‘My uncle,’ young Henry had said, ‘you are right; but I have one wish, and that is to avenge my father.’
‘You will avenge him best by doing what he would want you to do. Rest assured that when the time comes we shall not spare the assassin of your father. That time is not yet, but I’ll swear to you that before the end of your life you shall see the lifeless body of the Admiral at your feet. That foot of yours shall kick him as he lies.’
Henry had covered his face with his hands, forgetting vengeance, forgetting this talk of a crown, remembering only that the one he loved most in the world – more than Margot even, more than any – was lost to him.
Margot rode up to him. ‘Henry,’ she cried, ‘do not mind that I should see your tears. Look! See mine! For I love you, Henry, and your grief is my grief; and when we are married that is how it shall be all the days of our lives.’
He reached for her hand and pressed it; then they rode on together.
‘I hate Coligny,’ he said, for he was unable to stop talking of this matter.
‘I hate him too,’ said Margot.
‘He admitted that he overheard the plot to kill my father. He admitted that, hearing it, he did nothing about it. Is that not like him? He is so good … so virtuous … he cannot tell a lie.’
‘Hypocrite and heretic!’ cried Margot.
‘He said: “The words I utter in self-defence are not said out of regret for Monsieur de Guise. Fortune can deal no better stroke of good for the Kingdom and the Church of God; and most especially it is good for myself and my house.” Those were his words.’
‘He shall die for them,’ said Margot.
‘He shall! If I wait for years, mine shall be the hand that holds the sword which shall pierce his heart.’
As they rode through the streets of Paris they were recognised. An old market woman called out: ‘Long live the little Duke of Guise!’
Others caught up the cry. ‘A Guise! A Guise!’
Their horses were surrounded and Margot looked on, smiling proudly. She saw that the eyes of those who watched shone with admiration for the gallant figure of the boy; he had beauty which was beloved of Parisians. Perhaps they thought of their King with his bouts of madness; perhaps they thought of his brother Henry, who might one day be King; handsome, Henry was, it was true, but with long, sly Medici eyes and an Italian way of talking – an effeminate youth with earrings, necklaces and garments of an exaggerated fashion. Perhaps they thought of Hercule, the pockmarked little Prince. These were the children of the Italian woman, and the Parisians could not take them to their hearts, even though they were also the sons of good King Henry. But this boy with his virile, masculine beauty was a boy they could admire and love; besides, he was now a pathetic figure. His father – their idol – had been recently murdered. They were pleased to see him in company with a Princess of the reigning house. With tears in their eyes and love in their voices, they cheered the little Duke of Guise and the Princess Margot.
Henry was sufficiently the son of his father to know how to deal with such a situation.
He doffed his cap and spoke to them:
‘Good people of Paris, dear Parisians, who have always shown love and friendship to my house and my father …’ His voice shook a little, and a cry of ‘The good God keep you!’ rose from the crowd. ‘My father,’ went on Henry, ‘my most gallant father, now lies murdered; but you must know that I will never let the murderer go free.’
The crowd cheered madly. The excitable Parisians were delighted with their little Duke.
‘Power to your arm!’ they cried. ‘God preserve you. All power to Lorraine. A Guise! A Guise!’
And many came forward to kiss the little boy’s hand as though he were the King of France himself.
When he and Margot rode into the courtyard of the Palace, Henry was smiling a little and Margot was delighted; the incident had done something to soothe his grief.
‘Oh, Henry,’ she cried, ‘how they love you! Who knows, one day you and I may be King and Queen of France.’
When Margot went up to her apartments her mother was there.
Catherine was smiling, and Margot did not trust her mother’s smiles. It was, however, a smile of pleasure, for Catherine was thinking that her affairs had taken a turn for the better. Antoine of Navarre was dead; Francis Duke of Guise was dead; she had no longer any need to concern herself with these men, and that, to say the least, was a great relief. Montmorency was the prisoner of the Huguenots, and Condé was in the hands of the Catholics. Oh yes, matters were certainly taking a turn for the better. If someone could dispose of the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Spanish Ambassador, all those who had grown to know her too well for her peace of mind would be removed.
‘Well, my daughter,’ she said, ‘did you enjoy your jaunt with the King of Paris?’
Margot did not know what to answer. She expected a punishment, but none came. The Queen Mother was smiling as she continued with her secret thoughts.
The court of France was making its royal progress to the Spanish frontier, where King Charles and the Queen Mother were to meet Elisabeth of Spain and Philip’s Ambassador, the wily Duke of Alva.
The journey was a slow one; the train consisted of nearly a thousand men and women; great nobles each with his retinue made up the procession. There must be the transportation of household goods, including beds; there must be cooking utensils and food; there must be garments for state occasions. Catherine, with her two sons, Charles and Henry, required extensive impedimenta; and young Margot, fully conscious of her person, though still only a child, was already beginning to be a leader of fashion and must also carry a large wardrobe.
Henry of Navarre rode with them, often side by side with Margot. Why, thought Margot, was it not that other Henry, her beloved King of Paris, instead of this boy with the alert black eyes and the untidy black hair which grew straight up from his head in the ungainly fashion of Nérac, who did not care that his hands were sometimes unclean and who now and then broke out into the coarse Béarnais dialect?
Margot looked down her Valois nose at him, but he did not show any resentment. Margot meant nothing to him. He liked girls, but if Margot did not like him, there were others who did. He did not care what class of girls they were – peasant girls, beggar girls, princesses – they were all girls to Henry of Navarre, and if Margot, Princess of France, was not attracted to him, she was one of the few who were not.
Charles the King was quiet on the journey. He was realising that he would never marry Mary Queen of Scots. She was only a memory to him now – beautiful, but distant, almost unreal; and his mother was trying to arrange a match with the Queen of England for him. He did not like the thought of marriage with that woman, for he had heard such tales of her. She was a virago; she would bully him, so he had heard. But his mother had said that was nonsense. He was the King of France, and if he married the Queen of England he would be the King of England as well; it would be for her to live in France with him, and he could command her to do so; they could set a Lieutenant-General over England, so that life would be much the same as it was now, except that he would have two crowns instead of one.