In Jeanne’s train there was a young girl, Corisanda d’Andouins, who was not very much older than Henry. This girl had recently been married to the son of the Count of Gramont, a man whom Jeanne greatly respected and whose friendship she felt to be important to her cause. But young Henry, having such little respect for the marriage laws that he could completely disregard them, had fallen violently in love with Corisanda.
He followed the girl everywhere, and Jeanne discovered that secret meetings were taking place. The whole of La Rochelle was discussing this affair between the heir of Béarn and Madame Corisanda.
Jeanne watched in alarm the indications of what her boy was to become. She remonstrated with him. He was good-natured and lazy. He agreed with her quite charmingly, but this, he explained, was love. He lifted his shoulders in an elegant fashion which he must have learned at the French court. His mother was old-fashioned; she was of the country, and she did not understand. Love? Love was all-important. His mother must have no fears for him; he would lead his men into battle; but when it was a matter of love – ‘Ah then, my mother, that is a matter between the mistress and the lover.’
Jeanne cried: ‘You mean that this woman is already your mistress? You … a boy?’
‘Not such a boy!’ he said, holding his head high.
All Jeanne’s puritanical instincts rose in revolt; but when she looked into that vital young face and was aware of that immense sensuality, she knew that protest was in vain. Here again was his father, her father, her uncle, Francis the First. They were men, and whether they were strong or weak in battle, there must always be women to give them what they asked.
‘How think you the Huguenot citizens of France will view this licentiousness in their leaders?’ she asked him.
He lifted his shoulders. ‘The French, be they Catholics or Huguenots, will always understand what it means to love.’
And with that he left her to keep his engagement with the erring Corisanda.
Margot was growing up; she had long been aware of this, but others were noticing it now.
There was strife between the royal brothers. Charles was jealous of his mother’s preference for Henry. He never felt safe in Henry’s presence. Henry watched him continually. And, as Charles often confided to Marie Touchet, Henry was not a Frenchman whom one could understand; he was an Italian, and Frenchmen were suspicious of Italians.
Henry came home from his victorious campaign, grown more handsome, more ambitious. He noticed his sister Margot and how she had grown up since he had last seen her. He saw too in her something which the other members of his family did not possess. Margot was little more than a child; she was as yet undeveloped; but it was not difficult to see that there was a good deal of sense in that vain little head.
Henry decided to utilise it. He knew that he and Charles would always be enemies, and he decided to have Margot on his side.
He asked her to take a walk with him in the grounds of Fontainebleau, and Margot, sensing the importance of this, since she guessed the matter was too momentous to be discussed indoors, was gratified. She was always ready for excitement and intrigue.
As she walked with him through the green alley of the palace garden, Henry put his arm about his sister’s shoulders – a gesture which delighted Margot, for she was no less aware of Henry’s position with their mother than Charles was, and the favour of Henry was greatly to be desired on that account. Margot feared her mother more than anyone on Earth, but at the same time she earnestly longed for her approbation. A friendship with Catherine’s darling might result in her finding favour with Catherine.
‘You may have noticed, dear Margot,’ said Henry, ‘that, of all my brothers and sisters, I have always loved you the best.’
Margot smiled happily, for if Henry regarded her in that light, so must her mother.
‘We have had many happy times together,’ went on Henry, ‘but we are children no longer.’
‘No, Henry. Indeed we are not. You are a great soldier. You have made a name for yourself.’
He pressed her hand and, putting his face close to hers, he said: ‘Margot, my power lies in keeping in the good graces of our mother, the Queen.’
Margot agreed with that.
‘And, Margot, I am away from the court so much. The wars continue. My brother the King is always beside her. He flatters her and obeys her in everything.’
‘But she would never love any as she loves you, Henry. It has always been so.’
He said: ‘I have many enemies who might do me harm with my mother … when I am not here to protect myself.’
‘Charles thinks of little else but making love to Marie Touchet and hunting wild creatures.’
‘He makes hate as well as love, and he will not always be content to hunt beasts. One day he will take my Lieutenancy from me and try to lead the army himself. I wish to have someone here at court to uphold my cause with the Queen. You, dearest sister, are my second self. You are faithful and clever. Do this for me. Be with my mother always – at her lever, at her coucher. Listen to what is said, and find some means of letting me know. Make her confide in you. You understand?’
Margot’s eyes were sparkling. ‘Yes. I understand, Henry.’
‘I will speak to her of you. I will tell her how fond I am of you. I will tell her that you are my beloved sister, my second self. As for you, you must not be so much afraid of her. Speak up when she addresses you. In doing those things for me, you will do much for yourself.’
Henry put his hands on Margot’s shoulders and looked into her eyes; he saw there what he wanted. Henry was the hero of the war; and Margot, a young and impressionable girl, was ready to adore him; she was ready to be his slave and to work for him against the King.
Henry took her along to Catherine and told his mother how fond he was of his sister, and of the part he had asked her to play for him at the court. Catherine drew her daughter to her and kissed her on the forehead.
‘So you are to guard your brother’s interests at court, dear Margot?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
‘You will have to give up your silliness, your frivolity. You will have to watch your brothers … and their friends.’
‘That I will do, Mother.’
‘Well, my daughter, I shall help you in this. Henry, my son and your brother, is as dear to me as my life. Is he so to you?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
Catherine then embraced her son and, as her mother’s cold hands touched her, Margot felt that she had become a member of a trinity; and this was none the less exciting because the trinity might be an unholy one.
Growing up was an enchanting experience. Margot had other matters with which to concern herself now. She played the spy with all the verve of which she was capable. She was coming to the fore; she was always at her mother’s lever and coucher; she was often in the company of the King; she was ready to continue in her adoration of her absent brother.
But there was one other trait in Margot’s nature which both her mother and her brother had temporarily forgotten. If Margot was to grow up, she would do so in more ways than one. She was continually occupied with her dresses; she became the most fashionable lady of the court; she wore a golden wig over her long black hair one day, and a red one the next. All fashions inaugurated by Margot were provocative, designed to titillate the senses of the male.