The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (28 page)

I pressed my hands to my mouth, tears starting in my eyes.

“After the service,” he said, “the people will want to meet you. They’ll want to thank you.”

“They … they know I’m here?”

“They will, if you wish it so.” He grinned. “There is nothing to fear. You can see for yourself we are not devils or traitors seeking to tear this kingdom apart. We are just ordinary subjects, beholden to you and to your son King Charles for bringing us—”

The thunder of hooves outside spun us around. The worshippers did not hear, engrossed in their song, but Coligny gripped my arm and pulled me to a nearby side door.

“Go,” he whispered. “Now! Get away as fast as you can.”

As he pushed me from the barn I found my guard waiting, holding my horse by its reins. “Your Grace must leave now.”

With my heart racing, I scrambled into the saddle, looking to the barn where I could hear Coligny’s voice ring out. A woman wailed. The guard still had my reins; as he yanked my horse toward a thicket where he’d tethered his mount, I glimpsed men in chain mail galloping around the barn from the other side.

“Wait,” I said, and though I meant to sound imperious, my voice was a mere whisper.

“They’re Guise retainers,” my guard said. “Your Grace, please; I have sworn to protect you.”

“No!” I snatched at my reins; as I did, I saw the people pouring from the barn, Coligny’s black-cloaked figure among them. Some ran into the surrounding trees, seeking refuge; others came to a terrified halt before the men on horses now circling the barn, pikes lowered as they began to strike. One flung a lit torch through the door and flames caught hold at once; I heard shrieking and knew there were still people within, now burning alive. In horrified disbelief I watched as the Huguenots outside fell, sharp pike blades scything off heads, limbs, spraying blood. Screams and futile pleas for mercy assaulted my ears; and when I saw that unmistakable figure on his huge white destrier, the ragged scar visible even under the shadow of his helmet, his arm flung out like an avenging devil’s, I kicked furiously at my horse with my heels.

My gentle mare reared, almost throwing me. I whirled in my saddle to my guard to find Coligny on his horse; his gloved hand held fast to my mare’s braided tail.

“I promised you would be safe.” He met my eyes; as I saw the pain and sorrow in his expression, I wanted to yell in despair. He motioned to
my guard. “Take her back to Paris,” and then he threw up his hood and spurred off, racing past the retainers and le Balafré, who continued the slaughter, their laughter defiling the air.

No one saw me as I fled with my guard through the trees.

“How many?” I stood in my apartments in the Louvre, still wearing the soiled gown I’d ridden in without stopping. My hair hung tangled about my face; Lucrezia pressed a goblet of mulled cider into my rein-chafed hands.

Birago looked at the dispatch he’d received from his informants while I was still on the road. “At least one hundred, maybe more. Every Catholic in Vassy has risen up at le Balafré’s command. They hang pastors from the trees and torch Huguenot homes and businesses.” He lifted his somber regard to me. “It’s what we feared. The duc de Guise has declared war on the Huguenots and on you. Forgive me. I have failed. My spies had no indication he planned this.”

“No, it’s not your fault. How were you to know?” I moved with slow, heavy steps to my chair. “No one could have foreseen this.” I started to drink from my goblet and then flung it across the chamber. It clattered against the wainscoting. “There were women and children there,” I whispered, my voice shuddering, “innocents who’d done no wrong. If he gets his way, not a single Huguenot will be left alive. I passed an edict granting them the right to worship in peace and he has broken it. I want him arrested. He will pay for this, by God.”

Birago said quietly, “If you issue the warrant for his arrest, he could set all France aflame.”

“Then let him.” I met Birago’s eyes without flinching. “He is a traitor. He must answer these charges before the king—alone and unarmed. Prepare the warrant. It is time these Guises learned I am not to be trifled with.”

To the chorus of “
Vive le Balafré!
” an endless line of soldiers carrying pikes and armed retainers entered the courtyard; at their head rode their leader in silver-chased armor.

Standing at my balcony I gazed upon the mass of armed soldiers and
retainers filling the courtyard below. Even if I summoned our entire royal guard, I wouldn’t command half these men. Through my teeth I said to Birago, “Where is Constable Montmorency? We sent him with the warrant. Where are he and the lords who went with him?”

Birago pointed. “There.”

I followed to where he indicated. The constable in his battered armor rode with the other Catholic peers. On one of their pikes dangled a shredded parchment: my warrant.

“I sat that old man Montmorency in Council,” I fumed. “I gave him a place of honor at our table after the Guises deprived him of it. How can he turn on us like this?”

“We knew the risks,” said Birago, calm as ever now that the crisis was upon us. “Now we must negotiate. Charles is your son and their sovereign. Le Balafré must have terms we can use to our advantage.”

“Yes, fetch Charles at once.” As Birago left, I hurried with my women downstairs to the great hall. I’d just reached the dais with the thrones under the canopy when Birago brought in Charles. My son looked frightened and pale; his personal guard flanked him—insignificant defense compared to the horde of insurgent Catholics that came tramping into the hall moments later. They parted to reveal le Balafré, striding toward us with unmistakable purpose.

I took one look at his scarred countenance and braced myself.

Birago nudged my son. I watched with a knot in my throat as Charles squared his thin shoulders and said with a surprising, hard clarity: “My lord duke, you were ordered to come to us unarmed. You will send these men away.”

Le Balafré executed a mocking bow. He didn’t glance at me, his eyes fixed on my eleven-year-old son. “Your Majesty, I fear I cannot. Heresy overtakes France; it is my sworn duty as a Catholic to defend us from its corruption, with an army if need be.” He spread his arms; from among his officers, the constable stepped forth. I couldn’t contain my gasp when I saw the disheveled figure beside him—a mop of dirty-gold hair atop his leering saturnine face.

It was Jeanne of Navarre’s husband, Antoine of Bourbon. As I met his smug eyes, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. Birago had warned me this lout could pose a threat; now he was before me: a Catholic prince wielded by the Guises to wrest the regency from me.

I clenched my fists. How could I have been so stupid as to think Jeanne could keep her wayward husband at home, under her skirts?

As if he could read my thoughts, le Balafré gave me a cold stare. Then he said, “I hereby announce the Holy Triumvirate, dedicated to upholding the Roman Catholic faith. I, my lord the constable, and Antoine of Bourbon will now see to our realm’s defense. Anyone who is not with us is against us and will suffer accordingly.”

Antoine thumped his fist against his chest. “The regency is mine! You stole it from me, but it is mine and I
will
have it.”

Beside me, I felt Charles tense. I’d promised to him to keep him safe from the Guises, and before I knew what I was doing, I retorted, “We do not take advice from drunken fools.”

Le Balafré’s voice was like a blade. “You misunderstand. The prince of Bourbon doesn’t need your permission to be named regent. Now, madame, shall you honor him and send the heretics to their just fate, or shall I?”

Charles made a strangled sound; without warning he screamed his response. “I’ll kill you for this! I’ll hang you from a gibbet and cut you down while you still breathe. I’ll rip out your guts!”

I pulled him to me, feeling him shudder. “You have no right,” I told le Balafré as I ran my hand over Charles’s hair, as I might soothe a panicked animal. “This is treason. You are a traitor.”

Le Balafré said, “I am but a humble subject who seeks to protect France.”

Then he flicked his hand and his men closed in.

“What do you mean, they bring an army?” A guttering candle tossed misshapen shadows on the walls. I spoke in a whisper so as not to awaken Charles, who slept in the next room. My apartments had become our world; held captive in our palace, I kept thinking how right I’d been to send my other children to St. Germain before le Balafré arrived, for at least there, surrounded by their household governors and guards, they’d be safe.

“My informants saw it,” said Birago. “The Huguenots are marching against the Triumvirate.”

I felt as though I couldn’t breathe.
“Dio Mio
, Cosimo told me there would be war.” I paused, forcing myself to remain calm. “How many Huguenots?”

“If the reports are correct, five thousand at last count.”

“Impossible! Where would they get the money to raise such a force, in so little time?”

“Indeed. According to my reports, they had assistance from Calvinist bankers in Geneva. The coin can’t be traced, of course. But someone has been planning this for months. Such negotiations do not happen overnight.”

The world darkened around me. “And Coligny …?”

Birago lowered his eyes. “No. My informants lost all trace of him after Vassy.”

I had to act. I couldn’t just sit here and wait for everything I had fought for to erupt in flames. “Well, there must be something we can do.” I considered. “Can we get a message to them?”

He nodded. “Do so,” I said. “I will talk to le Balafré. I’ll tell him that I wish to negotiate with them first. Remind him, he needs our royal leave before he engages them in battle.”

When the duke came to me, he laughed in my face. “You think you can forestall a holy war, madame? By all means, try. They march toward St. Denis, where I’ll meet them soon enough. But you go with my escort, for I know these heretics will never negotiate or disarm, not for you or the king or God himself.”

His escort turned out to be five soldiers and the constable, a feeble protective force that amply displayed le Balafré’s disregard for my safety. On a sweltering morning I set out on horseback with Lucrezia to the plains outside the walls of Paris, from where the Huguenot leaders had sent word they would meet me.

I drew to a halt. There were indeed thousands of men camped on the brittle fields stretched before me, the sunlight illuminating a swarm of tents and armory of weapons—cannons and harquebus, lances, siege engines, and shields: enough to bring down the walls of Paris.

I was stunned by the display. I’d seen the Huguenots as a persecuted minority, subjects who needed my protection. Yet here sat an army that easily exceeded my own royal guard.

“The Calvinists certainly got their money’s worth,” I muttered to Lucrezia. Beside me, the constable spat out, “Look at this rabble of heretics.”

I looked at him in disgust, marveling he didn’t drop dead of heat, encased as he was in his ornamental armor. It was impossible to believe he and Coligny shared the same blood. “They are men and the king’s subjects too,” I said.

He stared at me from under his salty brows. “Men? The day they took Calvin to their heart, they ceased to be anything but devil spawn.”

My response was to kick my mare forth, toward a white pavilion adorned with a red cross—the badge of the Crusades, adopted by the Huguenots. My escort followed, the silence broken by the jangle of harnesses and clip-clop of hooves. A dust cloud rose in the distance; a group of riders came toward us. Again I came to a halt. Lucrezia whispered, “It could be an ambush. What if they take you captive?”

“Nonsense.” I pushed back my veil. “If le Balafré doesn’t consider me worth anything, I hardly see how these men will think any different.”

A brash youth led the approaching Huguenots. He wore chain mail, his sleeveless white tunic belted at his waist. His company echoed his ensemble; I scanned their ranks but didn’t see Coligny among them. The youth brought his stallion to a stop and passed disdainful eyes over the constable’s ranks. Then he said to me, “I welcome Your Grace to the Holy Brotherhood in Christ, champions of the one true faith.”

So, the Catholics had the Holy Triumvirate and now the Huguenots had their brotherhood. I wondered what Coligny would make of all this posturing. Then I wondered where he was.

“Where can I speak with your leaders?” I asked.

“In the pavilion,” the youth replied. “But Your Grace must come alone.”

The constable barked, “Her Grace goes nowhere alone. I’m ordered to report on every word that passes between you.”

“Then nothing will be said. You are free to return to Paris.”

As Montmorency dropped his hand to his sword, I intervened. “Your leaders promised me safe passage.” I looked at the youth. “Do I still have their word?”

He gave a wry smile. “If the constable should doubt anything, let him
doubt his own cause. We do not set women and children on fire or hang pastors from trees.”

Before they started the war right then, I hastened forward, alone, into the Huguenot camp.

The pavilion was a large canvas tent that offered some refuge from the heat. The youth handed me a goblet of water. Moments later, to my shock, Coligny walked in. He wore the same white tunic. He’d lost weight. Days of riding under the sun had streaked his hair with gold, enhancing the structure of his face. I could now see a familial resemblance to the youth as the boy bowed and disappeared. Coligny and I were alone.

“Your brother?” I asked, and he nodded. “The youngest.”

“So,” I remarked, “this is a family affair.”

I couldn’t feign incredulity. In some part of me, I had known. A man like him would not accept the persecution unleashed on his faith. But why hadn’t he told me? Why had he led me to believe he was only a messenger, without any true power? The questions burned unspoken on my lips; I didn’t want to demean us with doubt.

I set the battered silver goblet aside. “I’ve come to tell you, you cannot hope to win. The duc de Guise and his Triumvirate have twice your men. You must disarm and come to terms.”