The Hidden Evil Read online

  “He knew they were there?” Sheena asked.

  “Not actually,” the Duchesse replied. “He had only been informed quite unofficially that one of the woodmen was not to be trusted. It was just a small piece of gossip, such as echoes round The Palace day after day and to which usually nobody pays the slightest heed. The Duc remembered it.”

  The Duchesse gave a little sigh and sat down on the edge of the couch, holding Sheena’s hand in both of hers.

  “I thank God from the bottom of my heart that he was in time,” she said. “I have sent a gift to Notre-Dame and to the Nunnery of Les Filles de Dieu, to express my gratitude that you were saved.”

  She bent forward and with soft gentle fingers soothed Sheena’s hair back from her brow.

  “What you must have suffered, my poor child. It is just impossible to realise the agony of your mind or your feelings when you were handled so roughly by those terrible men.”

  “I am glad it was not you, madame,” Sheena replied and to her own surprise meant it.

  “I doubt if I should have been as brave as you were,” the Duchesse answered. “The Duc told me that when he found you you were not screaming or crying, but standing up with your face raised towards the sky. How many of us would have the courage to face death in such a way?”

  “Nevertheless I was so afraid, madame,” Sheena confessed. “Desperately horribly afraid. Those men, they were a little mad I think.”

  “Very mad, both in their minds and in their souls,” the Duchesse added.

  She rose from the couch and then walked over to the window and back again, twisting her hands together. Every movement she made was one of beauty and yet for the first time Sheena saw lines of trouble and worry on her face and the expression of one who is tortured by her thoughts.

  “They meant to kill me,” she said softly almost as if talking to herself. “They meant to kill me – and perhaps it would have been better if they had.”

  Sheena said nothing and after a moment the Duchesse went on still in that low voice,

  “I cannot tell you how I have prayed that men like the Reformers should not be permitted to agitate and distress our gentle peace-loving countrymen. And yet everywhere they go they stir up agitation.”

  “What do they hope to gain?” Sheena asked.

  “Do you realise that this is a movement that is happening all over Europe?” the Duchesse replied. “You have such men too in your own country and their leader, I understand, is called ‘John Knox’. Where there are many of them they call themselves ‘the Reformers’, although sometimes they are known as ‘Protestants’. But always they seek to turn people away from the True Faith, from the worship of God and their loyalty to the King.”

  She gave a little sigh and then something that was half a laugh.

  “I am their scapegoat!” she explained. “If it was not me, it would be someone else. But because I am in the position I am it is easy to accuse me of every foul crime and bestiality that is known to mankind.”

  She made a gesture of helplessness before she continued,

  “But what they really require to be rid of is the Catholic faith, the faith of our fathers, the faith in which France has stood rooted since Christianity first brought a light into the world.”

  “And what religion do they offer instead?” Sheena asked.

  “That is just the point, if they offered something quite different, another God perhaps, a different Trinity, one could possibly understand it. But they take faith from a man and give him nothing in exchange except a desire to destroy all that is stable, just and decent.”

  She spoke with such feeling and Sheena could not help being a little moved even while deep in her heart she knew that the Duchesse, however good her intentions, was living a life of sin.

  The Duchesse moved back to the couch and seated herself again.

  “I am going to tell you something, little Sheena,” she said, “that I have never told anyone else, not even the King. A few weeks ago when the Reformers reviled me and then said such things that any woman’s heart must shrivel within her when she listened, I went to see the Cardinal de Guise. You know him?”

  Sheena nodded her head. She had seen the Cardinal, tall, stately and very impressive in his red robes at all the Court functions and once as she genuflected to him in the passage he had held out his hand that she might kiss his ring in passing.

  “I told the Cardinal,” the Duchesse went on, “that I was deeply distressed at what was happening in France and I asked him if it was my duty to leave the world behind and to take the veil in a Nunnery. ‘Direct me, your Grace,’ I begged him – ”

  The Duchesse’s voice broke for a short moment and Sheena, listening wide-eyed, saw that such an action must have come after long and difficult nights of prayer, wrestling with her conscience and her desire to serve France.

  “What did the Cardinal say to you?” she asked, fascinated to such an extent by what the Duchesse was saying that she felt that she must know the answer.

  “He did not speak at first,” the Duchesse replied, “and finally, when I could bear the silence no longer, I cried, ‘Which way can I best serve my God and France?’

  “The Cardinal twisted his heavy jewelled ring.

  “‘The way of selflessness,’ he answered me. ‘The Duchesse de Valentinois has a higher mission than to leave the world, even in the service of God, a mission which no one but she could perform’.”

  “He told you to stay!” Sheena exclaimed.

  The Duchesse bowed her head as if the burden she had undertaken was intolerable.

  “Who else would guide the King?” she asked. “Who else would show him the difficulties and treacheries of Statesmanship that his father would never let him learn? Who else could be strong enough to rid France of these men who threaten to undermine her very soul?”

  The Duchesse jumped to her feet.

  “Torture, death and the stake!” she cried. “Could anything be more against the gentle teaching of our Lord Jesus? And yet what alternative is there? To let innocent people suffer? To let these anarchists, for they are little more, undermine the Monarchy and our country?”

  The Duchesse clasped her hands together as if in prayer.

  “They must be destroyed!” she whispered. “They must! They must!”

  There was so much passion and intensity in her tone that Sheena felt the tears start to her eyes and then in a low voice she asked,

  “The men who tried to kill me, what – what will happen to them?”

  The Duchesse wheeled round to face her.

  “Those who are left alive will die at the stake.”

  “Oh, no! No, not that!” Sheena exclaimed.

  “It must be so,” the Duchesse said quietly. “Not only because they tried to kill me and captured you by mistake but because they are fighting against the God we all believe in and the faith in which lies the only hope of salvation.”

  Sheena closed her eyes for a moment.

  Somehow it seemed that the Duchesse was equally fanatic in her way as the Preacher had been in his. Was there no other course? she wondered, something less extreme, something quiet, wiser and easy to live with.

  Then she heard the Duchesse say quietly,

  “You are tired. I have talked to you too much. Forgive me, but what has happened to you has been a shock to me, even though a lesser one than yours.”

  She bent down and pressed her lips against Sheena’s forehead. There was the soft sweet scent of flowers, a touch on her hands from a white silk robe and then the Duchesse had gone from the room, closing the door gently.

  It seemed to Sheena that she left behind innumerable questions and problems to which there was apparently no answer.

  And then, because she was desperately tired, she must have dozed a little, for she awoke with a start as the door opened and there were subdued giggles and laughter outside.

  She turned her head to see Mary Stuart accompanied by half a dozen of her friends come into the room, her arms
filled with white carnations.

  “Oh, you are awake!” she exclaimed in relief. “Your maid threatened us with the direst punishments if we woke you. What a dragon she is and how I adore the Scots when they are fierce!”

  She threw her armful of carnations onto the silk rug that covered Sheena’s feet and said,

  “Oh, Sheena, we have been so worried about you. What a ghastly adventure. And yet, at the same time, how exciting, to be burnt at the stake and yet to survive! What a story you will have to tell for all time.”

  “’Tis one I would forgo with the greatest pleasure,” Sheena replied with a little smile.

  “Tell us what it was like,” Mary Stuart begged her. “Were you terrified? Did your flesh creep and yet at the same time did you feel somehow elated because your soul was about to soar to Heaven?”

  “I am afraid now I am not exactly sure what I did feel,” Sheena said apologetically.

  “Oh, how disappointing you are,” Mary Stuart pouted. “I often wonder what it would be like to meet death at the stake or at the block. I have even dreamed of walking towards the headsman and seeing his eyes behind the black mask glinting at me.”

  A shudder went through Sheena and she put her hands up to her face.

  “No, no!” she cried. “Don’t say such things.”

  But Mary Stuart’s companions laughed.

  “Her Majesty is always imagining that she is the centre of some terrible drama,” one of her Ladies-in-Waiting teased. “She told me once just what one felt when one was drowned at sea.”

  “There are many ways of dying,” Mary Stuart said, “and Sheena has experienced one of them. She must tell us what it was like. She must!”

  “Not now,” Sheena said quickly, knowing how insistent the little Queen could be when she wanted something. “I must have time to collect my thoughts and put them into the proper words.”

  “Then I will tell a story to make you all afraid of the dark. Perhaps I shall die that way,” Mary Stuart said, drawing attention back to herself. “I shall feel the flames leaping towards me, hear the crackling and know that in a few seconds my white flesh will turn black.”

  A young Frenchwoman gave a little scream.

  “Save us, ma’am! Save us from such ideas. We are here to commiserate with Sheena, not to make her live that ghastly experience all over again.”

  “I am sorry, it is tactless of me,” Mary Stuart apologised with her flashing smile. “And to cheer you up, Sheena, we have a treat for you.”

  “What is ‒ that?” Sheena asked.

  “We have arranged for the Queen’s latest fortune-teller to meet us all here. Nostradamus himself has promised to come. What do you think of that?”

  “I think it is a waste of a good afternoon when you might be doing something much more amusing,” Sheena answered.

  Mary Stuart laughed.

  “Is not that like Sheena?” she said. “Always so practical, making out that we are feather-brained fools. Well in this at any rate, she shall not have her way. I am simply longing to hear Nostradamus.”

  “And so am I,” the others chorused.

  There came a knock at the door.

  “There he is!” Mary Stuart exclaimed.. “Let him in quickly.”

  Someone ran to obey and through the doorway came a small thin middle-aged man with deep-set eyes, high cheekbones and long thin fingers with big joints. He carried a number of rolled-up parchments under his arm and Sheena noticed that his doublet was shabby and his hose had been constantly repaired.

  Nostradamus bowed low and Mary Stuart gave him her hand to kiss.

  “We heard of your fame, monsieur,” she began. “We have heard that your prophecies invariably come true and that you see into the future more clearly than anyone else can in the whole world.”

  “Your Majesty flatters me,” Nostradamus replied in a low deep voice which seemed to come from the very depths of his body.

  “Tell us our fortunes,” Mary Stuart asked him. “Tell us what you see for us.”

  Nostradamus smiled.

  “You are young,” he said, “and the future is something that lies so far ahead that you are not afraid of it. But all too quickly it will become the present and then the past.”

  “Tell me just what you see for me,” Mary Stuart insisted. “Will I wear the Triple Crown? Shall I be Queen of France, Scotland and England?”

  Nostradamus seemed to look at her searchingly and then, crossing over the room, he laid the parchments beneath his arm on the small escritoire that stood in front of the window.

  “If your Majesty will permit me.” he enquired, indicating a chair.

  “Of course, of course,” Mary Stuart agreed impatiently.

  He spread out his charts in front of him.

  “When were you born?” he asked.

  It was the first of a large number of questions, all of which he wrote down very slowly with a long quill pen that squeaked a little on the parchment.

  Finally he declared,

  “You are beautiful and men will always love you, but your beauty will not bring you any happiness. Jealousy will always be a bitter enemy and especially when it comes from one particular woman who wears a crown. There is marriage, you will be a widow and the wife of someone who is not worthy of you.”

  He paused for just a moment. There was silence in the room as everyone listened to him wide-eyed. He looked down at his chart and then finally he said,

  “There are hearts and swords, violence and tears around you. You will wear a crown. You will love passionately and be loved with passion. Let that suffice.”

  “No, no! Tell me! Tell me all you see,” Mary Stuart commanded imperiously.

  Nostradamus turned over his chart,

  “That is all,” he said quietly.

  There was something in his face that made Sheena rather uneasily aware that he could say a great deal more to her if he so wished.

  “That is all,” he repeated.

  “At least my life will be exciting,” Mary Stuart said with glittering eyes. “At least I shall not be bored. Love! That is something that a woman can never be bored with. Is that mot true, monsieur?”

  “Love comes in many different ways,” he answered, “especially to a Queen.”

  “A Queen is still a woman,” Mary Stuart countered.

  He began to gather up his papers.

  “Wait!” she cried. “You have not yet done my friends. And what about my fiancé, the Dauphin?”

  “I regret to say, Your Majesty, I can only do one person at a time,” he answered. “You will understand that once I have concentrated on them their personality then comes between me and anyone else. Another day perhaps.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” Mary Stuart replied. “We will visit you tomorrow.”

  It was obvious that, having had her own fortune told, she was not particularly concerned with anybody else’s.

  Nostradamus put his documents under his arm and turned towards the door. And then, as if for the first time, he saw Sheena lying on the couch and, almost as if he was compelled, he walked towards her.

  “Is it you, mam’selle, who met with such an unfortunate accident in the woods this very morning?” he asked.

  Sheena nodded.

  “The Palace can talk of little else,” he said. “May I express my sympathy for what you must have suffered?”

  “Thank you,” Sheena responded quietly.

  He looked down at her and then he bowed low.

  “Sometimes such a doleful experience to the body can bring delight to the heart.”

  Sheena looked up at him in a puzzled manner and then before she could question him or even quite understand what he had said, he had bowed again and gone from the room.

  Mary Stuart was still chattering about her future.

  “Love and danger! Do the two things go together?” she questioned and then she laughed delightedly at some impudent sally from one young Courtier who was always in attendance on her.

  Chatteri
ng and laughing like peacocks, the colourful little band withdrew from Sheena’s room, going in search of more entertainment in another part of The Palace.

  The room seemed strangely quiet without them and now at last Sheena was forced to fix on her own thoughts, to remember what had happened and feel again the terrible humiliation of the moment when they had torn her clothes from her and the horror of being carried in the blacksmith’s arms towards the stake.

  She was lost in remembering and did not hear the door open. It was therefore with almost a frightened start that she looked up and found the Duc standing beside her. .

  For a moment she was angry that he should have entered her room so quietly that she had not heard him or indeed bade him come in.

  Then the memory of how he had seen her naked and covered her with his cloak brought a crimson flush to her white face and her eyes fell before his.

  “You are better?” he asked.

  “Y-yes, thank you.”

  She found it difficult to say the words and prayed that he would go away quickly for her voice seemed choked in her throat.

  Instead he fetched a chair and putting it beside her sat down in it.

  “The physician tells me that your feet are not as bad as he had first anticipated.”

  “They don’t hurt me now,” Sheena answered.

  He sat looking at her and after a moment she forced herself to say,

  “I-I must thank Your Grace for – coming to my rescue.”

  “There is nothing to thank me for,” he replied quietly.

  “On the contrary,” she insisted. “The Duchesse tells me that if it had not been for you I-I should not be here at this moment.”

  “How could you have been so foolish as to leave your groom behind?”

  Looking back, Sheena remembered why she had been so angry and why she had wanted to escape from the confines of The Palace and to ride wildly off into the woods until she and her horse were exhausted.

  Yet how could she tell him the reason?

  She coloured again.

  As if he half-guessed what she was feeling, he did not wait for her answer but went on,