Crown in Candlelight Read Free

hands close to his eyes. It was as he had feared; they were crystal, the long curved fingernails fragile mirrors, and his limbs … Sacré Dieu! the same … He shrank from the men.
    ‘Do not touch me! I am made of glass!’
    ‘Come on, monsieur,’ they said, winking at one another. ‘We must make you pretty again. Your lady wife commands it.’
    ‘I have no wife! I am Georges Dubois! He has neither wife nor children!’
    Georges Dubois, long dead, was a sin remembered; the young gypsy brought by Isabeau to seduce him. How she had laughed, watching them together! Georges identity remained, a fitting token of guilt, of remorse.
    One of the men took his arm, and he screamed. Into his vision, small and apparently menacing, came his youngest daughter..
    ‘Kiss your father,’ someone said.
    Katherine was held aloft in air thick with the reek of ordure and agony. She slid downward towards the pallor and the staring eyes. She took the glacial hand with its talons and. set her lips to it. Unknowingly she drew upon her all his sorrows; they merged with her own unaccomplished years. Then in Odette’s arms she was borne away, while Louis and Michelle knelt before the King. The servants were handling him. Over and over he cried: ‘I am made of glass!’

    The stolen revenues of France clothed her. Her throat wore a diamond serpent, her fingers flashed with jewels. Isabeau of Bavaria was proud, greedy and reckless, and completely without scruple. She laughed at life and sneered at death. She wore expensive Holland cloth. Two torch-bearers accompanied her and a diadem sparkled blue and green on her dark hair. She had dined well at the Louvre; her steps had an extra flaunt and her face was flushed. On her right came her brother, Louis of Bavaria, strong and swarthy. At her left was a man fair as a Rhineland maiden with a weak gentle mouth, and bringing up the rear was a small tousled man. As the quartet entered, Odette remained standing passively by the King’s bed. Isabeau spoke, laughing.
    ‘This, gentlemen, is the pigsty! Is it not the finest? My dear Orléans, what do you say?’
    The fair man drew a muskball from his sleeve and held it to his nose.
    ‘My queen, I’m impressed. And this is the pig?’
    He extended a slim hand as if to prod, and Charles cringed.
    ‘I see there’s a sow here also,’ said Louis of Bavaria with stolid wit. ‘Do they mate, I wonder?’
    Odette’s eyes stared past them all.
    ‘Not any more,’ said Isabeau. ‘The poor pig is past his prime.’
    ‘Bah! he stinks!’ observed her brother.
    ‘I had ordered him cleansed. Perhaps we should wash him now … Monsieur de Laon!’
    The small man came forward. He held an unstoppered leather flask.
    ‘Excellent,’ said Isabeau. ‘The red wine of Champagne … I bathe all my swine in it. Monsieur de Laon! Will you paint a pretty pattern on the King of France?’
    The King whimpered. His eyes rolled.
    ‘Charles!’ said Isabeau. ‘Attend me! See, here’s my dear brother’ (Louis of Bavaria bowed, a jerky insult) ‘and your own brother’ (Louis of Orléans smiled his depraved maiden’s stale). ‘And Monsieur Colard de Laon. My protégé. He paints à l’italienne . Receive us, Charles!’
    ‘I am not Charles. Leave me in peace.’
    She turned in rage to Colard de Laon. ‘Anoint him! Mock him! Paint him!’
    Shrugging, the artist stepped up to the bed. He poured wine over the King’s head.
    Charles said faintly: ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. In nomine Patris …’
    The Queen was irritated. The object of her torment was immune, far away. She leaned forward, her jewels irradiating the King’s wan face.
    ‘Charles! Don’t you know me?’
    ‘No,’ he said sadly. ‘You are fair, and cruel, but I do not know you.’
    She stepped back. Louis of Orléans said softly: ‘He looks on the point of death.’
    ‘He will not die.’ Odette’s voice drifted to them, almost sepulchral. ‘He will recover, and be avenged.’
    Isabeau