Виктория Холт - Queen Jezebel

He laughed aloud. ‘ You . . . dead! And before the ceremonies are over!’

She laughed suddenly. ‘Well, perhaps I should have said immediately after.’

Some understanding seemed to be established between them at that moment. She betrayed a humour which matched his, a humour so strong that she had been unable to suppress it and to play the role which she had planned for herself.

‘I never saw one less melancholy than you in the dance this night.’

‘I have learned to play many a part which has been forced upon me. Your pursuit of Madame de Sauves was disgraceful. It was noted, I assure you, by many. That is not a seemly manner in which to behave on your wedding night, Monsieur. At least not in Paris. Perhaps in your remote state of Béarn . . .’

‘Which is now your state, Madame.’

‘Perhaps in our remote state of Béam, courtesy, elegance and the manners of a courtier do not count; but here in Paris, I would have you treat me with respect. I have become your wife.’

‘Most reluctantly,’ he reminded her.

‘And Queen of Navarre.’

‘Less reluctantly,’ he put in, and she permitted herself to smile.

‘I would have you know that this marriage ceremony of ours was, as far as I am concerned, performed but to please the King and my mother, and it is my wish that it should be a marriage of state only . . . by which I mean . .

‘Your meaning is perfectly clear to me,’ he said, resting on his elbow to look at her.

‘I trust that you will respect my wishes.’

‘Have no fear on that score, Madame. May I wish you goodnight?’

‘Goodnight,’ she said.

She was angry with him. He might at least have shown some sign of regret, even if he had made no attempt at persuasion; he had no manners; he was an oaf, a provincial. It was an insult to have married her to such a man even though he was a King. She looked at the ornate curtains of the bed while she trembled with anger.

He said, after a pause: ‘I perceive your inability to remain still, Madame. Should I attribute this to anger at my unworthiness to occupy this place in the bed, or may I put it down to your desire for me?’

‘You may certainly not put it down to the latter,’ she said sharply; but she was glad he had started to talk again.

‘Do not be too harsh with me, I beg of you,’ he pleaded. ‘We of royal blood cannot choose our wives and husbands, and it is well to make the best of what are chosen for us.’

‘Make the best! What do you mean?’

‘To smile instead of fume. To enjoy friendship, since love is out of the question.’

‘So you feel friendship for me?’

‘If you will but extend the hand of friendship, I shall not refuse it.’

‘That,’ she agreed, ‘would, I suppose, be better than being enemies. But is friendship possible between us? We are of different faiths.’

He lay back on his satin pillow and folded his arms behind his head. ‘Faith?’ he said with a laugh. ‘What has faith to do with us?’

She sat up startled. ‘I do not understand you, Monsieur. You are a Huguenot, are you not?’

‘I am a Huguenot,’ he said.

‘Then you know what I mean by faith.’

‘I am a Huguenot,’ he continued, ‘because I am my mother’s son. My dear Marguerite, had you been her daughter, you would have been a Huguenot. Had I been your father’s son I should have been a Catholic. It is as simple as that.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘some change their faiths. Your mother did. Why, even Gaspard de Coligny was a Catholic once.’

‘These fanatics may change their faiths; but, my dear wife, such as you and I were not meant to be fanatics. We are not unlike in our love of life. We mean to enjoy it, and faith can stand in the way of enjoyment. So our faith is a little thing. You are a Catholic; I am a Huguenot. What of it? You know what you want from life and you get it. I am the same. Our faiths are not our lives, Marguerite. They are things apart.’

‘I have never in the whole of my life heard any talk thus!’ she declared. ‘Is this the Huguenot way?’

He laughed. ‘You know better than that. Why, they are more fanatical than the Catholics, if that be possible. It is just my way . . . and perhaps yours.’

‘But I had thought you . . . as the son of your mother . .

‘I am many men, Marguerite. I am one man to the King, another to your mother, and yet another to Monsieur de Coligny; and ready to be yet another to you, my friendly wife. You see, when I was a baby I had eight different nurses and was reared on eight different kinds of milk. There are eight different men inside this body, which alas! does not find favour in your sight. I am sorry for your sake that I am not as tall and handsome as Monsieur de Guise.’

‘And I am sorry I do not possess the blue eyes and golden hair of Madame de Sauves.’

‘It is true yours are black,’ he said with mock regret. ‘Yet,’ he added maliciously, ‘they are not unattractive. But we stray from the point. We talk of lovers and I would speak of friends.’

‘You are suggesting that as I cannot love you as a husband I might as a friend?’

‘I am suggesting that it would be folly for us to work against each other. I am the King of Navarre; you are the Queen. We should be allies. You, as a good wife, should watch my interests; as a wise wife you should do this, because, my dear Margot, my interests happen to be yours from this day on.’

‘Interests?’

‘Oh, come! You know we live in a web of intrigue. Why, have your brothers and mother brought me here?’

‘In order that you might marry me.’

‘And why should they wish for this marriage?’

‘Surely you know . . . to unite Huguenots and Catholics.’ ‘Is that the only reason?’

‘I know of no other.’

‘And if you did, would you tell me?’

‘That would depend.’

‘Yes. It would depend on whether it was to another’s interest that I should be told. But your interest is my interest now, my Queen. If I lose my kingdom, you lose yours.’

‘That is true.’

‘Then you will help me to preserve that which you share with me?’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think I might.’

‘You will find me a lenient husband. It is necessary, of course, that we should stay together this night—the etiquette of your royal house demands it—or, in my leniency I should leave you. But it is only one night in our married life. You understand me?’

‘You mean that I shall not interfere with you nor you with me. That seems sound enough.’

‘Ha,’ said the King of Navarre, ‘if all people were as sensible there would be many more happy marriages in the land. I will make no attempt to stop your friendship with Monsieur de Guise, but you, while so fondly admiring his handsome person, his charming manners, and his elegance, will remember, will you not, that the gentleman, while the friend of the Princess Marguerite, might well be the enemy of the Queen of Navarre?’

She answered coldly: ‘Madame de Sauves has beautiful eyes; she has charming golden hair; but you know, do you not, that she is my mother’s chief and most trusted spy?’

He took her hand and pressed it. ‘I see that we understand each other, my dear wife.’

The candles guttered as she murmured: ‘That is a great consolation.’

He answered: ‘There might be other consolations.’

She was silent and he leaned over her to kiss her.

‘I would rather you did not,’ she said.

‘Believe me, it was merely a matter of etiquette.’

Margot laughed. ‘Some of the candles have gone out,’ she said. ‘In the dimmer light you seem different.’

‘And you, my love,’ he told her.

They were silent for a while and he moved closer.