He was impatient to be gone, but she had an overwhelming desire to detain him. Everything seemed more vivid to her today than it usually was. As he stood at the window looking down at the crowds, pictures of the past kept flashing in and out of her mind and she was filled with conflicting emotions. She was angry and jealous, tender and passionate in turns. She had to suppress an impulse to rush to him, to fling her arm about him, to beg him to kiss her, to make love to her as he never had, with that fervour and passion which she had seen him bestow on someone else. Tears were in her eyes. She thought of his standing at a window watching the agonizing death of a tailor; then he had held her hand, and in comforting him, she felt he had been closer to him than ever before.

‘Come,’ he said, ‘let us go down to the arena. They are impatient to start the tournament. Listen to the shouting. They are shouting for us.’

She went to him quickly and, taking his hand, clung to it, He looked at her in surprise.

‘Henry,’ she said, passionately, ‘do not go― Stay here with me.’

He thought she was crazy. She laughed suddenly and dropped her hands.

‘Catherine, I do not understand. Stay here?―’

‘No!’ she cried fiercely. ‘You do not understand. When have you ever understood?’

He drew back. She was frightened suddenly. What a fool she was! Had she not at her age learned to control her passion? ‘How foolish,’ she said. ‘I― I am not myself. I am worried― Henry, desperately worried.’

He looked shocked, but no longer bewildered. She was worried. This then was not one of those alarming demonstrations he had learned to dread in the old days.

She hesitated. But this was not the moment to tell him of the dream. She said: ‘Our daughter― she looks so tragic. It worries me, Henry. It frightens me.’

There was real fear in her eyes, but it was not for Elizabeth. He believed it was, though, and he sought to soothe her.

‘It will pass, Catherine. It is because she is such a child.’

‘She looks so tragic.’

‘But we know these things pass. They are not so bad as they seem.’

She was talking desperately; her one desire being to keep him with her.

‘What do we know of Philip?’

‘That he is King of Spain, that he is the most powerful man in Europe― that his match with our daughter is one of which we may be justly proud.’

She threw herself at him and clung to him. ‘You do me so much good, Henry. You are so sound, so full of good sense.’

Her trembling hands stroked his coat, and, looking up at him, she saw that he was smiling benignly. He did not know that it was a passionate wife who clung to him. He thought it was an anxious mother.

‘There, Catherine. Your anxiety is natural,’ he said. ‘But we must delay no longer. Let us go down to the arena. Can you not hear how impatient they are to start the tournament?’

He took her hand and led her from the room.

When they left the palace and the trumpets heralded their approach, the crowd cheered wildly.

‘Vive le Roi! Vive la Reine! ’ shouted the people.

Yes, thought Catherine. Long live the King! Long live Queen! And for the love of the Virgin let us get on with tournament!


* * *

All through that day Catherine’s uneasiness was with her. The sun shone hotly on the gallery in which she sat with the Duke of Savoy and the ladies of the court, but not more hotly than her hatred of Diane, sitting close to her, white-haired and regal, as certain now of the King’s affection as she ever was Henry was the hero of that day. That was right, thought, Catherine, right and fitting. He had given a wonderful display, riding a spirited horse which had been a gift from the Duke of Savoy.

He had chosen for his opponent a young captain of the Scottish guard, a certain Montgomery, a noble-looking youth and a clever combatant.

Watching, there was one moment of terror for Catherine, for the young Scotsman all but threw the King from his horse. A ripple of horror ran through the crowd. Catherine leaned forward, holding her breath, praying. But the King had righted himself.

‘Hurrah!’ shouted the loyal crowd, for the King was now thrusting boldly at the young man. And then: ‘Hurrah! Vive le Roi! ’ For the King had thrown the young Scotsman and victory was his.

Catherine felt that the palms of her hands were wet. How nervous she was!

Why, it was nothing but sport. She listened to the joyous shouting of the crowd.

It was fitting that the King of France should win in the fight with a foreigner.

Henry came to the gallery, and it was near Diane that he sat. While they took refreshments, he discussed the fight with the Duke of Savoy and the ladies, and, wishing to compliment young Montgomery on his fight, the King had him brought to the gallery.

‘You did well,’ said the King. ‘You were indeed a worthy opponent.’

Montgomery bowed.

‘Come,’ said the King, ‘take refreshment with us.’

Montgomery was honoured, he said, to take advantage of such a gracious suggestion.

Watching the young man, Henry said suddenly: ‘Methinks that, had you been fighting with another, you might have thrown him.’

Montgomery flushed slightly. ‘Nay, Sire, yours was the greater skill.’

This remark was applauded by the Duke and the ladies, but, watching the King and knowing him so well, Catherine was aware of the niggling doubt in his mind. It was very likely true. Young Montgomery was a splendid specimen of manhood; Henry was strong, but he had seen forty years.

Henry said: ‘There should be no handicaps in true sport. The laurels that come by way of kingship cannot be worn with dignity.’

Montgomery did not know what to answer to this, and the King immediately announced that he wished to break another lance before sunset and that Captain Montgomery should be his opponent ‘Sire,’ said the Duke of Savoy, ‘the day is hot and you have acquitted yourself with honour. Why not put off the breaking of this lance until tomorrow?’

‘I am impatient,’ smiled Henry, ‘to face this young man once more. I cannot wait until tomorrow. My people will be delighted to see me in action again today. They are a good and loyal crowd and it is my duty to serve them.’

The young Scotsman was anxious. He was desperately afraid that he might make himself unpopular by proving himself the victor. He was young; the King was ageing; it was a delicate matter.

He made an attempt to excuse himself, but this attempt made the King more sure than ever, that, had the young man wished, he could have unseated him.

‘Come,’ said Henry, with some impatience, ‘and do your best.’

There was no gainsaying the King’s command. The two rode out together.

The delighted crowd cheered anew; and then, in that sudden breathless silence when the two men faced each other, lances raised, a young boy in one of the lower galleries pushed himself forward and, white of face and strained of eye, shouted in a loud, ringing voice: ‘Sire, do not fight!’

There was a hush over the vast assembly. Then someone seized the boy and hustled him away. But Catherine, sensing now that disaster was upon her, rose in her seat. She swayed dizzily. Diane was beside her, supporting her.

‘ Madame la Reine is feeling ill,’ she heard Diane say. ‘Pray, help me―’

Catherine was helped back to her seat. It was too late to do anything now, she knew. The combat had started, and in a few seconds it was all over.

Montgomery had struck the King on the gorget a little below his visor; the Scotsman’s lance was shattered, the stump slid upwards raising the King’s visor, and the splinter entered the King’s right eye.

Henry, striving to suppress his groans, tried to lift his lance and failed. There was a shocked stillness everywhere while he fell forward.

In a second, his gentlemen had reached him and seized his swaying body; they were stripping him of his armour.

Catherine, standing now, straining to see the face that she loved, caught a glimpse of it covered in blood, while Henry fell, fainting into the arms of his men.

Beside Catherine stood Diane, her fingers clutching the black-and-white satin of her skirt, and the white of her gown was not whiter than her face.


* * *

The King was dying, for the steel had entered his eye, and there was nothing that could be done. All the great doctors, surgeons and apothecaries, all the learned men of France were at his bedside. Philip of Spain sent his celebrated surgeon, André Vésale. But nothing could save the King.

He lay tossing in agony while violent fever overtook him. He spoke of one thing only. No blame for this should be attached to Montgomery. That was his urgent wish. The people were saying that the young man was a Protestant and that he had been primed to do this; but the King, in his agony, was determined that all should remember how the boy had had no wish to fight, and that he must be told not to grieve, as he had but obeyed the King.

Consciousness eluded Henry. He lay silent and could not be revived with rose-water and vinegar.

Paris had changed from a city of joy to one of mourning while its people stood about near Les Tournelles waiting for news. But though the doctors dressed the wound and were even able to remove some splinters, though they purged the King with rhubarb and camomile, and bled him, still they could not save his life.

The days passed and with them passed the King’s agony; for he remained in a stupor from which none could rouse him.