Виктория Холт - Queen Jezebel

He felt for his sword, but it had become entangled in his cloak. He reeled, and one of the assassins struck him in the chest. His blood gushed forth, staining the new grey satin as he sank to the floor of the old cabinet.

He was not yet dead, and dying seemed to acquire the strength of two men. He had one of the assassins by the throat, and managed to crawl, dragging the man with him, across the floor of the cabinet.

‘The King . . . awaits me . . .’ he gasped. ‘I . . . will go to the King.’

And with an effort which astonished those who had stabbed him he dragged himself into the King’s bedchamber, and it was not until he reached the state bed that he collapsed and lay stretched out while his blood stained the King’s carpet.

‘My God,’ he muttered. ‘My God . . . have mercy on me.’

He lay still and the King came to look at him, while the murderers with their bloodstained daggers came to stand beside the King.

‘Is he dead?’ whispered the King.

One of the men knelt beside the Duke and opened the bloodstained coat.

‘He is dead, Sire. The glorious King of Paris is no more.’ The King touched Guise lightly with his foot.

‘There lies the man who wished to be King of France,’ he said. You see, my friends, where his ambition has led him. My God, how tall he is! He seems even taller now that he is dead than he did when he was living.’ Then he began to laugh. ‘Ah, my friends,’ he went on, ‘you have only one King to rule you now, and I am he.’

A little later the King went to his mother’s apartments. She lay very still in her bed. The King was now gorgeously dressed, his face freshly painted, his hair exquisitely curled; he was smiling.

‘How are you this morning, my dear mother?’ he asked.

She smiled painfully. She hated to admit how ill she felt; always despising illness in others, she had no wish to complain of her own; she never gave sympathy and she expected none.

‘I am improving, thank you,’ she said. ‘I expect to be about again very soon. I am tired of lying abed. And how is Your Majesty?’

‘Ah, very well, Madame. Very well, indeed. There is a reason.’

‘A reason?’ She raised herself a little and tried not to wince from the pain in her limbs.

‘Yes, Madame. I am truly the King of France this day, for there is no longer a King of Paris.’

She had grown pale. ‘My son, what do you mean?’

‘He died this morning?’

‘Died! Died . . . of what?’

‘Of loyal thrusts, Madame. The friends of the King removed his enemy.’

She lost control. She was weak from her pain and unaccustomed inaction. She said shrilly: ‘You mean you have killed Guise?’

‘You do not seem pleased, Madame. I had forgotten he was a favourite of yours.’

She cried out: ‘Oh, my son, where will this end? What have you done? Do you not know what you have done?’

‘I know that I am the true King of France now, and that is all I care.’

‘Make sure,’ she said grimly, ‘that you are not soon the King of nothing at all.’

His eyes glinted. ‘I understand, Madame. You grieve for your very dear friend!’

‘I have no friends. I have only my devotion to you.’

‘Yet that devotion sets you weeping for my enemies?’

‘Enemy he was, my son; but there are some enemies who must be allowed to live. You have done murder.’

The King laughed aloud. ‘ You , Madame, to accuse me of murder! How often during your lifetime have you done murder?’

She sat up in bed; her eyes were tired and quite expressionless. Not foolish murder,’ she said; ‘never foolish murder. You have killed a man whom Paris loved. I pray that Paris will forgive you.’

The King was bordering on hysteria. ‘You dare to talk thus to me! If I have learned to murder, from whom did I learn? Who is the most notorious murderess in France?’

‘You do not learn your lessons well, my son,’ she answered wearily. ‘But what is done is done. God grant that no ill will come of it.’ She was weeping from very weakness, but she quickly controlled her tears. ‘You should not be here. You must take Orleans at once. You must not give them a chance to arm against you. Oh, my son, what will Paris do? You dare not show yourself in Paris. I beg of you, inform the Legate: She lay back on her pillows. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ she murmured. ‘Where will this end? I cannot say. I only know that what I have worked for all my life lies in ruins about me. Where are my children? Only two left to me! My daughter, a runaway, a wanton wife! My son, the King of France, but for, how long? Oh, God, how long?’

The King stared at her. He sensed that she was in a prophetic mood and her words terrified him.

But she had thrown off her gloom. The lifelong habit, of never looking back, of accepting what it was impossible to reject, returned to her.

She began giving orders.

‘Where is the Cardinal of Guise?’

‘He has been arrested.’

‘Let him go free:

The King narrowed his eyes. He would follow his mother’s lead. He would do as she used to do in the days of her prime. He must not forget that she was a sick old woman now, very weak, and probably wandering in her mind. He would humour her. The Cardinal of Guise should be let out of the dungeon in which he had been placed after the murder of the Duke, but only to face the daggers of the King’s friends.

‘My son,’ pleaded Catherine, ‘you must listen to me:

‘Mother,’ he said gently, ‘you have been ill. You do not know how matters go. Rest assured that I shall forget nothing that you have taught me. Have no fear—I will handle this affair as you yourself would handle it:

She lay fretting in her bed. She had tried to rise, but nausea had overtaken her, and she fell back fainting. Her women were about her and she looked at them with distaste. Where was Madalenna? Where were the ladies of her EscadronVolant ? What had they been doing? Why had she not been warned of these terrible plans of her son’s?

They thought her old. They thought her finished; but she would never be finished while there was breath in her body. She sent for Madalenna.

‘What has happened to you?’ she demanded. ‘Why was I not informed? What news? What news?’

‘Madame, the Cardinal of Bourbon has been arrested. The Duke’s mother, the Prince of Joinville and the Duke of Elboeuf are all in prison. All those Guises on whom the King could lay his hands . . . all of them are in prison.’

She cried: ‘I cannot lie here while such things are happening. Have my litter prepared. I will be carried to the Cardinal of Bourbon. I must talk to him.’

While her litter was being prepared, news was brought to her that the Cardinal of Guise had been murdered.

Does the King not see, she asked herself, that he brings the knife near to his own throat? Does he not see that when he pulls down the pillars of our state, like Samson, he destroys himself?

She was carried into the prison of the Cardinal of Bourbon.

‘Monsieur,’ she said, ‘you are my friend, my wise old friend.’

But the old man lifted his head and laughed at her; there was hatred and contempt for her in his glance. ‘Madame,’ he said, ‘these are your deeds. These are your tricks. Ever since you came into France you have played your tricks. And now. . . you are killing us all.’

‘I had nothing to do with the murder of Guise . . . nor that of his brother,’ she cried. ‘This crime breaks my heart. May God damn me if I ever sought it.’

‘Madame,’ said the Cardinal, ‘I can say now what I have not dared say to you before: I do not believe you.’

‘You must believe me. Why should I commit such folly? Do you think I am ignorant of what this means?’