Queen Jezebel

by Виктория Холт

  It had come to the King’s ears that the Cardinal of Guise had proposed the health of his brother—referring to him not as the Duke of Guise, but as the King of France.

  Philip of Spain had been Guise’s ally, but, a few months ago, that monarch had suffered a defeat so great that the whole of Europe was agape, for many believed that the greatest power in the world had been quenched for ever. There had been placards posted in the towns of France. Frenchmen had read them and tried to look perturbed while they laughed in their beards:

  ‘Lost. Somewhere off the English coast, the great and magnificent Spanish Armada. Anyone bringing information of its whereabouts to the Spanish Embassy shall be rewarded.’

  Spain was crushed, for there was nothing to be done which could minimize that disaster. Spain, which lived by her sea power, had lost her sea power; and a small island off the coast of Europe had risen high in significance during that fateful summer. In place of mighty Philip, Gomez, Parma and Alva, other great men had arisen: Sir Francis Drake, Sir John Hawkins, Lord Howard of Effingham. The little island had become a country of great importance. The red-headed Queen was smiling serenely on her throne; and she was a Protestant Queen ruling a Protestant people. The previous year, on the pretext of having discovered that her cousin was involved in a plot against the crown, Elizabeth had sent the Catholic Mary Queen of Scots to the block. She had snapped her fingers at Spain then; and this year her sailors had delivered what might well prove to be the final blow.

  Guise’s ally, Spain, was not going to be so useful to him as had seemed possible a few months ago.

  When he had considered these matters, the King determined on action. Either he or his enemy must die, he was sure. It must be his enemy.

  A plot fermented in the diseased mind of the King. He would not discuss it with his mother, as he knew she would not approve of it. She had taken to her bed once more; she was ageing fast; her skin was yellow and wrinkled, and those eyes which had once been alert now had a glassy look.

  There was many a brawl, in the weeks that followed, between the supporters of Guise and those of the King. Men on guard in the courtyards picked quarrels, and often these would result in duels which were fatal.

  The King hinted to one or two men whom he trusted that he did not intend to let traitors live. ‘There is not room for two Kings in France,’ he said. ‘One has to go, and I am determined that I shall not be that one.’

  He thought constantly of his mother and wished that she would join him in this. She was a murderess of great experience; there was not a woman in the world who had removed so many enemies with such a deft touch. But she was old; she had lost her sharp wits; she was—for nothing she could say would convince her son to the contrary—fascinated by Guise. It might be the fascination of hatred; it might be the fascination of fear; but fascination there was. She had always wished to ally her-herself, at least outwardly, with the powerful party of the moment; and there was no doubt that she now looked on Guise as the most important man in France. No! The King could not take her into his confidence, but he could emulate her ways.

  He arranged a public reconciliation with Guise; and at this meeting he declared he was going to hand over his authority to the Duke and his mother jointly; for, he said, he himself had had a call from God. He was going to spend the rest of his life in prayer and penance.

  Catherine had left her bed in order to be present and hear this declaration. She smiled on her son. This was the way to lull suspicion. Her son was learning wisdom at last.

  Guise was sceptical. The King had not deceived him, and he told Catherine so.

  ‘You are wrong, my dear Duke,’ she said. ‘The King speaks truth. He is weary and he lacks the physical strength of a man like yourself. You cannot understand his abandoning his power, but I can. You see, I am getting old. My son also feels his age. He-is a young man, but he lacks your physical perfections.’

  She smiled at the ambitious man; she was telling him: ‘you will not be bothered much, for I also am too old to care for power. All power can be yours. You are virtually King of France.

  The King made plans and as usual abandoned them. He talked to his friends so frequently and with such lack of caution that his schemes inevitably leaked out.

  One day Guise was sitting at table when a note was handed to him. On it was written: ‘Take care. The King plots to kill you.’ Guise read it and smiled. He asked for a pen, and when it was brought to him, he wrote on the note: ‘He dare not.’ Then, to show his contempt, he threw it under the table.

  His brother, the Cardinal of Guise, remonstrated with him.

  ‘You must leave Blois at once. You are not safe here another hour. Go at once to Paris.’

  ‘My brother,’ said the Duke, ‘I have always been lucky. I will go when my time comes.’

  ‘Why do you not leave at once?’ demanded the Cardinal. Guise lifted his shoulders, and his brother came closer to him. ‘Could it be because of an appointment with the Marquise de Noirmoutiers?’

  ‘That might be,’ said Guise with a smile.

  The Cardinal laughed bitterly. ‘You would not be the first man who has been lured to his death by a woman. This Charlotte de Noirmoutiers was the Queen Mother’s creature when she was Charlotte de Sauves. Her marriage with Noirmoutiers did not break the power of her mistress. Depend upon it, the King and his mother plot to kill you through that woman.’

  Guise shook his head. ‘The Queen Mother does not wish me dead. That fool the King does, I know. But he is weak and quite stupid. He has been plotting my death for months, but he is afraid to make the attempt.’

  ‘Charlotte de Sauves is the tool of Catherine de’ Medici.’ ‘Dear brother, the Escadron ceased to be effective when the Queen Mother lost her power.’

  ‘You are wrong to trust Jezebel. She has always been a serpent and her fangs are poisonous.’

  ‘She is a sick serpent who no longer has the power to lift her head and strike.’

  ‘So you are determined to spend the night with Madame de Noirmoutiers?’

  Guise nodded.

  The Cardinal walked away in exasperation, but before he left the apartment a messenger arrived with a letter which he handed to the Duke.

  ‘Leave Blois at once,’ this said. ‘Your life is in imminent danger. Do not spend another night there.’

  Guise screwed up the paper in his hands. He was thinking a little of Charlotte and a good deal of death.

  * * *

  In his apartments Charlotte was waiting for him. She had never been so happy in the whole of her life. Guise was the only man she had ever loved. She was freed from the evil bondage in which Catherine had once held her, for she was no longer young, and in any case the Escadron was breaking up. How could the Queen Mother, so often sick and ailing, keep control over her women? How could she lead them in the hunt? There were some who, from time to time, were commanded to fascinate ministers of state, but age was robbing the Queen Mother of her vitality; and there was much that went on at court of which she knew nothing.

  The Baron de Sauves had died two years ago and Charlotte had then married the Marquis de Noirmoutiers. She had not wished for this marriage, but it had been arranged for her by her family and approved by Catherine; she had found that her new husband was not so complaisant as the Baron de Sauves had been. He had threatened to kill Guise unless she ceased to be his mistress; but this she would not do. She sometimes wondered whether her husband would kill her as Villequier had killed his wife; she did not care. Her passion for Guise obsessed her; she was only happy when she was with him.

  As he came in she noted that his stern expression changed when he saw her; he was as passionately in need of her as she of him. There were times when he thought of Margot, but he believed that the Margot of today was a different person from the Margot of his youth. He had loved Margot and she had disappointed him; she had allowed her pride to ruin the life they might have had together; he could forgive her most things, but not that which had seemed to him th
e height of folly. He had turned light-heartedly to Charlotte, and it was this woman—this loose woman of the Escadron—in whom he had found what he sought. It was many years since they had become lovers, but theirs was a devotion which had strengthened. Charlotte had her service to the Queen Mother; Guise had his service to France: these two facts had kept them apart for long periods; but they assured each other that they lived for those times when they were together, and there was truth in this.

  Should I lose this, Guise asked himself, on account of plots and schemes to kill me?

  But he could not help knowing—although he tried to disguise this fact even from himself—that it was not solely on Charlotte’s account that he stayed.

  She embraced him fervently, but she was aware all through the night that he was uneasy, that the sighing of the December winds in the hangings made him start up and sometimes reach for his sword.

  As they lay in the darkness she said: ‘Something has happened. You are listening for something . . . waiting . . . For what, my darling?’

  ‘For an assassin, perhaps.’

  She shivered. She knew well that he was constantly in danger, but this could only mean that that danger had moved nearer to him. She would not rest until he had told her of the warnings he had received.

  ‘You must leave at once,’ she urged him. ‘Tomorrow . No . . . Now. Do not wait until the morning.’

  ‘It seems as though you would wish to be rid of me.’ ‘I fear for your safety, my dearest.’

  ‘Ah? he said lightly. ‘Are you sure you are not trying to get rid of me for the sake of another lover?’ And he began to sing the popular, ditty.

  ‘My little rose, a little spell

  Of absence changed that heart of thine . . .’

  But she had begun to weep silently. ‘You must go,’ she said. ‘You must.’

  To comfort her, he answered: ‘Do not fret, my love. Never fear that I cannot defend myself. To please you, I will go tomorrow.’

  But when the morning came he had changed his mind.

  ‘How can I go?’ he demanded. ‘How do I know when I shall see you again?’

  ‘Every hour you spend at Blois is a dangerous one. I know it. Go to Paris. You will be safe in Paris.’

  ‘What!’ he cried. ‘I in Paris! You in Blois! What use is that?’

  She was frightened. She realized that he was fully aware of his danger and that he contemplated it with a delight which was beyond bravery. She knew him well, but she had never known him like this before. She had a feeling that he was eager for death.

  He met her eyes and a quizzical expression crept into his own. He was aware that he had betrayed his most secret thoughts to the woman who loved him. She knew that the greatest man in the country, as he had seemed to so many, was afraid—of life more than of death. That for which he had longed all his life was almost within his grasp, but he was afraid of the last few steps he must take to reach it. He was half egoist, half idealist; and the two were in conflict. The bravest man in France was afraid—afraid of the price he must pay for the greatness he desired. He could only take the crown when he had murdered the King, and the general who had organized the killing of thousands on the battlefield—like the fastidious aristocrat that he was—shrank from the cold-blooded murder of one useless man.

  He had come so far, and he now stood face to face with this murder he must commit; he could not turn back. There was only one road to escape the result of ambition. That was the road to his own death.

  Charlotte was looking at him through her tears. ‘You will go?’ she begged. ‘You must leave Blois today.’

  ‘Later,’ he said. ‘Later.’

  And as the day wore on he told her: ‘I will stay tonight and go tomorrow. Just one more night with you and then . . . I promise I will go.’

  All through her life Charlotte remembered that day. During the supper they ate together, five notes of warning were brought to him. His cousin, the Duke of Elboeuf, arrived and asked to see him.

  ‘There is not a moment to lose,’ said Elboeuf. ‘Your horses are ready. Your men are waiting. If you value your life, go at once.’

  Charlotte looked at him pleadingly, but he would not see the plea in her eyes.

  He said: ‘If I saw Death coming in at the window, I would not go out by the door to avoid it.’

  ‘This is folly,’ said Elboeuf.

  ‘My love, he is right,’ said Charlotte. ‘Go . . . go now. Lose not another moment, I beg of you.’

  He kissed her hand. ‘My dearest, how could you ask me to leave you? That is more cruel than any assassin’s knife.’

  She said angrily: ‘This is no time for foolish gallantry.’

  Guise looked from his mistress to his cousin, and answered with deep feeling: ‘He who runs away loses the game. If it be necessary to give my life in order to reap what we have sown. then I shall not regret it.’

  Charlotte cried out: ‘You deceive yourself. It is not necessary to give your life. That is the pity of it!’

  ‘If I had a hundred lives,’ he went on as though she had not spoken, ‘I would devote them to preserving the Catholic faith in France and to the relief of the poor people for whom my heart bleeds. Go to your bed, cousin. And leave us to ours.’

  Elboeuf, shrugging his shoulders in exasperation, eventually retired.

  ‘You are determined?’ asked Charlotte.

  He nodded. ‘No more of death,’ he said. let it be life and love from now on.’

  But when they were in bed, yet another messenger was brought to the bedchamber. He had a note for Guise which he had been ordered to hand to none other than the Duke himself, and that with all speed.

  Guise read it and pushed it under the bolster.

  ‘Another warning?’ asked Charlotte fearfully.

  He kissed her, but refused to answer.

  * * *

  The morning was dark and the rain beat against the windows of the Château of Blois. Catherine, racked with pain, lay in her bed. The King had risen early; he had urgent matters which demanded his attention. Guise did not awaken until eight o’clock. Then he raised himself and looked down on his Fleep-ing mistress.

  Today there would be more warnings; today he would be asked to leave for Paris. All his friends would beg him to go, and Charlotte would join her appeals to theirs.

  He shrugged his shoulders and got out of bed.

  He put on a new grey satin suit in which he would attend the meeting of the council that morning. Charlotte, watching him, tried to chase away her fears. She found this easier by day, even on such a dark and gloomy day as this one was.

  ‘You like it?’ he asked, posing before her, speaking lightly, trying to cheer her.

  ‘Charming! But it is a little light for such a dark day, you will agree?’

  He kissed her. ‘Charlotte, I am going to ask you to do something for me.’

  ‘Anything I can do for you I will gladly do.’

  ‘Then do not ask me today to leave Blois.’

  ‘But you said you would leave today.’

  ‘To ride through the rain, to spend the night at some gloomy chateau when I might spend it with you?’

  She put her arms about him and laughed, because it was easy to laugh in the light of day; and when she looked at him, so much taller than all others, so much more distinguished than any man she had ever seen, she believed him to be invulnerable.

  He was late for the meeting. As he walked through the corridors he seemed to sense the doom which lurked there. He felt a little cold, but he would not admit that was due to apprehension. It is a chilly morning, he thought.

  He turned to one of the gentlemen who stood in the hall. ‘Go to the staircase door,’ he said, ‘and there you will see one of my pages. Ask him to bring me a handkerchief.’

  He could not help but be aware of the strangeness about him, of the fear in the faces of his friends. It seemed that a long time elapsed before one of his valets brought the handkerchief to him.

  ‘How co
ld it is!’ he said. ‘Light the fire. I feel quite faint with the cold. Is there some trifle in the cupboard which might revive me?’

  One of the men opened the King’s cupboard and found in it four Brignolles plums.

  Guise ate one of these. ‘Would anyone care to eat some?’ he asked.

  One of the King’s men appeared at the door of the chamber; the man looked pale and his hands were trembling.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he said, bowing to Guise, ‘the King requests your presence; he is in his old cabinet.’

  The man did not wait for a reply, but rushed away unceremoniously. Guise’s friends looked at him; their glances warned him, but he would not see the warning.

  He threw his cloak over his arm, and, picking up his gloves, walked to the door which led to the King’s apartments.

  * * *

  The King was aroused early that morning. He had many preparations to make, and he had asked to be called at four o’clock.

  The Queen, who was with him, looked at him in bewilderment for the candlelight showed how pale he was and yet how purposeful; he took no pains with his appearance that morning.

  He went into his privy closet, where forty-five men were waiting for him, as he had instructed they should. Inspecting them all closely, he ordered them to show him their daggers. There was a long time to wait, for he had risen too early. There would have been enough time to make his preparations had he been called at six. Standing there, speaking now and then in whispers, he was reminded of the Eve of St Bartholomew. He thought of his priests and pastors who Were already praying to Heaven for forgiveness for the crime which he had not yet committed.

  He had had the corridors cleared so that none of the Duke’s supporters might be near him, for he was terrified that his plan might miscarry, and of what might happen if it did. One of them had to die—the King of France or the King of Paris—and, as he saw it, the one who survived would be the one who struck first.

  One of his men came hurrying in with great agitation. He told the King that the Duke was in the council chamber, but that he had sent one of his gentlemen for a handkerchief, and this gentleman would discover that the corridors and staircases, on the King’s orders, had been cleared of the Duke’s followers, and would guess the reason. If he carried this story to Guise, the latter would know at once that his assassination was to take place this morning.