‘Madame,’ he said, ‘I must trust you to look after my wife and daughter.’

‘Rest assured, my son, that they will be well cared for.’ ‘And Marie . . . and her son . .

‘You have provided for them, Charles. I promise you that no harm shall come to them.’

Catherine smiled on Marie, poor meek Marie. She had caused little trouble except in those last weeks when she, with Madeleine, had stubbornly refused to leave the King’s side. But that was forgotten now, for the King was dying and that was what Catherine was waiting for. It mattered very little whether he had died a few weeks ago or now; his death was all that mattered. Let Marie live in peace, then; she was not of sufficient importance to be considered. Charles had created her son Duke of Angoulême, so Marie—the provincial judge’s daughter—had nothing of which to complain.

‘I will look after your Queen and her little daughter. I will see that Marie and her son are cared for. Have no fear. These matters shall be attended to.’

He looked at her suspiciously and then asked that Navarre should be sent for.

Navarre was brought by guards, who waited for him outside the King’s bedchamber.

‘You plotted against me,’ said the King. ‘That was unkind. Yet I trust you . . . as I cannot trust my brothers. It is because of something plain about you . . . something that smacks of honesty. I am glad you came to say goodbye to me. I sent for you for a reason, but I cannot think what it was. There are enemies all about you. I know. You should be warned. There is one here whom you must not trust. I was warned, but I think the warning came too late for me. Mayhap it will not be too late for you. Do not trust . . .’ He turned his eyes on his mother, and stared at her as though unable to take them away. ‘Do not trust . . he began again. His lips were trembling, and Marie had to bend over him to wipe the foam from his mouth.

‘You tire yourself, my son,’ said Catherine.

‘No, I will say it. I will. It is the truth, and because it is the truth I must say it. Brother . . . Navarre . . . look after my Queen and my daughter. Look after Marie and her child. To you I leave the care of Madeleine. For you are the only one I dare trust. Promise me. Promise me.’

Navarre, whose tears came easily, wept without restraint. He kissed the King’s hand. ‘Sire, I swear. I will defend them with my life.’

‘I thank thee, brother. It is strange that you should be the one I trust . . . you, who have plotted against the crown. But trust you I do. Pray to God for me. Farewell, brother. Farewell.’ He looked at his mother and said: ‘I rejoice that I have no son to leave behind me who would have to wear the crown of France after me.’

He lay back in his bed after that speech; he was overcome by exhaustion.

He has spoken his last, thought Catherine. And now . . . that for which I have longed over so many dangerous and bitter years . . . that for which I have worked, schemed and killed . . . has now come to pass. My mad King Charles is dead, and my adored darling must now prepare to mount the throne.

Four

THE KING OF POLAND WAS EXHAUSTED. He lay back on his cushions while two of his favourite young men fanned him . . . du Guast, the best loved of them all, and that amusing fellow Villequier. Others sat close to his bed; one picking out the best of the sweetmeats; another admiring the set of his jacket in the Venetian mirror which the King had brought with him from France. The King smiled at them all. He was not really dissatisfied with his little kingdom. It was gratifying to be loved as his subjects loved him. He had only to appear in the streets to be surrounded by admirers who deemed it a privilege to look at him, for they had never seen anyone so magnificent as this painted, perfumed King. Sometimes he wore women’s clothes, and in these he looked more fantastic, more like a person apart from other men—which was what, his Polish subjects felt, a King should look like.

He had deteriorated a great deal since he had left France. He had lost even the slight energy he had possessed in his teens; he had become more selfish, more dependent on luxury. Now he feigned exhaustion because there were state duties which should be attended to. He loathed the meetings of his ministers; their councils bored him. He continually assured them that they could hold their gatherings without him. They must understand, he pointed out, that he was of gentle breeding and came from the fair and civilized land of France, from the most intellectual court in the world. He was no barbarian. He must have music to soothe him, not council meetings to plague him; he must listen to the reading of poetry which delighted him, not the harangues of politicians which tired him.

Count Tenczynski, his chief minister, was bowing before him, overcome with delight by the sweet perfumes and the sensuous décor of the King’s apartments, admiring, as all his fellow countrymen did, this air of luxury and civilization which French Henry had brought into their land.

‘And so, my dear Tenczynski,’ said the King, ‘I am weary. You must conduct your politics without me.’ He turned towards the gentleman who was eating sweetmeats. ‘One for me, dear fellow,’ he said. ‘You greedy creature, would you eat them all yourself?’

‘I but tested them, dearest Majesty, to find which was worthy of your palate.’

The sweet was popped into the royal mouth by the gentleman, whose hand was patted affectionately by his master.

Tenczynski murmured: ‘We would not tire your Majesty. If it is Your Majesty’s wish that we should proceed without you .

Henry waved his beautiful white hand. ‘That is my wish, my dear Tenczynski. Go to your council and when it is over come back and we will tell you of the wonderful ball we are giving tomorrow night.’

Tenczynski lifted his shoulders and laughed. ‘A ball . . . tomorrow night?’ he said.

‘A ball, my dear Tenczynski, such as you have never before seen. Now leave me, and when you return for my coucher I shall tell you all about it and what I shall wear.’

‘Your Majesty deserves the grateful appreciation of your subjects,’ said Tenczynski, bowing low.

When he had gone, Henry yawned. He decided to tease his young men by talking of the Princess of Condé.

‘To think I have not set eyes on her fair face for six long months!’

The young men were sullen; but they knew that he was teasing. They were not really distubred; nor was Henry really longing for the Princess. This was just a game they played between them.

‘Don’t sulk,’ said Henry. ‘And another sweetmeat. I am going to write to the Princess tonight.’

‘You tire yourself with writing to the Princess,’ said du Guast.

‘You are mistaken, my friend. I am stimulated by writing to the Princess.’

Villequier pleaded: ‘Leave it until tomorrow, dearest Sire, and talk about your toilette for the ball.’

The King was tempted irresistibly. ‘I shall be in green silk, and I shall be dressed as a woman. My gown will be cut low and I shall wear emeralds and pearls. And now . . . my writing materials, please. You may discuss together what you are going to wear, because I shall be rather cross if you do not surpass yourselves.’

They could see that he was determined to write to the Princess, so they brought the materials for which he asked. He sent for his jewelled stiletto and, when it was brought, he pricked his finger while the young men looked on in sorrow. Then he began to write to the Princess of Condé in his own blood, an affectation which delighted him.

‘When you read this letter, my darling, you must remember that it is written in royal Valois blood, the blood of him who now sits on the throne of Poland. Ah, I would it were that of France! And why? Because of that greater honour? No, my love. Because, were I King of France, you would be beside me.’

While he was writing du Guast entered the chamber; he was excited, but Henry did not look up. He thought the favourite’s jealousy had prompted him to interrupt the letter-writing on some small pretext.

‘Sire,’ said du Guast, ‘there is a messenger without. He brings great news.’

‘A messenger!’ Henry laid aside his love letter. ‘What news?’

‘Great news, Sire. From France.’

‘Bring him in Bring him in.’

When the man was brought in, he went to the King and knelt before him with a great show of reverence. Then, having kissed the delicate hand, he cried aloud: ‘Long live King Henry the Third of France.’

Henry lifted his hand and smiled. ‘So,’ he said, ‘my brother is dead at last . . . and you come from my mother. Welcome! You have other news for me?

‘None, Sire, except that the Queen Mother urges your return to France without delay.’

The King patted the messenger’s shoulder. ‘My attendants will give you the refreshments you deserve for bringing such news. Take him away. Give him food and drink. See that he is well looked after.’

When they were alone, Henry lay back, his arms behind his head, smiling at his young men.

‘At last!’ cried the impetuous Villequier. ‘That for which we have long hoped and prayed has come to pass.

‘I must return to France at once,’ said the King.

‘This very night!’ cried Villequier.

‘Sire,’ said the more sober du Guast, ‘that will not be necessary. The Poles know that they cannot detain you now. Summon the ministers and tell them what has happened. Make your plans to leave. You will be ready in a day or so. But to go tonight would appear as if you were escaping.’

Henry frowned on du Guast. He had already pictured himself and his companions slipping away, riding hard into France. He smiled on Villequier, for that gentleman’s suggestion pleased him.