Young Guise did not move. Coligny started to shift to breach the distance between them when Guise spat, “Murderer! I’ll see you pay for my father’s death.” He pivoted to Charles. “Your Majesty, I fear I must retire.”
Charles flushed red as Guise executed a curt bow and strode out. I vacated my seat. “No,” I whispered. “Let him go. You’ve made your point. Now, say what I wrote for you.”
Charles went rigid. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he muttered, and then he said, “Let there be no more talk of heretics at this court. We are all Frenchmen first!” And just as I started to think he would ignore my request, he said to Coligny, “My lord, we forgive all trespasses against us and trust henceforth you will serve us faithfully. We hereby assign you a seat on our Council, where you shall advise us on matters pertaining to this realm.”
Coligny bowed. “Your Majesty honors me beyond my worth.”
Charles smiled and strode into the banqueting chamber, followed by the courtiers.
Coligny looked at me. “I came to see my name restored. I didn’t expect this.”
I had just witnessed the first act of independence from my son; as I struggled to absorb the implications, I abruptly felt mistrust of this man, who seemed to sow discord wherever he went.
“I once told you I would seat you on the Council,” I managed to say.
“You did.” He paused. “I must beg for your forgiveness.”
I met his eyes—those eyes that seemed to have changed more than anything else. “No,” I said, “no apologies. Let us leave the past where it belongs.”
“We cannot. We must confront it, for only then can we find peace.”
I did not know what peace he meant and did not want to. I had made a mistake. I wanted him gone from this court, from my life. The weight of what we’d been to each other, of all that had passed between us, seemed to crush the very breath out of me.
“I sinned out of despair for my wife,” he said. “I was lost, frightened, and I abused your trust. I never meant to bring you pain. I will not stay here if you do not wish it so.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You still say it is my choice? Mine? After everything, you’d still place the burden on me? It seems you’ve forgotten how this all started and how it was broken. I was not the one who took up arms; I was not the one who—” I cut myself short. I could see in his face, in the way his jaw tightened, that he knew.
“I shall go,” he murmured, but as he started to bow I said, “No.”
He went still.
“No,” I said again. “My son asked you to serve us. That is his decision and I will not countermand it.” I lifted my chin. “You wanted my forgiveness. I grant it.”
“Then,” he replied, “I will do everything I can to prove worthy of it.” He offered me his arm. Biting back tears, knowing that what we shared had been lost forever, I set my hand on his sleeve and let him escort me into the dining chamber.
There are many ways to betray one’s heart.
I had turned forty-seven, suffered disillusionment and far more devastating losses; I refused to mourn something that could never be. I’d basked in illusion, carried it with me as something precious, but now I swept up the fragments and put them away; and slowly, as winter gave way to spring, I came to accept that Coligny and I had no further meaning to each other, save as mother and adviser to our king. We saw each other in Council every day; we passed each other at the evening fetes but avoided each other’s eyes and restricted our conversation to state business. I knew he often left court to travel to Châtillon and see his children; without my asking, Birago had bribed a servant in Coligny’s household to keep us informed of his doings, and while part of me balked at Birago’s belief that Coligny needed watching, I was more at ease knowing he dwelled under our eye.
He wasn’t the only person I had to consign to the past. One July afternoon, as a citrus-scented breeze drifted through my casement at Fontainebleau, I received word from Salon.
Nostradamus was dead.
I couldn’t imagine him gone. His incredible aura of wisdom, his ability to see into depths rarely glimpsed, had seemed impervious to the bane of mortality. Deeply saddened by his loss, I belatedly recalled I had his last gift, still enclosed in its tube. I sent the chart to Chaumont, asking Cosimo to interpret it and promising to visit as soon as I could.
News of another death was more welcome. At sixty-six, following years of seclusion in Anet, Diane de Poitiers breathed her last. I learned of it via a letter from a tax collector. For a moment I was plunged into the memory of the last time I’d seen her, of her frigid face as she confronted the loss of her prestige, and I took savage comfort that in the end, I was the one who thrived. I had outlived her to command a power she never had. Returning word to the tax collector to sell everything she owned, I closed that painful chapter of my life.
In August I received word that my daughter Elisabeth had delivered twin girls. I was overjoyed; so was Philip, who ordered weeks of festivities in Madrid. I sent them matching gold standing cups inscribed with the babies’ names, moved by the decision to christen one of them Catalina in my honor, as well as a long letter to Elisabeth, teeming with advice and herbal remedies to assist her in her recovery from the birth.
We made our annual move to Amboise, where I inspected the aging lions François I had kept there. The creatures dwelled in such squalid neglect I ordered our court architect to design a splendid new enclosure, with a paddock where they could roam. Charles loved the lions and spent hours watching them let out their deafening roars. I was troubled by his suggestion that we set them to baiting a bear and instead put him to work with the keepers, heaving huge chunks of fresh venison with a prong into the paddock, where the beasts tore into them with relish.
Charles had reverted to his habitual self. He was now sixteen and of age to rule; I was no longer his official regent, but he showed no repeat of that spark of independence he’d displayed at Blois. He still had his schedule of lessons and Council meetings but spent his free time with his falcons and weapons. At Amboise, he and Henri even devised their own armory, where they could hammer out iron and bronze. The exercise strengthened their physiques and camaraderie, even if Margot sniffed that they smelled like blacksmiths and twelve-year-old Hercule was always getting underfoot and scalding himself.
I’d been distraught upon our return to discover my youngest son had suffered permanent disfigurement from the pox. He had deep crevices all over his face; his nose was deformed and the disease had stunted his growth, so he barely increased in height even as his spine distorted almost into a hump. Dr. Paré had warned me that while he would improve with care, it was unlikely he would ever sire children, as the pox at such a young age affected testicular development. I couldn’t help but see him as a changeling with his wiry hair, porcine eyes, and dwarfish physique, struggling to master basics when at his age his siblings could already translate Latin into Greek. I believed the pox had retarded his intellectual development as well and asked Margot to tutor him, as of all of us she was the only one he seemed to feel any affection toward. As always where he was concerned, I wrestled with guilt. My last born, he’d suffered more than his siblings from my frequent absence, and though I tried to engage him, he was disinterested in me both as a person and a mother, preferring Margot whenever possible, and scampering after his brothers as if he sought to prove he was as good as them. Charles disdained him as a freak, but Henri found him amusing and allowed him to play in the armory with them. And he was still a Valois prince; in time, with the proper attention, he could be molded into an appropriate supporting role, as no one expected he’d ever inherit.
Thus did I immerse myself in the cares of my children and the realm, unaware that the world I labored to create was about to be shattered.
“My lady.” Lucrezia reached through my closed bed curtains to shake my shoulder.
Within the bed’s darkness I struggled against lassitude. I’d been overseeing a refurbishment of Amboise’s lower
gardens and I was exhausted. At my feet, Muet growled.
“What is it?” I hauled myself up onto my pillows.
Lucrezia took Muet. “My lord Birago and Monsignor are here. They say it is urgent.”
“At this hour?” Groaning, I slipped my feet into my slippers, took the robe Anna-Maria handed me, and coiled my hair at my nape with a comb. I limped into my presence chamber, resisting the pain in my right leg. I’d developed it a few days ago and suspected sciatica. I’d hoped a good night’s rest, aided by the tincture of poppy and vervain I’d concocted in my kiln, would alleviate it, but judging by my shuffle I’d need a cane soon, like poor Nostradamus.
“Well?” I looked at Monsignor, dressed as if for office in his scarlet robes and skullcap; I ignored him as much as possible at court, though he still held a seat in Council as France’s premier prelate. I was not happy to see him in my rooms, in the middle of the night.
Birago was ashen. “It’s Coligny. He … he approaches at the head of an army.”
“What?” I stared at them. “Are you both mad?”
Monsignor looked almost pleased. “I wish it were the case. This time, he’s gone beyond any ability of yours to save him.”
“This is preposterous.” I snatched the goblet of cool water Lucrezia handed me, directing my words at Birago. “You have an informant in his household, yes? Surely he would have—”
“Obviously not an efficient one,” interrupted Monsignor, and Birago wrung his hands. That one gesture made my heart miss a beat. “But why on earth would he bring an army?”
“As you are aware, madame, there’s been disagreement in Council over Philip of Spain’s decision to send armies into the Low Countries,” said Monsignor, his curt tone implying I’d been spending my time pulling up weeds in the gardens, rather than attending to matters of state.
I nodded impatiently. “I am, and as you are aware, I refused Philip leave to bring his men through France. They were forced to march through Savoy instead. What has that to do with it?”
“Everything.” Birago wet his parched lips. “Madama, forgive me. At the time I thought Coligny lifted protest against our allowance of further repression in the Low Countries, that it was merely his expected stance over Spain’s ongoing repressive policy. But I was wrong. He … he believes we allow it because we are planning the same thing here.”
I stood as if petrified, my mouth agape.
From his robes, Monsignor withdrew an envelope. “I too have informants, madame. I planted spies among the heretics who witnessed meetings between Coligny and the other leaders. He preached a call to arms; he recruited Jeanne de Navarre to his cause and petitioned Elizabeth Tudor in England to finance his army and stockpile the Huguenot port of La Rochelle with munitions. Among his accusations are that you seek further alliance with Spain through a marriage for the king and will exterminate his faith at Philip’s command. If we don’t act, he’ll have every heretic in France at your door. You cannot pretend anymore that he is your friend.”
“You … you knew this? You knew and you didn’t tell me?”
He shrugged. “Would you have believed me if I’d come to you without proof? I needed evidence, as time and time again you chose to give him the benefit of your doubt. He took every precaution; our interception of his correspondence alone was painstakingly difficult. He uses codes we’ve not seen before, but in the end our suspicions were confirmed that he’s been plotting for months. He fears that if they don’t strike first, we will.”
I heard Philip in my head: The head of a few salmon are worth a thousand frogs.
I knew in that instant this was his doing. He’d warned I would reap the consequences if I failed to fulfill his requests. Somehow, he’d infiltrated the Huguenot ranks and sowed panic.
As if Monsignor read my thoughts he added, “You’ll find in that envelope a letter from Spain, detailing your meeting in Bayonne and advising the Huguenots to prepare for death. I had no idea you and Philip had had such elucidating conversations. I’m sorry I missed them.”
“We spoke once. Once! And I refused him any concessions. I agreed to nothing.”
Monsignor sighed. Taking the envelope from him, Birago said, “Madama, this is my fault. I should have known; I should have acted as Monsignor did. I … I was deceived. My informant was a double agent; the intelligence he sent revealed nothing of interest.”
“Never mind that now,” I said, through my teeth. “Coligny knows we cannot afford to keep a standing army. Would he dare to engage us in battle when we are defenseless?”
“Not if Monsignor and I can help it,” said Birago. “We’ve dispatched Constable Montmorency to Paris to ready our retainers and issued a call to arms to all our Catholic nobles. Coligny has ten thousand at his command. We can defeat him with a full force behind us.”
I wanted to scream out my order for his arrest. I had forgiven him. I had seen him acquitted of a nobleman’s death and brought him back to court, where he’d sat on my son’s Council. I’d even grieved over the passion we once shared. Now another Huguenot revolt was upon me and Coligny was once again the leader. He chose to believe Spain’s lies rather than come to me. Just as before, he’d not trusted in me but instead crept behind my back to foment chaos.
He was determined to destroy us all.
I clenched my jaw. I didn’t even feel the pain in my leg anymore. “We leave for Paris at once. If it is war he wants, then by God war I shall give him.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
FOR THE NEXT SIX MONTHS WE BATTLED THE HUGUENOTS, WAYLAYING them in flooded fords and isolated hilltops, fighting or withdrawing. When they overran Catholic cities, the first to suffer were our women, raped and hacked to pieces before their children. Churches were burned, relics looted, priests roasted over fires in mockery of the Inquisition. But we could be just as cruel; when we took cities held by Huguenots, our soldiers delighted in skewering them on pikes and festooning the gates with their heads and limbs.
I barely slept, watching over my children and a bewildered Charles, who couldn’t understand why we were at war again, even as France transformed into a nightmarish vista of charred fields, devastated villages, and desolate hamlets, populated by widows and orphans.
Once my initial anger over Coligny’s betrayal ebbed, I sought compromise. I dispatched innumerable letters requesting a meeting, reminding him of our agreements and promising a full pardon if he laid down his arms and presented himself to court to discuss his grievances.
My efforts were in vain.
The Huguenots distributed pamphlets throughout their embattled towns, paid with Tudor coin and printed in Geneva. Birago’s informants brought me one. Madame la Serpente and her son the Leper King, it read, and I shuddered in rage to see the depiction of my son as a depraved, disease-ridden monarch bathing in children’s blood, and of myself, corpulent and rapacious, sitting on a throne with my foot on a pile of decapitated Huguenot heads.
Then word came that Coligny had welcomed Jeanne of Navarre in the southwestern seaport stronghold of La Rochelle. Jeanne had traveled incognito through our war-torn country with her fourteen-year-old heir; taking him by the hand, she mounted La Rochelle’s ramparts to exhort the Huguenots in his name to fight against us to the death. Coligny then lifted the prince’s standard aloft and shouted: “Behold France’s true savior. When Henri of Navarre is king, we will be freed of Valois tyranny!”
I was beside myself; haunted by Nostradamus’s warning that I must protect young Navarre yet unable to stomach that he’d been exalted as the future of the Huguenot cause, his right to the throne placed above my sons’. Jeanne earned my undying hatred for this deed, but the full force of my enmity, the cauldron of my rage, I flung at Coligny. He had betrayed my trust and gone to war against me, and now he committed the ultimate offense: he defamed my flesh and blood.
This time, I would have vengeance.
I put a price of ten thousand livres on his head and ordered our troops to siege La Rochelle. I didn’t even argue when
Henri requested to join our forces, to serve under the constable. He was almost sixteen, strong and beautiful; his regal presence would harden our men’s resolve and Montmorency would keep him safe. I had a gold suit of armor made for him and he declared that if he captured Coligny, he’d send me his head and forfeit the bounty. I laughed at his fervor; I was sure he’d never get that close. Later, he wrote from camp, telling me of his budding friendship with young Guise, who was a year older than him and at his side day and night.
As autumn neared, La Rochelle resisted every attempt to bring it down, and again I sent out terms for peace. We were running out of money. I would accept none from Spain, despite Philip’s offers, while the Huguenots had an endless supply from England.
Elizabeth Tudor had become a serious participant in the outcome of our war. She now held Mary Stuart in imprisonment, after Mary made a disastrous second marriage and the suspicious death of her husband led the Protestant lords of Scotland to revolt against her. She fled to England to throw herself on Elizabeth’s mercy; horrified, Elizabeth put her under guard. I couldn’t summon much sympathy for her; Mary’s fate was of her own making, yet seeing as Elizabeth had seen fit to support Coligny and I needed her to desist, I sent a letter reminding her that Mary was still an anointed queen. I hoped to alert her to the fact that she’d best attend to the trouble in her own realm, rather than abet traitors in France. My tactic worked. Within days her ambassador waved Elizabeth’s ubiquitous flag of truce, requesting that I offer the English queen a marriage proposal. I smiled. She knew such diplomatic exercises could take years, given the age difference between her and my sons. She’d prolong her consideration, accept my gifts and blandishments, while Coligny would soon find his coffers depleted of her gold.
I immediately called the Council to session. I anticipated Monsignor would cajole me to accept Spain’s assistance rather than court the heretic of England; I was prepared to counter with a letter of credit from my Florentine bankers.
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