to do that. She allowed herself to be led away.

Catherine took her up to her apartment and locked her in an ante-room. Margot lay sobbing. Henry's father was hurt, perhaps dying. She was terrified of her mother, for, having shown her feelings in a way which she knew her mother would consider tasteless, she knew she was going to be severely punished. But for the moment she could think of no one but Henry, whom she loved more than anyone on Earth, of his devotion to his father, of the terrible grief he would suffer if the Duke were to die.

Catherine was talking to her surgeon, talking quietly through half-closed lips. He knew what she wished in regard to the Duke. He was to go and serve him as he knew his mistress would serve that great fighter, if she had his skill and could go in his place.

The man bowed and retired, and very soon he was riding with all speed to Orleans.

Catherine went to her daughter and herself administered the beating.

'Ten years old!' she said. 'And behaving like an ill-bred peasant.'

Margot dared not evade her mother's blows as she did those of others. She lay, accepting them, her body flinching from them, but her mind unaware of them almost, as she prayed silently: 'Holy Mother, do not let Henry's father die. You could not let Henry be hurt like that. The Duke is not only Henry's father; he is the greatest man in France. Holy Mother, save him.'

Catherine prayed neither to G.o.d nor the Virgin. But she too was thinking of the Duke; she was thinking of the handsome, scarred face, distorted with pain, the agony of death in those haughty eyes, the eyes of the man whom she had come to regard as her greatest enemy.

Riding beside the handsome young boy who was now the head of the House of Lorraine, Margot was weeping silently.

He was so handsome, this Henry of Guise, with his fair curly hair, which seemed such a contrast with his manly face and his well-proportioned figure. Already he showed signs of the man he would become. Margot wanted to comfort him, to tell him that his grief was her grief, and that it would always be so.

'Talk of it, Henry,' she said. 'Talk of it, my dearest. To talk of it will help you.'

'Why should it have happened to him?' demanded Henry. 'Because of treachery, I tell you. I will not rest until I see his murderer dead at my feet.'

'His murderer has died a horrible death, Henry. He has suffered torture. There is comfort in knowing that the man who killed Le Balafre lies dead and useless now.'

'My father has not been avenged as I would have it,' cried Henry angrily. 'That miserable, low-born creature was the tool of others. I do not consider that my father has been avenged. You know what he said at the torture. You know whom he accused?'

'Coligny,' said Margot, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng. 'Coligny ... the pious ... the good man! That is he whom Poltrot de Meray accused.'

'And that villain, that scoundrel, is the murderer of my father. De Meray said Coligny paid him money to murder my father. That is good enough for me.'

Margot said: 'But Coligny has told my mother that it was to buy a horse that he gave the man money, and that it had nothing to do with murdering the Duke.'