Médicis Daughter (15 page)

From that moment we run our horses hard, hoping only to be within the city gates before they drop. I watch in fascinated horror as the Cardinal of Lorraine’s horse collapses. His brother Aumale stops to take him up. Several royal guards lose mounts. Unlike His Eminence, they are left to walk. I do not know if anyone would stop for me should my horse fail. I do not know who there is I would stop for. And I do not realize I am crying until we pass through the gates and I must wipe my eyes to see my way.

I am not the only one who weeps. In the courtyard of the Louvre, Marie becomes hysterical, sobbing on the ground beside her foaming, sweated mount. Charles tries to help her to her feet but stumbles, the muscles of his legs too fatigued to properly support him. I long to get down from my horse but feel powerless to do so. Again it is Guise who comes to my aid. Climbing the steps put in place by a servant, he half lifts, half drags me from my saddle. “You are all right,” he tells me softly. “You are home.”

I may be home but I am not all right. I will not be all right for a long time. Not until my friends who are God knows where between Meaux and Paris arrive safely. And not until the Protestants have been taught their duty to their King at swords’ points.

CHAPTER 6

October 1567—Paris, France

“What will it take to move that man!” Mother looks up from the dispatch and slams her fist upon the table. The Baron de Retz, sitting opposite, jumps, but I am careful to hold still and stay quiet. Thanks to Anjou, I am hiding in a space I did not previously know existed, peering through a hole cleverly provided for such a purpose.

“More than a month has passed since we were driven hence in a frenzy by a galling act of treason,” Mother continues. “Protestant demands make negotiations a farce. His Majesty has ordered those in rebellion to lay down their arms. That order has been ignored. And still the constable dithers!”

“He is too old, Madame.” My brother Henri picks at something on his doublet sleeve and curls his lip disdainfully. “Montmorency thinks more upon his digestion than upon leading His Majesty’s troops.”

“The people grow hungry, thanks to the heretics’ blockade,” the Baron says. “You would not have them blame the King in their despair. Write to the constable. Press him to march to Saint-Denis and attack.”

“I will do better than write. Since he does so little where he sits, let him come here. We will see if he is willing to mumble pale reassurances like those on this paper when he must look me in the eye.” Mother crumples the page and casts it onto the table.

I cannot imagine anyone crossing Mother when she locks her eyes upon them. For a fleeting instant I feel as if she can see me, and I shiver.

“I will send for him.” The Baron rises.

“Will you take the constable’s command from him?” my brother asks the moment he and Mother are alone.

“Patience, son. You do not lack courage but could use more diplomacy. Constable Montmorency was your father’s good friend. More than that, he has served as a useful hedge against the houses of Lorraine and Guise since your brother François died with their talons in his arm. Those who have served well cannot be lightly cast aside.”

“Ventre-Dieu!”

Mother holds up a hand. “When the constable sets out to do battle, I will surround him with younger, stronger men. You shall have a command and so shall others of your generation. I know war is a young man’s meat and a king in his prime needs warriors of a similar age.”

“I will make you proud, Madame.”

“You always do. Now go and find some entertainment.”

Moments later Anjou releases me from my hiding place.

“Happy?” he asks.

“Yes. And you must be too. You will command troops in battle.”

“It is a beginning, but I will hound Mother until I have the prize I seek: command of all the King’s armies.”

“Can you never be satisfied?” I try to sound exasperated but I am, in reality, pleased. Anjou’s ambition is laudable, and he knows I admire it. Perhaps that is why he stoops and kisses my cheek.

“I am satisfied when you are with me.”

“Well, then, how shall we amuse ourselves?”

“Do you not wish to run off and report to the Duchesse de Nevers and the Baronne de Sauve?”

I do, very much. But I continue to wage a campaign to keep Henri from Mademoiselle de Rieux. So telling tales of what I’ve heard will wait.

“If you would rather I ran off—”

“No, indeed!” Henri smiles again. “Come watch me take exercise with my new small sword.”

“All right.” I take his arm. Charles presently is much engaged with final details for his royal
Académie des Maîtres en faits d’armes.
Anjou enthusiastically offers his ideas and support, swept up in the latest craze for sword work, but also trying to curry favor with the King to assist his ambitions.

We go first to my brother’s rooms. I watch as he strips off his doublet and searches for something more suitable for fencing, wondering, as I admire the muscles in his back, if the Duc de Guise will be among the young men exercising. I have seen very little of the Duc since our return to the Louvre, and I realize wistfully it is highly unlikely he will be playing at arms this afternoon, as his uncles made sure he was quickly sent to the defensive lines lest the constable get all the glory. A fear that now seems very foolish.

Anjou pulls on a new shirt. As his head emerges he says, “By the way, I have something of interest to tell. In the letter Mother received from Elisabeth yesterday, our sister complains Don Carlos becomes more and more irrational. He has been aggressively paying court to her. Elisabeth does her best to conceal this, and his other signs of madness, from the Prince’s father—out of what Mother calls a ‘misplaced affection for the useless boy’—but fears the King of Spain will soon have her stepson confined for his own good.”

Picking up his foil, Henri gives a few short thrusts, bending his forward knee more with each. “Are you not mightily glad?”

“Prodigiously!” Glad that Don Carlos is not my husband and, yes, glad his troubles of the mind overtake him. I know it is wicked to be cheered by such a thing, but there is a certain delightful vengeance in knowing that the man who sneered at the idea of wedding me has become a prating lunatic. Failing to win the hand of a madman is no failure.

And yet … the slight by the Prince still stings. Don Carlos, mad or not, is betrothed to the Emperor’s daughter and I remain unattached. Even as I know thoughts of war dominate Mother’s hours, and must do, I wish she would turn a modicum of her attention to finding me a husband.

“Why do you sigh?” Anjou asks.

“I do not!” I insist defensively. “Do you ever think of getting married?”

“No,” Anjou replies, his voice oddly flat. “For I will not have my choice, and Mother’s suggestions have been abominable.”

If by his choice my brother means Mademoiselle de Rieux, then I am heartily glad he will be denied it.

He sheathes his blade. “Mother is not the only one to miss the mark. I swear to you, the Duc de Guise mentioned our brother’s widow to me—never mind Mary Stuart has a husband already.”

“When did you see the Duc?”

“At camp when I was last there to review the troops with Charles.” Henri looks at me piercingly.

I fidget, then, taking his arm, say, “Come. I thought you were going to impress me with feats of fighting prowess.”

He bends and kisses the top of my head, and as he does so I can hear him inhaling my perfume—his favorite. Straightening, he says, “I hope to impress you always and in every way.”

“I am sure you shall. And I will relate tales of your gallantry and valor everywhere, as a good sister should.”

*   *   *

I cannot sit still! There is a massacre going on and I am missing it.

Montmorency at last offers battle to Condé and his Protestants. The constable has a mighty force: more than fifteen thousand infantry, three thousand cavalry, and eighteen lovely new cannons. The Protestants have not a seventh of that at Saint-Denis. How those heretics must tremble at this moment—at least those not already dispatched to answer before God. How they must cry out as they are run through with pikes or felled by Catholic swords!

Anjou joined the constable last night. Charles rode out this morning to watch from a safe distance. Mother and I are left behind to wait for word of the battle’s glorious result, word that must surely come soon, given that the fighting began hours ago. I bite my nails and pace from window to window, though there is nothing to see. This morning we heard the sounds of His Majesty’s artillery, but no longer. We certainly have no chance of hearing anything else at this distance; yet, in my eagerness I strain my ears. Mother, by contrast, sits at her desk, writing.

“Marguerite!” she says, looking up. “If you cannot be calm, then you must be gone.”

I freeze. The one concession made to me on the occasion of the day’s battle is that I have been permitted to be with Mother in her study, along with the Duchesse d’Uzès, rather than being consigned to the room beyond with the other ladies. And though that larger party would doubtless be full of shared excitement and whispered speculation—all in all, a great deal more entertaining—Mother will have the news first. I make myself sit down beside Mother’s chessboard and slowly set up the pieces, imagining each to be someone I know. Anjou for the Red King, though I suppose by rights that ought to be Charles. The pieces are finely carved with particularly dashing chevaliers. Perhaps that is why I imagine one to be the Duc de Guise. I run my finger along that piece before moving it. Then, turning the board, play the other side.

I am in my third turn as white when the door bursts open. A soldier no older than me crosses the threshold, breathing heavily.

“Your Majesty,” he says, “Constable de Montmorency is felled. He is on his way to Paris, but all concede this effort is made merely so he may die at home.”

Mother does not blanch. Not a muscle moves in her face. “Unfortunate, but what of the battle?”

“The Prince de Condé has the luck of the devil.” The youth crosses himself as if Satan might be summoned by a mention. “He broke our line. ’Twas during his charge that Montmorency was wounded.”

“Condé charged?”

“Before we could.”

“
Incroyable!
Your brother was right”—Mother turns to me—“the constable was too old for the task set him.” Returning her attention to the soldier, she gives him a sharp look. “I have had your sober news, now give me better.”

I can see fear in the youth’s eyes. Dear God, what if he has no better? At least, I pray he has no worse.

“We nearly had Condé. The Duc d’Anjou was screaming for us to take him. But Condé’s men rescued him.”

I can imagine my brother’s curses at such a turn of events. Mother draws herself up fully in her chair.

“But we have broken their momentum,” the messenger adds quickly. “There are not enough of them to carry the day, and surely the next report to Your Majesty will say the Protestants are on the run.”

“That is the news we want, and woe betide the man who brings me other tidings.”

I wonder if the soldier is thinking that he would rather die fighting than bring the next dispatch; that would certainly be my thought were I in his boots.

“With Your Majesty’s leave, I will return to the field.”

Mother nods curtly. The youth flees. As the door closes, Her Majesty stands, pacing to the same window that, just a short while ago, she made me leave. “God’s blood!” she says, striking the sill, “was it too much to ask His Majesty’s huge army to destroy twenty-five hundred men? I might kill so many myself, because I have the spleen for it. The constable did not.”

“Will Your Majesty go to see him?” the Duchesse d’Uzès asks.

“No. Excuses from a dying man are no more palatable than those from one who will live awhile longer.” Turning, Mother sits back down behind her desk and sighs. “But, as I am a Christian, I will send a note saying I am grieved by his injury and pray he will recover.”

“Anjou has the spleen for fighting,” I say.

Mother lays down the pen she has just taken up. I tense, ready to be told my opinion is unwanted. Instead she smiles. “Henri has all my best parts, and I shall see he has the opportunity to use them against the King’s enemies from this moment on.”

At dusk Anjou arrives, sweaty and angry.

“Men, animals, time—all lost,” he says after briefly stooping to kiss Mother. “And for what?” Pouring himself a glass of wine, Anjou flops into a chair, heedless of the grime he imparts. “It will horrify you, I am sure, but I must report that our positions at darkness are changed insignificantly from what they were at first light—by a matter of yards, not miles.” Throwing back the entire content of his glass, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I rode into the city with Charles.”

“Where is the King?” Mother asks.

“Down in the courtyard, kicking a groom.”

So Charles has surrendered to his black temper as a result of this reverse.
I shudder at the thought of such a mood, which may linger for days and punish many more than the hapless groom.

“Have you word of the constable’s condition?” Henri asks, kicking some mud off his boot onto the carpet.

“When he is dead, word will come from the Rue Sante Avoie,” Mother replies with no discernible emotion. “And whatever you think of his conduct today, you will show appropriate respect at his passing. After all, it does no harm for he who comes next to praise he who went before where that predecessor is dead and no threat.”

“Meaning?”

“Your brother will be naming you lieutenant general.”

A broad smile illuminates Henri’s face.

“And I will give the Duc de Guise a command under my brother.” Charles stands in the doorway. Unlike Anjou’s, his attire is pristine save for the toe of his right boot, where I distinctly detect traces of blood. I see also that the knuckles of his right hand are split and bleeding, though he appears entirely unconscious of the fact. “Guise fought splendidly, something which, sadly, distinguishes him from many. We may have God on our side, but Condé and Coligny have braver men.”