The White Plumes of Navarre: A Romance of the Wars of Religion

by S. R. Crockett

  CHAPTER XII.

  THE WAKING OF THE BEARNAIS

  Jean-aux-Choux's deflection from his course created little remark and nosensation in the brilliant company which entered Blois in the wake ofthe royal favourite. D'Epernon had dismissed him from his mind. The AbbeJohn and--oh, shame!--the doctor of the Sorbonne were both thinking ofClaire. So it came to pass, in revenge, that only Claire of all thatalmost royal cavalcade spared a thought to poor Jean-aux-Choux.

  As, however, Claire was the only one concerning whom Jean cared anapple-pip, he would have been perfectly content had he known.

  As it was, he waited till the Bearnais had betaken himself to hisslumbers in Anthony Arpajon's best green-tapestried chamber, and thensailed out, hooded and robed like a Benedictine friar, to make hisobservations. In the town of Blois, as almost anywhere else in centraland southern France, the ex-student of Geneva knew his way blindfold. Heskirted the bare rocky side of the castle, whereon now stands the hugepavilion of Gaston of Orleans.

  "They will not come and go by the great door," he said, "but there isthe small postern, by which it is the custom to make exits and entranceswhen Court secrets are in the wind."

  Accordingly, Jean placed himself behind a great hedge which marked thelimits of the royal domain. The city hummed beneath him like a hive ofbees aroused untimeously. He could hear now and then the voice of someLeaguer raised in curses of the Valois King and all his favourites. Thevoice was usually a little indistinct because of the owner's having toofrequently considered the redness of the Blesois wine.

  Anon the curses would arrive home to roost, and that promptly. For somegood royalist, crying "_Vive D'Epernon_," would bear down upon theGuisard. Then dull smitings of combat would alternate with war-cries andover-words of faction songs. Once came a single deadly scream, way forwhich had evidently been opened by a knife, and then, after that, onlythe dull pad-pad of running feet--and silence!

  In the palace wall the postern door opened and someone looked out. Itwas closed again immediately.

  Jean's eyes strove in vain to see more clearly. But the windows above,being brilliantly lighted, threw the postern into the darkest shadow.

  A moment after, however, four persons came out--first two men, then aslender figure wrapped in a cloak, which Jean knew in a moment for thatof his mistress.

  "He is keeping his word, after all," muttered Jean; "it may be just aswell!"

  He who stepped out last was tall and dark, and turned the key in thelock of the low door with the air of a man shutting up his own mansionfor the night.

  They went closely past Jean's hiding-place and, to his amazement, tookthe very way by the water-side, down the Street of the Butchery, bywhich he had come. More wonderful still, they turned aside withouthesitation--or rather, their leader did--into the yard of AnthonyArpajon. Silently Jean-aux-Choux stalked them. How could they know? Wasit treachery? Was it an ambush? At any rate, it was his duty to warn theBearnais--that was evident.

  But how? The blue-bloused carters and teamsters, wearing the silkensashes fringed so quaintly with silver bells, were asleep all about. ButJean-aux-Choux darted from sack to sack, dived beneath waggons, ran upstairways of rough wood. And presently, before the leader of the fourhad done parleying with the white-capped man behind the bar, theintruders were surrounded by thirty veterans of Henry of Navarre's mosttrusted guards. The chain mail showed under the trussed blouses of thewine-carriers. And D'Epernon, looking round, saw himself the centre of aring of armed men.

  "Ah," he said, with superb and even insolent coolness, "is it thus youkeep your watch, you of the old Huguenot phalanx, you who, from fatherto son, have made your famous family compact with death? Here I find youasleep in a hostile city, where Guise could rouse a thousand men in anhour! Or I myself, if so minded----"

  "I think, my Lord Duke," said D'Aubigne, putting his sword to the Duke'sbreast, "that long before your clarion sounded its first blast, one finegentleman might chance to find himself in the Loire with as many holesin him as a nutmeg-grater!"

  "It might indeed be so, sir," said the Duke, still haughtily, "but onthis occasion I shall literally go scot-free. Wake your master, the Kingof Navarre. Tell him that the Duke of Epernon craves leave to speak withhim immediately. He is alone, and has come far and risked much to meetHis Majesty. Also, I bid you say that I come on the part of FrancisAgnew the Scot, whom he knows!"

  "You bid!" cried D'Aubigne, whose temper was not over long in the grain."Learn, then, that none bids me save my master, and he is neither King'sminister nor King's minion."

  "Sir," said the Duke, "I do not need to prove my courage, any more thanthe gentlemen of my Lord of Navarre. At another time and in anotherplace I am at your service. In the meantime, will you have the goodnessto do as I request of you? I must see the King, and swiftly, lest I bemissed--up yonder!"

  "The King is asleep!" said Anthony Arpajon--"asleep in my besttapestried chamber. He must not be waked."

  "Harry of Bearn will always wake to win a battle or a lady's favour,"said D'Epernon. "I can help him to both, if he will!"

  "Then I will go," said Anthony. "Come with me, Jean-aux-Choux. Take bareblade in hand, that there be no treachery. I have known you some timenow, Jean. For these others there is no saying!"

  So these two went up together to the King's sleeping-chamber. Anthonyknocked softly, but there was no answer, though they could hear thesoft, regular breathing of the sleeper. He opened the door a little.Jean-aux-Choux stood looking over his shoulder. A night-light burned onthe table, shaded from the eyes of the sleeping man on the canopiedcouch. But a soft circle of illumination fell on the miniature of alady, painted in delicate colours, set immediately beneath it.

  "His mother--the famous Jeanne d'Albret," whispered Anthony; "he lovedher greatly. She was even as a saint!"

  Queen Jeanne was certainly a most attractive person, but somehowJean-aux-Choux remained a little incredulous. "How shall we wake him?"asked Anthony, under his breath.

  "Sing a psalm," suggested Jean-aux-Choux.

  "Alas, that I should say so concerning his mother's son, but from what Ihave seen in this my house, I judge that were more likely to send himinto deeper sleep."

  "Nay," said Jean, "I know him better--he is an old acquaintance of mine.Only keep well behind the door when he wakes. For the Bearnais risesever with his sword in his hand--unless he is in his own house, wherethe servants are at pains to place all weapons out of his reach. Singthe Gloria, Anthony, and then he will rise very cross and angry,demanding to know if we have not sung enough for one night."

  "Ay, the Gloria. It is well thought on," quoth Anthony; "I have heardthem tell in our country how it was his mother's favourite. He will lovethe strains. As I have said, she was a woman sainted--Jeanne the Queen!"

  "Hum," said Jean-aux-Choux, "that's as may be. At all events, her son,the Bearnais, was born without any halo to speak of."

  "The prayers of a good mother are never wholly lost," said Anthonysententiously.

  "Then they are sometimes a long while mislaid," muttered Jean.

  "Shame on you, that have known John Calvin in your youth," said Anthony,"to speak as the unbelieving. Have you forgotten that God works slowly,and that with Him one day is as a thousand years?"

  "Aye," said the incorrigible Jean, arguing the matter with Scotspersistency, "but the Bearnais takes a good deal out of himself. He islittle likely to last so long as that. However, let us do the best wecan--sing!"

  So they sang the famous Huguenot verses made in the desert byLouis-of-the-Hermitage.

  "Or soit au Pere tout puissant, Qui regne au ciel resplendissant, Gloire et magnificence!"

  The Bearnais turned in his sleep, muttering restlessly.

  "Why cannot they sing their psalms at proper hours," he grumbled, "asbefore a battle or on Sunday, leaving me to sleep now when I am wearyand must ride far on the morrow?"

  The psalm went on. Sleepily, the King searched for a boot to throw inthe direction of the disturban
ce, possibly under the impression that hissentinels were chanting at their posts--a habit which, though laudablein itself, he had been compelled to forbid from a military point ofview. The Bearnais discovered, by means of a spur which scratched himsharply, that his boots were on his feet. He muttered yet more loudly.

  "His morning prayers," said Anthony in Jean's ear; "his mother, Jeannethe Queen, was ever like that. She waked with blessing on her lip--soalso her son."

  "I doubt," said Jean-aux-Choux.

  "Sing--gabble less concerning the Anointed of God," commanded AnthonyArpajon.

  And they sang the second time.

  "In Sion's city God is known, For her defence He holds Him ready, Though banded kings attack at dawn, God's rock-bound fortress standeth steady."

  This time the Bearnais stood up on his feet, broadly awake. He did not,as Jean-aux-Choux had foretold, thrust a sword behind the arras.Instead, he picked up the painted miniature on which the little circleof light was falling. He pressed it a moment to his lips, and then, withthe click of a small chain clasping, it was about his neck and over hisheart, hidden by his mailed shirt.

  "His mother's picture--even from here methinks I recognise thefeatures," asserted the faithful Anthony.

  "Most touching!" interjected Jean-aux-Choux.

  "It astonishes you," said Anthony Arpajon, "but that is because you area stranger----"

  "And ye would take me in," muttered Jean under his breath.

  "But in our country of Bearn we all worship our mothers--with us it is acult."

  "I have noticed it," said Jean-aux-Choux. "In my country we have italso, with this difference--in Scotland it is for our children'smothers, chiefly before marriage."

  But at this moment they heard the voice of the King within.

  "Where is D'Aubigne? Why does he not insure quiet in the house? I haveridden far and would sleep! Surely even a king may sleep sometimes?"

  "Your Majesty, it is I--Anthony Arpajon, the Calvinist, and with me isJohn Stirling, the Scot, called Jean-aux-Choux, the Fool of the ThreeHenries."

  "And what does he want with this Henry--does he jest by day and singpsalms by night?"

  "I have to inform Your Majesty," said Jean-aux-Choux, "that the Duked'Epernon is below, and would see the King of Navarre."

  Now there was neither blessing nor cursing. The Bearnais did not kissthe picture of his mother. A scabbard clattered on the stone floor, wascaught deftly, and snapped into its place on his belt.

  "Where is my other pistol? Ah, I remember--D'Aubigne took it to clean.Lend me one of yours, Jean-aux-Choux. Is it primed and loaded?"

  "He is with my lady mistress, the daughter of Francis the Scot, and withhim are only the Sorbonne doctor and your cousin D'Albret for allretinue."

  "Oh, ho," said Henry of Navarre, "a lady--more dangerous still. Hold thecandle there, Jean-aux-Choux. I must look less like a hodman and morelike a king."

  And he drew from his inner pocket a little glass that fitted a frame,and a pocket-comb, with which he arranged his locks and the curls of hisbeard with a care at which the stout Calvinist, Anthony Arpajon, chafedand fumed.

  "It is for the sake of his mother," whispered Jean in his ear, tocomfort him, after the King had finished at last and signified that hewas ready to descend. "She taught him that cleanliness is next togodliness," said Jean, "and now, when he is a man, the habit clings tohim still."

  "If he were somewhat less of a man," said the Calvinist, in the samewhisper, "he would be the better king."

  "Ah, wait," said Jean-aux-Choux--"wait till you have seen him on abattle-front, and you will be sure that, for all his faults, there neverwas a more manly man or a kinglier king!"