Médicis Daughter (51 page)

So she wants Henri too. A court without the admiral and with a weakened House of Lorraine would give her absolute power with the King
. My stomach quivers. I do not want Henri dead. Then I remind myself that he is savvy enough not to trust Mother—whatever bargain was struck—and that wherever he is, he is armed and a marvelous fighter.

“Devil take Guise, I want to know what has become of my men,” my husband says. “I ask again: Where are the companions you separated from me after my arrest?”

Arrest! What appeared to me so serious a fate yesterday seems nearly laughable now. Never could I have imagined that.

Mother looks at him without pity. “They are dead.”

He staggers. Who would not? I reach out and take his arm but he shakes me off. “Pilles? Renel? Quellenec?…”

“Lavardin, Rochefoucauld, Pont…” Mother takes over the naming, cruelly raising a finger for each. “All. Or if they are not dead yet, they soon will be.”

“I do not believe you! They would have fought.” My cousin juts out his chin.

“They would have fought, yes, had they been given the chance. I will not discount the advantage given by surprise.”

I understand more clearly than ever the brutality of which Mother is capable. Not the killing, no—I knew her capable of that already, and which among the great houses do not keep assassins on their payroll? Her true viciousness lies in the ability to calculate men as if they were numbers and to report calumny as dispassionately as if it were the weather.

“You will never be free of this day,” I say.

“Why should I wish to be? These deaths will be celebrated and those who survive will fear the King too much to fight him.”

My cousin tenses. I know, or at least suspect, what he will say. Taking his arm once more, I squeeze it—tight. I hear his breath catch and see his jaw clench.
Thank God.

“His Majesty the King of Navarre has no intention of fighting. He is Charles’ own brother and my husband, so I am thankful His Majesty thought to bring him here and kept him safe.”

“Ah, but the King of Navarre cannot remain here forever. And you have heard what your brother says. After this there will be no Protestants at Court and few in Paris. Even had His Majesty not set his mind thusly, the people of the city will not tolerate continued heresy.”

This time my squeeze has no effect.

“I will not convert,” my cousin says.

Mother sighs as if greatly disappointed.

“You cannot execute a sovereign king and First Prince of the Blood for showing obedience to his conscience,” I say. “Particularly where he also shows obedience to his king.”

“But he does not!” Mother stands. “His Majesty orders him to recant his heresies!”

“Charles, this man is your brother.”

“I have brothers to spare.”

I hope Mother realizes Charles thinks not only of my husband but doubtless of Anjou.

“You cannot have peace, Charles. I agree it is too late for that. But you can still have honor. Do you wish to be remembered as the king who lured his royal cousin to Paris by false promises, embraced him before all the world, gave him my hand, and then killed him before the leftovers from the wedding feasts had been cleared from the larders?”

Charles stops so close before us that I can feel his rapid breath. I cannot breathe myself. My cousin’s life hangs in this moment. “All right,” Charles says, “I will spare his life. But if he will not abjure, he will pass his remaining years imprisoned at Vincennes.”

“Can there be no other choice? Let our cousin go to the Navarre.”

“To raise an army and return?” Mother laughs. “No, indeed. If it is liberty the King of Navarre wants, then perhaps the King should turn him out into the streets. The citizens of Paris may persuade him to abjure where we have failed. We hear reports that many of his sect find it in their hearts to say the rosary when there is a blade at their throats.”

“Give me my sword and I will take my chances,” the King of Navarre replies.

I lower my voice, though I have no hope of saying anything privately. “You will not get so far as the streets, Sir. You will die a dozen yards beyond the King’s door, most likely on the end of a halberd like the others I have seen spitted today as if they were game to be roasted.”

The pain in my cousin’s eyes burns me. But I am not sorry I am explicit. He has not seen what I have. I must make him understand the true nature of his situation before he gives my family the excuse to leave his fate to the armed men running wild throughout the palace.

Looking at Charles once more, I say, “Decisions of faith are not to be made lightly. If you ask my husband to decide between renouncing his religious beliefs and a dungeon, you must give him time.”

“I
must
give him nothing—I am king.”

“Well, then I beg time for him.”

“Three days, and not an hour more. He will either be my Catholic brother and embraced as such, or he will be my prisoner.”

I nod. Mother smiles as if my capitulation were part of her scheme. Rising, she shakes out her skirts. “Let your sister manage her husband. You and I have more important matters to attend to.”

Charles’ wild eyes flit to the door. “Yes, I am missing everything.”

I shiver at what he misses, and at the thought that he desires to see what I devoutly wish I could purge from my memory and know I never shall.

“Margot, you may take your husband away,” Mother says. “I will send a company of guard to escort you.”

When they are gone, my cousin sinks to the floor, knees pulled to his chest as if he were a young boy, head resting upon those knees, hands grasping his short hair. It takes me some moments to realize he is crying, for he makes no sound. Only the shaking of his shoulders gives him away.

I do not know what to say, because no words will make his situation less grim or his losses less staggering. I feel as if I intrude, but as I move to withdraw, he raises his head.

“Do not leave me.”

“I will not. But we must, together, find a way to get to my apartments. I do not know that we will be safe there, but we are not safe here, and we certainly cannot trust whatever guard Her Majesty sends.”

“According to your mother, all whom I could trust are dead.”

“Then we will call upon those
I
trust. If you trust
me
.”

For a moment he stares at me blankly. Then he says, “Call who you like; lead me where you will—even to my doom. I have not the faculties to think clearly, nor the will to act in my own self-preservation. The man who left your rooms this morning is gone as surely as if he died with his many friends.”

“Courage, Sir. I will not allow them to kill you so long as I breathe.”
It is a fearful promise, and may be hard to keep.

CHAPTER 21

August 25, 1572—Paris, France

It is a new day, yet the killing continues. Not in the palace but in the streets. I can hear the dreadful cries through my windows. My closed shutters do little to diminish them, merely leaving my rooms dark as if it were perpetually night. It is night—the night of the soul. I feel sick. I cannot eat. I cannot sit still. I cannot even pray. I’ve tried. My husband fares even worse. The only peace afforded his tortured soul came before dawn when I sang to him as one might a babe, and slumber spared him a few short hours of consciousness.

News filters into my chambers by many sources.

Henriette, accompanied by six armed men to keep her safe on her journey to the Louvre, brought a report of what passed in the Rue de Béthisy when the admiral was slain. The conduct of Guise in that matter disheartened me, and reports that he joined with Anjou to continue killing others of the admiral’s sect sickened me. I pray they are not entirely true.

Gillone collects whispers and boasts every time she ventures beyond my apartment. Word in the palace is that Charles has grown sick of the slaughter and insists to any who will listen that he ordered it to stop yesterday at noon. If that be so, it speaks poorly of his power as king.

No, I am not being fair, I think as I complete another circuit of my antechamber with Gillone’s anxious eyes upon me. It may well be that the noblemen have heeded his command and are no longer in the streets. They are not needed. Ordinary people do extraordinary things. “Drapers and wine merchants toss the children of their Protestant neighbors into the Seine,” Charlotte tells me as she slips in. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face stricken. “Is he still here?”

I nod.

“You will keep him safe?”

I nod again, unwilling to give voice to a promise I may not be able to keep. “Do you wish to see him?”

“Does he sleep?”

“Yes.” I lie to spare my friend. My cousin does not sleep. He mourns. One minute lying curled tight in a ball like a small child, sobbing and pulling at his hair, and the next pacing like a caged beast, casting about wildly for some action he can take to assist those still hunted throughout the city. I do not love him, yet his agony is painful to witness. Charlotte, I begin to suspect, does love him, so his despair would be her own. It would crush her.

“Tell him…” Her voice dissolves and silent tears track down her cheeks.

“I will,” I promise. “I will.”

She slips away, and I square my shoulders for a return to my bedchamber. I have put off this moment since smuggling my cousin from the King’s apartment more than four and twenty hours ago, but it can wait no longer. Whatever my husband’s grief, whatever his state, we must speak sensibly of his future or he may have none.

The King of Navarre sits on the floor, his back against one post of my bed. The sound of the door causes him to draw his dagger. When he sees it is I, he sheathes it again.

“Apologies, Madame.” He tries to give one of his wry smiles, as if he would make a joke out of his alarm.

“Do not apologize for a sensible precaution. I’ve given Gillone a dagger and I have one as well. If I had a pistol I would bring it to you, but alas, I do not.”

“How many could I shoot anyway should Charles change his mind and send the guard?” His shoulders rise to a shrug out of habit. Then more quietly: “But I suppose I could deprive them of the pleasure of assassinating me as they did Coligny. If I am to die I would prefer not to do it with Guise’s boot in my face.”

“Do not speak so.”

“Of the Duc?”

“Of your own death.” I move forward and crouch at his side. I would take his hand but the gesture seems presumptuous. “You have escaped the worst; why should you die now?”

“Why should you assume the worst is over?”

“Because,” I reply, giving voice to my raw thoughts, “to imagine otherwise would be unbearable. If we would not run mad, we must believe this nightmare draws to a close.”

“So many are dead already, I suppose it must.” He puts his face in his hands. Unwilling to disturb him, I remain silent. In a few moments he lifts his head. His face is so close to mine. Closer than it has ever been. His eyes burn. “The Duchesse de Nevers told you all the gentlemen who surrounded the admiral in his most desperate hour have perished. I had forty gentlemen with me when I was dragged before His Majesty. They are all dead. What Protestant noblemen can be left to slaughter? Only I and my cousin Condé. I suppose there is little sport in killing two more when you have slain hundreds.”

“Not sport but politics will determine whether those few of you who yet remain are safe.”

“True.”

“Yesterday Charles granted you your life, but his mind…” I hesitate, thinking of my brother’s mercurial mood swings. Is he mad? If so, is it but the madness of these hours or is it permanent? In either case I cannot bring myself to say he is out of his wits, so I say, “His mind is as changeable as my mother’s mood. You must secure a more official reprieve.”

“The council.” My husband nods.

“Yes, you must go before them and ask them to grant you your life. And”—swallowing hard I lay a hand on his arm—“you must be prepared to pay.”

“Abjuration? My honor for my life? I will be ridiculed in every corner of France. Despised by my fellows for weakness. Laughed at by Catholics as your family parades me around like the latest acquisition for the royal menagerie.”

“But you will laugh last. What better blow can you strike against your enemies at this moment than to survive?”

My cousin’s hand shoots out; his fingers encircle my wrist. “And you would go with me to the council?”

“If you wish.” I use my free hand to push my hair back from my face so that he can see my eyes better and know that I do not lie.

His fingers close more tightly. “Why? Why should you care if I live or die? My enemies are those closest to you—by blood and by affection.”

I shake my head. “I do not know why.” It is the truth. I have no love for this man, and if we are becoming friends, we certainly picked an inopportune time. “Perhaps because I gave you my word—promised to be your ally.” I am not satisfied by this answer and neither is my cousin, for his grasp does not loosen.

“His Majesty told the admiral he loved him, and gave his word as Coligny lay injured that he should have royal protection. Poor La Rochefoucauld played at cards with your brother only hours before his throat was slit, and was embraced as a friend when they parted. This is not a season for trusted allies or promises kept.”

“It is not, Sir. Yet I swear again, my word to you is good.”

We remain, eyes locked, very still. Like animals hiding, driven into the same hole.

“I will play the Catholic,” he says at last. “You may have them bring me a priest. Or better still, as you swear you are my friend, undertake my instruction yourself. I will not have to lie to you. I will only have to memorize. Lying before everyone at once—including God—is lying enough, I think.”

I do not know what to say. To hear him speak so brazenly about falsely recanting his heresies is not a pleasant thing. Yet, did not Christ admonish us to beware condemning others when we are sinners also? I made false oaths before man and God when I married him.

“God forgives much, Sir. And there are many this morning whose sins are so grave that they make yours in falsely professing the Catholic faith seem but a feather in the scales.”