Виктория Холт - Queen Jezebel

As he strolled along the paths of his garden, his wife Jacqueline came to him. He watched her with great tenderness; she was pregnant—a fact which was a great joy to them both. They had not been long married and theirs had been a romantic match. Jacqueline had loved him before she had seen him; like many a Huguenot lady, she had admired him for years, and on the death of his wife she had determined to comfort him if he would let her do so. She had made the long journey from Savoy to La Rochelle, where he had been at that time, and, touched by her devotion, the lonely widower had found irresistible that comfort and adoration which she had offered. It was not long after Jacqueline’s arrival in La Rochelle that Gaspard had entered into the felicity of a second married life.

‘I have come to see your roses,’ she said, and she slipped her arm through his.

He knew at once that some new cause for anxiety had arisen, for he could sense her uneasiness. She was never one to hide her feelings, and now that she was carrying the child she seemed more candid than ever. The way in which her trembling fingers clung to his arm set him guessing what had happened. He did not ask what troubled her; he wished to postpone unpleasantness, just for a little while.

‘Why, you saw the roses yesterday, my love.’

‘But they change in a day. I wish to see them again. Come. Let us go to the rose gardens.’

Neither of them looked back at the grey walls of the Château. Gaspard put an arm about his wife.

‘You are tired,’ he said.

‘No.’

He thought: it must be a summons from the court. It is from the King or the Queen Mother. Jacqueline will weep and beg me not to go. But I must go. So much depends on my going. I must work for our people; and discussions and councils are better than civil wars.

He had long dreamed of that war which was to mean freedom for the Huguenots of France and Flanders, the war which would bring freedom of worship, that would put an end to horrible massacres like that of Vassy. If he could achieve that, he would not care what became of him—except for the sorrow his death would cause his dear ones.

His two boys, Francis and Odet, aged fifteen and seven, came out to join them. They knew the secret; Gaspard realized that at once. Francis betrayed nothing, but little Odet could not stop looking at his father with anxious eyes. It seemed sad that fear and such apprehension must be felt by one so young.

‘What is it, my son?’ asked Gaspard of Odet; and even as he spoke he saw the warning glances of Jaqueline and his elder son.

‘Nothing, Father,’ said Odet, in his shrill boy’s voice. ‘Nothing ails me. I am very well, thank you.’

Gaspard ruffled the dark hair and thought of that other Odet who had gone to London and never returned.

‘How pleasant it is out here!’ he said. ‘I confess I feel a reluctance to be within walls.’

He sensed their relief. Dear children! Dearly beloved wife! He almost wished that God had not given him such domestic happiness since it broke his heart to shatter it; that he had not been chosen as a leader of men, but rather that he might give himself over to the sweeter, more homely life.

His daughter Louise, with Téligny, the husband whom she had recently married, came into the garden. It was a pleasure to see those two together, for they were very much in love; and Téligny, that noble young man, was more to Gaspard than a son, for Téligny, a staunch Huguenot, had become one of the most reliable leaders of the movement, a son-in-law of whom Gaspard de Coligny, Admiral of France and leader of the Huguenot cause, could be proud.

Jacqueline and the boys knew that they could no longer keep the secret from Gaspard.

Téligny said: ‘There are summonses from court.’

‘From the King?’ asked Gaspard.

‘From the Queen Mother.’

‘The messenger has been refreshed?’

‘He is eating now,’ said Louise.

‘My orders are to return to court as soon as possible,’ said Téligny. ‘Yours, sir, are doubtless the same.’

‘Later we will go and see,’ said Gaspard. ‘For the time being it is pleasant here in the garden.’

But the evil moment could not long be put off, and even as he dallied in the gardens, it was obvious to Jacqueline that her husband’s thoughts were on those dispatches. She was foolish, she knew, to think that they could be cancelled merely by refusing to speak of them or to look at them. Téligny had had his orders; her husband must expect similar ones.

And so it was. There was a command from the Queen Mother for him to come to court.

‘Why so gloomy?’ asked Gaspard, smiling at his wife. ‘I am invited to court. There was a time when I thought never to receive such an invitation again.’

‘I wish that you never had,’ said Jacqueline vehemently.

‘But, my dearest, you forget that the King is my friend. He is good at heart, our young King Charles. It is my belief that he is the most benign sovereign that ever mounted the throne of the fleur-de-lis .’

‘I was thinking of his mother, and so my thoughts went to our dear friend, Queen Jeanne of Navarre.’

‘You should not think of the Queen Mother when you are reminded of Jeanne’s death. Jeanne was sick and she died of her sickness.’

‘She died of poison and that poison was administered by . . .’

But Gaspard had laid a hand on his wife’s arm. ‘Let the people of Paris whisper such things, my love. We should not. From them they are gossip; from us they would be treason.’

‘Then is truth treason? Jeanne went to buy gloves from the Queen Mother’s poisoner and . . . she died. That tells me all I wish to know.’

‘Caution, my dearest. You think that I am in danger. That may be fancy. Do not let us make of it a real danger.’

‘I will be cautious. But must you go to court?’

‘My dear, I must. Think what this means to us . . . to our cause. The King has promised help to the Prince of Orange. We will overcome Spain and then those of our religion will be able to worship in peace.’

‘But, Gaspard, the Queen Mother cannot be trusted. Jeanne used to say that, and she knew.’

‘We are dealing with the King, my dear. The King has a good heart. He has said that the Huguenots are as much his subjects as the Catholics. I am full of hope.’

But to his son-in-law Téligny he was less optimistic. When they were alone, he said to him. ‘Sometimes I wonder whether some of our party are worthy of God’s help; I wonder whether they are aware of the solemnity of our mission. Do they realize that it is time for them to establish “The Religion” in our land so that generations to come may be born to it? Sometimes it seems to me that the bulk of our people have no real love for “The Religion”. They use it to quarrel with their enemies, and they would rather argue over dogma than lead good lives. The men of our country do not take kindly to Protestantism, my son; not as do the men of Flanders, England and the German Provinces. Our people love gaiety and ritual; they consider it not amiss to sin, receive pardon, and sin again; as a nation, the quiet, peaceful life does not appeal to them. We must remember that. The two religions have been, to many as yet, a reason for fighting one against the other. My son, I am uneasy. There is a coldness in these summonses of ours which was not shown when I was at court. But I am determined to fulfil my promises to the Prince of Orange, and the King must be made to keep his word.’

‘All that you say is true,’ said Téligny. ‘But, my father. if the King refuses to keep his word to Orange, what can we do?’

‘We can try to influence him. I feel I can do much with the King, providing I am allowed to see him alone. Failing his help, we have our followers, our soldiers, our own persons . . .’