Mary of Scotland had become a dream. Marie Touchet, the provincial judge’s daughter, was the reality. Marie was delightful, so young, so innocent, so unworldly. She had wanted to run away when she knew that her lover was the King of France.
‘Dearest Marie,’ he had said, ‘that is of no account. It is I, Charles, whom you love, and you must go on loving me, for I need love. I need love as no other man in France needs it.’
It was possible to tell her of his black moods of melancholy and how, when they were over, it was necessary to go out and do violence. ‘Now I have you, my darling, it may be that there will not be these moods. I have black fears, Marie – terrible fears which descend upon me by night, and I must shout and scream and see blood flow to soften these moods.’
She comforted him and soothed him, and they made love. He had installed her in the palace. His mother knew of his love for Marie.
‘So you are a man after all, my son!’ she said with a hint of grim amusement in her voice.
‘How do you mean, Madame?’
‘Just that, my dear boy. You are a man.’
‘Mother, you like Marie, do you not?’ His eyes were fearful. Catherine smiled, looking into them; he knew that if she did not like Marie, Marie would not stay long in the palace and he would not long enjoy the comfort and joy she brought him. His hands trembled while he waited for his mother’s answer.
‘Marie? Your little mistress? Why, I scarcely noticed her.’
‘How glad I am!’
‘What? Glad that your choice of a mistress is such that she is noticed neither for her wit nor her beauty?’
‘Madame,’ he said, ‘those who remain unnoticed by you are the safest.’
She looked at him sharply, and saw that obstinacy in his face which she had noticed before. He would not lightly let her take his mistress from him. And why should she? What harm could the little Touchet do? She was of no importance whatever. Touchet was safe enough.
‘Ah, enjoy yourself, my son,’ she said. ‘The duties of kingship are hard, but the privileges are rewarding. No woman, however virtuous, can resist a King.’
He stammered: ‘You do Marie wrong. She did not know … who I was. She loved me ere …’
Catherine patted his shoulder. ‘There, my son. Your mother but teased you. Go and enjoy your little Touchet to your heart’s content, I like her well enough. She is such a mild little playfellow.’
He kissed her hand, and she was pleased with him; he still obeyed her; that was what she wanted.
They had not been able to make a pervert of him. Nevertheless, it was hardly likely that he would procreate offspring. It would be an interesting experiment to let him be tried out on the little Touchet. If there was no child within a reasonable time, it might be safe to get him married and satisfy the people of France.
Henry was growing up. He was seventeen. Young yet for kingship, but in a few years’ time he would be ready. She must watch Charles, though. He must not think that, because he took a mistress, he was like other young men. He was not quite sane; he must never be allowed to forget that.
Charles had changed. Marie inspired him, gave him confidence, listened to his accounts of how his mother favoured his brother Henry. ‘He is to her as her right eye, Marie. There are times when I believe she wants the throne for him.’
‘Then she cannot have it for him,’ said Marie with sound provincial common sense. ‘Not while it is yours.’
In Marie’s company he felt truly a King.
One day his attendants came to him and told him that the Queen of Navarre, who was at court, wished to have a word with him.
He received her warmly, for he was fond of Jeanne, who was so calm and serene; she had the very qualities which he lacked and which he longed to possess. It was true that she was a Huguenot but – and he had determined that none should know this – Marie had confessed to him that she had leanings towards the Huguenot Faith, and though he had bidden her to tell no one, he felt a friendliness for the Huguenots that he had never felt before.
Jeanne was ushered into his presence. She kissed his hand.
‘You have something to say to me, dear Aunt,’ said Charles. ‘Shall I ask my mother if she will join us?’
‘Sire, I beg of you, do no such thing, for I would rather talk to you alone.’
Charles was flattered. People usually requested his mother’s presence, because they knew that nothing important could be decided without her.
‘Proceed then,’ said Charles, feeling just as a King should feel.
‘Sire, as you know, I am leaving Paris in the next few days to visit Picardy. I have long been separated from my son, and I think that the time has come for him to be presented to his vassals in Vendôme, through which I shall pass. I ask your most gracious permission for him to accompany me.’
‘But, my dear Aunt,’ said the King, ‘if it is your wish, certainly Henry shall go with you.’
‘Then I have your permission, Sire?’
He saw the joy in her face, and tears rushed to his eyes. How delightful it was to be able to give so much pleasure by granting a small request! It mattered not to him whether the noisy lustful Henry of Navarre left the court or not.
‘You have my permission,’ he said in his most royal manner.
‘I thank you with all my heart, Sire.’ She seized his hand and kissed it.
‘Dearest Aunt,’ he said, ‘I am glad to be able to please you.’
‘You have given your word,’ she said, ‘and I know that nothing will make you break it. May I go, Sire, and give this wonderful news to my son?’
‘Go by all means,’ said Charles.
She retired, while he sat smiling, thinking that it was sometimes very pleasant to be a King.
Catherine walked up and down the apartment while Charles sat miserably watching her – not a King now so much as a foolish boy.
‘Have you no more intelligence,’ demanded Catherine, for once shaken out of her calm, ‘than to let that wily she-wolf come and snatch the heir of Navarre from under our noses? What hope will you have, my lord, of subduing the Huguenots, when you let your most precious hostage go? You give him away. No conditions. Nothing! “I want my son,” she says, “my little Henry. He needs his Maman!” And you, like the little fool you are, say: “You may take him, dearest Aunt. He is only a boy …” Fool! Idiot! He was a hostage. The heir of Navarre … in our hands! If Jeanne of Navarre had dared threaten us – and I mean you and your brothers – I would have threatened her with the death or the imprisonment of her precious boy. And you, you fool, would give him back! I shall not allow it. The boy shall stay here. And never dare give an order again without my permission. Never grant a request without first asking me if you may do so.’
‘But she is his mother, and she asked for him with tears in her eyes. They have been so long separated. I could not refuse her.’
‘You could not refuse her! And others have heard you grant this request, I doubt not?’
Charles was silent.
‘This was so, was it not?’ demanded his mother.
‘Yes. Others heard.’
‘Fool! To think I should have such a son! Your brother Henry would never have behaved with such folly. But I shall cancel the order. Navarre shall not be allowed to leave the court. His mother shall go alone. Stop stammering and trembling, and sign this order.’
‘But I gave my word.’
‘You will sign this at once.’
Charles cried shrilly: ‘I am tired of being told that Henry would do this and Henry would do that. Henry does not happen to be the King of this realm. I am. I am … and when I say …’
‘Sign this,’ said Catherine. She pushed him into a chair and put the pen into his hand. He looked over his shoulder; her face was near his – very pale, her eyes enormous. He trembled more than before. He felt that she saw right through to his soul.