by Kate Mosse
Aimeric sighed, trying to convince himself this wedding was good for the kingdom, good for their cause. Given that both Navarre and the King had a true affection for de Coligny, surely the union could not but deliver a greater freedom to the Huguenots.
‘A lasting peace,’ he said out loud, as if to imprint the words on the air.
Although he had made his usual observances at first light, and prayed again for the soul of his father, Aimeric bowed his head for a third time. With the steadfast faith of a man who believed God watched over the righteous, he prayed that tomorrow would pass without incident and that all those he loved might be delivered safely into the arms of another day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
PALAIS DE LOUVRE
Marguerite de Valois stood in front of the looking glass in her shift, her bare arms and shoulders touched by the afternoon sun shining through the window. She turned to her left and then to her right, admiring herself from all angles, then back to face centre again.
Margot stretched her arms above her head. Her skin was perfect and white, as unblemished as any of the Italian sculptor da Vinci’s statues in the Salle des Caryatides. She had brushed her hair one hundred times until it gleamed as warmly as polished mahogany. Her eyes were clear and well set, and she needed little dye to enhance her black lashes. Her brows were two perfect arches. Margot smiled. Her lips were as naturally red and plump as if painted with cochineal. Tomorrow, of course, what nature had bestowed upon her would be improved by her ladies-in-waiting.
She would be the most beautiful bride Paris had ever seen, of that she had no doubt. She could hear the crowds gathering in the streets already. Today she was a princess, tomorrow she would be a queen. As her marriage vows were pronounced, she would also accede to the throne of Navarre. She spoke several languages prettily, she had studied grammar and the classics, she was a poet and accomplished dancer, and known for her great skill on horseback, too. It was not for nothing that she was known as the ‘pearl of the Valois’.
Margot’s expression darkened. Navarre was nineteen, a few months younger than she. She had been favourably impressed when she had first met her husband-to-be at the time of their betrothal. He had turned out to be witty and more accomplished than she’d been led to expect and, against her will, he had charmed her. When Navarre had arrived in Paris in June, dressed all in black and accompanied by some nine hundred Huguenot noblemen, Margot had to admit he had cut a fine figure. But his breath stank of garlic. He wore his hair unfashionably long en brosse, swept back from his forehead, and he had rough manners and a provincial accent that grated on the ear. Besides, her heart was not free to give. He did not compare to her first love, Henri of Guise.
Margot placed her hand on her breast, remembering the touch of his fingers on her skin. Remembering the scent of his golden hair and the muscles on his back. They had enjoyed one another’s company for many months until, finally, they had been betrayed and caught. The Queen Mother had spies everywhere. Guise had been exiled from the court and she had been beaten black and blue by her mother and locked in her quarters for a month.
Two years had passed. But days ago Margot had watched from the windows of the Louvre Palace as the Duke of Guise rode back into Paris accompanied by a cavalcade of some hundred men. If Guise’s intention had been to show her feeble brother the King and her ruthless mother who had the heart of the people, it had worked.
The pain of knowing that Guise was so close at hand, yet forbidden to her, was driving her mad. Each night, even though she knew a guard was set, Margot prayed that he might yet find a way into her chamber. Each day, she prayed that word would arrive from the Pope refusing dispensation for the wedding between a Catholic and a Protestant to go ahead, though she had little hope of that now. This morning, she had overheard her ladies-in-waiting gossiping that her mother had ordered any missives from Rome to be held outside France until sunset tomorrow. Although the Cardinal of Bourbon was Catholic, and could be excommunicated for performing the ceremony without special dispensation, he was also Navarre’s uncle. Margot suspected Bourbon would fear the wrath of her mother, close at hand in Paris, more than the censure of the Pope some days’ ride away in Rome.
She was trapped.
Margot looked away from the mirror. Her beauty no longer pleased her. Nothing could please her except for Guise’s company. There were still twelve hours to go. Time enough for him to come and claim her.
‘What are you doing?’
Margot’s stomach lurched at the sound of the dreaded voice. All her confidence and elegance fell away from the instant she was in her mother’s presence and she became a bullied, uncherished child again. She turned, trying to control herself, but her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
‘I am honoured, my lady.’
Catherine de’ Medici stood, monstrous, in the doorway. She had gone into mourning at the death of her husband some thirteen years previously and wore nothing but black, save for her talisman bracelet with coloured stones. Margot tried not to look at her sharp, protruding eyes and heavy jowls, her white-powdered face and carmined lips, which failed to disguise a cruel mouth.
‘I asked you a question. What are you doing?’
‘Nothing.’
Her mother advanced into the chamber. Margot couldn’t help flinching.
Catherine gave a cold smile. ‘It is right to be anxious before your wedding day. It shows appropriate modesty, even though all of Paris knows you have the morals of a street whore.’ She held out a goblet. ‘I have brought you something to calm your nerves.’
Margot looked in horror at the red liquid swirling in the cup. Was it possible her mother had never intended the wedding to go ahead? It was common gossip in the court that her mother had poisoned the Queen of Navarre. What if she intended to harm her too? To destroy her good health or her spirit? She could not bear to drink it.
‘Take it,’ Catherine ordered. ‘You offend me by your disobedience.’
‘I am not thirsty.’
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know what is best for you.’ Catherine laughed. ‘Do you think I have anything but your best interests at heart?’ She held out the goblet. ‘Take it.’
Margot knew she had no choice but to do what she was told. She was powerless to resist. Then she felt the pinch of her mother’s fingers on her chin.
‘I am certain you do not need reminding of this, Marguerite, but you will not do a single thing to bring shame upon the Valois name. I am the wife of a king, the mother of kings and, thanks to my great hard work on your account, I have ensured that you, too, will be a queen.’ The pressure increased. ‘Nothing at all that could bring disgrace on our family. The eyes of Paris will be on you. If you do anything to jeopardise what I have done for you, your life will not be worth living. Do you understand?’
Margot’s throat was dry.
‘Do you?’
‘Oui, Maman.’
Catherine released her. ‘I will reassure the King and your noble brothers that you will obey them.’
Shaking from fear and rage, Margot managed to curtsey.
She watched in silence as her mother lumbered from the chamber, then a red mist descended. She was so ill-used by her family, so powerless to live the life she wanted, her desires so disregarded. With a roar, Margot threw the goblet with all the force she could muster across the room. The wine went flying as the mirror shattered into a myriad pieces, sending tiny fragments of blood-red glass scattering across the floor of her beautiful prison.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
RUE DES BARRES
Monday, 18 August
‘Wake up!’ Marta shouted, rushing into their chamber, bringing the noise of the Matins bells in with her. ‘I have been ready since first light. Look at me.’ She twirled around, holding her skirts wide.
Minou pulled the bed curtains back and sat up.
Piet, sitting by the window in his chemise and hose, held his finger to his lips. ‘You are too loud and too early, Mademoiselle Marta! T
here were only six chimes. We will not leave for some hours.’
‘My lady, my lord, forgive me.’ The nurse appeared, flustered, in the doorway. ‘Mademoiselle Marta, I expressly bid you to remain in your chambers until I came for you.’
Minou smiled. ‘It’s all right, nurse, she can stay for a while.’
‘Are we to receive the entire household in our bedchamber before the sun has barely risen?’ Piet grinned.
‘There does appear to be a certain anticipation affecting the usual pattern of things.’
Minou patted the bed beside her and Marta climbed up.
‘I was lonely in my chamber, Maman.’
Minou laughed. ‘Lonely! I cannot think that possible in a city so full of people.’
‘There was no one to play with,’ her daughter said, spreading her blue skirts around her. ‘I look fine in this dress, do I not?’
‘As pretty as a princess,’ Piet said. ‘As indeed will you, my lady of the mists, when the hour calls for it.’ He placed a kiss on Minou’s forehead, then rose and put on his robe. ‘I shall be the proudest man in Paris.’
‘What will the real princess be wearing?’ Marta said, her voice bright with excitement. ‘Aunt Salvadora says that—’
Minou lifted her daughter down from the bed. ‘You may have been ready since first light, petite, but I am not. And nor, indeed, is your father.’
Marta tilted her head to one side. ‘I can help him dress.’
‘Lord save us, a man must have some privacy!’
‘Return to your chamber and wait patiently,’ Minou said. ‘Nurse will make sure you have everything you might need. It will be a long day and we will be standing in the heat for some time.’
‘But I have—’
She put on her sternest voice. ‘Marta, go.’
The little girl stamped her foot. ‘How long do I have to be patient?’
Minou hid a smile. ‘Once the bells have rung for the mid-morning prayers, we shall leave. It is not far to the Île de la Cité, but it will be slow going.’
‘Why?’
‘Because the streets will be very crowded.’
‘That is many hours hence,’ Marta whined. ‘Could we not go earlier—’
Piet put his hand on his daughter’s shoulder and propelled her to the door, where he handed her into the care of a servant.
‘By your leave, Marta, we shall see you and Jean-Jacques a little later. Go straight to the nursery. Do not give the nurse any further trouble.’
* * *
The instant their daughter was out of earshot, they burst out laughing.
‘I’m sure all parents think likewise, but she really is an extraordinary child,’ Piet said. ‘She is so confident.’
‘And a magpie,’ Minou added. ‘Gathering every titbit of information. Yesterday I overheard her talking to Salvadora about learning Latin, someone having told her that, in addition to Spanish, French and Italian, Margot is versed in Latin and Greek.’
Piet laughed. ‘She even tried to persuade me that she should be allowed to accompany us to the evening revels that will follow the marriage. The Queen Mother has arranged an exceptional entertainment – a specially written masque, as well as Italian dancing and the finest musicians in Europe. I told her we had turned down the invitation. She thought that was foolish to miss such an occasion!’
‘She would! For my part, I’m so relieved you don’t want to go. I suspect it will be one of those evenings better in the retelling of it than the living of it.’
Piet traced his finger along the line of her face. ‘I would far rather keep to our own company and make our own entertainments.’
‘How very circumspect you are this morning, my lord.’
‘At your service, madomaisèla.’
‘Madomaisèla! After all these years and two children, I thank you for such gallantry.’
‘You seem not a day older than when I first set eyes on you.’
Minou’s heart sang. Since Piet had told her about Mariken’s letter and his fears about Vidal, the distance between them had vanished like a summer mist. They were their old selves, companions-in-arms, sweethearts again, lovers.
She kissed him on the tip of his nose. ‘Now that, mon coeur, is only because you will not admit to needing spectacles. The story of the past ten years, I fear, is writ clearly upon both our faces. It’s just that you cannot see it.’
Piet grinned. Then, taking her by surprise, he kicked the door shut with his heel, strode back across the chamber, swept her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.
‘How now, my lord! There is no time for—’
He threw himself down beside her. ‘There is time enough, my lady of the mists, to honour our happy marriage before we stand witness to one where the participants are far less suited. Indeed, it is our duty.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE CATHEDRAL OF NOTRE-DAME, ÎLE DE LA CITÉ
The high square towers of Notre-Dame stood magnificent against a cloudless blue sky. The arched windows flanking the west rose window, with its ancient stained glass, were dazzling in the morning sunlight. Today even the gargoyles seemed to pulse with a more benign air.
The parvis in front of the cathedral was alive with colour: a crowd dressed in jewels and feathers, velvet and ermine; faces pink and glistening in the fierce August heat. At the mighty west door, the snap of white of the clerical robes and the golden glint of cross and thurible stood in sharp relief.
Banks of raked seating for the most honoured guests and dignitaries had been constructed on both sides lining the approach to the west door – Catholics on one side, Huguenots on the other, like a crowd at a joust. Below them was the seating for lesser churchmen and property owners, noblemen like Piet and his family whose loyalty to the Crown or to Navarre, or to the prosperity of Paris, had earnt them a place.
Behind the stands, as far as the eye could see, hundreds of thousands of ordinary citizens stood to witness history in the making. Row upon row, street upon street, lining the banks on both sides of the Seine, their voices filling the air like the sound of thunder in the mountains. Unseen, but always heard.
At the entrance to Notre-Dame stood the Catholic Cardinal of Bourbon beside his Huguenot nephew, Henri of Navarre. The bridegroom was dressed in pale yellow satin embroidered with pearls and precious stones. Navarre still wore his hair en brosse, in the style of Béarn, and his manner and demeanour spoke more of the battlefield and the hunt than the corridors of court, but he looked no less a king for all that. Minou tried, but failed, to find Admiral de Coligny or Aimeric in the procession, though many of the senior Huguenots were still in their customary black.
Minou scanned the platforms opposite, until she found the exquisitely decorated section draped in the red and white, the blue and yellow fleur-de-lys livery of the Guise family. In the centre of the group was the Duke of Guise himself. Even Minou was bound to admit that there was something in his bearing that drew all eyes. He, more than Navarre, seemed to take possession of the day.
Minou steeled herself, then narrowed the focus of her gaze until she found Vidal. And though she had been seeking him, her chest contracted at the mere sight of him as if she was held in the torture of an iron maiden. Her legs seemed to have turned to water and her hands shook, as if she held the memory of every violence inflicted by Vidal in her bones. She reached out, clutching at the wooden railing to steady herself, and tried to master the dread that crawled over every inch of her skin: images of Alis lying bleeding on the roof of the keep, Minou’s cloak sodden with blood; the rotting corpses of vermin in the woods below where the assassin had waited.
She shook her head, as if to rid her mind of such terrible images.
Vidal had lost. She was alive, Alis grew stronger each day. Piet was restored to his old self. Vidal had not defeated them and she would not allow fear of him to undo her now. Minou forced herself to breathe in and out, until the rhythm of her heart returned to normal.
Finally, she took her h
ands from the wooden struts and stood straight. But when she glanced at Salvadora and Piet, she realised neither had noticed anything amiss. No time at all had passed.
‘Here,’ Piet said to Marta, pulling aside the awning so she could climb up on the struts. ‘Can you see better now?’
The little girl climbed up. ‘Yes, better.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, thank you, Papa,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘Where is Marguerite de Valois? Why is she not here, when the King of Navarre is waiting?’
Piet pointed towards the Louvre Palace. ‘The princess will come from that direction in a grand procession. Do you see how they have built a special walkway so she may come directly without having to descend to street level?’
‘Floating on golden air.’
Salvadora, her face scarlet in the heat, nodded her approval. ‘Marguerite de Valois will be accompanied by her brother King Charles, and the Queen Mother, as well as her younger brothers the Duke of Anjou and the Duke of Alençon, and their attendants.’
‘And three ladies-in-waiting to carry her train,’ Marta said. ‘I heard the maids talking of it.’
‘You should not listen to kitchen gossip,’ Salvadora sniffed, ‘though you are, in point of fact, correct.’
Marta shot her great-aunt a resentful look.
‘Careful,’ Piet said, as Marta leant further out for a better view.
‘Did you see Vidal?’ Minou whispered in her husband’s ear, surprised that her voice sounded so normal. ‘In the party of the Duke of Guise’s stand opposite?’
Piet put his arm around her waist. ‘I did, but I have taken your words to heart. Better now, in the distant crowd, than to find ourselves in the same place during these next few days. As you said, he cannot hurt us. It’s all in the past.’
