She was not sure which way to turn. But Jeanne of Navarre must be made to come to court. That much was obvious, for if anyone could prevent the divorce of Antoine and his wife, that one must surely be his wife.
She wrote affectionately to Jeanne. How were the dear little children? Did Jeanne not think that a match between her little Catherine, Catherine the Queen Mother’s own namesake, and Catherine’s own son Henry, would be a pleasant thing? ‘How it would bind us together!’ she wrote. ‘And then there is the match between my daughter Marguerite and your son Henry, which my husband decided on. We should discuss that together and, as you know, such discussions are difficult by letter …’
Then Catherine wrote once more to say that Jeanne must come north for the Council of Poissy.
‘My dear cousin, you know I am your friend. You know that these differences of faith, which have steeped our country in blood, distress me. I have thought it would be a good plan for members of both sides to get together, to discuss, to try to come to an understanding, this time without bloodshed; for what understanding was ever reached through bloodshed?’
When she had written the letters to Jeanne she summoned the Duchess of Montpensier to her, for, knowing this lady’s Huguenot sympathies, she felt she was the one to do what was required.
‘Ah, Madame de Montpensier,’ she said. ‘I am sending letters to the Queen of Navarre, and I think that you should write to her also. It is a very bitter subject, I know, but I am of the opinion that the Queen of Navarre should be made aware of it. It is my belief that if she were here she might be able to rescue that foolish husband of hers from his follies. Mademoiselle de la Limaudière grows larger every day with the King’s bastard. I do not like such things to be seen at my court, as you know. The King of Navarre is as devoted to the woman now as ever, and I think his wife should be told. There is another thing. I think that she should know that he is attempting to barter her kingdom for a worthless island. That man is foolish enough for anything. You are the Queen’s friend. Write to her and tell her of these things.’
‘I will write and tell her of the proposed exchange, Madame.’
‘You will also mention that the King’s bastard is spoiling Mademoiselle de la Limaudière’s slender figure.’
‘Madame, I …’
‘That,’ said Catherine, ‘is a command.’
The Monastery of Poissy at which the Council was held was not far from Saint-Germain; and to this monastery during those summer weeks came the important figures from the Catholic and Protestant movements. The Council was, as Catherine realised later, doomed to failure from the start.
When people were concerned with religion, they became fanatical. They would not give way. Endlessly they discussed the different tenets. What did it matter, Catherine wondered, how the sacrament was taken? Yet endlessly they must discuss and continually they must disagree on such subjects as the Ordination, Baptism, the Laying on of Hands.
Catherine, as she looked round at these great ones assembled in the monastery refectory, was thinking: Why do they fight each other? Why do they die for these causes, these stupid quibbles?
They were all the same: the crafty Cardinal of Lorraine and the mighty Duke of Guise; Calvin, who mercifully was not present; Théodore de Bèze; Michel de l’Hôpital, that fine Huguenot Chancellor to whose wise judgement she owed a good deal; Jeanne of Navarre and Eléonore de Condé; yes, they were fanatics, every one.
And what did she expect to come from the Council which she had arranged? Nothing – precisely nothing. They would never agree, these two factions. Nor did she wish them to; she only wished to let them think she hoped they would agree. For herself, she had no religion; for her there could only be expediency. But it was good, for her, that others should possess this fanaticism, since it made them vulnerable, while those who did not have to consider a faith were free to turn this way and that, to act not for what was right for their faith, but for what was to their own material advantage.
The excitement brought about by such a Council caused tension throughout the entire country. The Huguenots believed that the Queen Mother was, after all, on their side. Catherine, worried at the thought of what disaster might threaten herself and her family if Antoine turned Catholic and allied himself with the Guises, now began to show favour to the Huguenots. She wished to be sure of their support, although she realised that a section of the Huguenot community wished to eliminate the monarchy altogether and set up a presidency in its place.
However, the Huguenots were in Paris, Saint-Germain and Poissy in full force; and it seemed that those who rallied to that cause were almost as numerous as the Catholics.
Catherine therefore pretended not to notice that prêches were openly held even in the apartments of the palace itself; and when de Chantonnay, in a rage, pointed this out to her, she replied blithely that she had seen nothing of them.
Even the children were aware of the tension.
Catherine’s darling Henry was attracted by the Huguenot Faith. It was new, and novelty always appealed to the intellectual set to which Henry belonged. Henry was quick to sense his mother’s moods and to follow them; and she listened smilingly while he talked of de Bèze and his wonderful sermons.
There were quarrels in the children’s apartments, particularly between Margot and Henry. Henry would make his sister stand in a corner while he preached to her, repeating all that he could remember of de Bèze’s sermon. But Margot would not be intimidated.
‘I am a Catholic,’ she asserted stoutly. ‘I belong to the true faith. I and my husband-to-be will always support the true faith.’
‘Your husband-to-be is a Huguenot,’ retorted Henry.
That made Margot laugh scornfully, for she was as determined never to marry Henry of Navarre as she was to remain a Catholic.
‘My future husband is a Catholic.’
‘It may be,’ teased Henry, ‘that you do not know who your future husband is to be, Mademoiselle Margot.’
‘Indeed, I do know. We have arranged it between us.’
‘What is his name? Tell me that, for I think there is some mistake here.’
‘You should know. It is the same as yours.’
‘Henry. That is correct. He spent his early days in a peasant’s cottage and he drank a peasant woman’s milk. That makes a peasant of him.’
Margot tossed her head, throwing back her long black hair. ‘You think that I would marry that oaf!’
‘I think you will, for it has been arranged that you shall.’
‘His hands are unclean. His hair is unkempt. I would not marry a peasant, brother.’
‘As that peasant happens to be the future King of Navarre, you will, my dear sister.’
‘It is another Henry whom I shall marry.’
Henry laughed aloud. ‘Henry of Guise? I tell you, you will have to look higher than that.’
‘No one is higher than Henry of Guise. He is the highest man on Earth. His father is the greatest man in France.’
‘Treason!’ cried Henry.
Margot laughed. ‘Everybody is afraid of Le Balafré.’
‘Henry of Guise is your lover, Margot, and you should both be whipped. He should be banished, and you should be married at once to the peasant with the dirty hands and undressed hair.’