And Charles had gone even further. An undisciplined, hysterical young man, uncertain of his own convictions, and brooding darkly over his doubts, he had from childhood loved that great warrior, the Admiral, Gaspard de CMtillon, Lord of Coligny—and Coligny and Jeanne of Navarre were the two remaining heads of the Huguenot movement. The sect itself had grown, had mushroomed all over France, Flanders, the Netherlands, but most of its strongest leaders had been
either killed in battle, ambushed on tteir own estates or poisoned at presumably friendly dinner tables.
Charles's devotion to Coligny was the hero worship of an impressionable boy for a great soldier who found time to listen to his boyish dreams of glory outranking his brother Henry on the battlefield. More than that, Charles sensed that here was a man of excellent judgment in diplomatic matters, essentially a man of good will who, given the support of the Crown, was capable of bringing France out of her perilous gales of religious wars into the safe harbor of arbitration where all men might worship according to the dictates of their conscience. This made sense to the lad who never had known the security of peacetime existence; it brought refreshment, a breath of clean air. Secretly Charles called his hero Father.
Catherine was beside herself with rage and jealousy. Her son, the King, going over to the enemy! Henry of Anjou was giving a good account of himself on the battlefield, leading his Catholic forces along the Loire; the Huguenots under Coligny pillaged and destroyed in nearby Perigord. Both sides, it seemed, tried to outdo each other in barbaric outrages, but finally Catherine directed Charles to send messengers to the Huguenot stronghold at La Rochelle to open peace negotiations, and a trace was signed at Saint-Germain. Hostilities stopped, at least for the time being, and at the young King s invitation Coligny came to Court.
There were good men, men of valor and the highest ideals, on both sides of the conflict, but among them all the name of Coligny rose like a clear white light, for here was a man
without ulterior motives, a man of singular nobility. His retainers implored him not to go to Blois where the Court was in residence, warning him that treachery and death awaited him there. The warning was unnecessary for Coligny was fully aware of his danger. But he loved his country and his young King, and deep within him was the conviction that with his help, Charles could reconstruct his whole national policy, strengthen his nation and his throne.
Coligny was accorded the spectacular welcome always given a great national figure; his position as Charles's councilor was accepted by the Court and his safety against assassination was guaranteed. Never in his twenty-one years had Charles been so happy or felt such confidence in himself. For once he was discussing national affairs with a man instead of with his mother; at last he was expressing views that were his own, certain of an interested listener. And between Charles and Catherine the rift, barely perceptible at first, was beginning to widen.
The Queen Mother was in a highly nervous state, close to panic. If Charles continued shutting her out of his councils, if he persisted in listening to Coligny regarding his foreign policy, she might as well—the thought struck her and she would use it against him—return to her native Italy. Let him try to manage without her! Wait until she faced him with the possibility!
But always there remained Marguerite to think about. Marguerite at nineteen was still a spinster, a thoroughly unmanageable spinster who loved to shock the Court by appearing half naked at one Court function and like a shy postulant
at the next; who openly flirted with every male human being who passed by; who lied in unabashed glee when it suited her and wept enchantingly to get her way.
Henry of Navarre, after all, seemed the only reasonable candidate for the unenviable role of bridegroom. Navarre was an excellent little buffer state between France and Spain and though Henry was the titular head of the Huguenots, Catherine felt certain he was enough like his vacillating father, Antoine, to turn Catholic when she pointed out to him the advantages of such a move.
Wretched child, that Marguerite—so ran the Queen Mother's thoughts—with the morals of a tree sparrow and the will of Satan, she probably will defy me when it comes to Navarre. However, when next Anjou is home on leave 111 have him suggest the match to her, tell her he wishes it. That will do what months of lectures from her own mother could not accomplish! Queen of Navarre, a good title for the minx, and between us Anjou and I will see that she keeps the crown firmly on her silly head!
Catherine's rosy dreams had a mysterious way of evaporating and here again she was defeated most unexpectedly. Henry of Anjou, on his brief leave, went first to pay his respects to his brother, the King. Charles was smarting under the praise he heard on all sides for the soldiers of the Crown under the command of his brother Henry, and his greeting to the returned warrior was extremely cool, so cool in fact that Anjou did not tarry long in the royal presence. Instead, he sought out his beloved sister, Marguerite.
She had not expected him and when she looked up from
Dark Eminence
her lute and saw Kim standing in the doorway of her chamber her whole being was flooded with a joy she had not known since his departure for the front months earlier. She flung the lute aside and sped across the room to throw herself into his
arms.
"Henry, you are back! Oh, this is too good
