Médicis Daughter (48 page)

I do not want him punished either.

“The Duc is barricaded in his
hôtel
.” Fleurie clasps and unclasps her hands as she speaks. “And he is a man who ordinarily fears nothing. Is that not a sign?”

Henri is still en ville!

Renée de Rieux bursts into the room. “They come in force! A huge number of Protestants are in the courtyard!”

Her pronouncement leads to cacophony. Being near the door, I am one of the first to fly from the room. Arriving at a window offering a view down onto the courtyard, I am nearly crushed by other ladies as I work to open it. Very quickly the windows on either side of the one I have claimed fill with
dames de la cour
leaning out and looking down at a sea of gentlemen clothed in black. I recognize the Seigneur de Pilles at their head. I do not see the King of Navarre.

“Idiots! What can they be thinking, coming in such numbers?” Henriette asks over my shoulder. “They will raise the fears of all Paris even higher.”

Below, Charles emerges onto the broad steps with Anjou, Mother, and the whole of his council.

Pilles springs from his horse, advances, and bows. “Your Majesty.” His voice rings off the walls. “We come, four hundred of your loyal subjects—”

Four hundred.

“—begging, nay demanding, justice for the admiral. We cannot wait. It must be swift. Those who planned Coligny’s death must die upon the Gibbet of Montfaucon if you would have us believe you truly love us as you do your Catholic subjects.”

I feel dizzy at the audacity of this statement. Mother is plainly incensed. Her eyes burn, her nostrils flare. She looks a full decade younger.

“Seigneur, gentlemen, we
shall
act swiftly,” Charles says. His voice lacks the power and confidence of Pilles’. “Two servants working in the house from which the shots were fired have been arrested. They are being questioned. The man who provided a horse that the assassin might flee has been taken.”

“From whose stable came the horse?” someone in the crowd calls.

Charles holds up his hand. “We cannot say at this moment.”

“
Will
not say,” Henriette murmurs. I half turn and she gives me a look.

“Be satisfied that when we can say, we will,” Charles continues. “In the meantime, return to the admiral’s side and watch him as I would myself were I not engaged in seeking those who tried to fell him.” Behind the King, Guast whispers something in Anjou’s ear and I see my brother give his favorite an unusually dark look.

“We will, Your Majesty.” Pilles bows. As he turns to remount, Henriette taps my shoulder. Grabbing Charlotte’s hand, I squeeze between the surrounding ladies.

“The horse is Guise’s,” Henriette says when we are clear of the crowd.

Oh, God
.

“Lovers’ quarrel or no, you must urge him to quit the city.”

“Surely Charles would not have him executed to satisfy a mob!”

“Who is to say the mob will wait upon the King? In any event, is that a chance you would take?”

Of course not.
The three of us run to my apartment, bursting in to find the King of Navarre. Charlotte, apparently quite forgetting my presence, goes directly to him and, slipping her arms around his waist, rests her head upon his breast. “I am so glad you were not with that crowd.”

“Not physically—I do not deem it appropriate to call out my newly minted brother in such a setting—but I am with them in spirit. Both Condé and I gave Pilles our blessing.”

This time I do curse—audibly.

Looking over Charlotte’s head, my cousin says, “Madame, will you grant me a moment?”

“Of course.” I hold the door to my bedchamber open. My cousin kisses Charlotte quickly before joining me. Will he tell me about the horse as Henriette did? If so, it will be an act of magnanimity.

For a moment he just stands looking awkward, much as he did as a boy.

“Sir,” I say, “I suspect we both have pressing business.”

“I can imagine yours,” he says wryly.

So much for magnanimity.

“I do not wish to imagine yours,” I rejoinder. “Having failed to stop Pilles from marching a virtual army here, it is doubtless to sign your name to some incendiary document that will prove a danger to yourself and others.”

He flushes. It is satisfying to know I can provoke him, because as a child I could not. He takes two steps toward the door. Then he stops. “I will not let pettiness prevent me from being a true ally. We need not be friends to be confederates.”

Good thing.

“An alarming report circulates in the Rue de Béthisy. It is said the Duchesse de Nemours called upon Queen Catherine three times in as many weeks—under cover of darkness.”

“Meaning?”

“The horse may belong to de Guise, and the man who rode it may prove to be in the Duc’s employ, but the culpability will be traced higher—much higher.”

“So Protestant rumors are as
incroyable
as Catholic ones.” I lift my chin indignantly. “Charles adores the admiral. He would never hurt him.”

“I did not say His Majesty. You have other brothers, as well as a mother with every reason to be jealous of Coligny’s influence.”

“I assure you, Sir, jealousy has never made Her Majesty a fool. She is wise enough to know, should she suborn such an act, it would mean the loss of far more than the influence she currently misses.” I pause and find myself breathing fast. The idea that Mother had a role in the wounding of the admiral is not entirely dismissible despite what I insist to my cousin. And that terrifies me.

The King of Navarre steps close. “I take solace in the idea that Madame Catherine, while capable of much that is unpleasant, is generally careful to keep herself above suspicion.” His voice is soft, as if he is sorry he was compelled to tell me what he did. This bewilders me but also lessens my anger.

“Do you dismiss the tale, Sir? Or do you merely presume that if Her Majesty was involved, there will be no evidence of it?”

“Either will do for the present.”

I am stunned. “You would not care if my mother supported the assassination of the admiral?”

“I
would
care—deeply. But the consequences should such a fact become known … I cannot imagine them, and that uncertainty fills me with apprehension.” He pushes a hand through his hair in a manner not unlike my Henri. “What are your thoughts? You know many of the players in this drama better than I. What do you think His Majesty will do when he hears the rumor—as he surely will before the day is out? What will he do if it is proved?”

What would Charles do if Mother were implicated?
I have no ready answer. If Anjou was involved, I certainly believe that Charles would act savagely. But Mother …

“I cannot say, Sir, and the question frightens me as it does you.”

He nods vigorously. “We are both wise enough to be afraid—far wiser than the rumormongers on either side. They speak without thinking.”

It is my turn to nod, for his words express what I felt sitting among Her Majesty’s ladies.

“Madame”—he puts a hand on my shoulder—“neither of us can predict what the King will do. You cannot predict what the Catholics will do, and I cannot foretell the actions of my fellows should the trail of blood lead from the admiral’s house to the Louvre. I wish you to know one thing, however: I will see no harm comes to you.”

It is a strangely gallant thing for him to say, given the situation. It ignites in me both a desire to reassure him and a compulsion to take equal care of his person. These are proprietary feelings—feelings with which I am not comfortable. “Sir, I can take care of myself.” I step out from under his hand. “I am not the one who risks the open streets. Keep your wits about you as you return to the admiral’s bedside.”

“Bien sûr.”

“And before you do”—I force a smile so that I will seem less worried than I am—“you had best take care of the Baronne de Sauve’s misperceptions. I will not be deprived of a best friend by misplaced jealousy.”

He smiles slightly. “You are a most accommodating wife.”

“I promised I would be.”

I do not follow him to the next room but sit down to pen my note to Henri. Not an easy task. The man to whom, less than a week ago, I confided everything without censoring thought or feeling is suddenly separated from me—in part by my simmering anger, but also by a growing recognition that his interests and mine are no longer one. I settle for the short, plain, and unembellished. Will such a terse message wound? Or will Henri recognize that my sending a note is, alone, proof of my caring? Such questions hardly matter. They are overpowered by a more momentous one: Will my words result in action on his part? I cannot know. All I can be certain of is that if Henri is arrested and, God forbid, banished or worse, the thought that I have tried to save him may salve my conscience but it will not prevent my heart from shattering. And to think I believed it broken already.

*   *   *

“You will not find the Queen in her bedchamber.” The Baronne de Retz is alone in Mother’s vast antechamber.

“Where, then?” I have spent all afternoon wandering, looking for something more substantial in the way of information than the whisperings that continue to circulate.

“She has gone to the Tuileries.”

At such a time?
Then it comes to me: no place is more private. “With whom?”

My former
gouvernante
hesitates.

I shrug. “I will go and see for myself.”

“Anjou, my husband, the Duc de Nevers, and Cardinal Birague.”

Serious company—all Mother’s Italian favorites and her favorite son, but not the King. An icy shiver runs up my spine. Such a group raises every sort of alarm. I force myself to smile. Then I go directly toward Charles’ apartment. If he does not know where Mother is and with whom, he ought to. As I approach the lesser entrance, the one which only those closest to him use, I am startled to see a hooded figure moving away from that door. The figure raises his head.

“Marguerite!” Henri’s eyes meet mine. I see surprise, pain, love, and anger.

“Why are you still in Paris?”

“Why did you—who know me better than anyone—think I would flee it like a coward?”

“Do brave men skulk around hooded?”

He pulls himself up to his full height and pushes back his hood. His eyes soften and I find it in me to soften as well.

“Henri,” I say, reaching out a hand to touch his arm, “brave men may die as well as cowards.”

“Brave men may die, yes. But they always die better than cowards.”

“I would prefer you live to be a very old man.” I drop my eyes to the floor.

“Would you?” His voice is imbued with a desire to know. I look back up into his face.

“Of course.”

“Do you wish me alive so that you may torture me?” His voice is rough and I know he has heard. “You promised.” The accusation is nearly childlike in its raw anger.

I want to tell him that my cousin has not touched me. But the words will not come. He does not deserve to hear them. And saying them would undo a ruse that my cousin and I agreed to. So instead I say, “We each promised many things. Can you say, Henri, you have been entirely faithful to your word? You who deserted me after saying you would love me forever?” If his conscience twinges, I cannot detect as much in his face.

“I must go.”

“Go, then. But before you do, I must call upon our long friendship. You know I am told nothing. I have passed all day fearing I know not what. You have been with the King: Can you not at least tell me what passes in fact? For the rumors are too wild to be credited.” I do not honestly expect an answer, but, having nothing to lose, a bold play seems the thing.

He hesitates, then says, “I cannot say what your brother will do, and I will not breach the confidence of the others who counseled him. But I advised him to strike the Huguenots before they stop demanding justice and rise up. You see, I too care—I would have you live to old age and your family along with you.”

“Strike how? Arrests?”

He ignores my questions, pulling up his hood once more. When he tries to pass, I reach for him again.

“Pilles was a fool to bring four hundred men to the Louvre, but there was no violence. And not every Protestant gentleman was with him.”

He tries to shake me off, but I cling tighter. If he will dislodge me, he will have to use force.

“Please”—I am begging, and I take no joy in doing so—“if Charles moves against the Huguenot chiefs, will he be indiscriminate? Will he arrest them all?”

Henri breaks my grip. In the next moment he has hold of my arms—both of them—and he is shaking me. I have never been frightened of him before, but I am now.

“You spy for him, but you would not spy for me! You really are the Queen of Navarre! God weeps for you, Madame. I do not intend to.” I expect him to release me, but instead he pulls me closer and kisses me roughly. I wriggle in his grasp, trying to break free. And at last he thrusts me away, doing so with such violence that I stumble, striking the wall and barely managing to remain standing. He stalks off without a backwards glance, leaving me cradling my arm.

“I do not want your tears!” I shout after him. “And you will not have mine!” It is a lie. I begin to cry as soon as he is out of sight, pounding on Charles’ door as I do. When it cracks open and my brother looks out, his eyes are wild. He does not admit me. Nor does he say a word. He merely shuts the door in my face.

There is only one place left for me to go. And, damn them all, they have driven me there. Wiping my eyes, I turn in the direction of the King of Navarre’s rooms, praying he is returned.

He is back, and not alone. When Armagnac opens the door, my husband’s antechamber is full.

“Look who is here.” The Prince de Condé accompanies his words with an undisguised sneer. Far across the room my husband looks up.

“Madame.” The greeting is polite but not warm.

“We are busy,” someone murmurs. “Go away.” The looks I am given are filled with hatred.

“Sir”—I have to raise my voice, as many of my cousin’s fellows are talking—“a moment.”