Jeanne closed her eyes. Here was the final betrayal. The trap had been set by the man she had loved, and she had walked blindly into it – perhaps because at that last interview at Saint-Germain she had believed there was still some good in him, that he really meant to help her escape from his friends.
But the truth was that he had lacked the courage to detain her then; he had hesitated once more – and as soon as she was out of his sight, he had given himself wholeheartedly to the plan to destroy her.
‘What are your orders, Madame?’ asked the Gascon.
She shook her head. ‘We can do nothing but wait.’
‘The streets are full of guards, Madame. But we could mayhap fight our way through.’
‘We are not prepared to fight guards. All my followers would be cut to pieces in ten minutes.’
‘But, Madame, shall we be taken without a blow?’
‘They will take me,’ she said. ‘The rest of you will doubtless go free. Take my daughter back to Béarn if that be possible.’
‘Mother, I wish to go with you,’ said little Catherine. ‘I wish to face the Inquisition if you do.’
Jeanne embraced her daughter. Sweet Catherine! What did she know of the torture chambers, of the horrors inflicted by the Catholic Inquisition on those whom they considered to be heretics? What did she know of the chevalet and the autos-dafé, of agony and death, the cries of men and women in torment, the odour of burning flesh?
‘That,’ said Jeanne firmly, ‘you shall never do, my love.’ She turned to the Gascon. ‘Stand on guard. Forget not my instructions, and remember … my daughter.’
He bowed in obedience, but his eyes were fierce. He wanted to fight for his Queen.
All through the long hours of the night, Jeanne lay awake, waiting for the sound of marching feet, the shouts of the troops who would come to storm the château and take her prisoner. They would be her husband’s men, she did not doubt; the Guises and de Chantonnay would wish it to be her husband’s guards who put the chains upon her and carried her on the first stage of her journey to the stake.
Her daughter had fallen asleep beside her. Jeanne kissed her tenderly. She was so young to be left; she was only four years old. So it was only four years then since she and Antoine had been so happy together over the birth of their child.
And, during that long night, she suddenly became aware of strange noises in the town. She went to her window; the sky was beginning to be red, not with the streaks of dawn but with the reflection of fire. She could smell the smoke; and as she stood there, apprehensively peering out into the gloom, she heard the shouts of men.
She dressed in great haste and, before she had completed this, her Gascon was at her door.
‘Madame,’ he cried, ‘the town is being looted. A band of mercenaries has come into it. The news has just been brought to the château by one who wishes you well. The townsfolk are busy protecting their lives and their property. Now is the time for us to slip away unnoticed … for no one will care now whether we go or stay. But there is not a moment to lose …’
Jeanne was exultant. All her old energy came back to her.
‘Our prayers are answered,’ she cried. ‘Come, we must leave here as fast as we can. We must thank God … but later. Now, there is no time to think of thanksgiving. First we must be sure that we make the most of this heaven-sent opportunity. We must slip quietly out of Vendôme before the dawn …’
She turned to her daughter. ‘Catherine, wake up, my darling. We are going now.’
‘To the Inquisition?’ asked Catherine sleepily. ‘No, my love, to freedom.’
Riding south from Vendôme, Jeanne’s party were saying that what they had just witnessed was a miracle. God had sent the band of looting mercenaries to Vendôme that the Queen might make her escape. Jeanne smiled tranquilly. She guessed that the Prince of Condé had been warned of her danger, for those mercenaries were Huguenot mercenaries, and their orders had evidently been: ‘Occupy Vendôme. Create a diversion all through the night, and keep it up until the Queen of Navarre is too far for pursuit.’
Bravo Condé! He was as wayward as his brother, but he was true to the cause which he believed to be right. She must thank God for her brother-in-law while she wept bitter tears for her husband.
Farther south they went, at the end of each day tired out with hours of riding, each night sleeping deeply from exhaustion; and then on again towards that border which they must cross before they reached safety.
When they reached the town of Caumont it was to discover that the Catholic army under Montluc was only a few miles in their rear. The long and tedious journey, made in such trying circumstances, resting at castles where Jeanne believed she had friends – and how could she trust any, now that he whom she had thought she might trust above all others had failed her? – all this had taxed her strength and she was suffering acutely, not only from physical but from mental exhaustion.
But she must push on without delay, and this she did, reaching her frontiers with only an hour or so to spare; but there she had the joy of finding her loyal subjects assembled in full force to receive and protect her.
The flight was over, and Jeanne had won. Yet, thinking of all she had left behind – the husband to whom she was trying in vain to be indifferent, the son whom she adored – it was an empty, bitter triumph.
CHAPTER III
Catherine was filled with rage and terror. Francis of Guise, with the King of Navarre and the Maréchal de Saint-André, had come to Fontainebleau and compelled her and the King to return to Paris, whence they had then been removed to Melun; and, although they were treated according to their rank, it was made clear that they would not be allowed to leave Melun unescorted.
Catherine was exposed in all her dissembling. The student of Machiavelli was unmasked. Letters which she had sent to Condé had been captured and read by the last people who should have seen them, for in these letters Catherine had explained how intolerable was her position and that of little King Charles under the Triumvirate, and begged Condé to rescue her. She had promised him support and, taking her at her word, Condé had plunged the country into civil war – a civil war which, the Duke of Guise continually pointed out to Catherine, had been set in motion by her own duplicity.
He declared that she was no true Catholic. On the one hand she had conspired with them so that Antoine de Bourbon might be turned from the Reformed Faith; on the other hand she was at the same time plotting with Condé, and it was she who had encouraged the Huguenots to such an extent that they had resorted to war.
The Huguenots on their part declared that she had cheated them, that she was a deceitful and cunning woman; and that all the time she was speaking sweet words to them she was plotting against them with the Catholic King of Spain.
In vain did Catherine try to justify herself in the eyes of the Duke and the Cardinal, Antoine and the Spanish Ambassador. Those letters to Condé were not what they would seem, she assured them; they had been written in code. Oh, she admitted that they appeared to contain promises of help, but they were meant to convey something quite different. She became a little coy in her explanations. She had to admit that she cherished a fondness for the gallant little Prince of Condé.
The cold eyes of the Duke were murderous; the thin lips of the Cardinal curled; the Spanish Ambassador did not mince his words and was quite abusive, which alarmed her greatly, for this showed that he no longer considered her of any great importance.