“You don’t understand—I love her.” He waved the dagger a finger’s breadth above Margot’s tender skin. “At least, I did—until she betrayed me! Was it your first time with a cock between your legs, my sister? Did it hurt? Or did you revel in it, like a whore? Tell the truth! It was Henri of Guise, wasn’t it?”
“It was no one,” Margot sobbed.
As Charles lifted the dagger, I shielded Margot with my body and struck his arm. The dagger clattered to the marble floor and skittered toward the doorway.
He twisted Margot’s hair tightly and jerked her backward; she screamed and hit the floor. Charles raised the long, thick ribbon of hair in his fist like a trophy.
Margot pressed a palm to the back of her head; it returned covered in blood. I tried to push her brother away.
Swift as an asp, he struck out; the blow landed on my jaw and sent me reeling. I fell, my skull striking hard marble. For a moment, I was winded, paralyzed—yet aware of someone coughing hoarsely, uncontrollably.
I sat up. Margot was pressing both hands to the back of her bleeding head; Charles was hunched over, retching blood-speckled phlegm onto the floor even as he staggered toward the fallen dagger.
I stumbled toward my son; he reached the dagger first and shot me a gloating glance before bending down to retrieve it.
At the instant his fingers closed around the hilt, a bootheel slammed his wrist to the floor. I looked up to see Edouard, still in the clothes he had worn to the reception.
“Maman, Margot—my God, he has hurt you!” Edouard spotted the long, dark hank of hair—one end sticky with blood—on the floor and winced as though it had come from his own head.
“I found a man in her bed!” Charles shouted. “She was fucking him, I know it!” He began again to cough.
Edouard stared down at the dagger with dawning horror. “You meant to kill them . . .”
“Get off my damned hand!” Charles wheezed. “I command you, as your King!”
Edouard abruptly reined in his emotions. “I’ll lift my foot when you let go of the dagger, Charles.”
“But there was a man in Margot’s bed! Guise, I know it was Guise! Now get off my hand!”
Edouard folded his arms resolutely and remained still until Charles’s fingers slowly uncurled and let the dagger drop.
Edouard bent down and picked up the weapon, then lifted his foot; Charles crawled away to sit on the floor.
“I’ll have your head for this,” he croaked.
I hurried to Margot’s side and pressed a kerchief to her scalp; her shoulders and hair were soaked with blood. She had stopped trembling, and her tone was challenging. “There was no man in my room!”
“Lie all you wish,” Charles said, “but I know what I saw.”
“What did you see?” Edouard asked softly.
“Margot, in her nightgown,” Charles said. “And beside her, a naked man crawling out the window.”
“You didn’t see his face?” I asked. “How do you know it was Guise?”
“I . . .” Charles grew flustered, then defensive. “Maman, you saw the way he was flirting with her last night!”
“And you didn’t look out the window to see where he went?” Edouard pressed. “Or were you too busy jumping to conclusions?”
Charles huffed indignantly. “Margot blocked me from seeing who it was!”
“Charles,” I said reasonably, “if Guise despoiled a royal princess, it would cost him his head. However besotted he might be with Margot, he wouldn’t be so stupid.”
“For God’s sake,” Margot added irritably, “I detest the man!”
“Tell all the lies you want,” Charles hissed. “I’ll uncover the truth soon enough.” He glowered up at Edouard. “As for you . . . Before God, one day, I will kill you.” With that, he turned his back and strode off.
I let go an exhausted sigh. When Margot and Edouard believed my gaze to be focused on their departing brother, they shared a look: hers, grateful; his, comforting.
In that fleeting instant before their expressions grew fraternal, there was something else on their faces, something calculating and unmistakably conspiratorial.
Thirty-Six
I told myself that I had been mistaken about Edouard and Margot plotting together. Margot’s ladies insisted that nothing untoward had happened in her bedchamber, but the single complicitous glance between brother and sister haunted me: I could not risk Margot becoming pregnant, and certainly could not risk her marrying a radical anti-Huguenot like Guise.
There was one obvious solution, for the good of my daughter and a united France. After the ugly encounter with Charles, I wrote a letter to my friend Jeanne, Queen of Navarre.
Why must we fight? Please come visit us, knowing that you are loved as family. I pray you are well, and happy; please reply quickly.
Her answer arrived several days later.
We are well, and as happy as those can be who are denied the freedom to worship God. Henri is a man now, as brave in battle as his namesake, your husband. He is morally strong and honest—traits that are sadly uncommon at the French Court—and devoted to the Protestant cause. He greets you and says that he hopes to see you again someday.
But he also says that such a day will not come until Protestants enjoy total freedom of worship.
I also penned a letter to Gaspard de Coligny, the Huguenot leader and nephew of old Montmorency. I was not surprised by Jeanne’s refusal, but I was delighted by Coligny’s reply:
We have no choice but to trust each other. Let me be the first to foster goodwill by putting my life in your hands.
No doubt you have formed an opinion of me based upon the reports of others; you will find that the reality is very different. I yearn to prove to you that His Majesty has no more devoted servant than I.
Admiral Gaspard de Coligny came to the Château at Blois in mid-September, when the oaks and poplars had just begun to turn, giving the valleys a golden cast. The morning his carriage arrived, I was sick with fever. I had tried several times to stand and be dressed, but my legs kept giving way.
A messenger from Edouard brought news that the Duke of Anjou, too, was unwell. The thought that Charles might receive the Huguenot leader alone unnerved me. The day before, the King had thrown a tantrum upon learning of Coligny’s visit.
I pointed out that the late Prince of Condé had attempted to capture us—Gaspard de Coligny had openly disapproved of the act. The King would not be jollied, however.
When I received Edouard’s message that he was ill, I changed our careful plans. A chaise longue and two chairs were placed beside my bed, and I settled, chattering with fever, beneath my blankets.
Edouard appeared early, in a dressing gown of lavender velvet and accompanied by a little dog with an opal collar. He was so weak that two attendants half carried him to my apartment. We rehearsed what we could say to reconcile Coligny and the King.
After a few hours, the Admiral was announced, and I sent for the King. Charles returned a message that he would not come, but I replied with another saying if he did not want Coligny under his roof, he should be brave enough to tell the Admiral so in person.
My strategy worked. Charles appeared soon afterward, lower lip thrust out in a pout, arms folded. Once he was settled into his chair, I gave the signal for our guest to be admitted.
Gaspard de Coligny entered. He was a short man, lean but thick of bone, with a swordsman’s powerful shoulders. Half a century of soldiering had weathered his handsome face. His pale hair was cropped short; his chin beard had been brushed out to give it a downy appearance. He sported no jewelry; his worn black doublet was better suited to a country priest than a nobleman, and his square cap was of plain brushed cotton. Yet his manner and movements were those of a man who expected the world to grant his every desire.
His first act was impressive: Ignoring the growling dog in Edouard’s lap and the King’s threatening glare, Coligny walked up to Charles, sank to his knees, cap in hand, and bowed his head, re
vealing a balding, sunburned crown.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “there are no words to express my gratitude at your invitation. Your generosity, forgiveness, and trust overwhelm me. Thank you for the opportunity to show you that I, and those who share my faith, revere you as our sovereign lord.”
Coligny delivered his pretty speech with such apparent genuineness and humility that Charles was mollified: His scowl was replaced by an expression of hesitant curiosity.
“Welcome to Blois,” he muttered and gestured impatiently. “Get up, get up.”
Graceful and strong, Coligny rose without using his hands to steady himself. His blond eyelashes were barely visible, giving the impression of a naked, guileless gaze. I shared a surreptitious glance with Edouard that relayed our favorable impressions and our skepticism.
The Admiral’s attention was so thoroughly fixed on Charles that Edouard and I might as well have been absent. “I firmly believe, Your Majesty, that God directed you to send for me, so that peace could be restored to France. As your former enemy, let me congratulate you on your military acumen. You have proven, time and again, which of us is the better commander.”
Charles’s lip curled faintly. “Don’t patronize me, Monsieur. You know very well that my brother won the battles.”
“Yes,” Coligny allowed, “but it is a wise king who surrounds himself with talented men. Ultimately, you are responsible for every victory.”
At this, the muscles in Charles’s face and body softened. “Admiral,” he said, gesturing, “this is my brother, the Duke of Anjou.”
For the first time, Coligny’s gaze acknowledged Anjou. The little dog on Edouard’s lap bared its teeth, but the Admiral seemed not to see it. He bowed very low, and when he straightened, he said, “Monsieur le Duc. His Majesty was indeed wise to appoint you Lieutenant General. What a pleasure to meet the worthy adversary who made my life so miserable for so very long.”
Despite Coligny’s flattery, a subtle ripple of disapproval emanated from him as he—so strong, square, and plain—stared down at my bejeweled son in lavender velvet, with his glittering little dog.
If Edouard realized he was being judged, he did not show it; he laughed easily. “I could well say the same to you, Admiral. I’m glad to finally have you on our side.”
“And this,” the King announced, “is our beloved mother.”
Coligny stepped to my bedside and kissed my hand. His beard was soft against my skin.
“Madame la Reine,” he said solemnly. “Only a great mother could raise such great men. May God grant you and the Duke a swift return to health.”
“Admiral,” I said, smiling despite my feverishness. “I’m pleased to call you friend. I look forward to discussing how we might strengthen the Treaty of Amboise.”
Coligny faced my elder son. “Your Majesty, I would like nothing better, but such negotiations are best limited to two people. I look forward to discussing it with you man to man.”
Smoothly, Edouard interjected, “Being the wise sovereign, my brother relies heavily upon our mother’s advice. She was pivotal in negotiating the treaty.”
Again, Coligny turned to Charles. “Should you wish to appoint your mother as your emissary, I shall speak to her. Only give me direction, Your Majesty.”
Charles bloomed. “Tonight we shall dine privately and will speak of the Treaty.” He patted the seat beside him. “Come, sit and take some refreshment.” He snapped his fingers at a chambermaid, who hurried to fill a goblet with wine.
“I am honored, Your Majesty,” the Admiral replied. “But I drink no wine, lest it interfere with my ability to serve my God and my king.”
I marked the pious pride in that announcement. Coligny’s words were calculated to give the impression of humble honesty, which made me trust him not at all. He sat down beside Charles, who seized his arm and quipped: “We have you now, mon père, and we shall not let you go so easily!” He laughed at his own wit.
Coligny laughed, too, without a shadow of the unease such words might have inspired in a less confident man. We chatted about his journey, the loveliness of the Loire Valley, and his new young wife.
Within the first quarter hour, Coligny became the King’s fast friend. The two left together, as Charles was eager to show the Admiral the palace. Edouard and I stared after them.
“There goes trouble,” Edouard murmured, once they were well out of earshot.
“I believe I have made a terrible mistake,” I answered softly, “by asking him to come.”
Once Edouard and I had recovered, we held a formal reception in Coligny’s honor, inviting three hundred dukes, cardinals, and ambassadors. Charles was pleased by the fuss.
The festivities began shortly before dusk. The massive outdoor spiral staircase overlooking the courtyard was festooned with silver brocade and gilded leaves. As our guests watched from the steps, a bevy of young women, scantily draped in gossamer, waved tall plumed fans in the air, then gathered in a circle to touch the tips of the plumes together. These were lowered dramatically to reveal the newborn Venus, standing upon a large “shell” of painted wood.
The nymphets spun away. Venus performed a short dance, after which Mars—Edouard’s Lignerolles, in a white toga and scarlet mantle—appeared, brandishing a sword. After a threatening display, Mars pursued the frightened Venus. When he captured her, she kissed him, rendering him a docile creature. The pair promenaded happily, to much applause.
The reception moved inside, where swaths of sheer silk hung from the ceiling; from time to time, the nymphets stirred the fabric to recall the undulating sea. Amid this oceanic backdrop, the King and his family were formally announced, followed by the guest of honor.
As he walked into the hall, Coligny’s composure was formidable, his appearance less so: He wore a new doublet of black silk but no ruff, as fashion required, only a plain white collar. It was a brilliant strategy: Against the satins, velvets, and gems, drab Coligny stood out dramatically. He knelt at Charles’s throne and, eschewing His Majesty’s proffered hand, instead kissed his slippered foot.
Not only was the hostile Catholic crowd impressed, but Charles was giddy at such a show of loyalty. Grinning, he drew Coligny to his feet and kissed his cheeks.
“We are convinced of Admiral Coligny’s fealty and goodwill,” the King announced, his arm around the Huguenot’s shoulder. “We love him as a faithful subject and a friend; whosoever lifts a hand against him, lifts it against us.”
Coligny bowed to the Duke of Anjou. For the Admiral’s reception, Edouard wore rose damask studded with pearls and a huge ruffed collar of pink lace; his white lapdog wore a matching pink ruff. To my amusement, sly Edouard took the Admiral’s hands and kissed him on the mouth like a blood relative; only someone paying careful attention would have noticed how eagerly Coligny disengaged from the embrace.
At a nod from Charles, the lutists and violists began to play. The King was as cheerful and garrulous as I had ever seen him; he took Coligny’s arm and marched off to display his new prize.
Margot, Edouard, and I also left our thrones. I hurried over to the Guises—the young Duke, Henri, and his uncle the Cardinal of Lorraine, who had the most cause to be offended by the honors heaped upon the Admiral, because Coligny’s spy had murdered Henri’s father, the elder Duke of Guise.
The Cardinal took my proffered hand; his own was cool and weightless, and his lips kissed the air just above my cheek.
His nephew the Duke of Guise wore a white ruff collar larger than his head; the stiff lace scraped my skin as he kissed my hand. He smiled, but the gesture was far from genuine; his posture was coiled and tense.
“Gentlemen,” I said warmly, “I am so grateful to you both; the circumstances are not easy for either of you, but you put the good of France ahead of any personal considerations. I will remember your graciousness.”
“You are too kind,” the young Guise said, but his tone was distracted; he was watching Charles’s and Coligny’s gradual approach.
> I opened my mouth to say something further, but the King’s loud, jovial voice interrupted.
“Ah, the Messieurs Guise! Here he is, gentlemen: your worst enemy in all the world, Admiral Gaspard de Coligny!”
I turned. There was grinning Charles, arm in arm with the Admiral, oblivious to the others’ discomfort.
The Cardinal and the Duke froze. Coligny stood a full head shorter than the young Guise, who stared down his aristocratic nose at the Admiral.
“I must tell you,” Charles announced, “that the Admiral swears he had nothing to do with François of Guise’s death. His spy was not acting under his orders when he murdered François.”
The Cardinal of Lorraine turned to stone. A muscle in young Guise’s jaw spasmed as he said, “Since you are such a good friend of the King, Admiral, I must welcome you to Court.”
“I fought beside your father on many occasions,” Coligny said softly. “There was never a finer man and soldier. When I heard of his death, I wept.”
Guise’s eyes flared. He lurched toward Coligny, but his uncle put a warning hand on his shoulder, and he stilled again. In the pregnant silence, Charles began to speak again, loudly, carelessly.
“So what is this I hear about our cousin the Queen of Scots? Mary has been scheming again, and gotten herself into trouble. . . . Is it true?”
“She is being held in England,” the Cardinal answered stiffly. “Elizabeth is convinced that Mary and the Duke of Norfolk were plotting to assassinate her.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Charles demanded. “Mary always felt the English Crown belonged to her.”
“And well so, Your Majesty,” the young Guise countered darkly. “Elizabeth is a heretic”—he glanced at Coligny—“and a bastard, and therefore has no rights to any throne in Christendom.”
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