Queen Jezebel

by Jean Plaidy

  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 the 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 cold 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.

  The King gave hurried orders. ‘When the valet approaches with the handkerchief, seize him, make him prisoner and bring the handkerchief to me.’

  This was done. The King’s hand trembled as he held it out to take the handkerchief. It was neatly folded and, inside it was a hastily scrawled note:

  ‘Sauvez-vous, ou vous êtes mort.’

  The King felt elated. His prompt action had been a wise one. He took the note and handed the handkerchief to one of his serving men—a humble man who would not be known to the Guisards in the chamber.

  ‘Take this,’ said the King. ‘Knock on the door of the council chamber and hand it to the nearest gentleman. Keep yourself hidden as much as possible and murmur that it is the handkerchief for which the Duke asked; then hurry away.’

  It was done as the King ordered, and the gentleman who received the handkerchief did not realize that he who had given it had been one of the King’s men.

  The time was at hand. The King looked at his men. Were they ready? he asked them; and their answer was to lay their hands on their daggers.

  ‘Révol,’ said the King to one of his secretaries, ‘go to the council chamber, knock on the door and tell the Duke of Guise that I wish to see him in my old cabinet. What is the matter, man? Do not look like that. You are the colour of parchment and you shake like a leaf in the wind. Pull yourself together. You will betray us all.’

  Révol departed.

  The King retired to his bedchamber, and in the old cabinet, the assassins, their daggers unsheathed, awaited the coming of the Duke of Guise.

  Guise walked through the little doorway into. the King’s apart- ments. One of King’s guards shut the door behind him. As the Duke entered the old cabinet, a man who was standing by the door lurched forward suddenly and trod on Guise’s foot. Guise looked into the man’s face, immediately recognizing the look of warning there, and he knew that this was a last appeal to save himself. He was cert
ain now that he was in acute danger, and with this knowledge came agreat desire to preserve his life. Perhaps when he had contemplated death so light-heartedly he had not seriously thought that the King would dare attempt to take his life; but as he stood in the gloomy cabinet he realized that men like Henry the Third will suddenly and recklessly throw off their hesitancy and act rashly.

  He heard a movement behind him and turned; but he was too late. They had already plunged their daggers into his back.

  He said on a faint note of surprise: ‘My friends . . . my friends . . .’

  He felt for his sword, but it had become entangled in his cloak. He reeled, and one of the assassins struck him in the chest. His blood gushed forth, staining the new grey satin as he sank to the floor of the old cabinet.

  He was not yet dead, and dying seemed to acquire the strength of two men. He had one of the assassins by the throat, and managed to crawl, dragging the man with him, across the floor of the cabinet.

  ‘The King . . . awaits me . . .’ he gasped. ‘I . . . will go to the King.’

  And with an effort which astonished those who had stabbed him he dragged himself into the King’s bedchamber, and it was not until he reached the state bed that he collapsed and lay stretched out while his blood stained the King’s carpet.

  ‘My God,’ he muttered. ‘My God . . . have mercy on me.’

  He lay still and the King came to look at him, while the murderers with their bloodstained daggers came to stand beside the King.

  ‘Is he dead?’ whispered the King.

  One of the men knelt beside the Duke and opened the bloodstained coat.

  ‘He is dead, Sire. The glorious King of Paris is no more.’ The King touched Guise lightly with his foot.

  ‘There lies the man who wished to be King of France,’ he said. You see, my friends, where his ambition has led him. My God, how tall he is! He seems even taller now that he is dead than he did when he was living.’ Then he began to laugh. ‘Ah, my friends,’ he went on, ‘you have only one King to rule you now, and I am he.’

  A little later the King went to his mother’s apartments. She lay very still in her bed. The King was now gorgeously dressed, his face freshly painted, his hair exquisitely curled; he was smiling.