“It was too late to begin yesterday. There are a few things I am eager to learn, Madame.”
“Do not forget, my lord, that people are waiting for you,” remarked the Duchess, her eyes still on the hills.
Burgundy frowned. “Am I master in my own house or not?” he asked testily.
The corners of Margaretha’s mouth moved in an imperceptible smile, more eloquent than any answer. She folded her hands in her lap, a sign that she was ready to listen.
“In the first place,” Burgundy began coldly, “I am anxious to hear how it happens that the Queen can speak privately with so loathsome a fellow as the beggar from Guyenne, about whom you have no doubt heard.”
The Duchess of Burgundy shrugged placidly, looking at her husband from the corner of her eye.
“I thought we had agreed at the time,” Burgundy continued, “that every contact between the Queen and the outside world would take place through you. You have the opportunity to observe everything that happens in Her Majesty’s apartments.”
“The Queen is not a child,” said Margaretha. “I cannot lie down like a watchdog on her threshold. But there is no reason to be dissatisfied with me; I do what I can.”
“Yes, I know that.” Philippe now stood on the step of the window niche. “And as a matter of fact no harm was done, this time. But that does not mean that similar visits will be harmless in the future. After the Queen, you are the first lady at court, Madame.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but I am not,” said Margaretha. Her small mouth seemed to become smaller, her glance sharper, a sign that Burgundy’s dart had found its mark with malice aforethought. He bowed his head as though suddenly aware that he had made a mistake.
“Good. You are right, Madame, ma mie, you are only the third lady of France — but it lies in your power to be the first, if you wish.”
“I do what I can,” Margaretha repeated. She turned her head away and stared unseeing at the buildings which lay between the Hotel d’Artois and the ramparts. She thought of the humiliation she had endured at the court: at each more or less official function where both she and the Duchess of Orléans had been present, Margaretha had duly given precedence to the much younger woman, with deep curtsies. She punctiliously observed protocol, but the deferential words lay like gall and wormwood on her tongue and the faultlessly executed curtsies were torture to her. That Valentine invariably treated her with kind respect only exacerbated her resentment. She could not forgive the Italian woman for her amiable disposition and her honorable character which made every intrigue against her seem tasteless and reprehensible. Margaretha was only too well aware that the task she had taken upon herself — to drive a wedge between the royal family and Orléans — demanded from her words and actions of which she was secretly ashamed. This feeling of guilt lay deep within her. It gnawed at the roots of her self-esteem and created a constant state of discontent which was reflected in the drooping corners of her mouth.
“I know you do everything in your power,” Burgundy said, somewhat less coldly. “Yesterday I had an opportunity to observe that the Queen is firmly convinced that Madame d’Orléans is an accomplished practitioner of the black arts. But we must take care that the Queen does not choose Orléans’ side now; on the contrary, it is desirable that the same shadow should fall over husband and wife. I would like to know if my meaning is clear to you.”
The Duchess of Burgundy gave him a sharp look; two luminous points lay motionless in her black pupils.
“I understand perfectly,” she replied at last. “But I fear it will not be easy. Do not forget that the Queen’s aversion to Madame d’Orléans is almost innate. Furthermore, it is seldom difficult for one woman to hate another — reasons can always be found. And the role which Monseigneur d’Orléans fills for the Queen cannot be taken by anyone else. She needs him; therefore he will remain in her favor — even if he were the foul fiend himself. The Queen has a real hunger for pleasure and amusements; who would help her prepare all those masquerades and balls if Monseigneur d’Orléans were not there?”
“I am only amazed that he still finds time for another less harmless pastime,” said Burgundy drily. He walked across the room where, on the opposite wall, hung a Flemish tapestry, depicting the birth of Mary. He stood motionless before it, filled, as always, with deep pleasure; not so much because he was struck by the splendor of crimson, peacock blue and red gold, but because this precious work of art belonged to him.
“Alas, what a pity,” said Margaretha from the window niche, “that our son Jean shows so little interest in affairs at court. The Queen does not like him, although she does her best to hide it. That makes Orléans’ position considerably stronger.”
Burgundy frowned, nodding; he ran his finger along the letters stitched in gold thread on the lower edge of the tapestry.
“Now is also the time to discuss Jean,” he said, without turning. “He has asked me to allow him to lead a crusade against the Turks. Do you know about this?” he broke off to ask, and saw her nod.
“Not directly from him. And not in detail, but enough to know that we must encourage the venture as strongly as possible.”
“I think so too.” Philippe walked back to her across the tiled floors, with measured steps. “It will mean great expense, but we must raise the money. Naturally, I am not opposed to it; I see the substantial benefits of such an enterprise. Besides, Basaach is a danger to Christendom; he is not a man, but a ravenous beast. And now it seems that Orléans promised help to the Hungarians some time ago — a considerable sum of money, if I am correctly informed, and also various gentlemen of his court with their men.”
“Orléans cannot possibly leave now.” Margaretha smiled and smoothed her wide sleeves. “Though that might possibly be a solution …”
The Duke of Burgundy stood and looked at her.
“That is foolishness “ he said sharolv. “You know that it is impossible for me to exert any influence here, especially now that the King’s condition leaves so much to be desired. I wish Jean to go; I have thought a great deal about it and I believe it would be unwise to neglect this opportunity. He must take the best men who can be found. I am thinking of sending messengers to Enguerrand de Coucy in Italy. He is the only one who knows what a campaign in the East means.”
Margaretha looked up quickly, like a greyhound pricking up its ears.
“But the Sire de Coucy leads Orléans’ troops in Italy,” she said. “His return would cause considerable delay there. I thought the state of affairs in Italy had your full support, my lord.”
“Yes, so it did. But Pope Clement is dead and without him this Italian venture has little purpose. In any case, I need the Sire de Coucy now. I can offer him better employment for his abilities — the best is not good enough for me, now that a son of Burgundy marches off to war.”
“This will create a great sensation,” said Margaretha thoughtfully, “especially in England.” She paused to arrange her long, fur-trimmed train carefully about her feet; a cold draught had swept across the floor. Then, casually, she gave him the news which she considered the most important part of the conversation.
“Froissart has returned from England,” she said. “He has petitioned the Queen for an interview. Quite by accident I heard something about the intelligence he brings. It should be of interest to you, my friend.”