Antoine called for an attendant, and when a man appeared he cried: ‘Send my son’s tutor to me.’ And when the tutor came he ordered that young Henry should be severely whipped for his impertinence.
Henry left the room chanting: ‘I will not go to mass. I will not go to mass.’ His black eyes were alight with excitement, fervour and love for his mother.
The door shut behind the boy and his tutor.
‘A pretty scene,’ said Jeanne, ‘and you, my lord, played the pretty part in it that I would expect of you. My son put you to shame, and I can see that you had enough grace to feel it. What a pity Mademoiselle de la Limaudière could not have been here as witness! I doubt whether her bastard will have the spirit of that boy.’
‘Be silent!’ commanded Antoine.
‘I will speak when I wish to.’
‘You are a fool, Jeanne.’
‘And you are a knave.’
‘If you do not become a Catholic immediately, I will divorce you.’
‘How can you do that, my lord?’
‘The Pope has promised it. He would not have me tied to a heretic.’
‘Divorce me and forgo my crown? That would not suit you, Monsieur.’
‘The crown would be mine if I were to divorce you.’
‘How could that be? My father left it to me.’
‘Part of Navarre was lost to Spain, and the whole of Navarre might be restored to me. Spain does not like heretics, even though they be queens. Spain would like to see me with a wife of my own faith.’
‘Mademoiselle de la Limaudière?’ she asked, but she had begun to tremble, thinking of that bold high-spirited boy who might grow up to find that, through his father’s knavery, he had no kingdom.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Antoine.
‘It is you who are the fool. Do you not see that these people plot against you as well as against me? They plan your degradation as well as mine. Sardinia! That barren island. And they made you believe it was a paradise.’ Her voice trembled. ‘Antoine,’ she said, ‘I think of our children. What will become of them? Your repudiation of me, I can see, will destroy me, but it will also be the ruin of our children.’
And then she did what he had rarely seen her do; she broke down and wept; and once the tears had started she could not stop them. Her tears moved him. He remembered all that she had been to him. Poor Jeanne! That this should have happened to them seemed incredible. It had come about so gradually that he had not noticed its creeping upon them. He thought of all the happiness they had shared, the days when she had been in camp with him, his return to her after the wars. He wavered, as he always wavered. He was not sure, even at this late hour, whether he should give up Jeanne or La Belle Rouet, not sure whether he would go on with his conversion or turn back to the Reformed Faith. He was beset by doubts, as he always was. He could never be sure which was the right road for him.
‘Jeanne,’ he said, ‘you had best make this step unnecessary by obeying me and making your peace with Rome and Spain. As for myself, I am undecided which religion is the true one. It is simply this, Jeanne – that while my uncertainty lasts, I am minded to follow the faith of my fathers.’
She laughed with great bitterness. ‘Well,’ she cried, ‘if your doubts on either side are equal, I beg of you to choose the religion which is likely to do you least prejudice.’
She had laughed at him; once more she had mocked. Antoine hardened and swung away from her. It had always been thus. She had never made things easy for him; she would not meet him halfway.
He remembered once more that she stood in his way to greatness.
Catherine was terrified. She felt that her first real adventure into foreign policy might cost her her life. She was exposed now, whereas previously she had worked in the dark. She was surrounded by powerful enemies; spies from Rome and Spain. The Guises were against her; the Catholics suspected her of being in league with the Huguenots, and the Huguenots did not trust her. She had tried to follow the teachings of Machiavelli, but she had not succeeded. The serpent was in the open, uncoiled for all to see, and, realising the poison she carried in her fangs, both sides were ready to crush that cold, inhuman head.
The King of Navarre had joined the Catholic Triumvirate which had been set up to deal with the Huguenot menace; and he had walked through Paris at the head of the Catholic procession and attended mass in public at the Church of St. Geneviève. This meant that he was now openly pledged to the Catholic religion.
Catherine knew that Jeanne was in imminent danger. But what of herself? There were religious riots all over the country. Huguenots were despoiling Catholic churches, breaking up images, setting fire to altars, killing Catholics wherever they could. Catholics retaliated fiercely, surprising congregations and butchering them as they kneeled at prayer, setting fire to Huguenot meeting-places. A mother bringing a child from a christening which had been carried out in the Reformed manner was set upon and her child killed before her eyes. The Council of Poissy, which was to have bred toleration, seemed to have made matters worse. There was dissension everywhere, and the hatred between the Catholics and Protestants was rising to a frenzy all over the country. In Paris – always staunchly Catholic – the Huguenots were persecuted at every turn; but there were towns, such as La Rochelle, where the Protestants were in the majority, and here atrocities were committed against men, women and children in the name of the Reformed Faith.
Catherine listened to the council of the Triumvirate through a tube which hung behind the arras in the council chamber at the Louvre and led into her own apartments.
In clear tones, Francis of Guise said: ‘The Queen Mother’s interference in matters of state becomes intolerable. It is my suggestion that we get rid of her.’
Listening with horror, Catherine strained to hear everything. She thought of those four men who made up the Triumvirate, now incorrectly named, since Antoine had joined it and made it a council of four. There were the Guise brothers – the Duke and the Cardinal – the Maréchal de Saint-André and Antoine.
‘Exclude her from the Regency!’ she heard Antoine cry.
Saint-André said: ‘Why not rid ourselves of her by drowning her in the Seine? It could easily be accomplished without discovery, for I fancy there is no person in France who would take the trouble to investigate the lady’s disappearance.’
Catherine listened to no more. She did not realise that what had been said about throwing her into the Seine had been said jocularly. Had she been in the place of these men, she would have chosen an early opportunity of disposing of an enemy; she imagined that they were prepared to do the same.
She lost no more time, but went to the King’s apartment and told him that they must leave for Fontainebleau at once; and this they did, galloping off in secret that night.
Meanwhile, the Council had stopped talking about the Queen Mother, to discuss what they considered a more serious matter, that of Jeanne of Navarre.
‘There is only one course open to us,’ said Francis of Guise. ‘She must be arrested as a state prisoner at the earliest possible moment.’
Listening to this, Antoine turned pale. Jeanne … a state prisoner, confined to one of the dungeons! Proud Jeanne! And what then? Turned over to Spain, to the dreaded Inquisition. Torture … the terrible torture of the Spanish Inquisition. He could imagine Jeanne as she faced the Inquisitors. She would never give way. She would suffer the rack, the water torture, any vileness they could think of. They could tear her flesh with red-hot pincers and pour molten lead into her wounds, but she would never give way.
The Cardinal of Lorraine had laid his hand on Antoine’s shoulder. ‘It sometimes happens,’ said the smooth voice of the Cardinal, ‘that it becomes necessary, for the sake of true religion, to act in a manner which is repulsive to us.’