Read Online Crown in Candlelight by Rosemary Hawley Jarman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Rosemary Hawley Jarman
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embraces voluptuously, sharing with him the days and nights, her cup, her bed. After a few days they left Tours and moved to Troyes, within sight of the Seine and easy access to Paris. There she breathed her poisonous ambition in his ears.
‘I have the King watched day and. night. Yesterday he dropped his cup, his hand was shaking. The day before he wept for no reason. He is failing again, and soon we’ll show him no mercy, you and I!’
She was confident. It would have surprised her to learn that the agents of Jean sans Peur also watched the King just as avidly, and bore back to their master the disconcerting evidence of their eyes. It was as if the whole of France reverberated with the beat of hooves and whispers. And at Blois, Violante of Milan watched sadly from her château-tower, watched the empty courtyard and the barren vineyards and wondered then, if ever, her husband would come home. Sometimes, Louis still thought of her, but he was enwrapped in Isabeau, feeling ecstatic and afraid, as if he rode a wild horse down an avenue of darkness. By the time they left Troyes and took up residence at the Palais, joy had vanquished his fear. He grew bold and more assertive. He was in bed with the Queen, late at night, when the message came, voiced in ancient squeaky tones outside the door.
Isabeau said: ‘Call out. Say we have retired, and that tomorrow I’ll punish whoever has disturbed us.’
The scratching on the door continued with the urgent summons.
‘Make a light.’ Louis fumbled for flint and tinder. The Queen raised herself on her elbow. The light rippled on her heavy white breasts; her face was puffy with sleep. Louis slid from bed,. threw on a robe and opened the door. The servant confronting him was unfamiliar but there were many such in Isabeau’s entourage; distant relatives, hangers-on.
‘Seigneur, you must come. Your wife, the Duchess Violante.’
‘She is at Blois,’ he said curtly.
‘No, she is in Paris here, at the Louvre, mortally ill. She was brought this evening so that the King’s physicians might save her life, but it is hopeless. She is asking for you.’
‘Wait.’ He went back into the chamber and began quickly to dress. Isabeau had overheard the conversation. She watched him cynically.
‘You still have a tender heart,’ she mocked.
‘She’s my wife,’ said Louis, and threw on his chaperon and mantle. He picked up sword and belt and buckled them. ‘But you, my queen,’ he said gallantly, ‘are my life!’
The old page, agitated, was waiting, and went ahead down the stairs and out through the great gate into the foggy street where horses and an escort of five men waited. We must hurry, they said, and took Louis at a fierce pace through the deserted city. He rode in the midst of the escort, the man at its head going so fast through alleys and courts that the lantern he carried swung up and down, its rays like pale steam against the. fog. Louis thought of Violante: I could have treated her better, though I was never cruel … They turned over cobbles glossy with fog, into the Rue Barbette, narrow and dark, in the meanest quarter of Paris. A short cut, seigneur, said the leading rider, slowing his horse and turning to smile with unpleasantly black teeth and unshaven jaw poking from his hood. What a devil, thought Louis; why does Isabeau employ such villains, but then doubtless he is good with his fists. It was his last conclusive thought. From a darkened house on the left four men rushed out. Louis turned with a cry to the escort, just as the first blade drove into his side, doubling him in agony. He raised his head appealingly and was instantly almost blinded by blood from a slash to his brow, yet saw the unshaven man steadying the light and smiling. Louis slipped from his horse. His left hand clawed upward and clutched at the saddle-horn. one of the assailants raised a short sword and the Duke felt a searing pain. He looked up through blood, saw his own severed hand still
‘I have the King watched day and. night. Yesterday he dropped his cup, his hand was shaking. The day before he wept for no reason. He is failing again, and soon we’ll show him no mercy, you and I!’
She was confident. It would have surprised her to learn that the agents of Jean sans Peur also watched the King just as avidly, and bore back to their master the disconcerting evidence of their eyes. It was as if the whole of France reverberated with the beat of hooves and whispers. And at Blois, Violante of Milan watched sadly from her château-tower, watched the empty courtyard and the barren vineyards and wondered then, if ever, her husband would come home. Sometimes, Louis still thought of her, but he was enwrapped in Isabeau, feeling ecstatic and afraid, as if he rode a wild horse down an avenue of darkness. By the time they left Troyes and took up residence at the Palais, joy had vanquished his fear. He grew bold and more assertive. He was in bed with the Queen, late at night, when the message came, voiced in ancient squeaky tones outside the door.
Isabeau said: ‘Call out. Say we have retired, and that tomorrow I’ll punish whoever has disturbed us.’
The scratching on the door continued with the urgent summons.
‘Make a light.’ Louis fumbled for flint and tinder. The Queen raised herself on her elbow. The light rippled on her heavy white breasts; her face was puffy with sleep. Louis slid from bed,. threw on a robe and opened the door. The servant confronting him was unfamiliar but there were many such in Isabeau’s entourage; distant relatives, hangers-on.
‘Seigneur, you must come. Your wife, the Duchess Violante.’
‘She is at Blois,’ he said curtly.
‘No, she is in Paris here, at the Louvre, mortally ill. She was brought this evening so that the King’s physicians might save her life, but it is hopeless. She is asking for you.’
‘Wait.’ He went back into the chamber and began quickly to dress. Isabeau had overheard the conversation. She watched him cynically.
‘You still have a tender heart,’ she mocked.
‘She’s my wife,’ said Louis, and threw on his chaperon and mantle. He picked up sword and belt and buckled them. ‘But you, my queen,’ he said gallantly, ‘are my life!’
The old page, agitated, was waiting, and went ahead down the stairs and out through the great gate into the foggy street where horses and an escort of five men waited. We must hurry, they said, and took Louis at a fierce pace through the deserted city. He rode in the midst of the escort, the man at its head going so fast through alleys and courts that the lantern he carried swung up and down, its rays like pale steam against the. fog. Louis thought of Violante: I could have treated her better, though I was never cruel … They turned over cobbles glossy with fog, into the Rue Barbette, narrow and dark, in the meanest quarter of Paris. A short cut, seigneur, said the leading rider, slowing his horse and turning to smile with unpleasantly black teeth and unshaven jaw poking from his hood. What a devil, thought Louis; why does Isabeau employ such villains, but then doubtless he is good with his fists. It was his last conclusive thought. From a darkened house on the left four men rushed out. Louis turned with a cry to the escort, just as the first blade drove into his side, doubling him in agony. He raised his head appealingly and was instantly almost blinded by blood from a slash to his brow, yet saw the unshaven man steadying the light and smiling. Louis slipped from his horse. His left hand clawed upward and clutched at the saddle-horn. one of the assailants raised a short sword and the Duke felt a searing pain. He looked up through blood, saw his own severed hand still
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