There was a dream he had had some years before, and he been so impressed by it that, at the time, he had written it down. This dream now kept recurring. In the dream he saw lions fighting; they fought twice. One of these lions was young and the other was older; the old lion was overcome, and the young lion gouged out the eye of the old lion, who suffered cruelly and died. That was the recurring dream.

Catherine, who believed fervently in the powers of her astrologers and their gift for seeing future events, pondered this deeply. Nostradamus hinted that the older of the two lions was the King, for the King’s escutcheon bore the figure of a lion. Nostradamus was certain that the King was in some sort of danger. He begged the Queen to watch closely that no calamity might befall him.

Deep melancholy filled the Queen, for if Nostradamus had seen the old lion die, and the old lion represented Henry, and if this was a vision of the future, there was nothing on the earth that could save the King. If it was written in his destiny that the King must die, then would the King die.

Who was the young lion? Spain? Or England? Impossible. Neither could be called young. It might be that the lion not Henry, but France. That was more likely. France was in danger. The first clash might be that disastrous outbreak war which had resulted in the siege of Saint-Quentin and had ended in the Treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis. There was no doubt that the signing of that treaty had been a great blow to France, de Guise was against it, and he had said that in signing such a treaty the King had lost more in a day than he would have done in twenty years of reverses in the field. With a stroke of the pen, the King had surrendered the Italian conquests of the last thirty years. This marriage of Elizabeth’s and of the King’s sister Marguerite to the Duke of Savoy were a result. The King was weary of the Italian wars, and he was longing to get his good friend the Constable released from captivity. They had driven the English from French soil; let that satisfy France. Henry had declared that Italy was a snare which had entrapped French treasure and French lives since the days of his father and Charles V.

And yet― there was great mourning throughout France because of this treaty. It could be called the first clash, and from it the old lion had emerged licking his limbs.

What next, Catherine asked herself. Spain? Or England? She said nothing of the dream of Nostradamus, but she felt gloom about her. Elizabeth was like a pale ghost going about the palace; she had lost her laughter, and her smile was a mockery of what it had once been.

Catherine saw a good deal of the Vidame de Chartres, allowed him special privileges, let him sit beside her during her cercles, listened with apparent pleasure to his gallantries.

But as preparations went on apace for the Spanish marriage, Catherine could not ward off the sense of impending doom.


* * *

From outlying districts people were coming into Paris. People were dancing in the streets and there were sounds of revelry all along the Seine. From the great buildings, flags and banners fluttered in the breeze― the flags of France and Spain.

It was a great day when Alva marched into the city, his five hundred men about him, clad in black, yellow, and red. The Parisians were disappointed in the Duke, though― a solemn man, all in black. On his right rode the Count Egmont, and on his left the Prince of Orange. These men were watched with suspicion. It was such a short time ago that they had led armies against Frenchmen. It was hard for bewildered men and women and to understand the exigencies of government, the plots and plans of Kings.

A different wedding this from the last. Then it had been their own Dauphin and the loveliest girl they had ever seen; and the two were adorable, in love and so charming, having been brought up together, and having had eight years of happy companionship before they entered the married state. Now that was charming. That was romance. But this solemn Spaniard, in black, to marry by proxy their little Princess! A man, hands were blood-stained with the blood of Frenchmen to repeat the marriage vows with a young girl because his master was too important to come to Paris and do so himself!

Philip of Spain! He was a bogey in the minds of many. Already twice married, it was said he had not been kind to the old Queen of England and had made her life wretched, had made her people hate her, and then had deserted her and left her lonely. The new Queen of England, a red-headed spitfire, had taken her revenge for her sister. She had plagued him, led him on, pretended to consider his advances, fooled him, snapped her fingers at him, and laughed, secure, she thought, in her island fortress. And so because Elizabeth of England would not have him, he would marry Elizabeth of France.

No, they could not feel that this was a happy wedding, as the Dauphin’s had been.

And almost immediately after Elizabeth had her marriage by proxy, the King’s sister Marguerite was to be married. The two weddings were to take place within the same month.

Well, for the people at least, any wedding was better than no wedding, for the revelries meant a release from tedium― a change from the monotonous business of getting a living.

There was a great cheering and throwing of hats in air when the Princess appeared on the arm of her father. She was dressed in gleaming silver, and wore a large pear-shaped on a fine gold chain which was the gift of her husband-to-be. Catherine had not wished the girl to wear the pearl, for rumour had it that this pearl— which had its own grim history― brought grief to every possessor.

But how could she defy etiquette by bidding the bride not to wear her bridegroom’s gift?

The river sparkled gaily in the June sunshine; the bells began to ring, signifying to the crowds in the street that the marriage by proxy had taken place.

Trumpets and bugles were blown as out of the Cathedral came the young girl, flushed now so that only those near her saw the wretchedness in her eyes.

‘Vive la Reine d’Espagne!’ shouted the crowds. Why, this meant peace with Spain. Peace― and no more war! It was easy therefore to forget the young girl who would have to leave her home and travel across the Pyrenees into Spain, to a strange land where she must live the rest of her life married to a man she had never seen, but of whose reputation for cold and calculating cruelty she had heard much.

But the bells were ringing; the people were shouting; and there was music in the streets.

Back to the Palais de Justice for the banquet; then on to the Louvre to dance and make merry.


* * *

Catherine watched the King dancing with his daughter. Shall I never grow away from this yearning? she asked herself. Shall I never overcome this passion and pain? Henry seemed happier than he had for a long time. Peace― for a time, he was thinking. An alliance with an old enemy― the best way of settling troubles.

He was tired of the wars; to win Italy had been his father’s dream; why should he have inherited that dream? In his reign it would be remembered that the English had been driven from the soil of France. That would wipe out the humiliation of Agincourt. He was happy. His little girl, Elizabeth? She was overawed. Who would not be at the prospect of marriage with the mighty Philip? He must try to make her understand how great was the honour done to her.

He spoke to her kindly and she lifted her leaden eyes to his face and tried to smile. She had always loved him dearly.

He had loved her also, as he loved all his children. He consoled himself; it was not for those of a royal house to choose their wives and husbands.

Doubtless Elizabeth would have had to marry young de Guise. It was said that there was hardly a woman in France who would not. But she had to take Philip― as he had had to take Catherine. One got over such tragedies.

They danced the solemn passemento de España in honour of the absent bridegroom. The Queen danced with the Duke of Alva.

But all the time Catherine danced, and later when she chatted gaily with the Vidame, she was conscious of evil near her.

It was not possible to forget the dream of Nostradamus.


* * *

The revelries continued. The Duke of Savoy had arrived in time for his marriage to the King’s sister. He made a magnificent spectacle, surrounded by his men in their doublets of red satin, crimson shoes, and black velvet cloaks trimmed with gold lace.

There must be more lavish entertainments; the Duke of Savoy must not feel that his wedding was of less importance in that which had just taken place.

In the Rue Saint-Antoine, close to Les Tournelles, an arena had been set up for a tournament, and in her apartments in the palace Catherine sat listening to the hammering as the pavilion was erected; and as she listened her uneasiness was intensified. The thought came to her that these men were preparing a scaffold or stands for men and women to witness an execution rather than a tournament.

I have allowed this fellow Nostradamus to unnerve me, she thought.

It is nothing. Why, I only felt the gloom when I heard from him.


* * *

It was the thirteenth of June and a day of glorious sunshine, Henry came to the Queen’s apartment to conduct her to the tournament. He looked wonderfully handsome, she thought; he was glowing with the pleasure he expected this day to bring him. He was boyish in his love of sport, and there was little he enjoyed as much as a tournament.