Now, some of the fighters had come inside the castle and were throwing cushions at one another. The King and the watchers were so overcome with laughter that they encouraged the fight to grow wilder and wilder.
A stool came crashing through a window; it was followed by others.
‘Come!’ said Francis. ‘Attack, men!’
Catherine noticed Francis de Guise disappear from the fight. She only knew that something significant was about to happen. If she could but slip away, send a command to one of her women to follow Monsieur de Guise!
All manner of articles were flying out of the windows now. A china bowl splintered on the head of one young man, who staggered, looked startled and then fell unconscious on the ‘Carry in the wounded!’ cried Francis.
Even as he spoke, pots and pans were flying out of the windows, followed by chairs and small tables.
The King roared with laughter.
‘What a merry turn to a snow battle!’ cried Anne.
And the comedy was suddenly turned to tragedy. Catherine need no longer wonder as to the disappearance of Monsieur de Guise.
Suddenly, crashing down from an upper window came a heavy chest.
The Count was standing immediately beneath the window from which it fell.
There was a warning shout of horror which the King joined, but it was too late.
D’Enghien, startled, looked up, but he could not escape in time. The chest fell on top of him; and his blood gushed startlingly red over the whiteness of the snow.
That sad year sped by quickly for the King of France. There seemed little left to live for.
‘I have but to love, and misfortune overtakes my loved ones!’ he said.
‘When I love my son Francis, he died suddenly and mysteriously. My beloved Charles was a victim of the plague. And this handsome boy, who in some small measure took their place in my heart, has been cruelly done to death in a sham battle.’
He sought to forget his grief in gaiety. There was a long meandering from castle to castle. The tempo must be speeded up; there must be richer food at his tables; stronger wine-flow; the women surrounding him must be more beautiful; the morals of his court the more depraved. His dress was more extravagantly jewelled. The sparkle of diamonds must make up for the lack-lustre of his eyes, the red of rubies for the pallor which had touched his face. Wit and wine, women and love, music and poetry― they must be his to enjoy. His must still be the most luxurious and the most intellectual court in Europe.
It was February, exactly a year after the death of the Count; a cold and snowy February to remind him of the tragedy.
The Court was at Saint-Germain-en-Laye; and at the head of his banqueting table, Francis sat― his Queen on his right, Anne on his left.
Catherine, in her place at the table, was thinking now would she change places with the King of France. His day was fast ending and it was the turn of others to enjoy great power. Henry. Diane. And Catherine de’ Medici?
When the banquet was over and the company danced, Catherine assured herself that hers would be the brightest destiny. She had learned to hide her light under a bushel until time came for her to show it; then should its brightness only dazzle, not only the men and women of France, but of all Europe.
Outside, the snow was falling fast; inside the castle, the heat was unbearable.
Bodices slipped from shoulders; eyes gleamed in torchlight. Anne sat beside the King and with her was Catherine. Neither cared to dance. Catherine, her hands meekly folded in her lap, knew that Henry was whispering to Diane as they sat among their friends and supporters; Catherine gave no sign that she as much as saw them. Anne was watching de Chabot with a red-headed beauty, and there was smouldering jealousy in her eyes; the King was aware of Anne’s jealousy. It gave Catherine a feeling of comfort to know that for once the his mistress were experiencing the same bitter emotion as she did herself. It gave her a feeling of satisfaction to realize that long endurance had taught her to hide her feelings far better than they could.
A messenger came while the dance was in progress. He craved the King’s permission to speak, and on receiving it, he announced the death of the King of England.
Francis stared before him. ‘Dead!’ he said. ‘So he is dead then.’
He beckoned to an attendant and bid him look after the messenger and feed him well.
‘I had been expecting this,’ said Francis. ‘He has been long sick.’
‘The end of an old enemy,’ said Anne. ‘I wonder how he will face his Judge.
We must do a masque: The King of England at the Judgment Seat. What think you?’
But Francis was silent.
Anne pressed his hand and said: ‘This saddens you, my love.’
The King smiled. ‘We were of an age,’ he said. ‘My old friend; my old enemy. He has gone whither I shortly must follow.’
Catherine said: ‘I beg of you, Sire, say not so.’
‘There, my little one. Do not be distressed. It is something we must all come to, and I but happen to be a step or two nearer than you and Anne here.’
Anne’s lips were tight. ‘I beg of you not to speak of it,’ she said.
‘And I beg of you, my darlings, not to be distressed,’ he said lightly.
‘Catherine, you are safe now, my child. You have a son and a daughter. Get you more of them. I will speak to Henry of you, sweet Anne. He is a good and honest fellow. He will see no harm comes to you.’
Anne’s lips twisted wryly. Ah, thought Catherine, it is not Henry she fears. This is ironic justice. For long she has guided the King’s hand to the disgrace of many; now she herself must be disgraced because there will be a new woman to guide a new King’s hand. And that new King is my husband. Anne’s years of plenty would be paid for. And one day, so should Diane’s. A shadow had fallen over the merry-making because the King of England was dead.
‘I remember him well,’ mused Francis. ‘At Guisnes and Ardres. Big and red and blustering― a fine figure of a man― a handsomer it would have been hard to find, if you liked the type. I threw him in a wrestling match; and never seen such anger. We were like the bull and the panther. One morning I went to him before breakfast and I had him at my mercy. I called him “My prisoner” and I gave him his shirt with my own hands. You should have seen his face, my darlings. When my dear boy Charles mounted the Emperor’s horse to tease him, the expression on the Imperial countenance took me back in years, and I remembered the King of England.’
‘You should not be sorry at this man’s death, Francis,’ said Anne. ‘He was no friend to you.’
‘It is a strange feeling. Our lives seemed intwined. And he is dead. The same disease took him as will take me, was much we had in common. Each in his country the supreme ruler. Each with his love of women. Though I fancy I am more lenient to the women I love than he ever was. He took them to church and took them to bed, and from bed to block. I dispensed with church and block.’
‘He was a monster,’ said Anne. ‘Let us waste no sorrow on him. His poor wife is rejoicing, I’ll warrant. She still carries her head on her shoulders, thanks to the timely death of her lord husband.’
‘They say,’ put in Catherine quietly, ‘that she was happy to be a nurse to him. They say it was safer in England to be the King’s nurse than the King’s wife.’
‘Yet she― good nurse though she was, poor lady― has, I understand, been hard put to it to keep her head upon her shoulders,’ Anne smiled at the King.
‘Come, Sire, away with your grief. Let us do the play we did last week. How it made you laugh! I warrant I can freshen it up a bit and give you one or two surprises.’