man. It appeared to her at that time that there the affair of Dimanche ended.
It was Clermont who brought the news to her—excitable Clermont who looked for drama and romance in everyday life. Drama had certainly been found among the papers of Monsieur Dimanche and, Clermont assured the Queen, in the few words he had let slip in his semi-conscious state.
Clermont begged to be alone with the Queen and, when she was absolutely sure that they would not be overheard, divulged what she had discovered.
“Dearest Highness, I do not know how to tell you. Dimanche is in the service of Spain.”
“A Frenchman … in the service of Spain!”
“What I have found out, Highness, is horrible. And I do not know what to do. I remember them so well … as you do … the Queen and her little son. That brightest of boys …”
“Clermont, Clermont, what do you mean? Of whom are you speaking?”
“The Queen of Navarre and her son young Henry. There is a conspiracy—and this Dimanche is one of those who will carry it out—to ride to Pau in Navarre, where the Queen is at this time with her son, to kidnap them and bring them here to Spain … to … the Inquisition.”
Isabella could not speak. The memories were too vivid. She was back in that hideous square; she was watching the shambling figures in their yellow robes. Their faces had been indistinct; perhaps she had not had the courage to look at their faces; perhaps she did not want those to haunt her all the days of her life. But now there would be faces … the faces of the Queen of Navarre—dear Aunt Jeanne—and little Henry, the rough young Bearnais of whom, in spite of his crudeness, they had all been so fond.
A plot had been discovered through this accident to one of the conspirators, a plot to take honest, noble Jeanne and torture her and burn her alive—and perhaps her little son with her. And Fate had brought this to the knowledge of the Queen of Spain.
“Highness,” cried Clermont, “what shall we do? What can we do?”
Isabella did not speak. She could only hear the chanting voices, taking the terrible Oath; she saw the man beside her—the man she had married—his eyes aflame, his sword in his hand, swearing to serve the Inquisition, to torture and murder—yes, murder—Jeanne of Navarre because she was a heretic.
At length her voice sounded in her ears, firm and ringing, so that she did not recognize it. “It must not be.”
“No!” cried Clermont excitedly. “No, your Highness. It must not be. But what can we do?”
What could she do—she the little Queen, the petted darling? Could she go to Philip and beg him not to do this thing? It would be useless, for she would not be pleading with the indulgent husband; it was that man with the eyes of flame and the sword in his hand who had decided the fate of Jeanne of Navarre.
It would be so easy to weep, to shudder, to try to forget. She had been her mother’s creature, now she was Philip’s.
But she would not be. She was herself—Isabella, kinswoman of the noble Jeanne; for noble she was, heretic though she might be.
So she said again: “It must not be.” And then: “It shall not be.”
She was going to fight this evil. She was going to pit her wits against Philip, against the Inquisition. She did not care what happened to her. She was going to do everything in her power to save Jeanne.
How?
It was not impossible. The chief conspirator was for the time being a victim of his accident. It would, she gathered, be some days before he could set about his diabolical work.
She said: “We have a few days’ start of him.”
“Yes, Highness. But what shall we do?”
“It is simple. We must see that she is warned.”
“How?”
“By sending a messenger into Navarre.”
“Dearest lady, this is dangerous. Can
“I have my servants.”
“They are the servants of his Majesty.”
Isabella was silent, and Clermont, her face suddenly very grave, went on: “If you do this, you are working against the King your husband.”
Isabella answered: “I know it.” Her young face hardened suddenly with resolution. “And I will do it,” she said.
She was no one’s creature now. She was indeed herself; and so should it be to the end of her days.
There was one who would do all in his power to please her, one who would keep her secret from Philip.
She had begun to realize how loyal all these people of the court were to their King. There was only one of them who would go against him.
Don Juan, Alexander, Garcia, the young Austrian Princes, Ruy, and all the courtiers and statesmen could not be trusted. She knew that if she told them of her need they might agree to help her or not, but they would all consider it their duty to lay their knowledge before the King.
If she asked one of her grooms to take a message to Navarre, how could she be sure that he would obey her in
