Rumour was now circulating about her and Condé. People said that she was madly in love with him, and that she longed to marry him and make him the King of France at the expense of her children.
Catherine wondered at herself. She had been very reckless in her behaviour to this man, and that was unusual in her. But now that she saw herself and her children in great danger, she had no wish but to see Condé destroyed, with the Guises, Antoine and the rest. What a weak fool she had been to have felt the attractions of the gallant Prince in the first place! What was the excitement of love compared with that which came through wrestling for power?
She waited in terror for some dreadful fate to overtake her. The man who frightened her more than any other was the Duke of Guise. He could not be allowed to live. When Francis had been on the throne he had been the most important man in France, and he was rapidly regaining that position. But how difficult it would be to accomplish his death! It must be done, but not by poison. People would point to her at once if the Duke died of poison; they would whisper about the Italian woman and her poison closet. He must die, though. He was her bitterest enemy, and he now realised that he was not dealing with a weak woman, but a cunning one, whose sly twists and turns were unpredictable.
Meanwhile, the civil war was raging and Condé was triumphant. Orléans, Blois, Tours, Lyons, Valence, Rouen, and many other towns were in his possession. The Kingdom was split in two. The Catholics, in increasing alarm, sent appeals to the King of Spain.
What security was there for Catherine and her children? Neither Huguenot nor Catholic trusted her. She was hated now throughout the country as she had been at the time of the death of Dauphin Francis. She had been unfortunate, she assured herself. She did not realise that she had been cunning rather than clever, that she had misjudged those about her because she judged them by herself.
All over the country the Huguenots were gaining power. They marched on, singing their favourite song, which poked fun at Antoine de Bourbon, who had so recently been one of their leaders:
‘Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette …’
They despised Antoine, the turn-coat; they distrusted the Queen Mother. But while they mocked the one, they hated the other.
Outside the city of Rouen, Antoine of Navarre lay sick. He had been severely wounded in the battle for the city. For several weeks the Huguenots had held Rouen against the Catholic army which Antoine led. Even now while he lay on his bed in camp, he could hear the sound of singing inside the city’s walls:
‘Caillette qui tourne sa jaquette …’
They despised him; even though they knew he was outside their walls with a mighty army, they made fun of him. Antoine de Bourbon, L’Échangeur, the little quail who changed his coat to suit himself.
Antoine felt low in spirit. The pain from his wounds was intense; he lay tossing and turning. His surgeons were with him, one on either side of the bed, and he realised with a sudden flash of humour that it was characteristic of L’Échangeur that one of these was a Jesuit, the other a Huguenot.
Was this death? he wondered. Memories of the past would keep recurring. At times he wandered a little. Sometimes he thought the warm winds of Béarn blew upon him and that Jeanne was there, as she had been in the first days of their marriage, discussing with him some domestic detail.
There was a woman in the camp with him, a woman who had followed him and who was nursing him devotedly. She was at his side now, holding wine to his lips. He could smell the perfume she used; he was aware of her soft, yielding body under her rich brocade dress – La Belle Rouet. He took her hand and kissed it. She had really loved him after all; it was not because he was a King that she had borne his child. Why had Jeanne not come to see him when he was wounded? It was her duty to have come.
The sweat stood out on his face – the sweat of anger against Jeanne; tears filled his eyes because he had failed, had been unable to live up to the high ideal she had set before him.
The last time he had seen his wife was when at Saint-Germain she had come to see their boy. He had been on the point then – though she did not know it – of throwing away all that was promised him by the Spanish King, of giving up his place in the Triumvirate. Yes, he assured himself weakly, he had all but fled with Jeanne to Béarn. But then he had changed his mind – which was what must be expected of L’Échangeur; he had given orders that she should be detained in Vendôme.
She had defied him, he reminded himself. She had gone back to Béarn and had set about bolstering up the Reformed Faith there. She had sent help to Condé’s troops. Ah, his brother! What did his brother think of him now? Dearest Louis – they had been close. But religion, as so often happened, had broken the bonds of brotherhood, and they were fighting against each other now.
That was a mean revenge he had taken on Jeanne when little Henry had lain at the point of death at Saint-Germain. Louise had been taking care of the boy at that time. The little fellow had a very bad attack of the smallpox and when Jeanne had heard the news she had been frantic in her anxiety. She had begged Antoine and the Queen Mother to let her have her son with her. But Catherine had refused. She had said: ‘It is the only hold we have over the boy’s mother.’ But Catherine had allowed the child to be sent to the Duchess of Ferrara to be cared for, and that was all the satisfaction Jeanne received. Yet, had he insisted, he could have come to some terms with the Queen Mother; he could have arranged for the boy to be sent to his mother. There had been occasions when he had meant to, but when the Queen Mother had stated her wishes it had been easier to fall in with them.
Tears stung his eyes. He was depressed; he was in pain. His physicians told him that he was not mortally wounded. He would see the entry into Rouen.
‘Louise!’ he called; and she came to his side at once. ‘Let us have gaiety, music, dancing – or I shall go mad.’
She was glad to see the change in his mood. She called in the gayest of the men and women who had followed his army – his court friends. Louise lay on his bed beside him and put her arms about him. There was music and dancing and the latest court scandals were retold. He felt wretchedly ill, but with such distraction he could deceive himself into thinking that he was as much alive as any.
His physicians reasoned with him:
‘Monseigneur, you need rest. The wounds must be allowed to heal.’
‘Rest!’ he cried. ‘I don’t want rest. Rest makes me think, and I do not want to think. I want to hear laughter and wit. I want to see my friends dance. I want to hear their songs. Be silent, or I’ll have your tongues cut out. Let me live my life as I want to.’
So the distractions continued. He kept La Belle Rouet with him. ‘Why not?’ he cried. ‘My wife does not come to see me. A man must live. A man must love.’
‘Nay, Monseigneur,’ begged his doctors. ‘Your state does not permit you.’
‘To the devil with you!’ cried Antoine. ‘I’ll find my own diversions.’
His army took Rouen. He declared his intention to be carried into the city on a litter, and he wanted Louise carried with him. He wanted to see the fun; he wanted to ask the Huguenots if they would sing Caillette now!
He was laid on his litter, but he did not see the inside of the town, for he fell into a deep fainting fit before he reached its walls.
When he recovered he found that he was back in camp.