The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (64 page)

To avoid mass slaughter, Edouard and I wrote down the names of those fated to die, all of them military commanders or strategists. I wanted no revenge, only the swift, if ruthless, execution of those who could bring war. With their leaders gone, the Huguenots would be crippled, unable to threaten the Crown or the city.

It was all to begin before dawn’s light on Sunday, the twenty-fourth of August, when Saint-Germain’s cathedral bell struck the third hour after midnight—one hour before the demon star, Algol, moved into precise opposition to warlike Mars.

When the list of the victims had been written, I looked somberly up at Edouard. “We must tell Charles,” I said. Without the king’s signature upon such a gruesome order, the guards would not obey it; and once the killing began, it would no longer be secret.

Edouard nodded. “It will be safer for him. We will have to reconcile him to our viewpoint.”

“But not tonight,” I said, sighing, and fell silent as Saint-Germain’s bell signaled midnight and the first seconds of the Eve of Saint Bartholomew.

We parted then. Both of us were exhausted by the strain and retired to our separate apartments.

I did not dream that night; my long nightmare had grown waking now. I abandoned my bed and pulled a chair to the window to stare out at the brooding darkness and listen to the occasional faint shouts of angry men in Paris streets. I thought of Aunt Clarice’s strength in those awful hours before we escaped the Palazzo Medici; I thought of Ruggieri’s cruel words during our final conversation, and my response:

The impact of one child upon the future was, I thought, safe, but three
. . .

What are you saying? That I should blame my sons? That I should lift my hand against them?

The veil will tear
, Nostradamus had whispered,
and blood be loosed
. . .

I answered them silently with Clarice’s words.
Sometimes, to protect one’s own blood, it is necessary to let the blood of others
. The House of Valois must survive at all costs.

I had made my choice; I would not sacrifice my own.

Outside the Louvre’s gates, the shouting began in earnest at sunrise and grew steadily in volume throughout the day. As soon as it was light, I dressed and went to find Edouard. He was in the Council room with Marshals Tavannes and Cossé, commanders of the Paris militia, and the city provost; the guards at the door insisted they were not to be disturbed. I left word for the Duke of Anjou to come to my chambers after his meeting and went to my cabinet to write a message to Anna d’Este about the specifics of our plan. I did not dare write her son the Duke of Guise directly but instead trusted Anna to relay the information to him; she would no doubt be delighted to tell her son that he had been chosen to lead the strike against Coligny. I instructed her to send his confirmation as soon as possible.

Edouard arrived an hour later in my antechamber looking haggard. He had not slept at all either but had roused Tavannes and Cossé and read them Navarre’s letter. Both men heartily approved of our decision to strike first. At dawn, Edouard was visited by the provost and militia commanders, who revealed that street fighting had increased. Gangs of armed Huguenots were
roving the city, alarming citizens. Merchants had boarded up their shops, innkeepers their taverns. Members of the militia were quietly distributing arms to Catholics eager to protect themselves from the growing threat.

We agreed that Charles should be told that evening, after supper. The King was fond of crusty old Tavannes and, of all our confidants, trusted him best; I insisted that Tavannes be the one to tell Charles the truth. Once he had time to recover from the shock, Edouard and I would appear with the fateful royal order and its list of victims, for the King’s signature.

At midday, when Navarre and his cousin Condé returned from their vigil at Coligny’s bedside, a scuffle broke out between his Huguenot bodyguards and the King’s Scotsmen, fueled by incendiary comments on both sides. I did not witness the fighting, which quickly broke up—though not before one of Charles’s senior guards lost an ear.

I saw Charles briefly after lunch. His conversation with Navarre and Condé had left him elated; he revealed eagerly that Doctor Paré was very pleased with the patient’s progress. Coligny’s wound showed no signs of infection and was already beginning to heal.

“As soon as he is well enough,” Charles said cheerfully, “I will move him to the Louvre and care for him myself.” His features suddenly went cold with anger. “Did they tell you,
Maman
, that they found the man who led the assassin onto the Guise’s property? He has confessed that the shooter was Maurevert. It’s only a matter of time before we apprehend him.

“But it was Guise after all who ordered the killing—what nerve, playing tennis with me that very morning and smiling at the Admiral!”

I shook my head and feigned shock but said nothing.

By late afternoon, my nerves were utterly frayed. For appearances’ sake, Edouard and I were required to separate and attend to our usual business—he to discuss the matter of military pensions with his advisers and treasurers, I to hear petitions and, afterward, to take Margot to my chambers for an hour of embroidery. Despite the palpable tension at the Louvre, my daughter was obliviously cheerful. At my mild statement that she appeared in good spirits, Margot blushed and smiled primly.

“Henri is very kind,” she said. “You were right,
Maman
—it is not so terrible after all.”

Had we been speaking about any other man, my smile would have been genuine. I waited until the subject shifted, then put my hand upon my daughter’s arm.

“I’m troubled,” I said, “by the violence in the streets. Ever since the Admiral was shot, I worry that something else terrible will happen. It might be wise . . .” I paused. “Perhaps it would be better, Margot, if you slept in your own room tonight.”

She looked up from her embroidery with a start. “You don’t really think Henri is in danger, do you?”

I looked away quickly, casting about for words that warned but did not frighten. “Not that anyone is in danger, but that we should be cautious. Perhaps you heard that there was a fight between your husband’s guards and your brother’s today. I’m merely saying . . .” Anxiety stole my words, my breath. I stared down at my sewing, suddenly terrified for my daughter, and aware that I had no idea how to protect her. I dared not take her into my confidence; she would have been aghast, disgusted, she would have gone directly to Navarre.

She saw my panic and dropped her sewing in midstitch. “
Maman!
Did you have a dream? Is something dreadful going to happen to Henri?”

I looked up at her, for an instant speechless; then habit overcame me, and I managed a feeble smile. “Of course not,” I said. “Nothing bad is going to happen. I’m simply worried, as any mother would be, with all that has happened. Indulge me, Margot. Retire early tonight, to your own bed.”

“All right,
Maman
,” she said, but her eyes were narrowed; she saw through my false cheer, with the result that I dared say nothing else to her about the matter.

After supper, Edouard, Tavannes, and I went in search of Charles. Outside the guarded, half-ajar door of the King’s apartments, we stopped, and the Duke of Anjou handed Navarre’s incriminating letter to the Marshal. We had agreed that Tavannes would lead Charles to his office; after allowing time for the Marshal to break the news to the King, Edouard and I would present the list of those to be executed.

Tavannes went inside while Edouard and I drew back, carefully out of the
King’s sight; I glimpsed Charles as he and Tavannes passed through the corridor. As the old Marshal held open the door to the cabinet, I heard him murmur something to Charles, who stopped on the threshold and let go a panicked cry.

“Dear God! Don’t tell me he is dead!”

Tavannes murmured reassurances; the King went inside, and the Marshal closed the door behind them. Edouard and I scurried inside the apartment and—ignoring the King’s bodyguard who stood watch—lingered just outside the door, like the guilty conspirators we were. I strained my ears but heard little save for the calm, steady rumble of Tavannes’s voice.

It was interrupted suddenly by a shrill howl, then an angry curse. Edouard abruptly dismissed the guard. As he did, something hard and heavy thudded loudly against the cabinet’s interior wall. Edouard moved to open the door, but I stayed his hand; I had thought that Charles would not dare strike old Tavannes, but I also knew the Marshal was rugged enough to handle the King’s physical outbursts.

I knew the precise passage in Navarre’s letter that had prompted the violent reaction:

Coligny’s injury complicates matters, but I, too, have earned the King’s trust and can guide him easily into our clutches and, once there, convince him to abdicate. Without his mother and brother, he will be quite helpless
.

There followed wracking sobs, and coughing, and finally, gentle weeping. At the last, I nodded to Edouard, and we entered quietly.

Tavannes stood in front of the King’s desk, a dark, liquid slash across the breast and shoulder of his dull gold doublet. He was wiping his face with a handkerchief, and when he looked up at me, his blind, clouded eye roving wildly, he lowered the cloth to reveal a brown stain on his clean-shaven chin. Behind him, the far wall held a large, irregular splatter of the same dark brown liquid; on the floor just below, a silver inkwell lay on its side, bleeding onto the carpet.

Charles was nowhere to be seen, but soft whimpers emanated from behind the desk. I hurried round to find my son huddled beneath it, rocking; I pushed the chair aside and knelt beside him.

“Lies,” he moaned, his baleful gaze rolling up at me; tears coursed steadily down his cheeks. “You mean to break my heart with lies.”

“Your Majesty,” I began calmly—but at the sight of his suffering, and at the sheer horror of what I had to do, I broke, put my face in my hands, and wept myself. For several breaths, I failed to master my emotions; Edouard and Tavannes watched, hushed.

I caught my breath finally and looked up at poor Charles.

“It is awful, Your Majesty,” I admitted, with complete sincerity. “And it wounds me to bring such horrible news. But we could not spare you such ugliness; too much is at stake.”

“It isn’t true,” he countered fiercely, but his features crumpled at once and he cried with renewed fervor. “How could he betray me so? He loves me,
Maman
, as the son he never had. He told me so . . .”

I leaned forward to take his hand and was gratified when he did not pull away. “Charles, my darling, this is a hard truth, a terrible truth, but you must be brave now. You are our King; we look to you to save us.”

He cringed. “But what can I do? I cannot believe this,
Maman
! I don’t know whom to believe anymore! Coligny warned me—”

“He warned you,” I said smoothly, “that Edouard and I wished him ill—precisely because he knew that, if we uncovered his plot, this moment would come.”

He shuddered from another ragged sob. “But I don’t know what to do!”

“That is why we are here.” I reached into my sleeve and pulled out the fatal document, then glanced up at Tavannes. “Marshal, if you would be so kind . . .” I nodded in the direction of the overturned inkwell; the old man hurried off in search of a fresh one.

“There is a way to prevent this, and the war that would certainly follow,” I crooned, unscrolling the paper. “You can stop it with your signature. We must finish, Your Majesty, what Maurevert began.”

He blinked suspiciously at my own flawed, irregular scrawl on the white page and recoiled faintly.

“An order, Your Majesty,” I said, “striking at the Huguenots before they strike at us. The names of the conspirators are listed here. We must do more than cut off the Hydra’s head; we must remove all those who would bring war against us in Paris.”

He snatched the list from me and squinted down at it for a long moment. I feared he would quail at the stark reality it represented, but the skin beneath his eye began to twitch rapidly as he passed easily from tortured sorrow to incandescent rage.

“They would lock me in prison,” he muttered bitterly, “and steal my crown. They would murder my family . . .”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Do you remember now, Charles, what you said to me in the carriage on our dreadful escape from Meaux? They would have killed us all then. They have been waiting all this time for another opportunity. . . . And I gave them one. I trusted them.” I paused. “What sort of man is Gaspard de Coligny—daring to threaten you if you do not yield to
his
will? Daring to violate an order forbidding the movement of troops to the Netherlands—an order signed by your own hand? He has never shown the proper respect to you, Your Majesty. He has laughed at you privately all this time.”

Charles grimaced with fury. “Then kill them all,” he whispered, his voice raw and ugly. “Why spare any of them,
Maman
?” His voice rose to an impassioned roar. “Kill the bastards! Kill them all! Kill them all!”

At that moment, Tavannes reappeared with the inkwell; I glimpsed the troubled face of the dismissed guard, who had also reappeared. He had heard the King’s cries but remained outside as the Marshal closed the door on him.