Catherine: One Love is Enough (Catherine Series Book 1) (42 page)

She got painfully to her feet and went over to a mirror that hung from the blue silk wall above a pewter bowl and pitcher. It was a depressing sight that met her when she looked at herself in the mirror: a red and swollen countenance with puffy eyelids and blotchy cheeks. She decided that she looked hideous and unrecognisable: not without reason, perhaps, since a woman’s tears invariably result in an unattractive blurring of features and colouring. She emptied the contents of the pitcher into the bowl and plunged her face into the scented orange-flower water. She kept it there for several minutes, only coming up from time to time to take a deep breath. The cool, scented water did her good. Its soothing, healing properties gradually restored her skin to normal. Her mind seemed to function properly again and her despair soon gave way to a sturdy spirit of rebelliousness. By the time she finally raised her streaming face and mopped it in a silk towel that Xaintrailles had left lying there, she had made up her mind to carry on with the fight. Surely the best way to prove to Arnaud that she had nothing to do with Luxembourg’s trap would be to have him released from prison as soon as possible? And the only man with the means and power to bring that about was the Duke Philippe himself.

To make sure that the last traces of her grief were erased from her face, she stretched out for a moment on the bed with a damp towel over her eyes. She rearranged her hair, plaiting it carefully, and adjusted her headdress on top. Then she looked about her for the amethyst necklace that Arnaud had tossed aside so carelessly. She found it under a chair, picked it up and fastened it round her neck once more. It felt strangely cold and heavy against her skin. It seemed to weigh upon her with the full weight of the servitude to which Philippe of Burgundy had condemned her, in forcing her to marry Garin de Brazey so that she might be brought the more quickly and surely to his own bed.

This time the mirror reflected a radiant young woman, dressed with consummate elegance. But the feast-day finery only served to emphasise her tragic expression. She forced a smile to her lips, almost burst into tears once more and turned away from the mirror. She was just about to leave when she caught sight of Arnaud’s helmet lying on the chest where he had thrown it down. The thought struck her that he might be suffering at the idea of his King’s emblem falling into enemy hands. She flinched from the picture of Jean de Luxembourg, with a sarcastic smile on his face, handling the royal crest that Arnaud had carried so proudly to victory. She looked about her for something to wrap it in and finally caught sight of a black banner bearing the silver sparrow-hawk crest of the Montsalvy family. She tore it from its staff and wound it about the helmet, which she then placed securely under one arm. Then she left the pavilion to return to Arras.

To her great astonishment she caught sight of Jean de Saint-Rémy as she passed by the stands on her way to the exit from the lists. He was pacing up and down, with his hands behind his back and the air of a man waiting for someone. When he caught sight of her, he came hurrying toward her.

‘I was beginning to wonder if you would ever come out of that damned pavilion! I could see that there was a lot going on in there and I couldn’t help wondering what had become of you,’ he said with a volubility unusual in him.

‘Were you waiting for me then?’

‘Who else would I be waiting for, fair lady? A chivalrous man does not abandon a woman when she strays into enemy hands. I did not dare enter the tent, though I saw our stalwart jousters being marched out of there under a strong guard …’

‘I have a few words to say about that!’ cried Catherine, delighted to find a pretext for losing her temper. ‘He’s a fine one, that Duke of yours.’

‘Not mine, my dear,
yours
!’ cried Saint-Rémy in a shocked voice.

‘I forbid you to say things like that! I absolutely refuse to obey a man who behaves in such an abominable fashion. A man who would arrest two knights who have come believing in his assurances and good faith merely because they emerged the winners. It’s shameful! It’s … it’s too awful for words!’

Saint-Rémy smiled indulgently at her, the way a nursemaid smiles at a naughty child throwing a tantrum and stamping its feet.

‘I absolutely agree. It is awful! But are you quite certain, madame, that this removal of the King’s two knights into … er … safe keeping, has anything to do with Monseigneur?’

‘What do you mean?’

Jean de Saint-Rémy shrugged and readjusted his dashing little hat, which the wind had disturbed. ‘I mean that Jean de Luxembourg is just the man to have hatched such a plot himself! It is the sort of thing he would do. Are you coming?’

‘Where to?’

‘Why, to see Monseigneur, of course. Isn’t that what you wanted to do? Anyway, I have a litter waiting near here for you. I think you would be well advised to use it to convey yourself to the palace, rather than those charming little feet … especially with that great helmet under your arm. It must be rather unwieldy to carry. Give it me and let me take it for you.’

Catherine was struck dumb with astonishment for a moment. Then she burst into a peal of laughter. What a strange fellow Saint-Rémy was! There must be an unusually quick wit concealed beneath that languid, foppish manner of his. He would undoubtedly prove a rare and valuable friend if need arose. She held out her hand to him with a charming smile.

‘Thank you for reading my thoughts so clearly, Messire de Saint-Rémy. I would like us to be friends, you and I.’

The young man doffed his bonnet and swept the ground with its long feather as he bowed before Catherine.

‘I am already your slave, madame … But I accept your suggestion with great joy and alacrity. Now, allow me to escort you to your conveyance.’

He held out his closed fist for Catherine to rest her hand on and, having first tucked Arnaud’s helmet under his free arm, conducted her to where the litter stood waiting.

13

A Strange Night

Night was falling by the time the litter set Catherine down in front of the palace where the Duke Philippe’s apartments were situated. She had called in at her own lodgings on the way to change her slightly crushed and bedraggled satin gown for one of plain black velvet. She had exchanged her tall pointed headdress for a little round hat, also of velvet, which she wore over a gold net that held her heavy mane of hair. The room she shared with Ermengarde was deserted. The Countess must have been with the Princesses in her capacity of Mistress-of-the-Robes, and Catherine did not delay to see her. Jean de Saint-Rémy was waiting in the litter.

When the young woman and her companion appeared before the guards, the archer on duty tried to stop them entering. But Saint-Rémy, in a tone that brooked no contradiction, dispatched him to look for the commanding officer. Another soldier was sent off on that errand. And while they waited, Saint-Rémy gave Catherine back Arnaud’s helmet, which he had been carrying all this time.

‘Take this. I shall hand you over to the commanding officer and then take my leave of you. I don’t feel I can be of much further assistance to you in this affair. My presence would only embarrass Monseigneur, and he would feel obliged to appear severe. Whereas, left alone with him, a pretty woman generally comes off quite well …’

Catherine was about to thank him when the soldier reappeared, with the officer at his heels. As luck would have it, the officer on duty that evening was Jacques de Roussay. When he recognised Catherine, he hastened his steps and came toward her with a broad smile.

‘You asked to see me, Dame Catherine? What a great pleasure! Is there anything I can do for you?’

‘I want you to inform Monseigneur the Duke that I would like to speak to him alone for a moment – about a matter of the greatest importance.’

The young captain’s cheerful face darkened immediately. The idea evidently did not meet with his approval. As Saint-Rémy withdrew with a discreet bow, Roussay took Catherine aside and hurriedly explained the situation.

‘The fact is that Monseigneur is busy dressing at the moment. He is getting ready for the banquet he is holding tonight for the city aldermen and their ladies. And I feel I ought to tell you that he is not in the best of humour … He even whipped his favourite dog, Briquet, for some trifling misdemeanour. No-one remembers ever having seen him in such a state, and the reason is not hard to fathom. Dame Catherine, may I suggest in all sincerity that you postpone your visit till tomorrow? I cannot guarantee that even you would be well received tonight.’

But Catherine had changed since that dreadful scene that had culminated in Arnaud’s being taken away, still cursing her. She was no longer afraid of anything. She would have defied Lucifer in his fiery home if she had thought it would be of any help. She gave Jacques de Roussay a reproving look.

‘Messire,’ she said dryly, ‘the state of Monseigneur’s temper is of no interest to me whatsoever. What I have to say to him concerns his honour. If you won’t take me to him, I shall have to take myself. I wish you good night.’

Suiting her actions to her words, she swept up her skirts in one hand and hurried through the archway. Roussay flushed angrily as he caught up with her.

‘I am not afraid to announce you, madame, as I hope to prove in a moment. But remember you have only yourself to blame for what may happen. You have been warned!’

‘Carry on. I’ll take the blame for the consequences!’

A few moments later Catherine was ushered into the Duke’s presence. She realised as soon as she saw him that Jacques de Roussay had not exaggerated in saying that he was in a dangerous mood. He did not even turn round when she curtseyed to him. He stood looking out of one of the windows into the great courtyard, which was brightly lit up by torches. He wore a voluminous dressing-gown of crimson velvet and was bareheaded. He had his back to the door and his hands clasped behind him. Without moving, he rapped out:

‘I find your insistence on disturbing me rather curious, madame. In future you will kindly remember that I allow no-one to do so. When I wish to see someone, I send for them.’

Only the evening before, this tirade would have reduced Catherine to quaking submission. But now it left her unmoved.

‘Very well, Monseigneur,’ she said. ‘I will take my leave of you. For it matters little to me if you are known henceforth as the least honourable Prince in Christendom!’

Philippe whirled round to face her. His face wore the same glacial mask it had displayed during the lists, but now two red patches showed on his pale cheeks.

‘Be careful what you say!’ he cried harshly. ‘And don’t be misled by the fact that I once showed myself indulgent in my dealings with you.’

‘One might almost say more than indulgent! But I will go now, since Monseigneur finds my presence displeasing.’

She was turning toward the door when Philippe’s voice rooted her to the spot.

‘Stay there! And explain yourself. What is this affair of honour I keep hearing about? I would have you know that my honour is in excellent condition. The fact that my champion was defeated is in no way a slur, for his victor is a brave man.’

‘Really?’ said Catherine with calculated insolence. ‘I find it rather dishonourable of you to show your approval by throwing this brave man into a dungeon.’

A look of sincere astonishment crossed Philippe’s face, and Catherine felt her spirits rising. Saint-Rémy had been right. The Duke did not seem to be implicated in the plot against Arnaud.

‘What do you mean? What is the foundation for this fairytale? What dungeon are you talking about?’

‘The one into which Messire de Luxembourg must by now have cast the two knights de Montsalvy and de Xaintrailles, after first having tricked Constable Buchan into abandoning them on some false pretext or other. How do you equate that sort of conduct with the laws of chivalry, messire? I am a mere commoner, but to me it looks like a breach of honour. Still, as I said, I am no princess. Had it been merely some bold knight or other I might have understood. But the man who fought and vanquished the Bastard de Vendôme was in possession of this – which I would have thought simple loyalty to a blood relation would have obliged you to respect!’

Pale before, Philippe was now ashen white. His grey eyes stared unblinkingly at the fleur-de-lys that Catherine had just unwrapped. He seemed to have been turned into a pillar of salt. She then permitted herself a slight laugh, which brought him back to his senses with a start.

‘Give me that helmet, madame, and wait for me here. I swear by the blood of my father that if you have lied to me in this matter, before the night is over you will finish up yourself in one of those dungeons you mentioned.’

Catherine dropped a faultless curtsey.

‘Go then, Monseigneur. I will wait here – confidently.’

Philippe seized the helmet and strode out of the room. Catherine heard him order the archer on watch not to allow her to leave the room on any pretext whatsoever.

She settled herself composedly in a chair near the hearth, where a great fire had been set due of the chilliness of the night. She knew she had nothing to fear and she waited for Philippe’s return quite placidly. He was soon back, still carrying the helmet, which he now placed upon a table. Catherine leapt to her feet and stood waiting. The Duke remained plunged in thought for a moment, without moving, his arms folded and his head sunk on his chest. Suddenly, with the air of a man making up his mind about something, he raised his head and came toward her. She noticed that his eyes were as cold as before.

‘You were right, madame. One of my friends thought to serve my cause with a display of intemperate zeal. The two knights will be released, tomorrow morning.’

‘Why tomorrow?’ Catherine instantly demanded. ‘Why inflict an uncomfortable, unpleasant night upon them in some dungeon after such a wearying combat?’

‘Because I choose to do so,’ the Duke replied haughtily. ‘And also to punish you. I have just learned that you evinced a keen interest in these gentlemen, madame. St-Pol tells me he found you in their tent – you who are one of my own subjects. Would you kindly explain what you were doing there?’

Much as Catherine would have liked to fling the truth in the Duke’s face there and then, she sensed the latent jealousy that lay behind his request. In confessing her love for Arnaud she would be endangering her lover’s life. Assuming a look of indifference, she shrugged and said:

‘A long time ago, when I was a little girl in Paris, I knew Messire de Montsalvy. My father, who was a goldsmith, worked for his family. When I saw him fall, I was afraid he might have been injured, so I went to his tent to inquire after his health. Must I forget all my childhood friends to please you?’

She saw by Philippe’s expression that he was not entirely convinced. The instinctive mistrust of anyone and everyone that he had inherited from his father checked his predisposition to trust this beautiful woman. Observing her closely, he asked: ‘You are quite sure that there is no secret romance? I will not stand for it, do you hear?’ With a quick movement, he put his arm round Catherine’s waist and drew her toward him, but there was no softening in his expression.

‘You are to belong to me, do you hear, to me alone! Let me remind you of the trouble to which I have put myself to raise you to an appropriate rank. You have married one of my dignitaries, you are a member of my Court, you are one of my mother’s ladies-in-waiting … I do not usually take so much trouble for a woman. So few of them are worth it. But you are not like the rest. It would have been an injustice to leave you to stagnate in the humble world into which you were born. A woman beautiful enough to deserve a throne! I hope you appreciate your good fortune.’

Catherine leant back on Philippe’s arm to avoid his lips, which were suddenly loathsome to her. But she did not dare to push him away altogether for fear of that fixed glare of his that made her uneasy not so much on her account as on Arnaud’s. He stooped closer and closer to her lips … and she closed her eyes so as not to have to see him anymore. But he did not kiss her. Instead she felt him whisper in her ear:

‘In the little room next door you will find everything you need. Go and take off this dress and then come back here. I can wait no longer.’

Panic seized her. She had not been expecting him to stake his claim on her quite so brutally. After all, it was late, there was a banquet at the palace that night, and Garin would doubtless come looking for her shortly. Philippe could not possibly mean to keep her there that evening.

‘Monseigneur,’ she said, trying to keep her voice steady, ‘it is late, and my husband is waiting for me …’

‘Garin will be working all night with Nicolas Rollin. He will not worry about you; now that you have come to me, I shall keep you.’

He let go of her and guided her toward the little low doorway by the fireplace. Catherine, more dead than alive, cast about desperately for some means of escape.

‘I was told that you were very busy this evening.’

‘I am never too busy for you. Now hurry – otherwise I shall be forced to suppose that it was not simply concern for my honour that brought you to see me, and that the knight is dearer to you than you are prepared to admit!’

The young woman felt a shudder pass through her. She had stepped into the trap! The moment she had dreaded ever since her betrothal had finally arrived, and in the most unpleasant circumstances possible. At a moment when she would have given anything merely to be able to lock herself up alone in her room to think and cry to her heart’s content, and to find a little peace for the first time since that appalling scene in the blue pavilion, she was suddenly being forced to give herself to a man she not only did not like but positively detested. Arnaud’s life depended on it. There was no way out. She would have to pay a high price for his liberty. She understood now why Philippe had refused to liberate his prisoners before morning. He needed that night.

The Duke closed the door behind her and she found herself in a little windowless closet lit by two branching gold candelabra. Little bottles of perfume and jars of unguents stood disposed over a sort of low dresser. They too were of gold and brightly enamelled. A large square mirror stood above the dresser, reflecting back the soft candle glow. The little room was entirely hung with crimson velvet and looked like a jewel-box. A gown of some floating diaphanous blue material lay over a velvet-covered stool, with a pair of little satin slippers to match.

Catherine looked round her, but without much interest, and sighed despairingly. The only door into this little room was the one by which she had entered, and anyway, even if there had been another door, it would not have made much difference.

This was her fate, and it was bound to catch up with her sooner or later. Philippe would have her in the end. With a weary gesture, she pulled off her little velvet hat and threw it into a corner, followed by the gold net. As her hair tumbled down her back she had to bite her lips to stop herself weeping. It seemed such a short time ago that Arnaud had gone through the same motions, but with such loving impatience. Catherine struggled with all her might to banish from her mind that all-too-vivid and recent recollection. She began undressing with a sort of angry haste. Her dress fell in a heap round her ankles, followed a moment later by her undergarment. She agitatedly snatched up the pale blue robe and slipped it on over her head. Then she removed her stockings and little velvet shoes and slid her bare feet into the satin slippers. A cursory, indifferent look that she gave her reflection in the mirror showed her that the nightgown she was wearing hung about her like a vaporous cloud, suggesting rather than revealing the contours of her body underneath. She tossed back her hair with a defiant gesture, swallowed hard once or twice and then walked resolutely across to the door and opened it.