Free The Iron King by Maurice Druon Page B

tree-trunk was smouldering above a heap of tinder-wood upon the great hearth.
    ‘Madam …’ he said.
    A voice came from the end of the room, a rather hoarse and sleepy voice.
    ‘Come over here, Messire.’
    Was Marguerite alone? Was she daring to receive him in her room, without witnesses, when the King of Navarre might be in the vicinity?
    He felt at once relieved and disappointed: the Queen of Navarre was not alone. She was reclining upon her bed, while an elderly woman-of-the-bedchamber, half-hidden by the curtain, was engaged in polishing her toe-nails.
    Philippe went forward and in a courtly tone, which was at variance with his expression, announced that the Countess of Poitiers had sent him to ask after the Queen of Navarre, remit her compliments and deliver a present.
    Marguerite listened without moving. Her beautiful naked arms were folded beneath her head and her eyes were half closed.
    She was small, black-haired and olive-skinned. It was said that she had the most beautiful body in the world, and she was well aware of it.
    Philippe looked at her round, sensual mouth, her short chin, her half-naked throat, and her plump, elegant legs revealed by the woman-of-the-bedchamber.
    ‘Put the present on the table, I’ll look at it in a moment,’ said Marguerite.
    She stretched and yawned. Philippe saw her pink tongue, the roof of her mouth and her little white teeth. She yawned like a cat.
    As yet, she had not once turned her eyes in his direction. He made an effort to keep himself under control. The woman-of-the-bedchamber looked covertly at Philippe in curiosity. He thought that his anger must be too apparent. He had never seen this particular duenna before. Was she newly in Marguerite’s service?
    ‘Am I to take back a reply to the Countess?’ he asked.
    ‘Oh!’ cried Marguerite, sitting up, ‘you’re hurting me, woman.’
    The woman murmured an excuse. Marguerite at last consented to look in Philippe’s direction. She had beautiful dark, velvety eyes, which seemed to caress everyone and everything they looked upon.
    ‘Tell my sister-in-law of Poitiers …’ she said.
    Philippe had moved to escape being observed by the woman-of-the-bedchamber. With a quick gesture of his hand he signed to Marguerite to send the old lady away. But Marguerite appeared not to understand; she smiled, but not in Philippe’s direction; she seemed to be smiling into the void.
    ‘On the other hand, perhaps not,’ she went on. ‘I’ll write her a letter for you to give her.’
    Then, to the woman-of-the-bedchamber, she said, ‘That will do for the present. I must dress. Go and prepare my clothes.’
    The old woman went into the next room but left the door open. Philippe realised that she was watching him.
    Marguerite got up and, as she passed him, whispered almost without opening her lips, ‘I love you.’
    ‘Why haven’t I seen you for five days?’ he asked as quietly.
    ‘Oh, how pretty it is,’ she cried, unpacking the girdle. ‘What good taste Jeanne has, and how I love her present!’
    ‘Why haven’t I seen you?’ Philippe repeated in a low voice.
    ‘It’s the very thing to go with my new purse,’ Marguerite went on. ‘Messire d’Aunay, can you spare the time to wait while I write a word of thanks?’
    She sat down at the table, took a goose’s quill and a piece of paper 10 and signalled Philippe to draw near.
    She wrote so that he could read the word over her shoulder: ‘Prudence.’
    Then to the woman in attendance, who could be heard in the neighbouring room, she cried: ‘Madame de Comminges, will you fetch my daughter? I haven’t given her a kiss all morning.’
    The woman went out.
    ‘You’re lying,’ said Philippe. ‘Prudence is a good pretext for getting rid of one lover in order to receive others.’
    She was not altogether lying. It is always towards the end of an affair, when lovers either begin to quarrel or get bored with each other, that they betray themselves to those about them, and