It was these men of whom Jeanne thought when her husband was summoned to court.
Jeanne watched the preparations for the journey. Antoine was dilatory, one day abandoning plans which the day before he had made with great eagerness.
‘Antoine, my darling,’ she said, ‘there are times when I believe you do not wish to make the journey to court.’
‘But why should I, my love, when it means absenting myself from you?’
She could only laugh with pleasure at that, laugh with happiness; she could only suppress those fears which her husband’s weak and vacillating nature aroused in her.
She was happier now than she had ever been, she often reminded herself. She had, in addition to her son Henry, an adorable daughter to whom, because the Queen herself had acted as godmother, had been given the name of Catherine. Thank God, thought Jeanne again and again, thank God for this domestic bliss.
There were great celebrations in progress at court. Elisabeth, daughter of the King and Queen, was being married by proxy to Philip of Spain. Jeanne’s heart bled for Elisabeth, for it seemed to her that Catherine and Henry were marrying their child to a monster. But such was the fate of royal children. Here was yet another reminder of her great good fortune, for her father had tried to make a match for herself with the man who was about to be Elisabeth’s husband. And following on the wedding of Elisabeth was that of Marguerite, the King’s sister, to the Duke of Savoy.
‘You should have been present at these ceremonies,’ she had told Antoine.
‘Nay!’ he declared. ‘There is nowhere I should be but in my own home with my wife and family.’
It was so easy to enjoy this domestic bliss, to forget what was happening in the outside world, forget that, being a branch of the royal tree, it was impossible to escape the reverberations of great happenings.
Antoine was still loitering with his preparations when, one day, messengers arrived at the castle. They had come from the court of France with great news.
‘The King is dead!’ they cried. ‘Long live King Francis!’
It seemed incredible. Only a little while ago, at the wedding of Francis, the King had been in perfect health. It was at the tournament, the messengers explained; he had tilted with young Montgomery, a captain of the Scottish Guard, who had struck the King on the gorget; his lance had flown into splinters, one of which had become lodged in King Henry’s eye.
‘This was treason!’ said Antoine.
‘Nay, Monseigneur,’ said the messenger. ‘The King would not have it so. He had insisted on Montgomery’s tilting with him in spite of the young man’s reluctance; and he had declared that it was no fault of the young man’s.’
The messengers had been given refreshments, and Jeanne and Antoine walked about the castle grounds talking of this dramatic event. Jeanne, with a clear-sightedness which she was rapidly acquiring, saw that it was of the utmost importance that Antoine should go at once to court. This upheaval would have a great effect upon the entire country.
‘My husband,’ she declared, ‘you must not forget that you are a Prince and the head of the House of Bourbon. Next to the royal Valois children, you are first in the land. Francis is sickly; Charles too. And Henry and Hercule?’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Yes, there are many between. But how can a boy of sixteen rule France? Experienced men like his grandfather and his father were faced with a hundred difficulties, had a thousand hazardous decisions to make. Our country is divided and there is bloodshed everywhere … in the name of religion. The King will need advisers, Antoine, and you should be one of them.’
‘You are right. I must go to Paris with all speed. If it should be necessary for me to stay there, you will join me, my darling?’
‘Yes. I will join you with the children. We can be happy in Paris, Antoine, as in Nérac.’
She frowned, even as she spoke. ‘I fear the Guises,’ she said. ‘The new King’s wife is their niece, and through her they will have the King’s ear. Antoine, I greatly fear that this will mean more persecutions of those who follow the new religion.’
‘Never fear, my love. My brother Condé and I … with Uncle Gaspard on our side … will outwit the family of Guise.’
She kissed him fondly; adoring him as she did, it was so easy to see in him all that she wished he had.
Before he was ready to make the journey, one of the messengers asked that he might have a word with him, and to this Antoine lightheartedly consented.
‘Sire,’ said the man, ‘it has come to my ears that the King of Spain watches your actions. His spies are everywhere – even here in your own land. He knows your feelings for the new faith and he is therefore your sworn enemy. Be warned, my lord. Be cautious. Go to the court of France, as indeed you should, but not in the splendid fashion that you planned. Take only a few followers and go in secret, so that the spies of the King of Spain do not know that you have left Nérac.’
The name of Philip of Spain was one which could terrify many – Antoine not the least. Spain had already annexed part of Navarre which it was impossible to regain, and Antoine lived in terror that one day the Spaniard would decide that the whole territory of Navarre should be his.
It did not occur to Antoine to doubt the integrity of the messengers. Yet he knew that they had been sent from the court of France, and he might have asked himself if the Guises had, by chance, decided who should carry the message to him.
He said a reluctant good-bye to Jeanne and set out northwards for Paris.
CHAPTER II
Dressed in a plain black gown and covered from head to foot in a black veil, Catherine paced up and down in her apartments of the Louvre. The room was lighted by only two wax tapers. The walls were covered with heavy black hangings; the same black cloth covered her bed and her prie-dieu.
Her forty days and nights of mourning were over, and Catherine was beginning to realise more fully all that the death of her husband would mean to her; she found that she could look forward to the future with eagerness.
There would be no more humiliation, no futile attempts to gain Henry’s affections. She would never again watch him make love to his mistress. Henry, who had caused her so much bitterness and humiliation, was now powerless to hurt her. She loved him; she had desired him; his death was a great tragedy; yet freedom was now hers.
She looked back, but fleetingly, for it was not a habit of hers to look back, to those moments when she had watched her husband and his mistress together. She laughed suddenly, remembering that when people made love, wonderful as they might seem to one another, they could appear rather ridiculous to an unseen watcher; and when a woman of nearly sixty and a man of forty behave like young lovers, the unseen watcher – though jealous and tormented – might surely be forgiven a sly snigger. Had she then found a certain coarse amusement mingling with her jealous anguish? What did it matter? It was pointless to look back when there was so much to which she might look forward.
Francis was now King, and Francis was only sixteen years old; he was not very clever, and he was suffering from some poison of the blood which meant that he was continually breaking out in sores. He had, in his formal address to his subjects, asked them to obey his mother. On all state documents he wrote: ‘This being the good pleasure of my Lady-Mother, and I also approve of every opinion that she holdeth.’