She had loved Henry her husband through years of neglect and humiliation, and she had called this son after him. It was not the name which had been given to him at his baptism; that was Edouard Alexandre; but he had become her Henri; and she was determined that one day he should be Henry the Third of France.

Francis, her first-born, was dead; and when he had died she had wished fervently that Henry might have taken the crown instead of mad ten-year-old Charles. It was particularly irritating to reflect that there was a year between their births. Why, she had so often asked herself, had she not borne this son on that June day in 1550! If that had been so she would have been spared many an anxious moment.

‘My darling,’ she said, taking his hand—one of the most shapely in France and very like her own—and carrying it to her lips. She smelt the scent of musk and violet powder which he brought into the room. He seemed the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, in his exaggeratedly fashionable coat of mulberry velvet slashed to show pearl-grey satin; the border of his linen chemise was stiff with jewels of all colours; his hair was curled and stood out charmingly beneath his small jewelled cap; his long white fingers were scarcely visible for the rings which covered them; diamonds sparkled in his ears and bracelets hung on his wrists.

‘Come,’ she said, ‘sit close to me. You look disturbed, my dearest. What ails you? You look tired. Not too much lovemaking with Mademoiselle de Châteauneuf?’

He waved a hand languidly. ‘No, not that.’

She patted the hand. She was glad that he had at last taken a mistress; the public expected it and it pleased them. Moreover, a woman would not have the influence with him which was enjoyed by those frizzed and perfumed young men with whom he liked to surround himself. Renée de Châteauneuf was not the sort to meddle with what did not concern her and she was the kind Catherine would have chosen for her son. Yet she was a little worried about his love-making with Renée, because it tired him, and afterwards he would have to take to his bed for a day or two in sheer exhaustion while his young men waited on him, curling his hair, bringing to him the choicest sweetmeats in the palace, reading poetry to him and fetching his dogs and parrots to play their tricks and amuse him.

He was a strange young man, this son of hers. Half Medici, half Valois, he was tainted in mind and body as were all the sons of Henry the Second and Catherine de’ Medici. They had had little chance from their births; the sins of the grandfathers—Catherine’s father as well as Henry’s—had fallen upon them.

People said it was strange that a young man such as this Henry, Duke of Anjou, could have been that great general which the battles of Jarnac and Montcontour seemed to have proved him to be. It seemed impossible that this fop, this languishing, effeminate young man who painted his face, curled his hair and at twenty-one must take to his bed after making love to a young woman, had fought and beaten in battle such men as Louis de Bourbon, the Prince of Condé. Catherine, the realist, must admit to herself that at Jarnac and Montcontour Henry had been blessed with a fine army and excellent advisers. Moreover, like all her sons, he matured early and declined rapidly. At twenty-one he was not the man he had been at seventeen. Witty he would always be; he would always possess an appreciation of beauty, but his love of pleasure, his perverted tastes which he petulantly indulged were robbing him of his energy. It was certainly not the general who stood before his mother now. His lips were curled sullenly and Catherine thought she understood why.

She said: ‘You should not concern yourself with the Queen’s pregnancy, my son. Charles’ child will never live.’

‘There were times when you said he would never have a son.’

‘Nor has he yet. How do we know what the sex of the child will be?’

‘What matters that? If this should be a girl, it does not alter the fact that they are young and will have more children.’

Catherine played with her talisman bracelet which was made up of different coloured stones. On these stones were engravings said to be devils’ and magicians’ signs; the links of the bracelet were made of parts of a human skull. This ornament inspired awe in all who saw it, as Catherine intended that it should. It had been made for her by her magicians and she believed it to have special qualities.

As he watched her fingers caress it, Anjou felt some relief. He knew that his mother would never let anyone stand in his way to the throne. Still, he thought it had been rather careless of her to let Charles marry, and he intended to let her know that he thought so.

‘They will not live,’ said Catherine.

‘Can you be sure of that, Mother?’

She appeared to be studying her bracelet with the utmost concentration. ‘They will not live,’ she repeated. ‘My son, soon you will wear the crown of France. Of that I am sure. And when you do you will not forget the gratitude due to the one who put you on the throne, will you, my darling?’

‘Never, Mother,’ he said. ‘But there is this news from Poland.’

‘I confess. I should like to see you a King and that without delay.’

‘A King of Poland?’

She put an arm about him. ‘I should wish you to be King of France and Poland. If you were the King of Poland alone, and

that meant you would have to leave France for that barbarous country, then I think my heart would break.’

‘That is what my brother wishes.’

‘I would never let you stay away from me.’

let us face the facts, Mother. Charles hates me.’

‘He is jealous of you because you are so much more fitted to be King of France than he is.’

‘He hates me most because he knows that you love me most. He would wish to see me banished from this country. He has always been my enemy.’

‘Poor Charles, he is both mad and sick. We must not expect reason from him.’

‘Yes. A fine state of affairs. A mad King on the throne of France.’

‘But he has many to help him govern.’

They laughed together, but Henry was immediately serious. ‘Yet what if this child should be a boy?’

‘It could not be a healthy boy. Believe me, you have nothing to fear from your brother’s sickly offspring.’

‘And what if he should demand my acceptance of the Polish throne?’

‘It is not yet vacant.’

‘But the Queen is dead and the King dangerously ill. My brother and his friends are angry because I refused to marry the Queen of England. What if they now insist that I take the crown of Poland?’

‘We must see that you are not banished from France. I would not endure that; and surely you do not believe that any such thing could happen if I did not wish it?’

‘Madame, I am as sure that you rule this realm as I am that you sit here.’

‘Then you have nothing to fear.’

‘Yet my brother grows truculent. My lady mother, forgive me when I point out that of late there have been others about the throne whose influence with him would seem to increase.’

‘They can be taken care of.’

‘Yet they can be dangerous. You remember my brother’s attitude concerning the Queen of Navarre.’

Catherine remembered it very well. The King, like many people in France, had suspected that his mother had had a hand in the murder of Jeanne of Navarre, yet he had ordered an autopsy. Had poison been found, the execution of René, the Florentine poisoner and servant of the Queen Mother, would have been inevitable. Charles, believing his mother to have been involved, had not hesitated in his wish to expose her. She would not forget such treachery from her own son.

‘We know who was responsible for his attitude,’ said Catherine. ‘And once the cause is known it can be removed.’

‘Coligny is too powerful,’ said Anjou. ‘How long shall he remain so? How long will you allow him to poison the King’s mind against you . . . against us?’

She did not answer, but her smile reassured him.

‘He is on his way to court,’ said Anjou. ‘This time he should never be allowed to leave it.’

‘I think that when Monsieur de Coligny comes to court, your brother may not be quite so enamoured of him,’ said Catherine slowly. ‘You talk of the Admiral’s influence with your brother, but do not forget that when the King is in any trouble it is to his mother that he has been wont to turn.’

‘That was once so. Is it so now?’

‘Coligny is wise. That righteousness, that stern godliness have had their effect on the King. But this happened because it did not at once occur to me that the King could be so bemused by his Huguenot friend. Now that I have learned the power of the Huguenot and the folly of Charles, I shall know how to act. I am going to see Charles now. When I leave him I think he may be a little less trustful towards his dear good friend Coligny. I think that when the mighty Admiral arrives in Paris he may find a cold reception waiting for him.’

‘I will come with you and add my voice to yours.’

‘No, my darling. Remember that the King is jealous of your superior powers. Let me go alone and I will tell you every word that passes between us.’

‘Mother, you will not allow me to be sent to that barbarous country?’

‘Did I send you to England? Have you forgotten my indulgence to you when you so ungallantly refused the Queen of England?’ Catherine burst into laughter. ‘You insulted her and she might have gone to war with us on that account. You know what a vain old baggage she is. I shall never forget that wicked suggestion of yours that if you married the Earl of Leicester’s mistress, it would be fitting for Leicester to marry yours. You are quite mischievous and I adore you for it. How could I endure my life without you near me to make me laugh? Was it not all but intolerable when you were away at the wars? No, my darling, I shall not allow him to send you to Poland . . . or anywhere else which is away from me!’