All the Sweet Tomorrows (76 page)

Once outside, she could hear the frantic screams of the poor unfortunates being murdered in the various districts of the city. Stopping a moment to get her bearings, Skye saw the lighted windows of the ballroom across the garden from her, and she moved swiftly to gain its safety. The cacophony within the ballroom was tremendous as the court chattered frantically to dispel their nervous tension. Notably quiet were the few Huguenot noble families who felt like early Christians in the arena as they huddled in small groups about the room trying to look inconspicuous. On the raised royal dais Catherine de Medici sat quietly with her son, his wife, and her daughter, Margot. Navarre, Condé, and Condé’s wife. Catherine’s sharp eye noted Skye’s entry into the room, and for a minute the two women’s eyes met and Skye knew in that instant that the Queen Mother had planned everything, including her own seduction by Navarre. Shaking her head, Skye looked away, missing the look of triumph that flickered briefly across de Medici’s fat face.

“Skye! My God, sweetheart, I have been frantic! Where have you been?” Adam, catching her shoulders, whirled her about and looked down into her face.

Suddenly seeing him, Skye realized the danger she had been in, and unable to control herself, she burst into tears. “Oh Adam! I was so frightened!”

“There, lamb,” he murmured at her. “Come now, sweetheart, it’s all right. Come with me. Maman was worried, too.” His loving arm about her he walked her across the room to where Gaby and the entire de Saville family awaited.

“
Ma fille
, what is wrong?” Gaby was instantly anxious. “You were gone so long. I had begun to grow worried, especially considering the atrocities going on in the city now.”

“Not here, Gaby,” Skye pleaded. “Later, I will explain later.”

“Now that we have Skye safe,” the comte said, “we must get to the house, my sons. Are you ready?”

The men in the party nodded, and Adam, seating Skye next to his mother, explained, “Antoine is worried that because the house we are renting is owned by a Huguenot the mob is apt to attack it. He wants to go back to the Marais district and get the children and the servants lest they be hurt. We should not be long.”

She nodded. “I’ll be all right, my darling. Go with them. I’ll be here with your maman.”

The Comte de Cher, his sons, sons-in-law, and stepson moved quickly to the royal dais, where Antoine spoke urgently to Queen Catherine for a few moments. Finally the Queen nodded, and the party of men hurried from the ballroom. When they had gone Gaby turned to Skye.

She sighed. “It was a trick to keep Navarre occupied and safe from the mob, Gaby. The Duc d’Anjou took me to his mother’s private closet, stunned me with a blow, disrobed me, and left me trussed up like a Christmas goose. Navarre thought I was meeting him for a love tryst.”

“But when he found you had been duped,
ma fille?”

“Alas, Gaby, chivalry did not prevail in Navarre’s case. He raped me, and you mustn’t tell Adam. Adam will lose his temper and kill him!”

“I would certainly hope so,
ma fille,”
Gaby replied indignantly.

A small giggle escaped Skye. The whole situation was total madness. “No, Gaby. Adam cannot kill a prince of the blood, an heir to France’s throne. He cannot even complain to the Queen, who is responsible for the whole situation. If Elizabeth Tudor refuses to recognize our marriage then we cannot go home to England, and France is our refuge. If we displease France, then where may we go, Gaby? Please promise me you will not tell Adam.”

Gaby nodded. Skye was as practical as she herself was, and Adam’s mother approved. There was no necessity to tell Adam. Skye was correct in that he would be monumentally angry, and of course would want his honor avenged. The disadvantages far outweighed the advantages. “You are right,
ma fille,”
Gaby said, “but before we drop the matter there is one thing I must know. Is
he
as good a lover as they say?” Her lovely eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“He is young yet,” Skye replied drily, “but his skill is growing, and the potential is there.”

Gaby laughed softly, completely understanding Skye’s point.
“I imagine the King of Navarre would be most disappointed in your rather candid evaluation of him,” she said low.

“Madame Burke.”

Both Gaby and Skye started, and then rose quickly to their feet to curtsey to Catherine de Medici. The Queen Mother smiled warmly at Gaby, and then turned her eyes to Skye.

“I will not forget the favor you have done me this night, madame,” she said. “Whatever may be said of me I do not forget those who give me their aid. You have a friend in Catherine de Medici.”

“Why me?” Skye asked, quietly wondering why she felt no anger.

“Because, madame, you were his passion for the moment, and I needed you, for only you could keep him occupied long enough and safe from de Guise and his mob. You did not seek Navarre’s attention, which in itself was a stronger attraction. My
beau-frère
is not used to being disdained and spurned by a beautiful woman. You are a member of the Tudor court, madame, and my information on you says that you are an intelligent woman. If you did not understand my position you would now be screaming and shrieking charges for all this court to hear.”

“I would not hurt my betrothed, Majesty, with the dishonor that has been visited upon us both tonight; but know one thing, I do not like being used.”

“Nonetheless,” came the disconcerting reply, “it is the way of the powerful to use, and you well know it. When is your wedding?”

“At Michaelmas at Archambault.”

Catherine de Medici turned to Gaby. “I shall come,” she said calmly. “I will be staying at Ussé that week, but I shall stop a night at Archambault. I understand from Comte Antoine that you will be leaving Paris tonight, so I shall bid you
adieu
until Michaelmas.” With a nod at Gaby the Queen Mother turned away and walked back to the royal dais.

“Mon Dieu!” Gaby gasped. “We have never entertained royalty at Archambault! I cannot believe it! Skye,
ma fille
, do you realize the honor being done us? The Queen is coming to your wedding!”

Skye had to laugh. Royalty! She would never really understand them. Royalty were the damnedest people in the world. Well, perhaps Catherine de Medici’s appearance at their wedding would sit well with Elizabeth Tudor, and she would give her blessing to them despite the fact that they were marrying without
her royal permission. “When I was married to Adam’s cousin, Geoffrey Southwood, I was married in Elizabeth Tudor’s presence at her palace at Greenwich,” she told Gaby. “In fact Geoffrey and I spent our wedding night there.”

Gaby was impressed. “Adam did not tell me that,” she said. “It was a happy marriage with Southwood, was it not?”

“Very happy!”

“So the Queen’s presence brought you luck. Now you will be married again in a queen’s presence, and that will bring you luck once more,
chérie.”

“What a good thought, Gaby!” Skye leaned over and hugged the older woman. “Do you know,” she said, “I have never had a mother-in-law, as my previous husbands’ mamas were all dead. I am so glad you are going to be my
belle-mère
, Gaby!”

Gaby de Saville felt the tears pricking at her eyelids. She would have made the effort to love any wife of Adam’s; but with Skye it was so easy. Not only that, they were friends, and Gaby considered that even better. “I shall light a hundred candles to the Blessed Mother that my son has you,” she said feelingly.

“And I shall light a hundred more to her that I have him,” Skye replied. “Oh, Gaby! This time I know that everything is going to be all right!”

T
HE
Comte de Cher and his party reached the Marais district just in time. An angry mob was preparing to storm the house that they had rented for their Paris stay. All the mob knew was that the house was owned by a Huguenot family. The comte and his sons clattered into the overrun courtyard of the house, while around them the mob brandished pikes and homemade weapons, shouting, “Kill the heretics!”

“Stop!” Antoine de Saville shouted, but he could not make himself heard over the uproar.

Adam saw one of the Duc de Guise’s men leading the crowd, and riding over to him, he said, “M’sieur, though this house is owned by a Huguenot, he is not in Paris. The house is being rented by a good Catholic nobleman, the Comte de Cher. It is his family and servants inside, not Huguenots.”

“The house is to be burned,” the duc’s man replied. “Orders of M’sieur de Guise.”

“I understand,” Adam replied, realizing that the duc, whose own mansion was next door, was taking this opportunity to confiscate the property for his own. “Nonetheless you will allow my stepfather to remove his people and his goods. The Comte de Cher is in both the King’s and Queen Catherine’s favor.”

The duc’s man nodded. “We’ll hold the mob, but tell your
stepfather to hurry. The canaille grow madder with their blood lust with each minute that passes by.”

Adam turned his horse back to Antoine and, reaching him, said, “We just have time to get our things, the children, and the servants,
beau-père
. They’re going to burn the house.”

“Alexandre! Yves!” the comte shouted. “Go to the stables and have every coach in there made ready, even those we don’t own! Louis, Henri, Robert! You will remain mounted before the front door. Adam, come inside with me!”

It did not take long to marshall the de Saville children, servants, and all their personal property. The servants had spent their evening packing for their master’s departure the following day, and it was merely a matter of loading up the coaches in the rear of the house while the howling mob was held at bay out front. Within minutes the house was vacated, and Adam and the comte departed through the main door of the mansion, mounted their horses, and, thanking the duc’s man, rode off. Behind them the Paris mob, freed of restraint, burst into their former abode, looting and destroying before putting the building to the torch.

When they reached the palace their women were eagerly waiting and anxious to leave Paris behind. In the confusion Skye found herself alone in a small carriage with Adam. She snuggled into his arms and, pressing her cheek against his hard shoulder, fell asleep. The whole evening had been a traumatic experience and, as always following a crisis, Skye was exhausted. When she awoke they were miles from the capital, but as they drove along there was evidence here and there of the same sort of violence and destruction and mayhem that they had left behind in Paris. In several places along their route gallows had been set up and both men and women as well as children dangled from them, swaying in the clear summer morning.

Skye wept at the sight. “I cannot believe that God condones such cruelty,” she said sadly.

“The Huguenots are no better,” he answered her. “Religious fanatics hear nothing but their own dogma. What matter how one finds God as long as we find him. Do not look, sweetheart. There is nothing you can do for those poor souls now.”

They didn’t bother to stop but for brief meals and to change the horses. Antoine de Saville was anxious to get back to Archambault. There was going to be another civil war, and in times of trouble it was best to be in one’s own château. The trip to Paris had taken them five days, but the return only took three. They arrived at Archambault after dark, tired and emotionally
exhausted by what they had seen and been involved in over the last two weeks. The Huguenots in the district around Archambault had for the most part been untouched, although their pastor had fled to La Rochelle with some of his flock. The majority waited, knowing that the comte would protect them, for they were his best vintagers, barrelmakers, and cultivators. It was fortunate that the village priest was a kindly old man with a good heart who abjured the Catholics not to imitate the excesses of Paris and the other cities that had followed its example.

Because they were far from Paris, the shock of the St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre was not strongly felt among those who made Archambault their home. Life swiftly returned to normal with the return of the de Saville family, and the preparations began for the marriage of Adam de Marisco and Skye O’Malley. Originally it had been planned that the celebration be a small, intimate family one; but now with the Queen’s promise to attend that was all changed. It would be a grand fête.

As August dissolved into September Skye counted the days eagerly until her marriage, and until her children were with her once again. The wedding was set for the twenty-ninth of September, the feast day of St. Michael, and Skye’s children arrived on the twentieth, tumbling excitedly from the coach that had brought them from Nantes, where Skye’s ship had docked. They were all there, even her eldest son, Ewan, who had left his holding in Ireland to be with his mother on her wedding day.

“Don’t worry, Mother,” he told her with a grin. “My uncles, Shamus and Conn O’Malley, are holding Ballyhennessey for me.”

“Where is your wife?” she demanded.

“Gwyn and I decided to wait until you could be with us before getting married. She’s still very young, Mother. Are you anxious to be a grandparent?” he teased.