The Vidame’s eyes were full of speculation then, for Condé was the head of the House of Bourbon, and he knew what this meant.

‘I will serve you with my life,’ he declared, kissing Catherine’s hand, ‘and, serving you, shall hope for some reward.’

Catherine answered: ‘Queens are not asked for rewards, Monsieur.’

‘Madame,’ he said, I do not ask you as a Queen, but as a woman.’

She smiled and her smile held some promise. She eagerly awaited his return with the answers to her letters.

But it was not the Vidame who came to her.

A page was brought into her presence to tell her that the Duc de Guise was asking to be admitted immediately; she gave permission that he should be sent to her.

The candles in their sconces flickered as the door opened and shut behind the man. There he stood― arrogant, virile, with a smile on his hideously scarred face.

‘I crave your Majesty’s pardon for the intrusion,’ he said. ‘But― there is treason abroad.’

She studied him calmly, her face blank.

‘The Vidame de Chartres has been arrested.’

‘Is that so? Why is this?’

‘Treasonable documents have been found on his person, Madame.’

‘What documents?’

‘Letters to the Prince of Condé.’

‘A plot?’ said Catherine.

‘It is feared so, Madame. He is to be sent to the Bastille.’

‘I gave no orders that this should be done,’ she answered haughtily.

Le Balafré bowed low. ‘Madame, it was thought to save you trouble. I have the order for his arrest here. It is signed by the King.’

She nodded.

She was defeated. She knew that her battle with the Guises would be as long and as arduous as her battle with Diane. Power was no easier to win than love.


* * *

Heavily cloaked, cunningly disguised, Catherine hurried through the streets of Paris to the sombre building of the Bastille.

It was dusk, and she had chosen this hour; for it was imperative that she be not recognized. She shuddered as she looked up at the dark towers and the ramparts with their cannon.

A cloaked figure that had seemed part of the thick wall moved towards her, and she knew she was recognized, by the reverent tone of the man’s voice.

‘Madame, all is ready.’

He led the way through a small door into a dark corridor, up a flight of stairs, along more corridors. Catherine smelt the odour indigenous to prisons― damp, age, slime, sweat, blood, death.

Below her were hideous dungeons where men fought for their lives with the rats that shared their cells; close to her were the oubliettes where men and women lay forgotten, and the calottes where human beings were incarcerated to endure extreme cold in winter and suffocating heat in summer, and where it was not possible to stand upright; somewhere in this terrible place was the Salle de la Question where men and women suffered the water torture or the horrors of the Boot. But the Vidame de Chartres was not housed in oubliette nor calotte; his sojourn in the Bastille had been a comparatively comfortable one, for he had powerful friends; moreover, he had not hesitated to point out that the Queen-Mother herself was a particularly dear friend.

Tomorrow the Vidame was to be released; it was for this reason that Catherine had arranged to visit him.

Her guide had halted before a heavy door; this he unlocked; beyond it was another door which he also unlocked.

‘Enter, Madame,’ he said. ‘I will wait outside. It will be well if you do not stay more than fifteen minutes. There may be a jailer here after that, and your presence would be difficult to explain.’

‘I understand,’ said Catherine.

The Vidame rose as she entered his cell. He came swiftly towards her and, taking her hand, kissed it fervently.

She studied his face in the faint light that came through the barred window.

The window was small and it was growing dark outside so that it was not easy to see him, yet she fancied that three months in prison had left their mark upon him.

‘It was good of you to come― Catherine,’ he said.

She flinched a little at the use of her Christian name, but he did not notice that.

‘You are to be released tomorrow,’ she told him.

‘Tomorrow!’ His voice was hysterical with joy. ‘And you― my Queen― have done this for me.’ He was on his knees; he took her hand again and she felt his tears fall on it.

How arrogant he was! He had had great success with women; he believed himself to be irresistible to all women; he did not know that Catherine de’

Medici was no ordinary woman. He could not guess that she had but used him in the hope of arousing jealousy in her husband, that when he had bungled the simple matter of carrying letters to his powerful relative she had no further use for him; that this release of his was yet another move of the Guises, to set him free that they might watch him and catch him again and perhaps others with him; he did not guess that the last thing the Queen-Mother wanted was his release.

She stood back, pressed against the cold stone wall. He said in a whisper:

‘How did you get in?’

She answered: ‘There are many who serve me.’

‘Yes,’ he whispered slowly. ‘Yes. I see.’

‘You will be watched when you come out,’ she said rapidly. ‘It will be well for you to leave France.’

He came close to her so that she could feel his breath on her cheek. ‘Leave France! Leave― you! Though you asked me to do that, I could not.’

‘It is the wise thing to do,’ she said.

She heard his quick intake of breath. ‘Can it be that you would wish to be rid of me?’ There was in his voice a desperate note; she understood; he was determined not to be banished. He was prepared to run risks. Why not? He was an ambitious man. One thing he was not prepared for, and that was exile.

‘They will be suspicious of you,’ she said. ‘They will have you watched.’

‘You cannot think that I am afraid of danger?’

‘I think you would be wise to get away. Go to Italy.’

‘I feel my life is here― beside you― serving you―’

She drew closer to the wall, but he came closer too.

‘There is much to be done,’ he said. ‘The King is young, and is your son.

The little Queen― she is but a child. You and I― with others to help us, could get the Protestants to rise against these upstart Guises. I have news. I have not been idle in here. I have laid deep plans. The Protestants are straining at the leash. They but await a leader.’

‘And you will be that leader?’ she said, her voice expressionless.

‘You, Catherine, are the Regent of France. It is for you to rule this country.’

‘And you― would work for me― serve me― no matter how dangerous the work?’

‘To serve you is the only course I would follow. You dare not send me from you. The court has seen our deep and tender friendship. Why, Catherine, our names have been linked. I could tell many secrets―’

She laughed. ‘We have been nothing but friends.’

‘Who would believe that? Ah, you see how devoted I am. You must, for the sake of honour, keep me at your side, for I declare, so deep in love am I, that I would let nothing stand in the way of keeping at your side.’

‘Listen to me now,’ she said, ‘for I dare stay no longer. Tomorrow you will be released. We will meet, but secretly. Depend upon it, the spies of the de Guises will be watching you. Come, if you can, at this hour to the house of the brothers Ruggieri. You know it? It is close to the river.’

‘At this hour,’ he repeated. And then: ‘Yes, I know the house.’

‘I will be waiting, and we will talk of the future over a goblet of good Italian wine.’

He would have kissed her lips, but haughtily she held out her hand.

He bowed low, and, turning, she hurried out of the cell.


* * *

Catherine sat in her room. She had asked that she might be quite alone.

Looking in her mirror, she saw a woman, fattening, coarsening, who had never been really beautiful even in her youth; thick, pallid skin, sly mouth, and those flashing dark eyes.

This was an important day in her life. It was three months since she had lost her love, but that tragedy was behind her now. She must look to the future. Last evening, at dusk, she had gone to the house near the river, and there she had met that ambitious young man who wished to become her lover. He had great plans for himself, this Vidame de Chartres.

She had talked to him calmly, kindly, and affectionately over a goblet of wine.

Together they had planned to put down the mighty Guises, they had arranged to meet again, this night.

The sly mouth smiled, for Catherine realized that the ache in her heart was growing less acute. There was so much work to be done. Her eyes went to the cabinet in the corner of the room. None but herself knew the secrets of that cabinet. In it lurked death, to be administered to the enemies of Catherine de’

Medici.

For years she had planned the murder of Diane; but now that she was calm, she could see that it would be pointless to murder Diane. Yet, all those years when she had added secret after secret to her cabinet, she had thought of murder; and now murder was a part of her life, a servant, ready at her command, waiting for that moment when it could work for her.

She was not happy as she could have been with the love of Henry, but she was stimulated. She knew that a bitter battle was before her, but she also knew the strength of her armour.

She was going to fight the seemingly all-powerful de Guises. Sickly Francis was on the throne. How long could he live? Then it would be the turn of Charles. He was but a boy yet, and his upbringing was in the hands of his mother. She would get an Italian tutor for him. A face leaped to her mind. Yes, she knew the tutor she would get; and Charles should be taught a way of life that some might call unnatural. He was not strong; he was peevish― but pliable. She did not wish Charles to marry― but if he did, he must not have children. While Charles was on the throne, his mother would rule; and after Charles would come beloved Henry, whose pleasure it would be to serve his mother, as it would be hers to serve him.