The Duke nodded. ‘His Catholic Majesty would need to see such evidence before he felt he could have complete confidence in your good faith.’
Catherine went on talking as though she had not heard him. ‘It would be in Paris – for Paris is our most loyal city, Paris is Catholic. Yes, some pretext … I know not what as yet. For that we must wait. This must not have the air of being arranged; it must happen naturally … a sudden annihilation of the heretics by those of the true faith. All the important leaders would surely die – Condé, Coligny, Rochefoucauld … every one of them and all their followers, every single Huguenot in the city.’
‘I will carry your plans to his most Catholic Majesty.’
She laid her fingers to her lips. ‘Never let it be mentioned in despatches. It is a matter for our ears alone and those of his Majesty. I do not know when it will be possible, but I give you my word that it shall be. I must wait for the opportunity … the perfect moment. It may not be for years. His Majesty must trust me till then.’
‘If this scheme were put into effect,’ said Alva, ‘I doubt not that his Majesty would recognise you as a friend. He would never wish to make war on such a friend.’
‘He shall see,’ said Catherine. ‘All I ask is patience – patience and secrecy.’
Alva was so satisfied with that conversation that he gave up the rest of the time to discussing the proposed marriages; and at last came the moment for the two parties to say farewell.
Fondly the Queen Mother kissed her daughter. As for Charles, he was so affected by the parting that he burst into bitter tears. It seemed to him that it was indeed a terrible thing to be a princess of a royal house, to marry and to leave your home and country for a strange land, a strange people. He could not restrain his tears, even though he knew that the Spaniards, such sticklers for etiquette, must be very shocked at the sight of them. His mother and his ministers regarded him coldly.
‘But I cannot help it,’ said Charles. ‘I do not care if she is the Queen of Spain. First she was my sister. I remember how I used to love her, and I do not want to be parted from her.’
Charles watched on the river bank while his sister, accompanied by her train, was carried away from him. He wept so bitterly that, afterwards, people said he must have had some premonition that he would never see her again.
Catherine was mistaken when she thought that the conversation in the gallery had not been heard by any but herself and Alva.
Young Henry of Navarre had a guilty conscience. He had been separated from his mother for what seemed a long time, but he did not forget her teachings. He was being brought up with the little Princes and Princess of France. There were occasions when he saw his mother; he had seen her as they had journeyed down to Bayonne; he knew how she longed to take him back to Béarn with her and bring him up in their own religion. But this was forbidden; it was forbidden by King Charles, and that meant that it was forbidden by the Queen Mother. Henry was in awe of Catherine as everyone else was, and he kept out of her way as much as possible. She was not unkind to him; in fact, she had implied that she found his quick wits amusing. Sometimes he thought that she compared him with Charles and Hercule, and not unfavourably. ‘He is droll, that little Henry of Navarre,’ she would say. Or: ‘Would that his mother could see him now!’ Then she would laugh loudly in that rather terrifying way of hers, so that he knew that he had done something of which his mother would not approve, and he would be unhappy about it until he forgot.
He was, he feared, not a very good little boy. He imitated the Princes; he swaggered about the court; he used oaths, and listened to, and repeated, coarse jests. He had learned a good deal of matters of which he knew his mother would rather he remained in ignorance; and he neglected to learn those things which she would have wished him to learn. Already he knew that there was something about him which made him very attractive to the opposite sex. Women liked to kiss and fondle him; and he was not averse to being kissed and fondled, for the truth was that he liked them every bit as much as they liked him. He longed to be fourteen, so that he could be a real man.
When his mother had last seen him at Macon, on the journey down to the border, she had been more shocked than usual. He had overheard her express her fears to the Queen Mother, who had laughed aloud and said: ‘Oh come. Do you want him to be a prude? He is a Prince who will have to live among men and women. Let him grow up. Let him be a man … for it is my opinion that that is something neither you nor I will be able to prevent.’
And his mother had said to him: ‘Henry, my son, try not to follow in the footsteps of these licentious people whom you see about you. That is not the right way to live. Try to remember always that you are a Huguenot.’
He nodded, very anxious to please her, very sorry that he was as he was, liking so much those things which it was not good for him to like.
‘I am forced to go to mass with the Princes,’ he said.
‘I know, my son.’
‘It is much against my will, but I never forget what you have told me.’
‘They can send you to mass, my son, but they can never make you participate in it.’
‘They will not. I swear they will not.’
That satisfied her in some measure, and he was determined to show her how he loved her and that he would remember all that she had taught him.
He was an intelligent boy and very interested in everything that went on around him; and he knew there were times when his mother was in acute danger. He knew too that what happened to his mother affected him closely. The times were dangerous, and he was a boy who knew how to keep his ears open.
The Pope had excommunicated his mother, and had wanted to declare Henry and his sister illegitimate on the grounds that his mother was never really married to his father because she had previously been married to the Duke of Clèves. There was yet another plot to kidnap his mother and take her before the Inquisition, to torture her into changing her faith, and then finally to burn her at the stake. This would have been brought about but for the plot’s reaching the ears of the Queen of Spain. Elisabeth, Catholic though she was, had been unable to bear the thought of such a near relative’s enduring such a fate, and she had warned Jeanne in time.
Henry did want his mother to know that, although he was forced to attend mass and was becoming very like the Princes of France, he never forgot her and was true to the Reformed Faith.
He had seen some of the methods of spying in palaces; and it was not very difficult for a little boy to secrete himself in the great gallery where he had discovered the Queen Mother was to confer with the Duke of Alva.
He was excited by this adventure; imagining, all the time, what would happen to him if he were caught. With madly beating heart, he hid himself in a cupboard, covered himself with old clothes which he found there, and with his ear to the cupboard door, caught snatches of that momentous conversation between Catherine and Alva. As soon as possible, Henry escaped from the cupboard and went to one of his attendants, a man named de Calignon; and he told this man all that he had heard.
De Calignon said that he was a wily little diplomat, and later that day showed him a letter in code which he was despatching at once to the Queen of Navarre.
Henry was delighted. He felt that he could now swear and swagger, kiss and be kissed to his heart’s content. Surely a little wickedness might be forgiven such a wily diplomat?
Since she had become a widow, Jeanne had thrown herself wholeheartedly into the cause of the Huguenots. Energetic in the extreme, she needed some such great cause, that she might forget the bitterness of her married life. Now at least she was free from Antoine, free of those continual thoughts of him which had tormented her for so long. All her hopes now were in her children, and Henry, her heir, was the one who caused her great anxiety. He was a delightful boy, but he was his grandfather and her uncle, King Francis the First, all over again. That much was obvious; he was already showing signs of the sensuality which had characterised these men. Had she been able to look after him herself – which was her dearest wish – this would not have worried her unduly. His virile masculinity would have been guided into the right channels. But what could happen to such a child at the decadent Valois court? The cynical attitude of the Queen Mother disturbed her. Catherine would be amused by the boy’s frolics, delighted by them, and no doubt she encouraged them.