The Iron King by Maurice Druon Page B

dark sky.
    The taller of the passengers, he who had spoken second, placed a hand on his companion’s arm.
    ‘Gautier,’ he murmured, ‘I’m happy tonight. Are you?’
    ‘I’m well content, Philippe.’
    Thus spoke the two brothers Aunay, Gautier and Philippe, as they went to the meeting Blanche and Marguerite had arranged as soon as they knew their husbands would be detained by the King. And it was the Countess of Poitiers who, once more a go-between, had delivered the message.
    Philippe d’Aunay found it difficult to keep his happiness and impatience under control. His distress of the morning had disappeared, all his suspicions seemed unjust and vain. Marguerite had sent for him; for him Marguerite was running every risk; in a few moments he would be holding her in his arms and he swore that he would be the most tender, gay and ardent lover in the world.
    The boat grounded on the bank over which rose the high wall of the tower. The last spate had left a shoal of mud.
    The ferryman lent his arm to assist the two young men ashore.
    ‘You understand what you’ve got to do, fellow?’ said Gautier. ‘You’ll wait for us close by and don’t be seen.’
    ‘I’ll wait for the rest of my life, young sir, if you’ll pay me for it,’ said the ferryman.
    ‘Half the night will be enough,’ said Gautier.
    He gave him a silver groat, twelve times what the journey was worth, and promised him another upon their return. The ferryman bowed low.
    Taking care not to slip or get too muddy, the two brothers crossed the short distance to a postern and knocked a prearranged signal. The door was silently opened.
    ‘Good evening, Sirs,’ said the maid whom Marguerite had brought from Burgundy.
    She carried a lantern and, having barricaded the door behind them, led the way into a turret staircase.
    She showed them into the big room of the tower on the first floor. Its only light was a huge fire of logs on an open hearth. The glow rose and was lost among the tops of the twelve arches supporting the barrel roof.
    Like Marguerite’s, this room too was scented with jasmin; the furnishings seemed impregnated with it, the gold-embroidered hangings on the walls, the carpets, the furs of wild beasts spread about on low beds in the oriental manner.
    The princesses were not there. The maid went out, saying that she would inform them of their arrival.
    The two young men, having taken off their cloaks, went over to the fire and automatically held out their hands to the warmth.
    Gautier d’Aunay was two years older than his brother, whom he very much resembled, though he was shorter, more solidly built and fairer. He had a thick neck, pink cheeks and laughed at life. He was not, as was his brother, a prey to passion. He was married – and well married – to a Montmorency by whom he already had three children.
    ‘I always wonder,’ he said, as he warmed his hands, ‘why Blanche took me for a lover and, indeed, why she has a lover at all. As for Marguerite, it’s obvious. One’s only got to look at Louis of Navarre, with his downcast eyes, his gawky walk and hollow chest, and then compare him with you, to understand. And then, of course, there are other reasons of which we know.’
    He was alluding to certain secrets of the alcove, to the King of Navarre’s lack of sexual vigour and to the disharmony existing between husband and wife.
    ‘But I don’t understand Blanche,’ Gautier d’Aunay went on. ‘She’s got a good-looking husband, much better-looking than I am. Of course he is, Philippe, don’t protest. He looks exactly like his father the King. He loves her and, I believe, whatever she may say, that she loves him. Then why does she do it? Every time I see her I wonder why such a piece of luck should have come my way.’
    ‘Because she wants to do the same as her cousin,’ Philippe replied.
    There were light steps and whisperings in the passage that led from the tower to the house, and the two princesses came in.
    Philippe