“I chose them because they were wise,” I retaliated, “and loyal to my son-who was born without the temperament needed to rule. Should you persist in taking advantage of this fact, Admiral, I will banish you from Court.”
His eyes-starkly blue inside a fringe of golden lashes-narrowed with the same sullen, bitter obstinacy I had so often seen in Charles. He took a menacing step closer, to remind me that he was a large man and I a small woman.
With the slow, emphatic delivery of a bully, he said, “Madame, I cannot oppose what you have done, but I can assure you that you will regret it. For if His Majesty decides against this war, he will soon find himself in another from which he will not be able to escape.”
Though he loomed in my face, I refused to take a single step backward. Imperious, unafraid, I scowled up at him.
“We welcomed you as a guest. And you dare threaten us-under the King’s own roof-with another civil war?”
“You would not be fighting me,” he said, “but God.”
He turned his back to me without taking his leave and strode away. When he had moved out of view, I closed my eyes and let go a sigh as I leaned back against the wall.
Under the jaw, like this, Aunt Clarice whispered and closed her hand over mine, around the hilt of the stiletto.
Forty-one
I charged the fearless Tavannes with reporting the results of the Privy Council’s vote to the King. I then took Edouard aside to tell him of the Admiral’s threat.
I convinced the Duke of Anjou to accompany me to our estate at Montceaux, a day’s hard ride from Paris. We left immediately without informing the King, so that he would be surprised by our departure and assume I had made good on my threat to abandon him. I prayed that Charles would rush to Montceaux to beg me to return-thus allowing me to keep him out of Coligny’s clutches, at least until the wedding celebrations commenced.
Within three hours of the Council meeting, Edouard and I were in a carriage moving south out of the crowded city. The rain had ended, and the wind chased slate clouds away to reveal a scalding August sun; the streets were once again crowded with merchants, nobles, clerics, beggars, and the black-and-white garb of Huguenots, strangers to this Catholic city, come to celebrate the marriage of their leader, Navarre.
I leaned back against the wall of the carriage and stared out the window, too pensive to acknowledge Edouard’s lengthy diatribe against the Admiral or the whining of his dog, a spaniel perched in a jeweled basket that hung from the Duke of Anjou’s neck by a long velvet cord. I remained silent as the air grew sweeter, and the clatter of the wheels was muted by the mud of country roads. Stone buildings gave way to the dark green, trembling leaves of late summer; mist rose from the road ahead like vaporous souls streaming heavenward.
I could not yet digest my final conversation with Coligny. As the carriage rocked, I closed my eyes and imagined Aunt Clarice beside me, shaken to the core yet fearless, in her tattered, glorious gown.
“Such hubris!” Edouard railed; the little dog in his lap cringed, and he began to stroke it carelessly. “He thinks he is Moses, and we Pharaoh!”
I opened my eyes. “He thinks he is Jesus,” I said, then fell silent at the implications of my own analogy.
My son stared across the carriage at me. “He will not stop, Maman. You saw his eyes: He is a lunatic. We must stop him.”
I shook my head. “What can we do? We cannot arrest him now, before the wedding. Think of the outcry: He is an honored member of the wedding party. Think of the embarrassment to Navarre, to us…”
I had not permitted myself to reflect on Navarre for days. I had loved him as a son; I was going to marry my daughter to him. Now I looked on him with distrust. Had he come here knowing what Coligny was planning?
“Coligny is sincere in his desire to see our troops sent to the Netherlands,” I added, as though trying to convince myself. “He has spent a great deal of time ingratiating himself with the King. It would not make sense for him to attack us now.”
“Attack us?” Edouard leaned forward abruptly. “Are you saying that everything he has done is simply a distraction? That he means us harm?”
I stared out at the changing countryside and thought of Paris’s streets, flooded with Huguenots, and of the Louvre, its corridors brimming with black-and-white crows.
“No,” I answered. “No, of course not, unless…”
… you will regret it. For if His Majesty decides against this war, he will soon find himself in another.
“Unless this is part of a greater plot,” Edouard finished. “Unless Coligny and Navarre and the rest of them came here with the thought of capturing the Crown. Henri brought an entourage of hundreds, and thousands of his followers have descended on the city. Every inn in Paris is overflowing with Huguenots; they have even opened the churches to house them all.”
My fingers found the heavy iron ring of the Gorgon’s Head and began to worry it. “They could not be so foolish,” I murmured.
“We are speaking of Coligny, who is fool enough to admit he thinks God has sent him here,” Edouard reminded me, a look of sickened distrust settling over his long, handsome features. “And he will do whatever ‘God’ bids him. Even if he is not guilty of plotting a revolution-even if he means us no real harm-he will continue to manipulate Charles. We must do something.”
“If we do something now, in a city crowded with Huguenots and their resentful Catholic hosts,” I said slowly, “there will be a full-scale riot.”
“Maman”-Edouard clicked his tongue in exasperation-“we cannot sit back and let a madman drag us into war.”
“We will discuss it at Montceaux,” I said. “I don’t want to think about it now.”
I closed my eyes again, lulled by the rocking carriage, and saw the prophet’s round full-moon face.
Beware of tenderness, he said. Beware of mercy.
Charles arrived at Montceaux in the middle of the night. I feigned mute, sulking anger when I was summoned from my bed by a desperate King, but I could scarcely hide my gratification when Charles fell to his knees and, wrapping his arms about my legs, swore to abide by the Privy Council’s vote and begged me to return with him to Paris.
I insisted Charles stay with us at Montceaux for four full days. During that time, Edouard and I spent endless hours trying to convince the King that Coligny had coldheartedly manipulated him. At many points, Charles sobbed like a child or let loose venomous, spittle-laced rage, but by the third day, he was spent and began to listen to our point of view. I made him agree to avoid Coligny until after the celebrations.
Only then did we return to the city-on the fifteenth of August, the day before the betrothal ceremony. Since the tenth, the withering sun had hung unobscured in a faded blue sky; our carriage kicked up clouds of dust on the return journey.
I climbed from the carriage exhausted. At Montceaux, I had spent long days with Charles and long evenings discussing Coligny with Edouard; we had resolved nothing, only that we should wait to take action until after the wedding.
As I climbed the stairs to my apartments, I spied Madame Gondi-still beautiful, but worn and in failing health-waiting for me at the top of the landing. She did not smile when she caught my gaze but tightened her grip on something in her hands: a letter.
When I arrived at the landing, I held out my hand for the letter. Once I had it, I broke the seal, unfolded it, and, walking alongside Madame Gondi and her lamp, began to read.
The handwriting was masculine but not Zuñiga’s. It belonged to the Duke of Alba, that dastardly persecutor of Huguenots, and it was dated the thirteenth of August.
To the most highly esteemed Queen Catherine of France
Your Royal Majesty,
I understand that King Philip’s ambassador to France, Don Diego de Zuñiga, has informed you of the incursion of French soldiers into the Netherlands under the command of one of your Huguenot generals, and that this said Huguenot general is a confidant of your son, King Charles.
You migh
t wish to ask your son whether he or his Huguenot friend has any knowledge of the three thousand armed French troops who arrived at our shared border early this morning. And you would do well to consider the fact that my own sources-who are very knowledgeable about this Admiral Coligny and his activities-informed me within the last hour that he is actively mustering an army of no fewer than fourteen thousand troops.
It is said that most of these heretics are now in Paris to attend the wedding of their leader to your daughter, King Charles’s sister, and they have brought with them arms so that they might leave immediately afterward for the Netherlands.
Don Diego also reports that you claim to be entirely unaware of this situation-that in fact, Charles’s own Council has voted against Admiral Coligny’s invasion. If that is true, then your family is in no small amount of danger; perhaps I should lend Your Majesty a few of my own reliable spies, who say that the metalsmiths in Paris are working day and night to produce swords and armor for the Huguenots and that, shortly after the Council vote, Monsieur Coligny publicly bragged that he does not recognize its authority and that he will come to the Netherlands, with or without his King’s approval, and defeat me with his army of fourteen thousand Frenchmen.
My King would say that this is Your Majesty’s reward for allowing heretics to dine at her table.
I have not retaliated because Don Diego is certain that King Charles will wish to deal with this matter internally, and has urged me not to take up arms against France but to advise Your Majesty of this grievous offense against Spain.
I have sent this by my fastest messenger, who is with you now, awaiting your reply.
Your servant, by God’s grace,
Fernando Alvarez de Toledo
Duke of Alba
Governor of the Netherlands
I had reached my antechamber by the time I finished reading Alba’s letter; I sank into the chair at my desk and glanced up as Madame Gondi set the lamp down beside me.
“Please,” I said, “invite the Duke of Anjou to visit me at once, in my chambers. Tell him it is a matter of pressing urgency.”
When she had left, I laid my head wearily upon the desk, my cheek resting against the cool wood. The lamp flickered, casting my leaping shadow against the far wall; I thought suddenly of my aunt at her desk, writing letters late into the night despite her injured wrist, on the day we had fled Florence.
No more blood, I had told Ruggieri. No more blood, but the House of Valois-my blood-was now at risk.
I thought of the stableboy’s eyes, wide with shock and mute reproach, and hardened.
The next morning, a Saturday, the betrothal ceremony took place in the Louvre’s great ballroom, officiated by the groom’s uncle, the Cardinal de Bourbon. In full view of some three hundred guests, Navarre and Margot prepared to sign the thick marriage contract.
As Margot hovered over the final page of the contract, quill in hand, she let go a wrenching sob, then threw down the quill and covered her face with her hands. I moved forward and put my arms about her, then smiled up at the Cardinal.
“Nerves,” I said to him, then whispered in Margot’s ear: “Do not think-simply do it. Now.”
I placed the quill in her fingers and closed my hand over hers. Her shoulders shook with repressed tears, but she lowered her hand and scrawled her signature.
Navarre kept his pleasant, dignified gaze focused on the Cardinal, politely ignoring the incident. Like the reluctant bride, I could not bear to look at him: At the same time, I reminded myself I had no real evidence that he was abetting the Admiral and his war. If I called off the wedding, I would quash any real hope for lasting peace, and signal my intent to act against Coligny.
Instead, I wrapped my arm around Margot and stood beside her as the Cardinal made the sign of the cross over the couple and intoned a blessing. When it was done, I kissed my daughter, then Henri, and welcomed him into the family.
“You are my son now,” I told him.
During the reception afterward, I caught the arm of the Duchess of Nemours, an old friend. “Will you come to see me tonight, in my cabinet?” I whispered into her ear.
She bowed graciously in assent. She had spent her entire adulthood at the French Court and was known for her scrupulous discretion-a quality on which I planned to rely heavily.
Night found us alone in my cabinet, with the door closed and barred, despite the stifling heat; I had not invited Edouard, for if the conversation went awry, I did not want him implicated.
The Duchess sat smiling placidly across the desk from me, fanning herself. She was forty-one years old, soft and plump, a woman who possessed no natural beauty and therefore appeared to change little as she aged. Her eyes were large and her nose and lips small; folds gathered easily beneath her receding chin, a gift from her grandmother, Lucrezia Borgia. Her eyebrows were so heavily plucked as to be invisible.
She had been born Anna d’Este and raised in her native Ferrara until she was married at the age of sixteen to François, Duke of Guise. She quickly mastered the subtleties of courtly life and proved an able helpmeet to her ambitious husband. When François was assassinated by Coligny’s spy, the Duchess did not retire quietly into widowhood. Seething with outrage, she demanded that Coligny be prosecuted for the murder and brought so many petitions before the King that an exasperated Charles declared the Admiral innocent and forbade her to bring up the matter again. But like her son Henri of Guise, who had inherited the title of Duke from his late father, she continued to despise Coligny and to denounce him vehemently whenever she could. Six years ago, she had married Jacques de Savoie, the Duke of Nemours, a staunch Catholic who had fought bravely against the Huguenots.
“Anna,” I said, speaking to her in Tuscan to indicate the intimate, delicate nature of our conversation, “I know that it must be difficult for you to smile so graciously in the company of Huguenots. On behalf of the King, I thank you for your civility in Admiral Coligny’s presence.”
“He is no less a murderer, Your Majesty; today I felt as though I had fallen into a nest of vipers.” She said this softly and with complete composure, as if we were discussing the most mundane of subjects. “I can only pray that His Majesty and France suffer no harm as a result of your association with him.”
“This is precisely what I wish to speak to you about,” I said, “for I have come to realize that the Admiral does indeed wish His Majesty harm.”
Her composure did not waver. “I am not surprised to hear this.”
“Then perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that Admiral Coligny has violated the King’s order forbidding the deployment of troops to the Netherlands.”
She snapped her fan shut. “The Admiral boasts to everyone that he is leaving for the Netherlands as soon as the wedding celebrations end, and that he will be taking many troops with him. Troops who are here in Paris, armed for war. I fear, Your Majesty, for the safety of the King.”
“As do I.” I drew in a long breath, then said, “His Majesty will no longer protect the Admiral from the justice that is due him.” I leaned back in my chair and studied her intently.
She was still as a portrait for several seconds before she finally glanced down at her hands, one of which held the fan. When she looked up again, her eyes held tears. “I have waited many years. I made a vow to my dead husband’s soul that I would avenge him.”
“It must happen on the twenty-second,” I said, “the day after the celebrations end. There will be a Council meeting that morning, which Admiral Coligny will certainly attend.” I paused. “It must be done in such a way that the King and the royal family are not implicated.”
“Of course,” she answered softly. “That would be disastrous for the Crown.”
With that, she indicated that the House of Guise would take full blame for the assassination. It would be seen as the result of a blood feud, an isolated incident for which the King could not be blamed.
“I will see you and your family protected from any backlash, though your s
on would do well to quit the city when it happens. I will send for you tomorrow morning to discuss the details. Tonight, speak to no one save your son; you and he must consider how our aim might be skillfully accomplished.”
I dismissed her and went out to my antechamber to find Madame Gondi.
“Will you please invite the Duke of Anjou to visit me in my cabinet?” I asked her.
When Madame had left, I returned to the tiny, airless room and sat at my desk, leaving the door open behind me. I stared down at the backs of my hands and marveled at their steadiness. Unlike Anna d’Este, I shed no tears.
The night brought no breezes, only a suffocating dampness that settled over me as I lay on my bed, the sheets kicked away. When the darkness finally eased, I rose and directed Madame Gondi to invite Anna d’Este and her son the Duke of Guise to visit me as soon as possible that day.
Wedding preparations followed. I visited Margot’s apartments with Edouard-who had an artist’s unerring eye-to oversee the final placement of jewels on the wedding gown and its dazzling blue cloak and train. My daughter’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, though I pretended not to notice. When the last diamonds had been carefully sewn in place, Margot stood before a full-length mirror and studied herself with awe.
Unable to contain himself, Edouard jumped up from his chair. “How stunning you are! You will be the most beautiful queen in all the world!” He took both her hands and kissed her on the mouth-lingering, I thought, a bit longer than a brother ought. Margot flushed and giggled, just as she had when Henri of Guise had flirted audaciously with her.
Once the cloak was prepared, three princesses-one Guise, two Bourbons-were ushered into the room to practice holding the train, which was so long that one girl stood holding its end in Margot’s bedchamber, while two stood out in the antechamber to lift the middle and Margot herself laughingly walked out of her apartment and down the corridor before the train was taut enough to lift off the ground.
The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen Page 42
