‘They will try to detain me,’ he said. ‘You know how they love me. I have told them that there is to be a great ball tomorrow night, and they will not let me go until that is over.’

‘Give them their ball,’ advised du Guast. ‘Let it be a farewell ceremony. Explain to them that, although you remain the King of Poland, it is necessary that you go immediately to France to show yourself to the people and to arrange matters of state for which you, as their King, are responsible.’

‘But, my dear, you know I must live in France from now on. A King of France cannot live in Poland.’

‘They will not know this, Sire. It can be broken to them later on.

‘He is wrong,’ said Villequier, who was impatient to feel the soil of France under his feet. ‘We must leave for France at once . . . tonight. Does not the Queen Mother say so?’

‘I believe you are right, dear Villequier,’ said Henry. ‘Yes. That is what I shall do. Now, my dears, let us make our plans. Have horses saddled ready for us. After the attendants have left for the night, I will rise, hastily dress, and we will not lose a moment. We will gallop off to our beloved France.’

Du Guast said wearily: ‘Such dramatic action is not necessary, sire.’

Henry was peevish. He had grown completely self-indulgent during his reign in Poland. He enjoyed acting strangely and in a completely unexpected manner. He did not care how foolish he was he enjoyed astonishing himself as well as those about him. Du Guast, recognizing the mood, knew that it was useless to remonstrate.

‘I long for the civilization of France!’ cried Henry. ‘The only things I shall regret leaving behind me are the crown jewels of Poland.’

‘But they belong now to Your Majesty,’ said Villequier.

‘Whether you are in France or in Poland, you are still the King of Poland. Take the crown jewels with you, Sire.’

Henry languidly kissed Villequier on either cheek. ‘You have made me very happy, dear friend,’ he said. ‘I could not have borne to part with those jewels.’

They dispersed to make their arrangements, and when the time came for the coucher they were ready for flight.

Tenczynski presided over the ceremony while the Polish nobles stood about smiling with pleasure, as they always did in the presence of the King. Henry lay back in his bed and talked desultorily, for a while.

He yawned. ‘I declare I am tired tonight. I have been so busy all day with the preparations for tomorrow’s ball.’

‘Then,’ said Tenczynski, ‘we will leave Your Majesty to your slumbers.’

Henry closed his eyes, and the curtains about his bed were drawn. All left the bedchamber and there was quiet throughout the palace.

Half an hour later, as they had arranged, his young men, already dressed and booted, came quietly in. They, all assisted in the dressing of the King, and, taking the Polish crown jewels with them, they left the palace, made their way to where the saddled horses were waiting, and rode secretly out of Cracow.

It was exciting to imagine themselves pursued. They rode on with great speed but without much sense of direction, and when they had ridden for some hours, they found themselves on the banks of the Vistula and had no idea how they had reached it, nor which way they should go.

They looked at each other in consternation. It was not part of the King’s exciting plan that they. should be lost. let us ride into the forest,’ said du Guast. ‘We may find a guide.’

This they did, riding hard until they came to a woodcutter’s hut, where Villequier, pointing his dagger at the man’s throat, insisted that he leave his family and guide the party to the frontier. The trembling man had no alternative but to agree, but it was two days and nights before the party reached the frontier. There Tenczynski was waiting for them with three hundred Tartars.

Du Guast could not repress a smile of triumph, for he had at least proved his point that this piece of dramatic play-acting would be useless.

Tenczynski dropped on his knees before the King. ‘I have followed you, Sire,’ he said, ‘to beg you to return to Cracow. Your subjects are plunged into sorrow because you have left them. Return, Sire, and you will find a great welcome waiting for you. Your subjects will be as obedient and loving as they have ever been.’

‘My dear Count,’ said Henry, ‘you must know that I have been recalled to my native land. The French crown is my birthright. Do not think, because I must hasten to France, that I shall not return to Poland . . . the land which I have grown to love. Just let me settle my affairs in France and I will be back.’

‘Sire, in France you will not find subjects as loving and faithful as Poland can offer you.’

‘Dear Tenczynski, you move me deeply. But do not ask me to return with you now. Just a little grace . . . that is all I ask. Do you think I shall be able to stay away from our dear Poland? You must go back to Cracow and take care of matters for me until I see you again. Rest assured, dear Count, that will be sooner than you believe possible.’

With great deliberation, Tenczynski pricked his arm with his dagger and let the blood drop on to a bracelet. ‘Here is my blood, Sire, on this ornament. Take it, I beg of you. It will be a constant reminder that my blood is yours should you need it.’

Henry pulled off one of his diamond rings and gave it to the Count in exchange for the bracelet. ‘Take this in memory of me,’ he said.

‘And may I tell Your Majesty’s subjects that you will soon be back with us, that this is just a short visit to France, Sire?’ ‘You may tell them that,’ said Henry.

Tenczynski wept while the Tartars looked on in bewilderment. Henry and his followers rode on across the frontier.

‘To our beloved France!’ cried the King. ‘Never again to set foot in that land of barbarians.’

But Henry found that, once he had left Poland behind him, he was in no great hurry to reach the land of his birth. Kingship brought many responsibilities which he was not eager to shoulder, and governing France was not going to be such a pleasant matter as pretending to govern Poland had been. He thought irritably of those tiresome Huguenots and fanatical Catholics who were always making trouble; he thought of the domination of his mother, the perversity of his brother, and the slyness of his sister. It was pleasant therefore to linger on the way.

In Vienna there was a great reception for the new King of France. He could not leave in a hurry after such a reception; it would seem so churlish. And beautiful Venice gave him a welcome which made that he had received in Vienna seem quite cool by comparison.

What joy it was to recline in a golden gondola rowed by eight gondoliers in Turkish turbans, while the Venetians looked on at the glittering figure adorned by French and Polish jewels!

He could not tear himself away from Venice. He was deeply susceptible to beauty; and to glide along the Grand Canal, to see the Venetian beauties wave to him from their lighted windows, to be with writers and artists once more, gave him an exquisite pleasure. How had he endured those months in a savage land? He allowed artists to paint his portrait; he wan- dered in the Rialto disguised as an ordinary citizen; he bought Perfumes such as he had not been able to buy since what he called in tragic tones ‘his exile’. He bought numerous jewels.

‘My dears,’ he said to his young men as he perfumed them with his new purchases and hung recently acquired jewels about their necks, ‘is it not wonderful to be once more in a civilized land?’

Urgent dispatches from the Queen Mother began to arrive. She had set out with her entourage and was waiting for him at the frontier. His people were eager, she wrote, to welcome their King.

He grimaced. He was not sure of the welcome he would receive in France. He could not forget those scowling French men and women who had lined the streets in the Flemish towns to shout insults at him and to bespatter him with mud and foul things.

But Catherine’s appeals could not be continuously flouted, and Henry knew that he must say goodbye to the dear people of Venice and push on to the frontier.

When at last Catherine met him she embraced him fervently.

‘My darling, at last!’

‘Mother! I have been unable to sleep these last days and nights in my longing to see you. The exile has been terrible dear Mother, terrible and tragic.’

‘It is over now, my darling. You are home. You are King of France.I do not need to tell you how I have longed for this day.’

She was studying him anxiously. He seemed to have aged six years in a little more than six months. It was so with these sons of hers. Their lives seemed to burn out quickly. They were mature in their teens and old men in their twenties. She was afraid that he would grow sickly as Francis and Charles had done.

She explained to him that she was admiring his healthy looks, for she knew that he could not endure criticism, particularly of his appearance. ‘You look younger than you did when you went away, my darling. You must tell me all about that terrible exile later.’

She had, she said, brought Alençon and Navarre with her. ‘They are kept under close supervision,’ she added. ‘I make them ride with me in my coach, and they always share my lodging. We must watch those two.’

She rode beside him during the state entry into Lyons. This is how it shall be from now on, she decided. I shall always be beside him, and together we shall rule France.

Lyons brought bitter, memories to Catherine. She recalled another entry into this city—oh, long ago!—when she, the Queen of France, had been deeply humiliated by the honour which had been done to the King’s mistress, Diane de Poitiers.