After the funeral there was a short period of mourning and then the final preparations went on for the wedding. The city became more tense and this mood was reflected within the walls of the house. The queen’s servants missed her presence deeply and even Giorgio, normally so stoic about such things, seemed to be upset at her passing. He was short-tempered and distracted. I too was now on edge for I’d discovered from the kitchen servants that Melchior and the leopard had arrived in Paris. They’d gone, as arranged, to specially prepared quarters within the palace of the Louvre. Melchior was now positioned closer to my father and he’d told me he would try to find out any information he could. I wondered if I might be able to catch sight of the one other person that I longed desperately to see.
When I asked Giorgio if, now that Queen Jeanne was dead, we would attend any court functions, he snapped some non-committal reply. I was startled at his rudeness and bent my head to my work, puzzled as to why he was so touchy about my question. I glanced up. Giorgio was staring at me and I could not read the expression on his face. It was as if a stranger had entered the room, and yet his eyes had a look I recognized. A coldness came about me as I realized that the last time I’d seen a man regard me in such a manner was when I’d struggled to free myself from the Count de Ferignay.
It was a look of calculation, the way a predator might survey a potential victim.
And suddenly it was as if some other sense within me was alive.
I sensed a trap encircling me.
I lifted my head up. The way the leopard raised its head seconds before the bear attacked.
Giorgio drew his hand over his brow.
‘It is too warm, yes?’ he said. Drops of sweat ran on either side of his temple. ‘I am overcome by this heat.’ He paused and smiled. ‘As you must be too, Mélisande. You must rest more, my dear. I will make you another soothing preparation to help you sleep at night.’
So it was nothing. My prickling uncertainty was only the stifling heat of the city. Giorgio’s close regard was merely his concern for my welfare.
All through the days of that sultry, suffocating August Giorgio continued to watch over me. I began to drink his sleep remedy every evening for each batch he made was sweeter than the previous one. And it meant that I did not lie awake at night bathed in perspiration, listening to the increasingly frightening noises of the rabble that occupied the city streets in the hours of darkness. His potion drove away my nightmares, where I saw myself kneeling at the feet of Catherine de’ Medici, begging for mercy as she summoned the executioner from Carcassonne to lead me to the stake.
Chapter Sixty-four
WHEN THE WEDDING day arrived, we, as medical advisers to the Navarre royal house, were allocated places near enough to view the proceedings. While everyone’s attention was fixed on the wedding ceremony I was hoping that this was the day I might see my father once more.
Prince Henri arrived first, accompanied by his good friend Denis Durac and Gaspard Coligny. They mounted the special platform erected for the ceremony outside the cathedral of Notre Dame in order that the Protestant bridegroom would not have to enter a Catholic church. Here they were made to wait for nearly an hour before any dignitary of the French court deigned to join them. For once the Huguenot men were not clad in drab clothes. Although not gaudily attired, they were richly adorned as befitted their station and the circumstances. They wore suits of silk, with Prince Henri’s doublet thickly encrusted with silver embroidery. Their hats bore white plumes fastened with pear-shaped pearls.
To pass the time the two young men strolled about exchanging words with the onlookers. They kept mainly to the sides where the Huguenot supporters had gathered, although once or twice Henri did come near to the stalls where French courtiers stood and made conversation with some of them. He did not approach the furthest end, the back of the platform, where the common people and the citizens of Paris were crushed together waiting to view the spectacle and hoping for generous distributions of largesse to come their way. But it wasn’t necessary to be near this group to sense their mood. They had booed and shouted remarks at Henri, Denis Durac and Coligny on sight, and their surging restlessness signified a crowd that could very easily become a mob.
‘Hey, Monsieur Coligny, you don’t really believe what the Medici woman has told you! That this wedding will unite Catholic and Protestant!’
‘If the Princess Margot wears a white dress today then you’ll know that, like her mother, she too is a liar!’
In contrast the Parisians greeted the arrival of the Guise family with roars of approval. The Duke of Guise, whom I remembered as an impetuous fifteen-year-old, was now a handsome man of almost twenty-two. He had a short manicured beard and a bold expression on his face. He was the nobleman with whom Princess Margot was said to have fallen hopelessly in love. The duke acknowledged the loud cheers and swaggered to his place.
And now the quips became more personal and bawdy.
‘Hey, Henri! You should ask your bride where she slept last night! Her answer might surprise you!’
‘And that might not be your first surprise, Huguenot!’ a wit in the crowd added quickly. ‘Look for a wedding gift in nine months’ time. It will be your surprise from the Duke of Guise!’
The Duke of Guise laughed loudly at this play upon his name. Henri ignored it all and began a conversation with Denis Durac.
Then Catherine de’ Medici arrived. She had left off her customary widow’s clothes of black and wore a gown of deep purple brocade. A high ornate neck ruff emphasized her haughty air. The crowd became quiet as she swept onto the platform and took her seat.
On seeing the queen regent I shrank back against Giorgio. He had provided me with a high-collared coat and a large floppy hat to wear in the style of a doctor’s assistant. It covered my features very well, but on seeing Catherine de’ Medici apprehension overwhelmed me. This year, 1572, was the year that Nostradamus had predicted I would come to Paris. The year when the planets would move into aspect and my destiny should be fulfilled. But what was I supposed to do? Should I try to get closer to where the king would be? Was I supposed to step between him and an assassin’s dagger? Perhaps I should have brought the prophecy with me. It was still concealed inside the hem of my travelling cloak, hanging on the coat hook with my mandolin.
A fanfare of trumpets announced the bridal party. The clothes of King Charles made it look as if he were trying to outdo his sister in splendour. His tunic and breeches were crimson, his hose mauve. The tunic was ornately decorated, stitched, corded and pin-tucked with dozens of beads, his breeches and sleeves slashed with yellow silk. Clusters of ribbon decorated his garments and diamonds blazed from his fingers, neck and ears. On his arm he escorted the bride.
Like the others beside me in the crowd I gasped at the appearance of the Princess Margot. The healthy and vibrant young girl I had seen all those years ago in Cherboucy had become a darkly beautiful woman. Her bridal gown was cloth of gold studded with all possible jewels. Emeralds, rubies, diamonds and sapphires shone in the sunlight as she moved up the stairs to the platform. On top she wore a sleeveless overdress of shimmering blue which trailed for many feet behind. Picked out on this train, in a repeated design of exquisite golden embroidery, was the fleur-de-lis of France. On her head was a crown trimmed with ermine and beneath this her face was composed, but her colour was high and her eyes flashed rebellion.
King Charles led her to Henri’s side and he extended his hand to her. Margot ignored him and, helped by her attendants, she sank to her knees on one of the prie-dieus before the altar. Henri shrugged and knelt beside her.
We saw King Charles beckon to Gaspard Coligny to bring his chair closer to him. Catherine de’ Medici raised her head higher and became immobile.
The choir started to sing. Clouds of pungent incense drifted into the air. The Huguenots coughed and tutted their disapproval. The choir ceased chanting. The archbishop began the wedding ceremony.
Henri of Navarre made his marriage vows in a
flat unemotional voice. The archbishop then turned to the bride and asked her if she would accept Henri of Navarre as her husband.
Princess Margot did not reply.
The archbishop repeated his words.
Margot stared straight ahead and refused to say ‘yes’.
A murmur began amongst the onlookers.
Still Margot did not answer.
Then the crowd began to make comment.
‘Speak out, Margot!’
‘Tell him to go back to Navarre!’
Catherine de’ Medici whispered to the king. Charles rose to his feet and laid his hand upon Margot’s neck. When the archbishop, for the third time, requested her to make her vow, the king pushed his sister’s head forward in assent.
Henri of Navarre affected not to notice. There were whistles and catcalls from the crowd and a number of rough-looking individuals surged forward. I saw Denis Durac put his hand to his sword hilt but his master swiftly checked him.
The incident went by word of mouth like a forest fire, and as we followed the long procession to the reception in the Episcopal Palace we heard opinions being loudly voiced:
‘The Princess Margot has been coerced to marry the heretic!’
‘Paris should rise up to protect her!’
Being in the Huguenot party, we began to be jostled and Giorgio put his arm around my shoulder to protect me. As official guests Giorgio and I were permitted entry to eat from long tables set up in the courtyards while the wedding party ate inside.
We stood in ranks as the dignitaries filed past us. Upon entering the gates, Gaspard Coligny glanced up and saw above him the Huguenot banners captured at the time of one of their defeats in the recent religious wars.
In a voice deliberately loud enough to be heard by the Duke of Guise he said, ‘Be assured these will be taken down and returned to their rightful owners soon enough.’
Immediately the Duke of Guise snarled a reply and leaped in front of Coligny to bar his way.
Chapter Sixty-five
GIORGIO PUSHED ME behind him.
Supporters of both Coligny and Guise collected round them, but before anything could happen the king’s voice was heard above the noise.
‘Cease at once!’ he called out. ‘It is my sister’s wedding day and I will have no trouble!’
A space opened and King Charles walked towards the two men. ‘Understand me now, what I say to you.’
There was a silence. Catherine de’ Medici appeared behind the king. She gave an almost imperceptible tilt of her head.
The Duke of Guise stepped away. ‘I perceived an insult to your majesty,’ he said by way of explaining his action.
‘It was a jest,’ said King Charles. ‘No more than that. Come’ – he reached out to embrace Coligny – ‘the man I call “Father” will sit with me as we eat.’
They went on without further incident into the great hall of the palace while the rest of us stood at tables set up outside. I ate and drank very little. My anxiety made my hands shake and fits of trembling seized my body. Giorgio, seeing this, enquired kindly as to my wellbeing.
‘I am fretting to see my father, nothing more,’ I assured him. All the time my eyes darted among the faces around us and I strained to listen to anything that might help me find Papa.
It was afternoon before the banquet was over. Our tables were cleared and we were herded to upper balconies overlooking the courtyard as the royals and their guests assembled below us. There were to be special tableaux for them to view. Chairs were brought for the wedding party and, to the obvious irritation of Catherine de’ Medici, her son, King Charles, seated Gaspard Coligny at his side. I stood with Giorgio and looked down upon the ambassadors, nobles and high churchmen. The clusters of Huguenots in their darker clothes were a stark counterpoint to the splendid robes of the others, their badges of honour, sashes and decorations of high office.
A gong sounded and a procession of peasants from the various regions of France came to pay homage to King Charles and to present him with gifts for the bride and groom. These men and women were dressed in their traditional costumes; from the Auvergne, Picardy, Brittany, Normandy, Gascony . . .
‘Look how uncouth the Gascons are!’ someone on our balcony said in a mocking voice. ‘So like their brethren of Navarre.’
There was a shifting in the crowd about us. Giorgio looked nervously over his shoulder and he drew me away.
‘There will a fracas before this evening is over,’ he murmured in my ear. ‘We should leave soon.’
I knew that he was right. There was nothing for me here. Nostradamus had told me that he had seen me with my father by a window in the Louvre, not on a balcony overlooking the courtyard of the Episcopal Palace at Notre Dame. There was no reason for me to wait any longer. It was not the time for me to act to save the king. And now I had little hope of seeing my father today.
Then I saw a figure that filled me with terror and I knew that I must leave at once.
The Count de Ferignay!
I ducked my head and, pretending to yawn, I covered most of my face with my hands.
Giorgio glanced at me and then into the courtyard. I spread my fingers wide and risked another look.
The count was more portly than he had been six years ago. His face had widened, the skin around his jaw was looser, his face showing the ravages of years of self-indulgent living. He was standing to one side, part of a group surrounding the Duke of Guise.
With Giorgio following me I edged along the wall towards the furthest staircase to lead us down to the exit gate.
In the courtyard the peasants had begun to perform. Their voices chimed in harmony and their clogs clattered merrily on the cobbles as they swung round and round in a song and dance celebrating the gathering of the harvest.
Suddenly the Princess Margot stood up. She marched forward, clapping in time with the music, and made an attempt to join in the dance.
The Huguenots appeared scandalized by her behaviour. Small knots of them gathered, whispering together.
Margot cast off her overdress. She ran into the courtyard, flung out her arms and danced wildly. Her golden gown was dishevelled, one shoulder was bare, the crown upon her head becoming unsecured as her hair tumbled down. Catherine de’ Medici half rose to her feet. Her face showed suppressed fury at the sight of her child behaving wantonly in public. King Charles flung out his arm to forestall his mother interfering.
‘It is my sister’s wedding day,’ he said. ‘Allow Margot some liberty. For the rest of her life she will live in Navarre wearing drab clothes, with neither dance nor music.’
The Princess Margot skipped down the cloister among the pillars and then out again into the centre of the courtyard. She swirled round and round, took a few steps, tripped and stumbled.
Shouldering his companions aside, the Duke of Guise leaped forward. As she fell, he gathered Margot into his arms and her head dropped onto his shoulder.
‘Dieu!’
Giorgio was not the only spectator who took the Lord’s name in vain.
In the courtyard there was an instant of silence. Then Denis Durac stood before the Duke of Guise and addressed the princess. ‘Majesty, your bridegroom seeks your presence.’
Margot straightened up. She thrust aside both the Duke of Guise and Denis Durac, and calling to her attendants, quite soberly and steadily walked away inside the palace.
Taking advantage of the ensuing outbreak of chatter, Giorgio grasped me firmly by the arm and escorted me down the stairway to the outer door.
The sun was descending in the western sky. Its heat filled my mind and the fierce rays from this burning ball of fire stabbed across my vision. I put a hand to my temples as a migraine came on me.
Then I heard King Charles speak as clearly as if he were standing beside me:
‘This commotion has caused my head to hurt. I need something to soothe the ache within my mind.’
And through a gap in the crowds I saw him wave his hand in summons.
And then . . . and then I heard a sound I had dreamed about for the last six years. A sound I feared I might never hear again.
A lute played by a master musician.
I stopped. I craned my neck and strained against Giorgio that I might see.
The king was still seated in the chair placed for him in the courtyard. Behind him stood a tall man.
A man much stooped since last I saw him, but unmistakable to me. Before falling in a faint I cried out one word:
‘Papa!’
Chapter Sixty-six
I OPENED MY eyes.
I was lying on my mattress in my room in the house of Viscount Lebrand, with Giorgio kneeling by my side.
‘You fainted. I had to carry you home.’ Giorgio said in a worried voice. ‘I am very concerned for your health, Mélisande.’
I struggled to sit up. A wave of sickness rose within me but I managed to say, ‘Did you see him, my father?’
‘If you mean the minstrel who came to stand behind the king’s chair then, yes, I saw him. But to cry out like that was a very dangerous thing to do, Mélisande. You were lucky that in the mêlée after Princess Margot’s shocking behaviour no one paid you any heed.’
‘There are more wedding festivities planned,’ I said urgently. ‘Do you have invitations for these?’
‘It may be possible for me to attend some functions in an official capacity,’ Giorgio replied. ‘Why do you ask?’
At his question, made in such a solicitous and caring tone, the dam broke, and the whole burden of the tragedy of my life came sweeping through me. ‘My father,’ I sobbed. ‘I saw my father today. I’ve not seen him for many years, not since the death of my sister.’
The Nostradamus Prophecy Page 29
