'Fool!' cried Anjou. 'What do you know of battle? Would you have given your spies wings to fly over the city's walls?'

'I would ask you not to call me "Fool", brother, but to remember to whom you speak.'

'Have a care lest I put you under arrest, Monsieur,' said Anjou coldly.

But Alencon would not heed him. He was the brother of the King, just as Anjou was, and he had been neglected too long.

'Brother,' he teased, 'you are more successful at court than on a battlefield. You choose your men for their beauty rather than for their military ability.'

'Your lack of beauty, brother, is not the only reason why I do not confide in you,' said Anjou languidly.

Alencon was sensitive about his shortness of stature and pock-marked skin. He flushed angrily and began to shout, calling his brother a conceited popinjay who looked more like a woman than a man.

Anjou said: 'If you do not remove yourself in ten seconds I will put you under arrest.'

Then Alencon thought it better to go quickly. He knew that his mother would approve of anything that Anjou planned for him; and he would certainly find himself a prisoner if he were not careful.

As he came out of his brother's tent, he encountered Navarre, who seemed to be lounging about outside. Navarre smiled in a sympathetic fashion, and Alencon was ready to accept sympathy from anyone at that moment.

'You heard?' demanded Alencon fiercely.

'It was impossible not to. The insolence! He forgets that if he is a Prince of Valois, so are you.'

'It is pleasant to know that some remember it,' muttered Alencon.

Navarre smiled at the little figure beside him. There were many who thought Alencon rather ridiculous, but Henry of Navarre knew that since the massacre he himself had been in a very precarious position, and a man as wise as Henry of Navarre, when in such a position, does not despise friendship.

'My lord,' said Navarre, 'they would be fools to forget it when it is possible that one day you may be King over us all.'

The thought pleased Alencon; and coming from Navarre, who was after all a king-if somewhat eclipsed at the moment-it was doubly pleasant.

'I am many steps from the throne,' he mused smiling.

'Not so. The King's son did not live . . . nor would any child of his, I am thinking. And when the King dies . .

'There is my arrogant brother whom you so recently heard insult me.'

'Yes. But he is hardly likely to produce progeny. And then . . .' Henry of Navarre administered a Bearnais slap on the back which almost knocked Alencon off his feet; but the little Duke did not mind such boisterous behaviour when accompanied by words which were so gratifying. If one could forgive the crude manners of a provincial, he thought, he is not such a bad fellow, this Henry of Navarre.

They walked in friendly silence for a few paces.

'And so,' continued Navarre at length, 'your time will come. I am sure of that, my lord Duke.'

Alencon looked up into the shrewd face of his kinsman. 'You are happier now that you have become a Catholic?' he asked.

Then Henry of Navarre did an astonishing thing. He closed one eye and opened it swiftly. There was something worldly about Navarre, something experienced, which made Alencon long to be like him. Alencon chuckled. He knew that Navarre was hoodwinking such people as the King, Anjou and the Queen Mother in just the way which he, Alencon, longed to do. He found himself returning the wink.

'So . . . you are not truly Catholic?' he asked.

'I am Catholic today,' said Navarre. 'Who knows what I may be tomorrow?'

Alencon laughed conspiratorially. 'I myself have been attracted to the Huguenot faith,' he ventured.

'It may well be,' said Navarre, 'that, like me, you intend to be a Huguenot-Catholic.'

Alencon laughed with Navarre; and then they began to talk of women, a subject which Alencon found almost as exciting as Navarre did.

They were very quickly the best of friends. Navarre showed that right mixture of respect for a man who might be a King one day, and camaraderie for a fellow who he recognized as just such another as himself.

Those were uneasy weeks before La Rochelle. Anjou and Guise noticed the growing friendship between the mischievous pair and wondered what it foreboded; Conde and Navarre, encouraged by Alencon, who was now their recognized ally, threatened to desert. The army seemed about to disintegrate when Catherine and the council in Paris decided it was time to make peace. The King of Poland had died, and Anjou had been elected by the Poles as their new King; it was therefore necessary to recall him to Paris without delay. So the town of La Rochelle must be left in peace for a spell. The Huguenots were promised liberty of worship and the right to celebrate marriages and christenings in their own houses if no more than ten people were present. The war had come to another uneasy pause.

Riding to the hunt, Catherine watched her son, and asked herself how much longer he could be expected to live. His lung complaint had grown so much worse that he was continually out of breath. He blew his horn more frequently than was necessary, and such a strain on his lungs, Pare had warned him, should be avoided.

But when Charles was in one of his violent moods he never thought of what was good or bad for him.

He cannot live much longer, thought Catherine.

However, the position was alarming although there was one bright side to it. Charles' son had died, as she had guessed he would. From the day of the child's birth she had known she could safely leave it to its fate; but, strangely enough, he had a healthy son now by Marie Touchet, and the Queen was pregnant again. What if the Queen were to produce a healthy child as Marie had done! Then on the King's death there would have to be another regency-and worse still, an end to her darling Henry's hopes of the throne. She would never allow that to come about.

'My son,' she said, knowing full well that comments on his health could irritate him when he was in certain moods, 'you tire yourself.'

He turned angry eyes upon her. 'Madame, I am the best judge of that.'

He was at the beginning of one of his violent moods. She, who knew him so well, could see it encroaching on his sanity. In a short while that whip of his would descend on his horse, on his dogs and on his huntsmen as they happened to come within his range. She saw the foam on his mouth and heard the familiar hysteria in his voice.

'What is the matter with you all?' he shouted. 'My horse slackens speed. My dogs seem asleep, and my men are a lazy good-for-nothing lot. By God!' Down came the whip on his horse's flank.

Catherine watched, smiling a little. That is well, she thought. Beat the creature to madness. May it bolt and throw you, and let that be an end to your madness and you, for I am heartily sick of you, and it is time Henry was King.

He caught her eyes fixed on him, and fearing that he might have read her thoughts she said quickly: 'He, my son. Why do you get so angry with your dogs and horses and these poor men whose delight it is to serve you, while you are over-meek with your enemies?'

'Over-meek!' he cried.

'Why are you not angry with those wretches in La Rochelle who are causing death and suffering to so many in your army?'

The King's brow puckered. He said: 'Wars . . . wars . . . It is all wars. It is all bloodshed in this land.' He glared at Catherine and began to shout. 'And who is the cause of it all? Tell me that.' He shouted to his men: 'Tell me! Who is the cause of this, eh? You . . . you tell me. Who is the cause of all the misery of this land? Answer me. Have you no tongues? We will see . . . we will see . . . and if you have, we will have them out, since they appear to be no use to you.' He lifted his whip and slashed his dogs. 'Who is the cause of all our misery, eh?' Then he turned his fierce, mad eyes again on his mother. 'We know!' he cried. 'All know. My God! It is you . . . you, Madame . . . you are our evil genius. You are the cause of it all.'

Then, digging his spurs into his horse, he turned and galloped madly away from them-back the way they had come.

The huntsmen looked at Catherine in dismay, but she was calm and smiling.

'His Majesty is out of humour today,' she said. 'Come, let us ride on. We have come to hunt, so let us hunt.'

And as she rode on she was thinking: this is rebellion. He flouts me . . . even before his lowest servants. It cannot be allowed to continue. I will not be treated thus. Assuredly, my son Charles, you have lived too long!

And when she returned to the palace it was to find that ambassadors from Poland had arrived.

Anjou was sulky. He could not bear the thought of being sent away to Poland. How could such as he was endure life in the barbarous country which Poland must be? Since he had tired of Renee de Chateauneuf, he had formed an attachment with the Princess of Conde, young Conde's wife. He could not, he now declared, endure the thought of parting from her.

The situation was alarming, for the King had made it clear that he intended Anjou to accept the Polish throne. Their mother would do all in her power to frustrate the King, but Anjou was fully aware that Catherine's influence with Charles was waning fast. Charles looked upon Anjou as his enemy, and wished to exile him as soon as possible; moreover, it was said that the King would not be greatly disturbed if the Queen Mother decided to accompany her favourite son to Poland.

Catherine went to Anjou, who was fuming in his apartments, surrounded by three of his young men. The three young men were in tears at the prospect of losing their benefactor or, failing that, accompanying him far from the civilized land of France to the barbarous one of Poland.

'The King is obstinate,' said Catherine. 'He declares you must go. It is no use bewailing. We must think of something that we can do.' Her eyes alighted on her son's table with its bottles of perfume and pots of cosmetics. She looked at the sprawling yet completely elegant figure, and she thought: what will those barbarians think of his elegance, of his young men, and his preoccupation with his own beauty?

Then she laughed suddenly. 'Why, my son,' she said, 'you will appear to these men of Poland as strange, unlike themselves. I think they will not wish you to show yourself to your Polish subjects. They will wish you to send a lieutenant to rule for you-someone coarse, crude, more like themselves. I have it. We will make you even more elegant than usual-if that be possible. Let us paint your face more vividly; let us perfume your body; let us curl your hair We will show them that you could not live among them. Then I will bring forth one of our big rough men and show him to them . . . a man such as these savages would understand.'

Anjou smiled. 'My dearest mother, what should I do without you?'

They embraced warmly and Catherine was momentarily happy.

He wore his jacket open at the throat and a string of pearls about his neck. He loaded his ears with pearls; his hair was curled in a most elegant fashion; his face more vividly painted than usual.

The young men clapped their hands and declared that he had but enhanced his beauty.

Catherine chuckled. 'I shall enjoy seeing their faces when they set eyes on you.'

When Anjou was presented to the Polish ambassadors, they stared in astonishment, for the moment completely forgetting the etiquette of greeting their new King.

Anjou smiled sardonically while the King looked on with anger; some of the courtiers could not restrain a titter. Never before had Anjou looked so completely unlike a King, and never, said some, more like a female courtesan.

But now the Poles had recovered from their astonishment and were bowing low over the scented hand. It was obvious that they had never before seen anyone like their new King, and yet, instead of being disgusted by his appearance, they were delighted with it. They could not take their eyes from him; they laughed with pleasure every time he spoke to them. They whispered together that never, in the whole of their lives, had they seen such a glorious creature.

Catherine watched in dismay.

'A King in very truth,' said one of the Poles in his odd French.

'Our people will never let such a man go, Madame,' said another to Catherine. 'They have never seen any like him. They will love this King.'

And they continued to gaze at him with delight, certain that such a wonderful creature must receive the admiration of all who beheld him.

Anjou was distrait; Catherine was furious; but Charles was adamant. Here was a Heaven-sent opportunity to rid himself of the brother whom he hated; and no pleading, no threats from Catherine, no sarcasm from Anjou, would make any difference to the King's decision. Anjou was to go to Poland.

Anjou declared that if he were parted from the Princess of Conde his heart would be broken. His natural wit seemed to have deserted him; he could do nothing but bemoan his cruel fate.

Catherine made her preparations calmly enough, successfully hiding her fury from all but her intimates.

When the royal party set out to accompany Anjou to the border, the King declared his intention of going with it. He wanted, he said to his friends, to have the great joy of seeing Anjou leave the soil of France.

Marie Touchet begged the King to take care; Madeleine joined in her entreaties.

'What do you fear?' asked Charles. 'Anjou knows he must obey his King, and do not doubt that he will.'

Neither Marie nor Madeleine dared say that it was not Anjou whom they feared.

Catherine rode beside Anjou, who noticed that she seemed to be unconcerned at the prospect of their parting. He was inclined to be petulant. 'I cannot understand you,' he said. 'You seem to contemplate my departure with the same pleasure as does my brother who hates me.'

Catherine shook her head and said in a low voice: 'To contemplate parting with you, as you must know, could bring me nothing but grief.'

'Madame, you have a strange way of expressing your grief.'

'Oh my darling, have you not yet learned that I am an adept at masking my feelings?'

'I feel that this departure of mine seems to you like one of the court comedies which you so much enjoy.' He turned to smile at her. 'No doubt your joy seems so sincere because it is real joy. Dear mother, you are an adept at providing the drama or the comedy as well as wearing the mask.'

'Ah, I knew your ready wit would tell you something of this.' She leaned towards him. 'You may go to Poland, my darling, and . . . on the other hand . . . you may not.'

'What? Can plans be changed at this late hour?'

'Surely you can imagine circumstances in which they might be.'

He caught his breath, and there was silence between them for a few seconds. Then Catherine continued: 'If you did, by some ill-chance, reach that barbarous land, you may be sure that your stay in it would be a short one.'

Madeleine overheard those words and trembled. Madeleine was surprised to find what a good spy she had become. It was, she guessed, because the good God endowed mothers with some special sense when their little ones were in danger; and she had always looked upon herself as mother to the King.

Now she began to watch what was brought for the King to eat or drink; but it was not possible for her to taste everything that he took. How could she, his nurse, take her place at the banqueting table in the various castles at which they stayed? She became so anxious that at last she decided to speak to him of her fears.

She asked that she might be quite alone with him and indulgently he granted that permission.

'Sire,' she said, 'you know that I love you.'

He kissed her hand tenderly. 'I have no doubt of that, dear Madelon.'

'Then you will listen with attention to what I have to say. I believe there are some in this company who are trying to shorten your life.'

He was startled. The fear of death was stronger than it had ever been. 'What have you discovered?' he asked.

'I cannot say that I have actually discovered a plot. It is some sense . . . that warns me. I am as a mother to you, Chariot, and I sense that you are in danger.'

'You think that someone is trying to poison me, Madelon?'

'I am sure of it. I am not always with you to supervise what you eat and drink, and this gives me great cause for anxiety. It occurs to me that it would be an easier matter to kill you on a journey like this than at home, at court, where you are surrounded by friends and doctors.'

'Madelon, speak frankly to me.'

'There are some who are grieved that Monsieur d'Anjou is leaving us, and moreover do not intend that he should. There are some who would like to see him in your place, and those would be pleased if you were no longer with us.'

Charles flung himself into his nurse's arms. 'Oh, God,' he cried, 'I am afraid of her. I know you speak truth, dearest Nurse. I would that you were my mother in truth. What can I do? Oh, Madelon . . .' He looked furtively round him. 'Monsieur de Coligny was my friend. He said she was my evil genius. He warned me, as you do now. Would I had taken his advice. Then I should not have been led to that wicked slaughtering of innocents . . . that bloodshed. I cannot escape from it, Madelon. It pursues me . . . continually.'

'You must banish it from your mind, my darling. It was no fault of yours. But let us think of this danger which now lies before us.'

'Madelon, what can I do? If it is decided that there shall be a morceau ltalianize for me, then so it will be, I fear. Those who are marked down never escape.'

'It shall not be,' said Madelon. 'You are the King. That is a fact which you often forget, my little one. Let us, with those whom we trust, ride back to Paris. You must announce our intentions to leave at once. The Queen Mother, her women and her friends, will go on with Monsieur le Duc to Lorraine. And we will ride back, safe and happy. Do that, my Charlot, to please your old Madelon, who loves you as her own son, and whose heart would break if aught ill should happen to you.'

'Oh, Madelon,' he sobbed, 'how good it is to have true friends. I am not alone, am I? There are some who love me. There is blood on my hands, and some say that I am mad, but I have good friends, have I not?'

'You will always have Madelon to love and watch over you,' said his nurse.