‘I was foolish ever to be fond of her. She is a sly, deceitful wanton.’

‘We learn by our mistakes,’ said Catherine. ‘Sometimes we turn our backs on our real friends and trust our enemies . . .’ ‘Mother, what shall I do? I must find him.’

She smiled tenderly. ‘Have no fear. This is not such a ca. lamity as some of your friends ask you to believe it to be. I will see that nothing ill comes of it. As for your sister . . .’ She smiled at Margot as though to say: ‘We must soothe him, for I declare his passions resemble those of our poor mad Charles.’ ‘As for your sister,’ she went on, ‘I have no doubt that she knows nothing of this. Why, had she helped anyone to escape, surely it would have been her husband.’

‘Keep Navarre under control.’

‘That shall be done. My daughter, you may go now. Your brother is sorry that he misjudged you.’

Margot was glad to escape. She felt gleeful. Alençon was gone. Next it would be the turn of Navarre.

Catherine went to her daughter’s apartment. Navarre was with her.

‘It is that favourite of the King’s who works him up into these rages,’ said Catherine. ‘It surprises me that du Guast is allowed to live. There must be many who would like to see him out of the way. There is much crime in our country. Innocent men are murdered for a few francs, they tell me; and yet Monsieur du Guast is allowed to live! The ways of God are strange indeed.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Navarre, ‘the gentleman will not live much longer, for although the good God works in a mysterious manner, the ways of men—and women—are more transparent.’

Catherine felt uncomfortable under that shrewd scrutiny.

She went to the apartment which her son had recently vacated. There she found some of his most intimate friends. She looked sadly about her and wiped her eyes.

‘You must forgive me, my friends,’ she said, ‘for you are my friends, since you love my son. It is a worried mother whom you see before you. I pray the saints will preserve Monsieur d’Alençon.’

‘Is is true, Madame,’ asked one, ‘that the King has threatened his life?’

Nay. That is the kind of tale that is bruited abroad. My son is surrounded by evil advisers, I fear. I would God would free him from all evil men. Perhaps He may, for the mignons have their enemies. It surprises me that he—and you know, my friends, that I refer to the greatest and most destructive of them all—it amazes me that he has not been murdered in his bed, for such murder would be easy, and who would be able to name the murderer? I am sure Monsieur d’Alençon would be safer than he is now if that deed were committed; I am sure he would be ready to reward with his favours the one who should rid him of such a menace. But I talk too much. I know, my friends, that you will pray with me this night for my younger son’s safety.’

She left them, wiping her eyes as she went.


* * *

Du Guast lay in his bed. It was ten o’clock and he was tired. He could hear the first of the October gales stripping the leaves off the trees and rustling the hangings at the windows of his bedchamber.

He was well content with life, for he considered that the King was ready to be swayed whither he, du Guast, intended. The King adored his favourite and du Guast was growing richer every day. His latest acquisitions had been some rich bishoprics, which he had been able to sell for vast sums. He could, he believed, call himself the uncrowned King of France. It amused him to think of. all the arrogant princes—men like Guise and Navarre—who were of little account when compared with Louis Bérenger du Guast. But it was more gratifying to contemplate the Queen Mother than any of those others in this connexion.

He was tired and preferred sleep even to such contented contemplation.

He dozed, but was almost immediately awakened by the sound of groans close to his bed. He opened his eyes, startled, and peered into the darkness. He thought that he must have been dreaming.

He had closed his eyes again, but the sound of his bed- curtains being pulled apart made him open them quickly. He could make out the shadowy shapes of several men who stood about his bed. One of them clapped a hand over his mouth as he opened it to scream.

He did not have time to think with regret of the great wealth he had amassed, to ask himself whether the Princes of Navarre and Guise were not better off than he was; nor was there time to wonder whether, after all, the power of the Queen Mother was as great as it had ever been.

There was no time to do anything but to die.


* * *

Catherine had quietly assumed control of the King, who, stricken with grief, declared nothing could compensate him for the death of his favourite. Epernon, Joyeuse and Caylus tried to arouse his interest in clothes and jewels, while they vied with each other in trying to win the place of first favourite which had become vacant by du Guast’s death. The King’s lap-dogs seemed to comfort him more than anything, and he and his wife the Queen, rode together round Paris looking for new ones which they might add to their collection; but everywhere he went, the King complained, he was reminded of his lost darling; and the people called out unkind and obscene remarks after his carriage as he drove about.

He blamed Margot for the murder of du Guast, and his hatred of his sister was intense. Catherine, fearing that he might have her murdered, suggested that she be kept a prisoner, a hostage for Alençon. ‘If we keep her under lock and key,’ she said, ‘we shall know that she is not helping Alençon; besides, he is fond of her, and he will not be too rash if he knows that she may have to answer for his misdeeds.’

Henry nodded. ‘You are right. Let us lock her up.’

It was like old times, thought Catherine; she had only had to rid herself of du Guast, and she and Henry resumed their old relationship. How foolish she had been—and how unlike herself—to lose heart as she had done! She could always gain control over her sons by careful action.

Henry grew a little brighter; he was grieving less, and he was beginning to bestow a great deal of attention on Epernon. She must watch that young man and be certain that he did not become too influential; it would not be so easy to remove another favourite.

But what a mischievous family was hers! Alençon was determined on revenge, determined on power; he was now mustering an army and was in touch with the two Montmorencys, Thoré and Méru; he was calling together the subjects of Navarre. He had written several letters to various people of the court—and unfortunately they had not fallen into Catherine’s hands and the object of these letters was to discredit the King and his mother.

‘It was very necessary for me to escape,’ he wrote, ‘not only for the sake of my liberty, but because news was brought to me that His Majesty was about to take some advice concerning me which was moulded on the counsels of Cesare Borgia.’

That was a direct stab at his mother, for her knowledge of those morceauxItalianizés was alleged to have been acquired from the Borgias.

Alençon also wrote that he had heard the news which was circulating about Montgomery and Cossé, who had been in prison ever since they had been arrested at the time of the affair of La Mole and Coconnas. There had been orders to strangle these two men in their dungeons, but their jailers had refused to carry out such sentences. Nor would they administer the morceaux, no matter whence came the instructions.

‘I have narrowly escaped,’ wrote Alençon. ‘There are spies in my camp. Last evening when we were at dinner, wine was offered to me. It was very well mixed, sweet and delicious, but when I gave it to Thoré and he tasted it, he commented on its extreme sweetness, and it struck me that there was too much sweetness in that wine. So I would drink no more, nor allow my friends to do so; and although shortly afterwards we were very sick, we were saved through the grace of God and the good remedies which were at hand. My friend, you see why it was necessary for me to leave my brother’s court.’

The King raged against his brother; the restraint in which he ihiada appealed Margot and Navarre must be kept was increased. He appealed to his mother to end this intolerable situation.

She said that she would ask Alençon to see her, and as a sign of her good faith would take Margot with her. She would urge her younger son to come to peace with his brother, explaining to him what an evil thing it was when members of a family fell out.

‘Go, Mother,’ said the King. ‘You alone are clever enough to deal with this.’

She kissed him fondly. ‘You realize now, my son, how close your good is to my heart?’

‘I do,’ he answered.

Catherine felt all her energy return; and very soon, with Margot and their trains, she set out for Blois, where it was decided that the meeting should take place.

Alençon was truculent.

Catherine watched him with a certain sadness; she was a little ashamed of this son of hers. He was conceited in the extreme and he had few qualities which recommended him to her. Her mind turned to Henry of Guise, and she thought, fleetingly how different she would have felt if that young man had been her son.

Alençon had assumed the air of a conqueror and explained his demands to her as though she were a vassal of a defeated state.

She laughed outright at him.

‘Do you realize, my son, that you are a rebel against the King, and that it is only because you are my son that I come to talk to you thus?’

‘A rebel with an army behind him, Madame.’