How long, how cleverly, had he held the reins of government by shielding the king from the baneful influences in his council. How slyly had he suggested to the king that he might be getting fat, and should let others make policy while he took exercise! But the council must meet, and the Guises, with their golden tongues and sly plots were two, while Montmorency was alone. Bitterly, Montmorency surveyed the weaklings and egoists that sat at the council table. That wretched Antoine de Bourbon, lounging inattentively unless the war involved the retrieval of the Spanish half of his Kingdom of Navarre. Look at him, nodding and agreeing with everyone, stroking that miserable, thin little goatee in his fat, self-congratulatory face! Look at them all, the blind fools!
“It is my decision to send an army,” said the king, “and since I am merely going to the aid of the Pope, I am not violating the truce with Spain. The Duke of Guise, our loyal servant, will command the expedition into Italy. We must increase the levies, regardless of the famine.” Guise. He has won the glory of command, the Old Constable thought bitterly. France will lose, but Guise will not.
“Majesty, blood cannot be squeezed from a stone, or taxes from the starving. We must approach the bankers of Lyons—the Italian bankers,” said the Old Constable.
“And who has said so, my wife?” said the king.
“Majesty, we must ask their aid, and she is the best intermediary. Her counsel is not without value.”
“I tell you, I do not want that woman interfering in matters of state! Do you not understand that wherever she gets the slightest opening, she pushes in? I will not hear of her involvement in any business of this kingdom. The throne of France finances its own wars. We will command the city of Paris to provide more money—”
“Majesty, Parlement may oppose—”
“Parlement!” hissed the Cardinal of Lorraine, who was also, by order of the Pope, Grand Inquisitor for the Kingdom of France. “A nest of heretics! Every one a traitor! Would that I could hang every one of them—”
It is slipping beyond control, thought Montmorency. War, war on two fronts, and, if Lorraine is set loose on Parlement to batter the money out of them, perhaps even revolution and civil war, a war of religion. And through it all, the Guises, rising like demons through the smoke; their house, their influence. It must not happen. I will outflank them; I will seize chaos for my own. My son has become a great captain, and once allied to Diane de Poitiers…
As the Guises swept from the council chamber together, Montmorency, walking alone, heard behind him the Comte de Saint-Pol saying to the King of Navarre:
“Did you hear what I said? The king nodded in my direction. It is my advice that he listens to. A telling blow, I say—” And the voice of that self-centered flutterhead, Navarre, floated to him, saying, “Sound, sound. Your ideas have promise. Now, should war with Spain come, after our victory I will negotiate for nothing less than the return of Spanish Navarre to my throne—”
“The Empire, what are they? In battle, it would take a dozen of those decadent Spanish to be compared to one brave French gentleman—”
If the Spanish declare war, thought the Old Constable, I can undermine the Guises when peace is negotiated by arranging a marriage with a Spanish princess for the Dauphin in place of his marriage to that Guise girl, the Queen of Scots—no, all is not lost, not yet. It is I who will be master of the coming chaos…
***
In the dark, two heavily armed men were making their way through the narrow, muddy streets of Paris by the light of torches. The flickering light illuminated here an archway, there the painted and timbered fronts of buildings, their heavy shutters tightly sealed. It was the time of foxes and wolves in human clothing, the cutthroats, the burglars, the sellers of dead men’s clothes and ruined women’s virtue. But none approached the two men. The second, a burly old soldier, was a well-known escrimeur from the most vicious fencing school in the city. The first—well, he was not without reputation, either, and besides he had a mandolin on his back. There was clearly no profit in the pair.
“Here’s the street. She lives around the bend, near the end,” whispered the taller of the two.
“A very nice neighborhood,” said the burly man.
“I told you; Alonzo is rich.”
“When she opens the window, what then?”
“I’ll throw her the note.”
“But what if she doesn’t open the window?”
“She has to, she must. What other hope does she have to escape from him?”
“But I hear something—look there, beyond the bend—all those people. Lanterns. And music—another serenader’s got here before you, Nicolas—”
“Three viols, a lute, two hautbois, and a trumpet—and her window’s opening! What an awful racket! I’ll see to them! I’ll drive every one of them into the river! By God, they offend the night with that caterwauling!”
“Nicolas, you’re outnumbered—don’t be a fool—they’re all armed, and look, there in the shadows—you’re not the first rival Alonzo’s got—” Beneath the overhang of a neighboring building, three gentlemen stood waiting to see if the serenade would call out the beloved or the duenna. The window opened, and there she stood, a pale shadow, her white nightgown and cap luminous before the faint and flickering light of candles deep in the room. Nicolas was transfixed. Even his friend made an admiring sound. One of the strange gentleman outside stepped before the serenaders and began to declaim a poem.
“Not another word, you preening parrot!” cried Nicolas, pulling his sword, and handing over his torch. “The lady is too intelligent to listen to your cheap hired verses.” The musicians stopped, astounded.
“What do you know of this lady, you whoreson?” cried the strange gentleman, discarding his poem and drawing his sword in turn. “Speak her name, and I’ll spit you like a roast.” Nicolas’s companion extinguished both torches and reached for his sword hilt.
“She despises you, you featherbrained dandy!” cried Nicolas. There was the slither and clatter of steel, but the two were clearly outnumbered.
Just then, from inside the room, they were distracted by a strange screeching sound, followed by a woman’s voice shouting, “Señor Alonzo! No!” and something else unintelligible. Both men looked up, to see a stranger’s hand close the shutters with a bang.
“Now look what you’ve done!” cried the strange gentleman, but looking around, he saw no one but his own musicians and cronies. Nicolas and his friend had taken advantage of the distraction to vanish into the dark.
“She screamed. I know I heard her scream. And then the shutters slammed. It was Alonzo inside, taking vengeance, perhaps beating her—”
“Nicolas, I swear I heard the duenna call out to him, ‘No!’ when swords were drawn. She was calling outside. That cry was the demoiselle, fainting. It was the man below the window the duenna was calling. That was Alonzo himself there, with his serenaders. You nearly had him.” But Nicolas looked grim.
“Or there’s two of them. The despicable Alonzo inside and that fop outside. I swear, I’ll follow her until I find out the secret, and I’ll be back. With you, with the others. Are you with me, Robert?”
“With you all the way. We’ll soak them all in the river.”
“And Alonzo must die,” said Nicolas. “My honor requires it.”
***
“War,” said the Queen of France. “War with the Empire. And for what? For vanity!” The heavy, gilded door had just closed behind the Old Constable, leaving Catherine de Medici alone with two of her most trusted dames d’honneur. The queen was breathing heavily and placed a hand on her heart.
“For three nights now I have had dreams of death, dreams of falling, dreams of blood. And in them I saw my daughter Elisabeth’s face. Ah, God, it was as white as a corpse! What can it mean? What if we are not the victors in this war? The king, my husband, must go to Biragues, to Gondi, to Montvert, to the Italian bankers. Without money, all will be lost. I must beg him to listen to my dream of blood.”
&n
bsp; “But, Madame, the Constable said the Guises would not have him go to our Italians. What do they think we women know of war and finance? Even though you have the gift of prophetic dreams, they have made their plans and will not listen.”
“Not listen! Not listen! The king, my husband, mocks my powers, which he ignores to his own disaster! And who does he listen to instead? That dried-up, ambitious, money-grasping old woman who dogs my every footstep! I cannot even escape her in childbed, or when I am sick! There she is, running everything, telling him everything, as if she were me, and I were nothing! And where is he tonight? In her bed! Listening to her!”
“Surely—”
“Surely as snow falls in winter, she is telling him what a great warrior he is, and puffing him up so that he will have no doubts that the plans of her relatives, the Guises, will bring glory to France, a new empire, carved from Spanish possessions. I know her—she’s already planning her triumphal entry into Madrid! She’s already hired poets to praise the victory, and painters to make her new banners! She eats at my vitals, that woman, and even the hairs on my head despise her!”
“Majesty, you must be circumspect.”
“I tell you, I sent word about my dream, and the king, my husband said he was occupied with affairs of state and could not be disturbed. But his affairs of state did not delay his visit to the Duchess of Valentinois this very evening. Oh, the shame of it! He risks the throne of my son because he is under an evil spell cast by that demon-woman. I tell you, I can deal with the devil, too.” She turned to her closest lady of honor, Madame d’Elbène: “ Lucrèce, I want you to call a page this instant and have him bring that Demoiselle de La Roque and her magic casket back from Paris. I want her here today, before nightfall.” As Madame d’Elbène pattered off in search of a messenger, the queen addressed Madame Gondi, her other companion.
“Maddalena, get my black candles and my linen robe. Tonight I will not be content with prophecy; I will change things forever.”
“Ah, Majesty—”
“Why aren’t you hurrying? Haven’t I given my command?”
“But—if you could consult Nostradamus—you’d know how it would come out.”
“Do you doubt my dreams? Didn’t I dream a black, hooded figure stood over a double cradle during my last pregnancy? And when I bore twins, I knew that my dream was true, and that they were born to die. My dream is a true warning! Besides, Nostradamus won’t be back from Blois before the end of the week. By then, they will be well on their way to breaking the treaty. No, it must be tonight. Tonight, I will overcome the duchess’s evil sorcery with The Master of All Desires.”
***
On our return from St.-Germain, Auntie had taken a lease on commodious rooms in a house on the rue de la Cerisée, convenient to the nicer district of the old Hôtel St.-Pol, where so many people of distinction now live. The location had brought out her long-buried passion for a life in society, and she hunted guests with the avidity of a tiger. But in one thing was she adamant: Philippe d’Estouville would receive no invitation.
“Let’s see, on Tuesdays we might bring together a gathering of choice wits—”
“But, Auntie, why not M. d’Estouville?”
“I don’t like him. He smells wrong to me. He will cause you nothing but grief—”
“But the poems, and the serenades—”
“Rank or no, he’s much too conceited to be capable of true love—he’s not good enough for you, Sibille. He’ll just use you and discard you, as I’m sure he’s done before. By God, if I knew that drunk who chased him off last week, I’d send him a bottle of his own choice—”
“But, Auntie—he seems so sincere—”
“Sincere, bah! So was my brother—now, let’s see—for the Abbé, we must be sure to have a naturalist or two—let’s see—yes, a free dinner always flushes out the poets—we need several, as a proper setting for you, as soon as—oof—this dreadful gout fades out a bit. Théophile, my dear cousin, I feel a spa trip coming on. Enghien, perhaps not as distinguished as Évian-les-Bains, but so very convenient. And the water—so agreeably sulfurous.”
***
All the plans had been made for the spa, and the horses had already been harnessed when an unkind wind blew in the first gray clouds. “Rain,” said Auntie, surveying the sky as she put one hand out the window. “I felt a drop. I absolutely refuse to travel in the wet. It will make my gout so much worse that even the spa won’t touch it.”
“Surely, my dear cousin, you are premature,” said the Abbé, but Auntie sent down word to put her litter back in the stable, and before we had even half unpacked, the gray wisps had turned to rolling black, with a hint of distant thunder. By the time we had taken out the jeu de dames, a waterfall was thundering down the gutters and battering the shutters.
“You see? I was right. My left knee always tells me when it will rain. Jump there, he’s left a piece with a space behind, don’t you see it?” said Auntie, peering over my shoulder.
“It’s a trap, Auntie—see there? The Abbé is lying in wait for my piece like a wolf—then he can jump here—and here—”
“Cousin Sibille, how inconsiderate of you to spy out my plans—” There was a pounding on the door, and Arnaud showed in a boy and two soldiers of the king’s guard in heavy cloaks, dripping wet, their boots and breeches mud-stained with hard riding. The boy was a page we had seen in the queen’s household.
“The queen commands that the Demoiselle de La Roque be brought into her presence today, and bring with her a certain coffer that she has in her keeping. She said you would know what coffer that is.”
“As indeed we do,” said Auntie. “But you must dry off and have a little something. This is not a fit day to travel without a bite to eat.”
“Madame, we would be pleased to accept your offer, but we must ride more than two leagues before nightfall. Once Saint-Germain is sealed after the king’s coucher, the Pope himself wouldn’t be allowed in. It’s been delay enough getting fresh horses from Les Tournelles—we must go—ah, I see the demoiselle is ready—” As I stuffed the silver-gilt box into its traveling case, the Abbé said:
“My dear cousin, what about the game?”
“Save the board as it is—I’m sure I’ll be back in no time. And remember, I have an excellent memory—”
“Sibille, take care,” said Auntie, as she pressed me to her effulgent front. “Promise me—”
“Madame, the Queen’s own dame d’honneur, Madame Gondi, will have charge of her at the palace. And the Queen has commanded that we ourselves escort her back by tomorrow evening,” said the page. But as I descended the steps, I could hear Gargantua, confined upstairs against his will, howling.
We took the empty streets at a fast trot, muddy water splashing everywhere, rain slashing at our faces, the only respite the brief pause beneath the city gates. Once past the walls and moat, we pushed the horses to a canter wherever the road looked reliable, cross-country away from the dark waters of the swirling river. Heavy mud clods flew from the horses’ hooves, and as the rain let up, we were no drier, for we passed into forested lands where the trees spilled water from their leaves as we passed.
The light was almost gone when we at last spied, among the shifting dark clouds, the towers of the old castle glowering from above us on the bluff. Trees and outbuildings had become black shadows, and already the first trembling candlelight could be seen in the windows of King Henri’s new chateau, built in the modern style beneath the black bulk of the old fortress.
“Thank God the gates are still open—the Queen would accept no excuses.” The boy shuddered, but I did not know if it was just because we were all soaked to the skin.
The Swiss guards were already in the courtyard when we entered, preparing to seal the gates, and lighting the four torches that were to burn all night in the corners of the court. The rain had stopped, but there was the distant rumble of thunder in the half-dark. The boy took my arm, so I wouldn’t stumble on the slippery wet, uneven paving,
for we were on foot. Only members of the royal family were allowed to enter the court on horseback or litter. Inside, the archers were already deploying on the staircases, and valets were lighting the torches to illuminate the narrow stone passages, the long public halls, and the stair landings for the night. Palaces at night are like cities, with crimes and blood and secret whisperings in the dark corridors. Worse, perhaps, for in a palace one expects less evil than in a city alley. A palace must have its Swiss guards and its archers no less than a city its night watch.
The boy led me to an ornate, sealed door, where a lady-in-waiting answered his knock, dismissed him, and led me inside.
“Good,” she said, “you arrived in time. Just hand me the coffer, and I’ll send for a maid to dry you off.”
“I can’t give it to you, I’m afraid. The queen herself commanded that I never put it in anyone’s hands but her own.”
“I am pleased,” came a voice from the depths of the room, and I saw there a short, plump figure in a white robe, standing beside a little table laid out like an altar, with black candles in silver candlesticks burning at each end of it. “I see you are loyal, discreet, and true to your word. I could wish for no more. Now give me the coffer.” I took the coffer from its traveling case. The candlelight shown and flickered luridly across its surface. I hate this thing, I thought, as I gave it to the queen. I wish I were rid of it. You could wish for it, came the hidden voice of Menander in the depths of my mind. And the way you work, you’d give me my wish by killing me, I answered, just as silently, as I handed it to the queen. Of course, came the secret voice of the thing—that’s how the others got rid of me.
But the queen had put the box on the altar between the two black candles, and though her back was turned to us, I could hear her chanting in some unknown language just like a necromancer in some drama. After that, she threw open the lid of the box. The lady beside me caught her breath and shuddered at her first sight of Menander. Somehow he looked more revolting than usual this night, his skin more like a viper’s dead sheddings, the brown teeth of his ghastly, mummified mouth more like fangs, and his gangrenous eyes exuding pure evil. He knew that he had a victim, and that victim was a queen made reckless with desire and capable of anything, even selling her soul. I felt sick to my stomach, and the clammy cold of my wet clothes made me shiver.
Judith Merkle Riley Page 21
