The Hostage Queen

by Freda Lightfoot

  Still he hesitated, so Catherine turned the screw one more notch. ‘The Huguenots will tear you limb from limb, put you to the rack, shred the skin from your bones. You cannot begin to imagine the pain they will inflict upon you. They are planning to kill us all. Not only Your Majesty and your two brothers, but also your own mother and sister, even your beautiful wife the Queen. Would you have them take your beloved Elisabeth and put her to the rack? See them pluck her pretty pink fingernails out one by one?’

  Charles cried out in his agony. He was exhausted, his fragile mind no match for his mother’s clever manipulation, her relentless mental bullying. He cowered in a corner sobbing, begging her to protect him, unable to shut out the sound of her voice as her vile descriptions of torture and violence crawled like maggots into his ears, defiling him, filling his tormented mind with new horrors, bringing him to a manic rage. His limbs jerked, flecks of foam formed upon his lips as his frail hold upon sanity dissolved before her onslaught.

  At length he cried out, ‘Par la mort Dieu! Since you choose to kill the Admiral, then none must be left to reproach me after it is done. Kill them. Kill them all!’

  Then he fled from the closet, leaving the conspirators quietly to finalize their plans.

  It took the rest of that night. Names and addresses were checked, plans hatched, times fixed, the Eve of St Bartholomew being the chosen date. The Duke of Guise and his men, together with his uncle, were allotted the task of going to the Rue de Béthisy and disposing of the Admiral. The city gates were ordered to be locked, all boats on the Seine to be moored along the Quai des Celestins, while chains would be stretched across the river at intervals, out of sight below the water line until the moment came. The Queen Mother commanded that a Watch be placed over the powder magazine, and guns mounted opposite the Hôtel de Ville.

  Strategies were set in place to protect their own people, each to wear a white sash upon their right arm to identify them. Arms were issued to the Catholic nobles, and armed guards made available to protect their properties. Every conceivable angle was considered. Nevers, Tavannes, and the rest would deal with Rochefoucauld and the other Huguenot leaders. The signal for the start of the attack would be the bell of the Palais de Justice when it tolled three in the morning.

  Catherine was well satisfied. It had been a good night’s work.

  Any reservations Charles experienced in the following two days were easily dealt with. From being an unwilling participant he became zealous in their cause, the blood lust upon him. He wanted his beloved wife and his old Huguenot nurse protected, as well as the surgeon Ambroise Paré.

  Catherine made no objection. Once taken into the Louvre in her keeping, they would not be at liberty to offer any warning to others. There would be no further difficulties with the King, so long as she kept him closely watched.

  And there could be no delay. Speed was of the essence.

  Two nights later on Saint Bartholomew’s Eve, the 23 August, Margot went to her mother’s coucher as usual. There seemed to be more persons present than she expected, both Huguenot and Catholic, whispering together in their separate groups. No one spoke to her, but then she did not expect them to. She knew the Protestants to be suspicious of her because she had insisted on remaining a devout Catholic. Margot was also distrusted by the Catholics because of her marriage to the King of Navarre, a Huguenot. Not for a moment did it occur to her that the Queen Mother’s bedchamber might actually be a hive of conspiracy.

  Margot sat on a coffer and chatted with her sister. ‘Why do you look so sad?’

  ‘No reason,’ Claude protested. ‘You are imagining it.’

  The Queen Mother was talking to her ladies when she seemed suddenly to notice her. ‘Daughter, what are you doing here? Go at once to your bed.’

  Margot felt an immediate urge to rebel, to say that she was a married lady now and could surely retire when she wished, but she did not possess the courage to pick a quarrel with her mother. She rose, made a curtsey and turned to take her leave.

  Claude at once burst into floods of tears and, seizing her by the hand, prevented her from leaving. ‘Mon Dieu, my sister, for the love of God, do not stir out of this chamber!’

  Margot was greatly alarmed. ‘Why? What is it? What’s wrong?’

  The Queen Mother clicked her tongue in annoyance and called Claude over to her. Margot watched in puzzled silence as the pair exchanged heated words, but she caught only a few scraps of what was being said.

  ‘There is no reason for her to be sacrificed,’ Claude cried.

  ‘She will not be!’ Catherine spat the words from under her breath.

  ‘But if any discovery should be made, she would be the first victim of their revenge.’

  ‘If it please God, she will not suffer any hurt. It is necessary she should go to bed as normal, to prevent any suspicion that might arise from her staying.’ Turning upon Margot, the Queen Mother again ordered her to bed.

  Claude tried to smile, the tears still standing proud in her eyes. ‘Goodnight, dear sister.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ Margot softly replied, mystified by their behaviour, and departed the Queen’s bedchamber deeply troubled. She’d already been sacrificed in this marriage; what more were they asking of her? In what way was she a victim? And from what further hurt must she be protected? Something was clearly afoot, but what?

  The moment she reached her closet, Margot threw herself upon her knees and prayed to God to take her into His protection and save her, although from whom or what, she had no idea.

  By the time she had changed into her nightgown and went to her bed, she found Navarre already there, surrounded by thirty or forty of his comrades, all Huguenots.

  ‘What is this? My bedchamber has been invaded by strangers?’

  Nobody answered. But then no one was listening. Margot almost stamped her foot with annoyance but instinct warned her such an action would only make her look foolish, as no one was paying her the least attention. She climbed disconsolately into bed beside Navarre, anxiously wondering what was troubling them all, and if they would ever leave. It wasn’t that she was particularly anxious to make love with her new husband, although the act was never without its pleasure, but she was weary and ready for sleep.

  There was little chance of that as the men talked throughout the night, much of it about the attack upon the Admiral. They resolved to demand justice of the King, to call for the Duke of Guise to be arrested. And if the King refused to comply then they would take him themselves, with their own swords at his throat.

  Margot listened to all of this with increasing dismay. She kept well snuggled down beneath the sheets, her eyes tight shut, hoping they would not realize that she listened, for they all knew Guise had been her lover. Sleep was quite impossible, however, and Margot could not get the thought of her sister’s distress out of her mind. What was it exactly that was troubling her? Why were Claude and her mother arguing?

  The instant Margot left her mother’s coucher, even as Huguenots and Catholics still mingled together in the same room, Guise was summoned and Catherine quietly issued her final orders. Everything was now in place, and so secretly had they made their plans, with only a handful of trusted people, that no suspicion had leaked out.

  Charles ran to his chamber in no fit state to object, once more in the thrall of his mother. He was convinced the Huguenots intended to destroy both the Catholic religion and himself, but deeply regretted that he had not the power to save Téligny or La Rochefoucauld. He made a feeble attempt to save the latter when he came to bid the King goodnight.

  ‘Do not go, Foucauld,’ he begged. ‘Stay here and sleep with my valets de chambre.’

  La Rochefoucauld, young and hot blooded, and with a pre-arranged assignation with a court beauty, laughingly told the King that he had a better offer and begged to be released. He drew the King’s bed curtains and departed.

  Charles found no peace that night. He barely closed his eyes, and when in the early hours his mother came to him, as s
he had promised, he was waiting for her fully dressed.

  The Queen Mother, Anjou, and the King stood together in a window embrasure, the shutters open to let in the cool of the night as they waited for the toll of the bell, the signal for the killing to begin. It was to come in the hour before daybreak with the bell of the Palais de Justice, but Charles’s courage was fast slipping away.

  ‘We cannot do this terrible thing. Have we all run mad?’ he cried. ‘God will punish us.’ He was in a state of indescribable fear, but panic was spreading amongst all three conspirators.

  The Louvre seemed to glow with a strange light, cast upon it by royal messengers carrying flaming torches as they moved about their secret business in the streets below. Catherine could hear raised voices as people demanded to know why extra guards had been placed there, and what was causing this stir of unrest. She heard shouts and the exchange of blows, the numbers gathering in front of the Palace a warning that if the enterprise was to succeed, it could not long be delayed.

  Catherine had by now convinced herself that all her exaggerated claims of Huguenot conspiracy were in fact true. She was more than ready to twist the facts in order to devise a policy to suit herself. She heard only what she wished to hear, believed what she wished to believe, and would always have her own way in the end.

  In any case, they had come too far to back down now. How many times before had they tried and failed to rid themselves of Coligny and cripple this new religion he so zealously guarded? Too many to count, it seemed, and always he had escaped them. This was surely her last chance to honour that promise made so many years ago at Bayonne.

  But Catherine very much feared the King might retract his agreement and spare his dear friend at the last moment. He could easily call off the plan, and she dare not contemplate the consequences of such an action. The entire royal family would be slaughtered in their beds once word spread of what they had been about this night. She searched for a way forward, for the right words to persuade him, and while she hesitated, a single pistol shot rang out. They all three started as if they themselves had been shot. Catherine was the first to recover.

  ‘There, it is too late,’ she cried. ‘They are coming for us already.’

  The King fell to his knees in a state of abject terror, his hands clasped tightly in prayer.

  ‘We cannot wait for daybreak,’ she announced, and ordered Anjou to send word that the signal was to be changed. They would act when the tocsin of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, the church opposite the Louvre, sounded, as that would be the first to ring. As her favourite son hurried to do her bidding, Catherine thought she might even have it moved forward an hour.

  In another bedchamber in the Rue de Béthisy, the old Admiral lay quietly dozing, making a slow but steady recovery. Sleep wasn’t easy because of the pain and discomfort in his arm and hand. The surgeon Ambroise Paré had earlier tended to his wounds and remained by his side, as did Téligny, Carnaton, and Coligny’s faithful old servant, Nicolas Muss.

  Sometime in the early hours he heard the sound of the tocsin of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, followed by horses’ hooves in the street, but he was untroubled, accustomed as he was to these sounds. Outside his door stood a guard posted there by the King, so he felt no alarm when he first heard the sound of raised voices, one insisting they needed a word with the Admiral, that he bore an urgent message from the King.

  ‘Let the fellow in,’ the Admiral ordered with weary resignation, and his maître d’hôtel faithfully obeyed. Going downstairs, the unsuspecting servant opened the door only to be stabbed through the heart. Men at once flooded into the courtyard, killing one of Coligny’s own Swiss guards. The other managed to escape and rushed up the stairs, slamming shut doors and barricading each as best he could as he passed through.

  Startled by the sudden fracas Coligny struggled to sit up, realizing in an instant that the moment he had long dreaded had finally arrived. Showing no sign of fear he got out of bed and pulled on his robe de chambre before turning to his chaplain. ‘Let us pray together, Monsieur Merlin. I fear we may have need of His strength this night.’

  As the two men knelt to pray, they heard the pounding of fists on the door below. One of his colleagues, Cornaton, cried, ‘They are knocking down the inner door.’

  Paré said, ‘God summons us to His holy rest. The house is forced, and we have no means of resistance.’

  Téligny turned in a panic to the Admiral. ‘Go quickly, Father-in-law. If you hurry, you can make an escape through the window and over the rooftops.’

  But Coligny remained on his knees. ‘For a long while now I have been preparing for death. You, my friends, if you still can, must save yourselves, for you cannot save me. I do not wish those who hold you dear to be able to reproach me with your death. I commend my soul to God’s Mercy.’

  ‘If you stay, Father, then so shall I. I would not desert you now.’

  Coligny shook his head. ‘No, save yourself, boy. Think of my daughter, think of Louise. Is it not enough that she loses her father this night? Let her not lose a husband as well. Go now; there is not a moment to lose.’

  Even as he spoke they all heard the door below give way, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stair.

  The men clambered quickly out through the window, Téligny’s thoughts on his beloved wife. Only his pastor, the surgeon Paré, and Nicolas Muss, Coligny’s old servant, remained by his side, refusing to leave. There was a loud shout as the door to the outer chamber was breached. The Swiss guard fought valiantly, but, greatly outnumbered, fell dead before the onslaught.

  The bedroom door was flung open and the assassins barged in: Bême, Tosinghi, and others. They were startled by the sight of the white-haired old Admiral on his knees praying with a quiet dignity, his pastor beside him, and paused, suddenly indecisive.

  Bême pointed his sword at Coligny’s breast, causing a prick of blood to form. ‘Are you the Admiral?’

  ‘I am indeed, young man. You should have pity on my age, but do what you will. My life is almost done; you have no power to shorten it.’

  ‘Have I not?’ The man asked as he ran him through with the sword. ‘Traitor! Take this for the blood of my late lord and master Francis of Guise, whom you didst so perfidiously slay. Die!’

  Coligny was knocked to the floor and the rest of the assassins fell upon him like a pack of ravenous wolves, all wanting a share of the kill. The faithful Nicolas was likewise dispatched, the Admiral’s belongings looted. Merlin, the loyal chaplain, was spared, perhaps because he was a man of the cloth, and he escaped through the window and over the rooftops in the wake of Téligny. Ambroise Paré, the surgeon, was apprehended by a group of archers to be taken back to the Louvre, under instructions from the King.

  Guise had not even dismounted from his horse, and called from below in the street. ‘Is it done? Bême, have you finished?’

  ‘It is done,’ he called through the window.

  ‘Well then, throw him down here, so that we may see for ourselves.’

  They lifted the old man, who, in his last gasps of life clung desperately to the window sill for a second before being hurled into the street below.

  As he lay crumpled on the cobbles, Angoulême insolently wiped the blood from his face to check he was indeed Coligny. ‘Yes, it is he.’

  Guise, still on his horse, having taken no part in the murders, watched in silence as the old Admiral was kicked and sword whipped, his head cut off to carry it to the Louvre, from whence it would later be taken in solemn state to Rome. His body was then dragged through the streets to be further savaged by the mob before being hung on the common gallows of Montfaucon, and left to be picked at by the crows.

  By this time houses blazed with light as the people rose from their beds to see what all the disturbance was about. They found men clad in the livery of the city carrying lanterns at the end of long poles, soldiers prowling the streets, mingling with the growing masses.

  Pursued across the rooftops, Carnaton was t
he first to be shot, swiftly followed by Téligny, who fell to the street below with the name of his beloved Louise on his lips. Merlin remained in hiding.

  And having dealt with this most pressing of tasks, the assassins remounted and moved on in search of fresh prey.

  Margot must have slept eventually, for when she woke, daylight was creeping in around the bed curtains. She pulled them back to discover it was day break, and that both the bed and the bedchamber were empty. The King of Navarre and his men had gone.

  She sat up, wondering if it was too early to call Lottie, who was growing old and could be a slug-a-bed in the morning these days, when Madame smilingly appeared, as fresh and serene as ever.

  ‘Did you sleep well, my lady?’

  Margot pouted. ‘No, I did not. My husband and his chattering comrades kept me awake half the night.’ At least whatever danger her sister had feared must now be past. Claude seemed to be flinching at shadows these days.

  Madame looked around. ‘And where is your good lord, might I ask? It is barely dawn.’

  ‘I know not and care even less. Make fast the door, Lottie. Having suffered such a disturbed night I mean to catch up on some lost sleep.’ And, flopping back upon the pillows, Margot turned over and fell instantly asleep again.

  It must have been an hour later when she was wakened by a violent banging at the door. It sounded very much as if someone were hammering on it with both hands and feet, a voice calling out, ‘Navarre! Navarre!’

  ‘Ah, that must be your good husband now,’ Madame said. ‘All right, all right, no need to shout, my lord, I am coming,’ and the old lady hurried to let him in.

  The room was instantly filled with men, none of them Navarre. One young man, badly wounded with a gash on his arm from a sword or pike, ran in hotly pursued by four archers. He threw himself upon the bed in terror, begging for the Queen of Navarre’s protection. Margot screamed, struggled desperately to get out of his way, but the man grabbed her by the waist, holding her fast so that her body shielded him from his attackers. He too was screaming, both of them utterly terrified, while the archers strove to take aim upon their victim.