Виктория Холт - Queen Jezebel

‘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.’