What should one do with such a son? Catherine did not have to wonder. She knew. She did not wish Charles to remain on the throne when Henry was ready to take it. Therefore she could look complacently on these fits of madness. Soon the periods of gentleness would grow less; and later they would disappear altogether. And then what would Charles the Ninth of France become? A maniac! Maniacs must be put away; they could not be allowed to breed sons. So much the better, since there was another waiting to take the throne of France.
Charles showed few signs of sexual perversion, in spite of his tutors. He was not voluptuous, nor inclined to amorousness. He was not like Margot – that minx who must be very closely watched – or young Henry of Guise, or that rough little Henry of Navarre. Those three would be lusty and lustful before long. No! He was not as they were; nor was he as his brother Henry. His passion for Mary of Scotland showed a lamentable normality in such matters; and it seemed that even expert tuition in perversion could not achieve the desired result.
Never mind! Charles was growing more and more unbalanced, and each fit of insanity left him weaker, not only in mind but in body.
Her thoughts of the King were broken up by the arrival of a messenger. She saw him ride into the courtyard, for the clatter of hoofs had brought her quickly to the window.
Something was afoot. Guise had taken Orléans. That must be the case, for those were the Guise colours down there. Well, she would feign great rejoicing, for it was very necessary that the Catholics should believe her to be of their faith. She must win back their respect, their belief in her as a good Catholic.
She went down to greet the messenger, but his face was grave; he had no news of victory, that was certain.
‘What news?’ asked Catherine.
‘Terrible news, Madame,’ cried the messenger. ‘It is my lord Duke. He has been shot. He lies near to death.’
Margot was there beside her mother. The child had no restraint. She ran to the messenger, plucking at his sleeve. ‘He is not dead! He must not die. Henry could not bear it if he died. Oh, Madame, my mother, we must send … send surgeons … we must send …’
‘Be quiet!’ said Catherine; and Margot even forgot her anxiety for the father of the boy she loved in her sudden fear of her mother.
‘Tell me everything,’ said Catherine.
‘Madame, my lord Duke was making a tour of inspection before riding back to the castle and his lady wife. He had taken off his armour, for the battle was over. And then, from behind a hedge, there was a shot. My lord fell to the ground senseless. We got him to the castle, but he bleeds … he bleeds terribly, Madame.’
‘We must send surgeons!’ cried Margot. ‘At once. Oh, at once. There must be no delay.’
‘And,’ said Catherine, ‘they have caught the assassin?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Poltrot de Méray.’
‘All that matters,’ cried Margot, ‘is that we must be in time to save the Duke …’
‘I will send surgeons at once,’ said Catherine. ‘Go back and tell the Duchess that help is on the way. I shall send my best surgeons to save the Duke.’
Margot hung on her mother’s arm. ‘Oh, thank you … thank you. We must save the Duke.’
Catherine gripped her daughter’s arm so tightly that Margot wanted to scream. But she knew better than to do that. She allowed herself to be led away.
Catherine took her up to her apartment and locked her in an ante-room. Margot lay sobbing. Henry’s father was hurt, perhaps dying. She was terrified of her mother, for, having shown her feelings in a way which she knew her mother would consider tasteless, she knew she was going to be severely punished. But for the moment she could think of no one but Henry, whom she loved more than anyone on Earth, of his devotion to his father, of the terrible grief he would suffer if the Duke were to die.
Catherine was talking to her surgeon, talking quietly through half-closed lips. He knew what she wished in regard to the Duke. He was to go and serve him as he knew his mistress would serve that great fighter, if she had his skill and could go in his place.
The man bowed and retired, and very soon he was riding with all speed to Orléans.
Catherine went to her daughter and herself administered the beating.
‘Ten years old!’ she said. ‘And behaving like an ill-bred peasant.’
Margot dared not evade her mother’s blows as she did those of others. She lay, accepting them, her body flinching from them, but her mind unaware of them almost, as she prayed silently: ‘Holy Mother, do not let Henry’s father die. You could not let Henry be hurt like that. The Duke is not only Henry’s father; he is the greatest man in France. Holy Mother, save him.’
Catherine prayed neither to God nor the Virgin. But she too was thinking of the Duke; she was thinking of the handsome, scarred face, distorted with pain, the agony of death in those haughty eyes, the eyes of the man whom she had come to regard as her greatest enemy.
Riding beside the handsome young boy who was now the head of the House of Lorraine, Margot was weeping silently.
He was so handsome, this Henry of Guise, with his fair curly hair, which seemed such a contrast with his manly face and his well-proportioned figure. Already he showed signs of the man he would become. Margot wanted to comfort him, to tell him that his grief was her grief, and that it would always be so.
‘Talk of it, Henry,’ she said. ‘Talk of it, my dearest. To talk of it will help you.’
‘Why should it have happened to him?’ demanded Henry. ‘Because of treachery, I tell you. I will not rest until I see his murderer dead at my feet.’
‘His murderer has died a horrible death, Henry. He has suffered torture. There is comfort in knowing that the man who killed Le Balafré lies dead and useless now.’
‘My father has not been avenged as I would have it,’ cried Henry angrily. ‘That miserable, low-born creature was the tool of others. I do not consider that my father has been avenged. You know what he said at the torture. You know whom he accused?’
‘Coligny,’ said Margot, her eyes flashing. ‘Coligny … the pious … the good man! That is he whom Poltrot de Méray accused.’
‘And that villain, that scoundrel, is the murderer of my father. De Méray said Coligny paid him money to murder my father. That is good enough for me.’
Margot said: ‘But Coligny has told my mother that it was to buy a horse that he gave the man money, and that it had nothing to do with murdering the Duke.’
Henry dug his spurs into his horse and galloped ahead, that Margot might not see the tears in his eyes. He would never forget how they had carried in his father, his great father, his noble father whom he loved to idolatry. Henry could not bear to think of that once arrogant figure stretched out on a litter, bleeding, unable to speak clearly. Henry had vowed there and then: ‘I will not rest content until I see his murderer dead before me. This I will work for. This I will achieve, and until I have achieved it, I will despise myself.’ It was a vow; a dedication. And who was his enemy? He might have known. He might have guessed. It was none other than Gaspard de Coligny, the virtuous man, the man who gave Poltrot de Méray money to buy a horse, so he said – not to bring about the assassination of Francis Duke of Guise.
His wily uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, had talked to him very seriously. ‘Henry, my nephew, remember what this means to you … to our house. You are its head. You are vehement; you are young and rash. Gaspard de Coligny is the greatest enemy of our house. He is the leader of the heretics. Henry, my dear nephew, we must protect our Faith; we must protect our house. One day, who knows, it may be a Prince of Lorraine who sits on the throne of France. How do we know, Henry, whether that might not be you, my nephew? Your father was a great man; he was strong and brave; he was the greatest man in France. Shall I tell you why? It was because he was possessed of rare calm, of great discretion; he knew when to act and – what was more important – he knew when not to act. You must walk in his footsteps. You must imitate your father in all you do. And then, nephew, who knows? Valois? Bourbon?’ The Cardinal laughed. ‘Dear nephew, I wonder whether your opinion of these Princes is the same as mine.’