Queen Jezebel

by Виктория Холт

  ‘It did not concern you.’

  ‘It concerns Navarre, of which I am Queen.’

  ‘Only as long as I allow you to be.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Madame, you astonish me. You play the spy; you place your husband and his kingdom in jeopardy, and then you come here and tell me that my kingdom is yours.’

  ‘I had thought that we two had decided to be allies.’

  ‘We had, but you show yourself to be a very doubtful ally.’

  ‘And you plot such things without consulting me!’

  ‘If I had been successful, I should have come back for you. And how can you talk of our being allies when you so callously betray me?’

  ‘You are indolent as well as foolish. You do not seem to know what forces would be brought into action against you.’

  ‘You overrate Monsieur de Guise,’ said Navarre. ‘We who would pit ourselves against him and his Catholics do not hold him in the same reverence as you do. You involve yourself too deeply in your love affairs, my dear. You look upon your lover as a god. He is but a man. Why, is it not for that very reason that you love him? You will never be happy in love until you learn to love as I do. I have had a hundred love affairs and never a pang of remorse or wretchedness on account of any of them. Yet you . . . you are all passion, all hate, all desire. When we have more leisure you and I must compare experiences, but tonight I am expecting a visitor.’

  ‘You are a provincial boor,’ she cried, ‘and as for discussing my love affairs with you, I would as soon discuss them with a stable boy.’

  ‘Or a kitchen wench, or a gardener’s wife?’ he taunted.

  She went to him and, taking his stiff hair in her hands, shook him angrily. He was almost apoplectic with laughter, and to her annoyance she found herself laughing with him.

  ‘There, you see,’ he said, ‘we cannot be bad friends. You betray me and I forgive you. Why, I even forgive you for spoiling the set of my hair which, although not elegant like that of your brothers, or softly curling like that of one whom it would be provincial, boorish, coarse and crude to mention at this point . . .’

  She gave him a stinging blow on his cheek, which delighted him.

  ‘Oh, Margot,’ he cried, catching her by the arms suddenly and holding her so tightly that she cried out, ‘I almost wish that I had not this visitor coming to me tonight, for I find you extremely attractive in this fighting mood.’

  He released her and she stood up, for she had heard a movement in his closet.

  ‘Who is there?’ she asked.

  ‘No one,’ he answered; and turning to look at him she believed that he was as surprised and startled by that sound as she was. There followed immediately a light tap on the door of the closet.

  ‘May I come in?’ said a voice which both of them recognized.

  ‘This is my visitor,’ said Navarre. ‘I did not expect her to have secreted herself in my closet. She must have had a key to come in that way, no doubt from your mother. Come in!’ he called.

  Margot stepped back so that the curtains of the bed hid her.

  Charlotte de Sauves walked to the bed. She was holding a key. ‘I managed to acquire a key to the small chamber,’ she said. ‘It seemed better to come in that way.’

  Navarre said: ‘Her Majesty is most helpful, and so generous with her personal keys. But, my dear, it matters not how you come, as long as you come.’

  Margot stepped out, and Charlotte stared at her in dismay.

  ‘Do not be afraid of me, Madame de Sauves,’ said Margot. ‘I was just about to leave.’

  Charlotte looked from the husband to the wife. ‘I . . . I did not know that Your Majesty would be here . . . If I had . . .’

  Margot waved a hand. ‘You must obey the royal command, must you not?’ she said; and she threw a contemptuous glance at Navarre, which implied that she despised him since, know- ing this woman was her mother’s spy, he could yet receive her. ‘I was just about to go,’ she added. ‘I wish you joy, Madame. A very goodnight to you both.’

  ‘And a very goodnight to you, my dear wife,’ said Navarre, smiling at her cynically. Margot walked out, aware that he scarcely waited for her to reach the door before pulling Charlotte down beside him.

  Margot was angry. One did not expect a husband to be faith. ful; but one expected a certain show of good manners.

  She was bored; the monotony of her life was more than she could endure. She decided that, for the want of something better to do, she would go and make her peace with her brother; for he, like her husband, would be annoyed with her, and lacking the humour of Navarre, would not be so inclined to find humour in the situation.

  She went into his apartments, and the King’s Guards made way for her. In an ante-chamber, a tall slim young man was sitting, and as Margot approached he leaped to his feet and bowed low.

  Margot smiled at him charmingly, for she noticed immediately that he was an exceptionally handsome young man, and it was obvious from his expression that he was as impressed by her charms as she was by his. Indeed, this kind of adoration was just what Margot needed most at this moment. She was at once enchanted by this young man.

  She studied him closely. He was, she guessed, in his mid-twenties, a few years older than herself; his hair was dark and he wore it long and curling; his eyes were a deep shade of blue, and Margot found the contrast of eyes and hair striking. His moustache could not hide the sensitive lips, and if his expression was one of melancholy, although somewhat relieved by his delight in looking at her, it was such a contrast to the crude boisterousness of the man she had just left, that it was enchanting. Bowing, he had placed a white hand on his velvet doublet which was a deep shade of blue that matched his eyes and was decorated with black jet.

  ‘I do not know you, Monsieur?’ she said.

  His voice was low and melodious. ‘There, Madame, I have the advantage of Your Majesty.’

  ‘So you are in no doubt as to my identity?’

  ‘Madame, who does not know the Queen of Navarre?’ ‘You must have seen me when I have not seen you.’

  ‘Yes, Madame; and, having seen you, could never banish your image from my mind.’

  Margot was excited. ‘And, Monsieur, why should there be need for such banishment?’

  His melancholy eyes, of such a startling blue, supplied the answer she expected, and his lips endorsed it. ‘That, Madame, I could not tell you. I beg of you not to embarrass me by commanding me to answer.’

  ‘I see you are in my brother’s service. I should therefore have no power to command you.’

  ‘Madame, any request of yours would be a command.’

  She smiled. ‘You are from Provence,’ she said. ‘I realize that, for you have the soft speech. But you have learned to flatter like a Parisian.’

  ‘You are mistaken, Madame. There was no flattery.’

  ‘What is your name?’ asked Margot.

  ‘La Mole, Madame.’

  ‘La Mole? Just that . . . nothing more?’

  ‘Count Boniface de la Mole, Madame, at your service.’

  ‘You mean at the service of the Duke of Alençon?’

  ‘If I could find some means of serving his sister, I should be completely happy.’

  ‘Well, you may do so at once. I wish to see my brother.’

  ‘He is engaged at the moment, Madame, and is likely to be for some hours.’

  ‘It would seem that he is gallantly engaged.’

  ‘That is so, Madame.’

  ‘In that case I shall not disturb him. It would go ill with you if you interrupted him merely to tell him his sister wished to see him.’

  ‘Madame,’ he said, bowing and laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, ‘if you were to command me, I would willingly face death.’

  She laughed lightly. ‘Nay, Monsieur le Comte, I would not have you face death. I think I should find you more amusing alive than dead.’

  She extended her hand for him to kiss; he did this with a mingling of revere
nce and passion which delighted Margot. ‘Adieu, Monsieur.’

  ‘You will think me bold, Madame, but I will say what is in my heart. Au revoir, Madame. I shall live for our next meeting.’

  Margot turned and left the chamber. She was smiling, for she had ceased to be bored.

  * * *

  Catherine summoned Charlotte de Sauves to her presence. ‘Well, Charlotte, I trust Navarre pleased you?’

  Charlotte was silent.

  ‘You must not mind,’ said Catherine softly, ‘that I witnessed your grief yesterday. I thought how sad you looked when you left me, so I followed. Never try to lock your door against your Queen, Charlotte. It is useless. I do not like to see you looking so sad. I hope you were not sad when with Navarre. Poor man! He has waited so long. I should not have wished him to be disappointed.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Charlotte, ‘I have done what you commanded.’

  ‘That is well. I trust there was not too great a quarrel with Monsieur de Guise? However, it will do that young man good to learn that he is only about half as important as he imagines himself to be. You see, Charlotte, my dear, when you joined the Escadron, you agreed, did you not, to put aside all sentimentality. But let us not go into that. You have done well with Navarre. I do not wish your love affair with him to progress too rapidly. Navarre must not expect you to give all your spare time to him. There are others on whom you must bestow your smiles.’

  Charlotte waited apprehensively.

  ‘I was not referring to Monsieur de Guise. If you patch up your quarrel with him, he must be made to understand that he can only gladden your leisure hours. You have serious work to do, and this does not include dalliance with the charming Duke. No, Charlotte! For there is another who needs your attention. I refer to my little son—my youngest, poor little Alençon.’

  ‘But, Madame, he has never looked my way.’

  ‘Whose fault is that? None but your own. He is susceptible to female beauty. You have only to smile on him a little, to flatter him a good deal, and he will be your slave.’

  ‘I am not sure, Madame. He is deeply enamoured of . . .’

  ‘Never mind of whom. I’ll wager that within a few days he will be deeply enamoured of Charlotte de Sauves if that lady intends to make him so. I expect to hear in a very short time that the King of Navarre and the Duke of Alençon have fallen out because they have both fallen into love with the same lady, and she is distributing her favours equally between them to keep the quarrel warm.’

  ‘Madame, this is a difficult task . . .’

  ‘Nonsense! It will be easy for you. You already have Navarre at your feet. Alençon . . . that one is a simple matter. I expect results, and I know that you are too wise a woman to disappoint me. Go now.’

  When she was alone Catherine smiled to herself. Intrigue, as well as being stimulating. was often amusing if one had the right sort of humour to appreciate that fact. Monsieur de Guise had rather arrogantly suggested that she should have a wedge driven between Alençon and Navarre; he had almost dared to give an order to the Queen Mother. She had found it necessary to follow that suggestion, but Monsieur de Guise should not be allowed to come out of this matter without some discomfiture. As soon as Alençon began to hanker after Charlotte, and when he and Navarre began to regard each other with jealousy and suspicion, Guise would realize that she had used his mistress as that ‘wedge’. It was very amusing, but she doubted whether Guise would enjoy the joke; he had not the humour of young Navarre.

  But she did not laugh long. There were other matters which were not so amusing. Her beloved son was far away in Poland and she yearned for him. Charles was becoming more obstinate, more suspicious of his mother every day. So that situation gave her little to laugh at.

  Charles must die. She had promised herself and Henry that. But the death of the King would have to be a slow one. Heaven knew she had everything on her side. His physical state was such that, when speaking of it, Monsieur Paré was very grave. He coughed incessantly and spat blood. His violent moods would often end with those fits of coughing, When she watched him, writhing on the floor, his jacket stained with blood, she would assure herself that it could not now be long.

  His wife had given birth to a girl. That was a blessing. Surely he would never have the strength to give the Queen another child. But one could not be sure, and while Charles lived there was great cause for anxiety.

  Why should he live? In her private closet she had many powders and potions which had solved such problems for her before and would do so again. But slow deaths were not so easy to achieve as quick ones. If it had just been a matter of giving one dose, that could have been achieved . . . if not at one time, then at another. But when there must be continual doses, it was not so easy.

  Neither René, nor Cosmo, nor Lorenzo would be anxious to assist at the death of a King. Moreover Charles was surrounded by certain women, and, ironical as it was, each of these women, while being in herself quite insignificant, unimportant and altogether meek, seemed to stand by the side of the King like an angel with a flaming sword. There was his mistress, the mild Marie Touchet, his wife, the milder Elisabeth, and Madeleine, his nurse. All suspected the King’s mother of trying to shorten his life, and all were prepared to die to save him from her.

  And, always hovering close to the King, was Monsieur Paré, the Huguenot, who should have been dispatched during that fateful August and who, owing his life to the King, was determined to pay his debt of gratitude by prolonging the King’s life.

  But it was those three women who were the worst obstacles. They were more effective than an armed guard. And what could one do? Remove them? She had not the power to do that, for the King would not allow it; he was the master now. They had succeeded in turning him away from his mother.

  And so the King grew weaker, and there were rumours throughout Paris that his mother was responsible for his low state of health. But he continued to live, to the delight of those three women who loved him and to the chagrin of his unnatural mother.

  * * *

  Margot’s friend, the flighty little Duchesse de Nevers, had a new lover. Little Henriette was so much in love that Margot was inclined to be envious.

  Henriette whispered to Margot of her experiences. ‘He is so charming . . . so different. So handsome! So bold! And he is in the service of your brother, Monsieur d’Alençon.’

  Margot was alert. ‘Indeed! I would hear more of this.’

  ‘He has a fair complexion and the most splendid white teeth. You should see them flash when he smiles . . . and he smiles continually.’

  ‘His name?’ demanded Margot.

  ‘Annibale. Le Comte Annibale de Coconnas.’

  Margot sighed with relief.

  ‘I like the sound of him. So he is in the service of my brother. How odd that Poor Alençon, who is so unprepossessing himself, should have such handsome men in his service! Tell me more.’

  ‘He is very quick to anger, Madame, and his hair is reddish rather than brown. His eyes seem golden. I am asking him to my apartments to supper. Would Your Majesty honour us by coming tonight?’

  Margot’s eyes sparkled. ‘What if you were discovered? Monsieur le Duc de Nevers . .

  ‘Has his own affairs to attend to, as Your Majesty well knows.’

  ‘I do not think that I should come,’ said Margot, deciding at once that she would not miss this for anything, and that it was just what she needed to relieve the monotony of her days. Any gentleman of Alençon’s suite was of interest to her as she might be able to talk to him of that most fascinating La Mole.

  ‘If you do not come, there will be no supper . . . for it is to be arranged solely on Your Majesty’s account.’

  ‘What does this mean?’ demanded Margot.

  ‘I suppose I must tell you, although it is supposed to be a secret. A friend of Monsieur de Coconnas is so enamoured of you that he is plunged in deepest melancholy and can neither eat nor sleep until he speaks with you. My Annibale is a most warm-hearted man,
a most compassionate man and he . .

  ‘Enough of your Annibale, Henriette. We know he is charming. Tell me of the melancholy gentleman.’

  ‘He is very handsome, and it seems that he saw you and spoke to you, and you to him. You seemed so gracious that he has imagined that his wildest dreams may not be without some hope of fulfilment, and his name is . . .’

  ‘Le Comte Boniface de la Mole!’ said Margot.

  ‘You knew then, Madame?’

  ‘As you said, Henriette, we met. He is charming and your Annibale is coarse compared with him. That melancholy of which you speak . . . it is very deep. One feels he must be a poet, a dreamer. One longs to chase away his gloom. His eyes are startlingly blue. He is like a beautiful Greek statue. Already I think of him as my Hyacinth.’

  ‘If you will but attend our supper party, Madame, you will make your Hyacinth very happy.’

  ‘I will consider it.’

  ‘He intends to go to Cosmo Ruggieri this very afternoon to ask, first for some charm which will make you decide to attend the party, and then for another which will make you regard him favourably.’

  ‘But this is insolence!’ cried Margot delightedly.

  ‘You must forgive him, Madame. He is so much in love. And when a man cannot eat or sleep, Your Majesty must understand that he cannot go on like that.’

  ‘These are the tales they tell us, Henriette.’

  ‘But, Madame, this is true. Annibale swears it. La Mole has seen you often. He never misses a chance of seeing you. But he loved from afar . . . and then . . . when you spoke to him . . .’

  ‘Henriette, this afternoon, we will go to Ruggieri, and we will make him hide us, so that we may look at this young man and hear what he says.’

  The two frivolous young women could not stop laughing-Margot embraced her dear friend, Henriette. Margot was delighted by the prospect of a love affair which she was sure would be one of the most charming she had ever experienced. It was just what she needed to keep intact her pride and annoyance with the Duke of Guise.

  * * *