Anne laughed. ‘So he has dared to speak his evil aloud. Depend upon it, this is Madame Diane’s will. She can no longer wait for her queen-ship.’
But there was no need to goad Francis. Catherine, who had quietly entered the room during the uproar, saw that his blood was up. She laughed silently, for she had heard Anne speak of Diane. Surely now there would be no place at court for Henry’s mistress; and surely the Dauphin would not be allowed away too long.
Francis was preparing to show Henry whether or not he was dead. He shouted for the captain of his guard and ordered to bring with him forty of his archers.
At their head, with vengeance in his heart, the King set out for his son’s apartments.
But Diane’s spies were as alert as Catherine’s; and had been warned of his father’s anger ten minutes before Francis reached his apartments. He and Diane had immediately left for Anet.
So when Francis, with his archers at his heels, kicked open the door of his son’s apartments, there was no one but the lackeys clearing away the remains of the feast. Francis took hold of the first one he could lay his hands on and shook until the man’s face was as purple as his own.
‘Where is your master?’ he cried. ‘Speak, you fool, or by the Virgin I’ll slit your throat.’
‘Sire― my gracious King― he― left― ten minutes gone.’
Francis threw the man from him. ‘So he has flown. That is well for him, and for his friends who yearn to take the shoes their betters. Get you gone― all of you!’ He turned on the trembling lackeys, flourishing his sword. He signed to his archers, and they began chasing the unfortunate lackeys, who now had one thought, and that to hide themselves from the King’s anger. The only way in which they could escape was by leaping out into the courtyards through the windows, and this they did; whereupon the King and his archers threw the remains of the feat after them; and, the royal anger being not at all appeased, the glass, plate and cutlery followed. After that the chairs, tables, and mirrors were hurled out on to the cobbled courtyard. Then the King snatched up a halberd and slit all the beautiful tapestries that adorned the walls, his rage for once being greater than his love of the beautiful.
As he slashed, he seemed to hear the insolent voice of his jester. ‘God save you Francis of Valois!’ and then: ‘I call God to witness, thou art a dead man!’
And he knew that, had he been younger, he would not have been so angry. It was because he felt himself to be near the grave that he was infuriated by being reminded of it.
He was unhappy.
Catherine was also unhappy. She had succeeded in driving Diane from court but she should have known that the mistress would take Catherine’s husband with her.
The King of France was a sad man. He could not find it in his heart to forgive a son who was so obviously awaiting his death with eagerness.
Henry stayed at Anet for four weeks before he dared show himself at court, and then there was much coming and going between Fontainebleau and Anet, until at last the ailing King had seen he must be reconciled with his heir. All the same, he had little affection for him; and he kept young Charles closer him and doted on him more than ever.
But Henry could be useful to his father, for he was a good soldier; and peace with Spain did not necessarily mean peace with the English. Henry came out of his brief exile to help his father in the struggle with the enemy across the Channel.
There was a wild attempt to invade the coast of Sussex and another to invade the Isle of Wight― both of which were failures. There was another and unsuccessful onslaught on Boulogne― a fruitless endeavour to recapture the town from the English.
It was when he was encamped near Abbeville that one of the greatest tragedies of his life overtook Francis.
The weather was hot, for it was August, and from the steaming streets of the town rose the smell of putrefaction. It was not long before the dreaded news was running through the camp. The plague had come to Abbeville!
Francis hastily gave orders that none was to go into the town. He knew that this was the end of his campaign. He could fight an army of men; he could not fight the plague. He must, as soon as possible, treat with the English, seek allies and strengthen every fortress in France.
He lay in his luxurious bed― for even in camp, his bed must be luxurious― and thought sadly of his reign which had begun so brilliantly and now seemed to be ending in gloom. He wondered if sober-sided Henry would recover everything his father had lost.
And while he lay there, news was brought that the and handsome Count d’Enghien craved an audience; and when the young man came, the King saw at once that his face was blotched with weeping.
He knelt, but would not approach the King; and same in the strangeness of his demeanour put terrible fear into the heart of Francis.
‘What is it, man?’ he demanded.
The young Count sought for words, but he could only and the King, raising himself on his elbow, spoke first harshly and then gently, bidding him state immediately what news he had brought.
‘Sire, last night, I went to the town.’
‘What?’ roared the King. ‘You knew the order?’
‘Sire, it was by order of the Duke of Orléans that I went.’
The King smiled wryly. Young Charles, the reckless, the brave, had no doubt declared he was afraid of nothing even the plague. What a boy he was with his pranks and his mischief! But this was serious. He must be punished for this. And what was wrong with this bright young man― a favourite of Francis’?
Why did young d’Enghien kneel there snivelling like a girl?
Francis was uneasy. He ordered the young man to continue.
“We went to the house of a merchant, Sire.’
‘Get on! Get on!’ cried Francis.
‘There was a girl there― the merchant’s daughter. The Duke had seen her and fancied her.’
‘Well?’
‘She had died, Sire― of the plague.’
‘You fool!’ shouted Francis. ‘You come here to me and boast of this silly escapade. Foy de gentilhomme, you shall pay for this. I’ll clap you into prison.
You idiot! You fool!’
‘That is not all Sire. The dead-cart took her as we reached the house, and the Duke insisted we go inside. He thought it was a trick of her father’s to hide the girl, Sire.’
Francis felt suddenly ill. He knew that the count was trying to break some tragic news. He was trying to tell him gently, gradually. Francis opened his mouth to shout, but no words came.
‘We saw the bed, Sire, the bed on which she died. The Duke, continuing his belief that the girl was being hidden from him, slit the bed with his sword. Sire, the feathers flew about the room― they covered us― The feathers from a bed in which a girl died of the plague!’
‘My God!’ groaned Francis; and now he dared not look at the young man.
‘Her father seemed to watch us, Sire, but he did not see us, I think. He too was smitten by the plague.’
Francis leaped off the bed. ‘Stop babbling, you fool. Where is my son?’
D’Enghien was on his feet, barring the King’s way. ‘Sire, you cannot go to him. You dare not go to him.’
Francis pushed the young man aside. He could feel the sweat in the palms of his hands, as he ran towards the tent of his younger son.
Those who stood outside it tried to stop him. He shouted at them. Was he, the King, to obey their orders! They stand aside or take the consequences.
Oh misery! On the bed lay his sweet son Charles. Was this the boy he had smiled on only yesterday morning?
‘Charles!’ he cried brokenly. ‘My dearest son. What folly is this?―’ But his voice broke, for the eyes that that were lifted to his did not recognize him.