Виктория Холт - Queen Jezebel

‘Madame,’ said the Duke, ‘What are your instructions?’ ‘What?’ said Catherine. ‘Do you need instructions to avenge your father?’

‘Your Majesty doubtless had some suggestion in mind when you sent for me.’

‘This man walks about the court; he commands the King; he threatens not only your family, but mine, and you ask me for instructions!’

‘Madame, I promise you that he shall not live a day longer.’

She lifted a hand ‘Now you go too fast, my lord Duke. Would you plunge this city into bloodshed? I wish this man to attend the wedding of my daughter and the King of Navarre, After that . . . he is yours.’

The Duke bowed his head. ‘It shall be as Your Majesty wishes.’

‘My dear Duke . . . why, you are almost a son to me. Did you not spend the greater part of your childhood with my own family? And you have grown to love them, have you not . . . some more than others? Well, that is natural. But I love you as a son, my dear boy; and it is for this reason that I wish you to have the joy of avenging your father.’

‘Your Majesty is most gracious to me.’

‘And would be more so. Now listen. Do nothing foolhardy. I would not have you challenge the man. Let the shot that kills him be delivered by an unknown assassin.’

‘I have always believed that it is my mother who should fire the shot that kills him, Madame. That, I feel, would be justice indeed. She is a good shot and. . .’

Catherine waved a hand. ‘You are young, my dear Duke, and your ideas are those of a boy. If a shot were fired at the man and he were to escape, what an uproar there would be! No, let the first shot find its mark. Let us not make of this matter a bit of play-acting. That man has a way of avoiding his fate. Sometimes I think some special magic preserves him.’

‘It shall not preserve him from my vengeance, Madame.’

‘No. I feel sure that it will not. Now keep this matter secret, but discuss with your uncle what I have said. Find some means of hiding an assassin in one of your houses, and as your father’s murderer passes along the street on his way from the Louvre, let the shot be fired. No play-acting. Let us have a skilled marksman, not a nervous Duchess. This is life . . . and death, Monsieur, not a drama to be acted for the amusement of the court. Go, and when you have a plan, bring it to me. But do not forget . . . after the wedding. Is that clear?’

‘It is perfectly clear, Madame.’

‘Now, back to your pleasures, and not a word of this to anyone—except, of course, your worthy uncle. I know that I can trust you.’

‘Your Majesty can have complete trust in me.’

He kissed her hand and retired. He was too excited to return to Margot. He sought out his uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, to tell him of his interview with the Queen Mother.

As for Catherine, she was pleased; it suited her serpentine nature to bring about her desires by such circuitous means.

The bridegroom was riding to Paris at the head of his men, and although he was dressed in deepest mourning—for it was less than three months since his mother had died mysteriously in Paris—there was a Gascon song on his lips.

He was a young man of nineteen, not by any means tall, but of good proportions; there was an immense vitality about him; his manner was bold and frank, and there was often laughter on his lips; but his eyes were veiled and shrewd, and it was as though they belied the character which the rest of his face betrayed. In those eyes was a hint of something deep, something which was at the moment latent and which he had no intention of showing to the world. He had inherited much of his mother’s shrewdness, but little of her piety. He was a Huguenot because his mother had been a Huguenot, but on religious matters he was a sceptic. ‘By God,’ he would say, ‘a man, it seems, must have a faith; and as the good God decided He would make a Huguenot of me, so let it be.’ But he would yawn during sermons and at times openly snore; and on one occasion he had hidden himself behind a pillar and while eating cherries had shot the stones up into a preacher’s face.

His men were fond of him. They considered him a worthy Prince to follow. He would be coarsely familiar, with them, and he was easily moved to tears and laughter, but there was little depth in his emotions. The veiled, cynical eyes belied the facile emotions, and it was felt that while he wept he had already done with tears.

His love affairs had already been so numerous that even in a land where promiscuity seemed natural enough he was remarkable. He had been brought up in a practical manner by his mother, who had discouraged him from imitating the fanciful manners of the Valois Princes. He was coarse in his manners and not over-careful about his appearance; he was as happy in a peasant’s cottage as in a royal palace, providing the peasant’s wife or daughter could amuse him during his stay.

So he came riding into Paris, seducing the women of Auvergne and Bourbonnais, Burgundy and Orléans as he came.

He was thinking of the marriage shortly to be celebrated between himself and the Princess Marguerite. He had known from his earliest childhood that such a marriage would probably take place, for it had been arranged by Margot’s father, Henry the Second, when Navarre was two years old and Margot a few months older. It was a good marriage—the best possible for him, he supposed. His mother had wanted it because it brought him nearer to the throne. Navarre shrugged his shoulders when he thought of the throne of France. There were too many between; there were Henry of Anjou and Francis of Alençon, not to mention any children they might have; and Charles’ wife was at present pregnant. Navarre doubted very much whether a King of France could enjoy life more than he did; and what he was bent on at the time was enjoying life.

Still, the marriage had been arranged and it was as good a marriage as any could be. Margot had always been antagonistic towards him, but what did he care? What did he want of a wife when he could so effortlessly find so many women to give him what he desired? He would be quite content to leave Margot to her affairs, and he would see that she left him to his.

As soon as it had become known that he was to go to Paris he had had to listen to many warnings. ‘Remember what happened to your mother,’ he was told. “She went to Paris and never returned.’ They did not understand that he was not seriously perturbed by the thought of danger, and that he looked forward with eagerness to being at that court of intrigues. His mother had died and that had shocked him; bitterly he had wept when the news was brought to him, but he had soon discovered that, even while he wept most bitterly, he was thinking of the freedom which he would consequently enjoy. His mother he had always known to be a good woman, and he was ashamed that he could not love her more. She was a saint, he supposed; and he was, at heart, a pagan. She would have been disappointed in him if she had lived, for he could never have been the pious Huguenot she had tried to make of him. And her death brought with it more than his freedom; he had become of great importance—no longer merely a Prince, but a King of Navarre. There were no longer irksome restrictions, no more sermons from his mother; he was gloriously free, his own master, and that was a good thing to be at nineteen years of age when a man was virile, full of health and effortlessly attractive to all women.

So as he rode he sang a song of Gascony; and although now and then a friend would whisper to him a word of warning, that could only excite him the more. He was eager for adventure, eager for intrigue.

And when, with his numerous followers, he was but a short distance from Paris, King Charles himself rode out to meet him The young King of Navarre was gratified to be embraced by the King of France, to be called brother, to receive such a show of friendship.