“Because he’s not alone. He has others with him. Chambord can accommodate them.”
“Others? Exactly how many are there?”
“Rumor has it he’s raised an army and he intends to use it against Henri.” Though she feigned impartiality, for the first time since her terrible act of vengeance I heard a tremor of fear in her voice. “Hercule is an idiot,” she said. “He doesn’t realize what he’s doing. I … I don’t want him harmed. There’s been enough blood spilled in this family already.”
“Is that so?” I met her stare. “Well then, tomorrow we will go to Chambord. And I suggest that if you truly care about Hercule, you’ll find a way to make him see reason before it is too late.”
THIRTY-FIVE
ESCORTED BY GUARDS, WE TRAVELED TO THE LOIRE VALLEY. I questioned Margot at length and found no hidden motivation, no reason other than a genuine desire to save Hercule from Henri’s wrath. I wondered if our shared grief over Claude had opened her eyes to the fact that we were all she had, that without us she truly would be alone. This bond she’d developed with Hercule since the massacre defied explanation, but I took her concern for him as a sign she wasn’t as heartless as she seemed. Hercule had suffered since childhood, pitted by the pox, a figure of ridicule at court, now thrust into a position he was unfit to occupy. Recalling the words she’d let slip to me on the day of Henri’s return, I wondered if maybe she saw something of herself in her younger brother, for in certain ways she too was an outsider, married but without a husband, childless and adrift in a world where she could no longer play the part of pampered muse.
Whatever the case, I needed her now. If anyone could talk sense into Hercule, it was she—a thought that was reinforced when our coach came up the road to François I’s hunting preserve and I beheld a sea of tents and hundreds of men mingling outside the château.
The coach came to a jarring stop. Margot and I dismounted before a leering battalion. There were more men here than I’d ever imagined Hercule capable of gathering—enough to siege a city. I smelled unwashed flesh, gauged rapacious eyes. Society’s dregs, who thrived in back alleys, willing to commit any crime for a price: this was my son’s army, a larcenous band of impoverished foreign mercenaries, footpads, killers, and common thieves. Even with his allowance, Hercule didn’t have nearly enough funds to satisfy this despicable lot.
I paused. Someone with means had definitely paid for this. Could it be Navarre? Ever since I’d seen the dagger, I’d been suspicious. He had never struck me as reckless; and the hooded men and now this band of thieves: it felt staged, as if I was deliberately being led down a false path.
Inside the château, broken casks and flagons, gristle and bones, were strewn over the inlaid floors; the walls were stained from the smoke of open fires, our prized tapestries torn down and used for bedding. Rangy hounds scavenged in the detritus.
Margot pointed. Turning about, I saw Hercule coming toward us, looking even more dwarfish within Chambord’s immense vaulted hall. I half expected him to start stammering that he hadn’t done anything on purpose, that he’d been forced to do it, but he maintained a stubborn silence until I said coldly, “Your brother is furious and so am I. What possessed you?”
His face colored. We stood inches apart. Tensing his shoulders, he muttered as if by rote, “If you threaten me, I’ll march my army on Paris.”
I guffawed. “You’ll do no such thing! You will dismiss your so-called army and come back to court to beg forgiveness on your knees.”
He glowered; Margot stepped between us. “Hercule, listen to me: you cannot send an army against Henri; it would be treason.”
His mouth worked. When he finally spoke, he blurted his words at me as if he feared he might not be able to say them, “I’ll dismiss my men when I get the recognition I deserve.”
I knew at once these were not his words; he didn’t have the nerve. He’d been primed by someone with more of a stake in this than the murder of a favorite. No one would have spent this kind of money or time preying on Hercule’s sense of inferiority without an ulterior motive.
“How dare you think you can dictate to me?” I said in a low voice.
He chewed his lower lip, glancing at Margot. I’d had enough. Grabbing him by the arm, I yanked him to the nearest window alcove, shoved him onto the seat, and stood over him. “Where is your paymaster now, eh? Do you think he cares anything for you? He’ll use you to his purpose and once he’s done he’ll sacrifice you without a thought. Who is he?” I thrust my face at him. “Tell me this instant. Who is he? Why is he doing this?”
He flinched, his eyes bulging. Margot hustled to us. “Stop it! Can’t you see he’s scared?”
“Good,” I retorted. “He should be. He has no idea of what I might do.”
Her voice fractured. “Leave him be! He’s not to blame. He didn’t—”
“Guise,” whispered Hercule. I turned slowly to him. “Guise told me to kill Henri’s friend.”
I went cold. Margot started to hush Hercule; I thrust out a hand, detaining her. She glared, but Hercule was already talking, desperate to unburden himself. “Guise came to me. He said Henri sins against God and nature. He said France would never abide a catamite king or a heretic to succeed him. He told me I would be rewarded. He … he even gave me the dagger.”
Tears spilled from his eyes; though he tried not to, I saw his gaze shift to Margot, who went stiff as stone.
I looked at her. “Did you know about this?”
She flinched. “Of course not. I was with you, at my sister’s deathbed. Would you accuse me of wielding the knife when I wasn’t even in Paris?”
I held her gaze. “Henri wants to put Hercule in the Bastille. If you knew anything about this and you kept it from me, I assure you, you will join him there.”
“No!” Hercule scrambled from the window seat to fall at my feet. He grabbed my legs, wrapping his arms about me as he started to sob like the deluded child he was at heart.
Margot said haltingly, “I told you, I don’t know anything.”
I reached down, pulled my son to his feet. I wiped his tearstained face with my sleeve. “Don’t cry. I’ll keep you safe but you must tell me what Guise promised you.”
His eyes widened. “You promise you won’t let Henri put me in the Bastille?”
“I do. Now what did Guise say?”
“He … he said Henri is cursed and will never have a son. He said I’m his sole heir because …” He faltered, lowered his eyes.
I cupped his chin. “Because, what? What else did he say?”
“Navarre. Navarre and his heretics: Guise says they must die. Then I can be king.”
Fear sliced through me. I’d known since the massacre that one day I would have to contend with Guise, but I had not expected him to fall upon us as his father had before him, to inflict deliberate havoc so he could plunge us into war with Navarre. For there could be no doubt that was his intent: he had sought to implicate Navarre in Guast’s murder to sow suspicion and doubt.
“Thank you, mon fils.” I forced myself to kiss his thick lips. “Remember,” I said, “Guise is not your friend. He is nobody’s friend. You must never see him again.”
Hercule nodded, regarding Margot in abject misery. She in turn watched me. “What will you do?” she said and for the first time I heard the tremor of uncertainty in her voice.
“Leave Guise to me,” I replied. And I meant it.
I disbanded the rabble in Chambord (which emptied my personal privy purse of funds) and returned with Hercule and Margot to Paris. As we rode into the city, where the bite of snow hung over the clutter of spires and turned the streets to frozen mud, I formulated my plan.
Henri met me in the Louvre. I did not like the way he looked; he was still gaunt, dressed head to toe in black. He had shaved his goatee and his hollow cheeks emphasized a relentless intensity in his eyes. But at least he was up. Birago had told me he had appeared to overcome the worst of his grief and had even begun to visit Louise, though as I glanced at
her on a stool in the corner, remote as a shadow, I wondered just what these visits entailed.
My youngest son dropped to his knees before Henri’s impassive figure and confessed everything. After he was done, Henri waved him out without a word. Then he looked at me. I was relieved to hear the old spark of defiance in his voice. “So, my idiot brother was led astray by Guise, who killed Guast because he thinks I am unable to rule or sire an heir.”
“It’s more than that,” I said, and I met his eyes. “Guise wants you to fail utterly. He used the knife with Navarre’s emblem to confuse us, to make you turn against Navarre and plunge us into war.” I paused, forming my next words with care. “I think we should sign a treaty with Navarre. He needs protection from Spain and we can provide it. He’ll cooperate.”
A vein in Henri’s forehead throbbed. He abruptly stood, flicking his hand at Louise. She hastened from the room. He paced to his desk. “A treaty with Navarre,” he said. He let out a dark chuckle, turned back to me. “I know why Guise hates me. Maybe instead of finding accord with Navarre, I should just take Guise’s arrogant head.”
“No, that is the last thing you should do. If we kill our premier Catholic noble, it will pit all the other lords against us. And we have no proof save Hercule’s word; Guise made sure of that. But he’s forgotten that I’ve lived through this before; I know he craves a religious war, just like his father, le Balafré, before him. He used Hercule as bait, but he’ll think twice about going any further if we find accord with Navarre, who can rally thousands of Huguenots when it suits him.”
Henri’s eyes narrowed. “And you think Navarre will receive you after what we did to him?”
“I’ll tell him I want to bring Margot to him. He’ll understand my purpose; after all, he’s heir to our throne after Hercule. He doesn’t want Guise to succeed any more than we do.” I lowered my voice. “And while I’m gone, you must try to get Louise with child.”
He hesitated, with a near-imperceptible wince of distaste. I did not press him. I thought again of that mousy queen he’d sent from the room and remembered the sight of Guast, strong and nude in his bed. I didn’t want to admit it, but deep inside I already sensed the worst and realized I must make plans for it. However, until the day came, I must be seen to support the illusory facade that Henri had constructed around his marriage.
He nodded curtly. “Fine. But promise nothing I might come to regret later.”
“Of course.” I moved to him. He accepted my kiss in silence.
I found Louise in the antechamber, a rosary in her hands. I paused, eyeing her. “You should rely less on prayer and more on effort, madame. Do I make myself clear?”
With a furtive nod and curtsy, she disappeared back into Henri’s room.
THIRTY-SIX
I PREPARED FOR MY TRIP; I COULD BE GONE FOR MONTHS AND SO I waited to tell Margot. When I finally summoned her, she seemed relieved.
Henri had gone with Louise to Vincennes, leaving me to close down the Louvre for the winter. Standing in my rooms, surrounded by my coffers, I sent my women to fetch us a meal, to refresh us after a long morning of work. Alone, I trudged into my bedchamber to get my Muet. My personal articles were stored in sandalwood chests and I’d left my old dog dozing on her cushion on a chair. She would not accompany me on my trip, blind and deaf as she was, but rather stay with Anna-Maria. I thought I’d sit and pet her awhile; but as I moved to where she lay curled up, her tail over her snout, I realized she was very still.
I froze to my spot. When I finally reached out to graze her white fur, which was still as pliant and full as in her youth, I felt ebbing warmth. She had died moments ago.
My world caved in. She was the last living memento of my daughter Elisabeth, her only gift to me; and as I stood over that little being I saw all those I had loved and lost, felt the weight of my struggles crush me, and the cry that broke from me was a desolate howl.
Lucrezia and Anna-Maria ran in. “No,” I heard myself say as they came to a halt beside me. “Not my Muet …” Lucrezia embraced me. Anna-Maria started to cry. At the sound of her grief I reached for her and we wept in each other’s arms like children.
Later that afternoon, we enveloped Muet in one of my shawls and took her to the Tuileries, where the gardeners labored to break the frosted ground. My hands trembled as I held her shrouded form; I could not surrender her and Lucrezia had to pry her from my fingers. I turned away to the leaden sky, the wind lacerating me as I heard the shovels begin to replace the dirt.
“Good-bye, my Muet,” I whispered, and my tears ran cold on my chilled careworn cheeks.
I was fifty-seven years old. I had contended with death all my life, burying a husband and four children, killing a lover and countless foes, but this small loss undid me.
If death had come for me that day, I would have welcomed it.
It took us three weeks to traverse France; when we finally entered the snowbound courtyard of his castle in Nérac, Navarre stood waiting for us.
He’d not ridden out to witness the celebrations his people had prepared for our arrival, nor had he seen the astonishment on their faces when they caught sight of Margot on her palfrey, dressed in a crimson gown trimmed in gold and an ermine-lined cloak. But I knew he’d been apprised of the stir she created and he greeted us with a sardonic smile, dressed in a plain black wool doublet and baggy breeches that reached to just above his knees. His build was compact, strong; his coppery hair messed atop his head like a storm-tossed thatch and his full beard exalting his long nose. His green eyes gleamed with mirth as he kissed Margot on the lips. She wrinkled her nose. Though he wasn’t unattractive, I could smell his pungent male scent even from where I stood and understood why Margot disdained him. Evidently, Navarre wasn’t in the habit of regular bathing, while she was fastidious when it came to hygiene.
“I’m overjoyed to see you again, my dear,” he drawled. He eyed the wagons of luggage coming into the courtyard behind us. “Did you bring all Paris with you?”
He didn’t wait for her response, turning to me with a broad smile, as if we’d only just seen each other last week. “Tante Catherine, welcome to my humble realm.”
I immediately detected the change in him. He might act indifferent, throwing on that devil-may-care air that had made him the darling of Paris’s whores, but I sensed a newfound self-assurance. Safely ensconced in his mountain kingdom, surrounded by his Huguenots, Navarre had come into his own. This time, it was I who was the guest in a hostile court.
I smiled in return. “My son, how fit you look. The air here suits you.”
“It should.” He guffawed. “It is my air, after all.” He took Margot by the hand. “Excuse me, our air. Everything I have is now yours, my queen. Come, I’ve prepared a suite for you.” He paused. “I hope it’s satisfactory. I fear I cannot compete with the splendors of the Louvre.”
I heard Margot reply, “I never expected you to,” and she took his arm to let him lead her into the castle, leaving me to trail behind and ignore his Huguenot councilors’ pointed stares.
Navarre delayed our official business, citing the upcoming Christmas celebrations. He organized a progress to show Margot off and his people regaled us with garlic stew and freshwater trout. As I jostled along in a litter behind the royal couple, I beheld a robust folk who regarded me with misgiving. Protestant to their core, to them I was the monstrous Queen Mother, instigator of the massacre, and some even went so far as to hold up two fingers as I passed, to ward off my evil eye.
I was less interested in how they felt about me, however, than in observing how they interacted with Navarre. That they loved him was undeniable. Everywhere he went, his subjects crowded about him and he never failed to heed them, showing no visible fear for his person as he listened to their complaints with a single-minded attentiveness. It was clear to me that since leaving France, he’d worked hard to shed his indolent image in favor of the mantle of a stalwart king, aware that his people’s admiration was his best defense. Though I felt
guilty for thinking it, I couldn’t help but compare his affable manner with my Henri’s aloof complexity. While my son had to shield himself from those who might do him harm, Navarre went about seemingly without a worry, his joie de vivre a beacon to anyone who crossed his path. Even Margot melted in his presence and began to display the coquettish air of her youth. I saw no sign that they had ever shared a bed, but watching her bat her eyes at him made me think it wouldn’t be too long before, smell or not, he won her over. And once she got with child, it would bind Navarre even closer to us.
Nevertheless, I’d never spent a colder winter in my life. The snow fell for weeks on end, blanketing everything, and while I huddled in his stone fortresses before the fire, Navarre strode about in shirtsleeves as if it were midsummer. His resiliency and cavalier attitude soon began to grate on me, for he behaved as though this were indeed some endless familial visit. And my aggravation only increased when I received word from Birago that Elizabeth Tudor had finally granted Hercule leave to pay her suit and Henri had dispatched my youngest son to England in a galleon loaded with gifts. I was irate that I wasn’t there to oversee Hercule’s departure and nervous about how he might behave so far from home.
Margot, on the other hand, had settled in. One afternoon after I awoke from a nap, stiffer and colder than when I’d first lain down, I went into the hall with Lucrezia in search of warmth and I found my daughter in the middle of the bare floor, directing what appeared to be a small army trudging past her with armfuls of boxes, furnishings, and tapestries. Seated on a new gilded chair by the hearth, Navarre twirled a goblet, an insouciant grin on his face.
“Dio Mio,” I said, “what is this?”
“What does it look like?” Margot snipped. “I’m redecorating. All this stone and freezing brick—it’s barbaric. I’m a queen now and I must live accordingly.”
I glanced at Navarre. He shrugged. “She’ll empty my treasury at this rate,” he muttered, “but at least we’ll starve in style.”
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