Виктория Холт - Queen Jezebel

‘Most excited by the tumult in the streets, Madame. She sent me to the window to look at the Duke of Guise as he rode by. Your Majesty knows how she always behaves when he is in Paris. She is very excited.’

Catherine nodded. ‘Ah well, the King of Navarre will have to look after her, will he not? He will not be hard on her for her wantonness. He himself suffers from the same weakness.’ Catherine let out a loud laugh in which Charlotte obsequiously joined.

Catherine went on: ‘They say he is very gallant, this gentleman of Navarre. He has been so ever since he was a child. I remember him well.’ Charlotte watched the Queen Mother’s lips curl, saw the sudden lewdness flash into her eyes. Charlotte found this aspect of Catherine’s character as repelling as anything about her; as cold as a mountain-top, she had no lovers; and yet she would wish her Escadron to discuss their love affairs with her, while she remained cool, aloof, untouched by any emotion and yet seemed as though she enjoyed their adventures vicariously. ‘Old and young,’ went on Catherine. ‘It mattered not what age they were. It only mattered that they were women. Tell me what the Princess Marguerite said when she sent you to the window to watch Monsieur de Guise.’

Charlotte related in detail everything that had been said. It was necessary to forget nothing, for the Queen Mother might question another who had been present and if the two accounts did not exactly tally she would be most displeased. She liked her spies to observe with complete accuracy and forget nothing.

‘She is not so enamoured of the handsome Duke as she once was,’ said Catherine. ‘Why, at one time . . .’ She laughed again. ‘No matter. An account of such adventures would doubtless seem commonplace to you, who have had adventures of your own. But those two were insatiable. A handsome pair, do you not think so, Madame de Sauves?’

‘Your Majesty is right. They are very handsome.’

‘And neither of them the faithful sort. Easily tempted, both of them. So my daughter was a little jealous of the effect your interest might have on the gallant Guise, eh?’

Charlotte touched her ear reminiscently, and Catherine laughed.

‘I have a task for you, Charlotte.’

Charlotte smiled, thinking of the handsome figure on horseback. He was, as so many agreed, the handsomest and the most charming man in France.

‘I wish to make my daughter’s life as pleasant as I can,’ went on Catherine. ‘This wedding of hers is distasteful to her, I know, but she likes to see herself in the role of injured innocent, so she will, in some measure, enjoy playing the reluctant bride. The young King of Navarre has always been one of the few young men in whom she has not been interested; and as I wish to make life easy for her, I am going to ask you to help me do so.’

‘I have one wish, and that to serve Your. Majesty with all my heart.’

‘Your task will be an easy one. It is well within your range, and as it involves attracting a gallant gentleman and seeking to

hold his affections, I am sure you will accomplish it with ease.’

‘Your Majesty may rest assured that I will do all that is possible to please you.’

It should not be unpleasant. The lover I propose for you has a reputation as colourful as your own. I have heard it said that he is as irresistible to most women as I know you are to most men?

Charlotte smiled. She had long desired the handsome Duke of Guise. If she had never dared to look his way it was because Margot guarded her lovers as a tigress guards her cubs; but if the Queen Mother commanded, then Margot’s anger would be of little importance.

‘I see that you are excited by the proposal,’ said Catherine. ‘Enjoy yourself, my dear. I feel sure you will. You must let me know how you progress.’

‘Is it Your Majesty’s wish that I should begin at once?’

‘That is not possible.’ Catheine smiled slowly. ‘You must wait until the gentleman arrives in Paris. I should not like your courtship of him to be conducted by letter.’

‘But, Madame . . .’ began Charlotte, taken off her guard. Catherine raised her eyebrows. ‘Yes, Madame de Sauves? What did you wish to say?’

Charlotte was silent, her eyes downcast.

‘You thought I referred to a gentleman who is now in Paris who has just come to Paris?’

‘I . . . I thought that Your Majesty . . . had in mind . . . a

gentleman who is already here.’

‘I am sorry if I disappoint you.’ Catherine looked at her beautiful hands, kept young and supple by René’s lotions. ‘I do not wish your love affair to advance too quickly. I wish that you should remember while you court this gentleman that you are a dutiful wife. You must tell him that your respect for the Baron de Sauves, my Secretary of State and your loving husband, prevents your giving what he will, ere long I doubt not, be asking for with great eloquence.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

‘That is all. You may go.’

‘Your Majesty has not yet told me the name of the gentleman.’

Catherine laughed aloud. ‘A serious omission on my part. It is, after all, most important that you should know. But have you not guessed? I refer, of course, to our bridegroom, the king of Navarre. You seem surprised. I am sorry if you had hoped for Henry of Guise. How you women love that man! There is my daughter doing her best to refuse a crown, for Monsieur de Guise; and I declare you were almost overcome by excitement when, for a moment, you thought that my orders were to take him for your lover. No, Madame, we must make life easy for our young married pair. Leave Monsieur de Guise to my daughter, and take her husband.’

Charlotte felt stunned. She was by no means virtuous, but there were times when, confronted by the designs of the Queen Mother, she felt herself to be in the control of a fiend of Hell.

Sadness brooded over the lovely old Château of Châtillon. There should not have been this sadness, for in the castle there lived one of the happiest families in all France; but for the preceding weeks, the head of the house, the man whom every member of the great family revered and loved deeply, had been restless and uneasy. He would busy himself in his gardens, where now the roses were making a magnificent show, and spend many happy hours with his gardeners discussing where they should plant the new fruit trees; he would chat with the members of his family or walk through the green alleys with his beloved wife; he would laugh and jest with his family or read aloud to them. This was a home made for happiness.

But it was precisely because there had been such happiness that the anxiety was with them now. They did not speak to one another of that dear friend, the Queen of Navarre, who had recently died so mysteriously in Paris, but they thought of her continually. Whenever the court, the King or the Queen Mother were mentioned, Jacqueline de Coligny would cling to her husband’s arm as though, by so doing, she could keep him at her side and out of harm; he would merely press her hand and smile, though he knew he could not grant her mute request; he could not promise not to go to court when the summons came.

Gaspard de Coligny had been singularly blessed, but being beloved by the Huguenots, he must be hated by the Catholics. He now fifty-three years of age; ever since his conversion to ‘the Religion’, which had come about when he had been a prisoner in Flanders, he had been entirely devoted to it; he had sacrificed everything to it as now he knew that he might be called upon to sacrifice his happiness with his family. He did not fear the sort of death which had overtaken Jeanne of Navarre, but he was perturbed at the thought that his family might be left to mourn him. That was at the root of his sadness. He lived dangerously; he had faced death many times during his lifetime and he was ready to face it many more. Only recently he had narrowly escaped being poisoned at—he guessed—the instructions of the Queen Mother. He should not trust that woman; yet if he did not trust her, how could he hope for a solution of all the problems which beset him? He knew that the mysterious deaths of his brothers, Andelot, the Colonel-in-Chief of the Infantry, and Odet, the Cardinal of Châdlion, had probably been ordered by Catherine de’ Medici. Odet had died in London; Andelot at Saintes. The spies of the Queen Mother were everywhere and she poisoned by deputy. Yet if he were called to court, he must go, for his life belonged not to him, but to his party.