Between Woodstock, the first novel by Walter Scott that I read in years, and Waverley, which I have also described in this series, I read a novel that had nothing to do, unlike those two, with civil strife in Britain. This was Quentin Durward, not entirely surprisingly about a young Scotsman, but it was set in France at the time of Louis XI, in the 15th century.
Louis consolidated French rule over the various dukedoms which had challenged their nominal overlord. The most prominent of these was Burgundy, and the novel opens with Quentin, having escaped from Scotland from the decimation of his family in a feud between clans, uncertain whether to take service under Burgundy or France. But a chance meeting with Louis leads him to serve the latter, who has a band of Scottish guards amongst whom is Quentin’s uncle.
Quentin falls in love with a countess who has sought refuge from Burgundy with Louis, only to find that he too is determined to use her to further his own alliances. In the end Quentin saves her from Louis’ machinations, and in the climax, when Louis seems under the control of the Duke of Burgundy, a formal agreement leads to peace and to Quentin being permitted to marry the young lady, with whom he goes back to Scotland to live happily ever after.
Quentin is a much more attractive youngster than the rather confused Waverley or the very proper Everard of Woodstock, and one gets totally involved in his convoluted adventures, as he dodges the machinations of several enemies who also become friends. But as memorable as its hero is the complex Louis, whose solipsistic machinations are skilfully brought to life.
There is the usual collection of entertaining minor characters, ranging from Quentin’s uncle who even has pretensions to the young lady who loves his nephew, to the Duke of Orleans, whom Louis cannot stand since he stood in line to the throne (and in fact did succeed him, after the short rein of his son). Louis betroths him to his deformed daughter, to bring him under control, all with the most charming effusions of affection for his kinsman.
Though Scott takes liberties with times and places, he does seem to capture the spirit of the times, as in the massacre of the Bishop of Liege by a Burgundian revolting against Duke Charles on the instigation of Louis. But Louis who is with Charles at the time, and arrested for this, repudiates his fellow conspirator, whom he had indeed intended to be the husband of the heroine.
Charles promises her hand to whoever kills the conspirator, and though it is actually Quentin’s uncle who does this, he yields to his nephew.
All very heady stuff, and the twists and turns of the plot hold one’s attention, as do the sub-plots involving gypsy agents whose loyalty is never sure, and the romantic aspirations of the countess’ aunt. And one feels here for all the major characters, good or bad, which was not always the case in the other two novels I have described.
The pictures between the book and the writer are of the film, of Louis XI and then of Robert Morley playing him in the film.