Médicis Daughter (52 page)

There is a sharp knock on the outer door. My cousin releases my wrist. I know Gillone will not open without me. Those are her orders. Rising, I take two steps.
The ladder
. Returning to the bedside, I kneel, reach beneath the bed, and draw it out. Another knock sounds.

“Here.” I shove the bundle at him. “This will take you down to the fosse. I like your chances better in the Louvre than in the streets, but if they have come for you and they are many, I will say, ‘The King of Navarre is not here.’ Let that be a signal for you to make your escape, and good luck to you.”

“Merci.”
His thanks tighten my chest and bring tears to my eyes. I wipe them furiously on my sleeve as I open the door to the next room. “Lock it,” I command without turning.

As soon as he complies I signal Gillone to open the outer door. Mother glides in.

“Get dressed to go out.”

Whatever I expected her to say, it was certainly not this.

“Out, Madame? The streets run with blood and ring with the cries of the dying! Who but a lunatic would wish to venture into them?”

“They will be safe enough for us.”

The truth of her words disgusts rather than reassures me.

“What would Your Majesty propose? Will you take us all to church? Prayers for your soul and for the souls of my brothers can as easily be said in the chapel here, and to as little effect.”

“Such histrionics. We have no reason to fear the wrath of God or godly men—quite the contrary. A Franciscan brings word that a hawthorn in the
Cimetière des Innocents
has burst into bloom. It is a sign from God that he commends the work of his Catholic children.”

“What work? You cannot mean the slaughter of their Protestant brothers.”
Dear God,
all around me is madness, and it is celebrated as miracle.

Mother offers me a dismissive smile. My outrage is clearly not worthy of response. “We will make a pilgrimage to see the bush, and you will come with us.”

“I will not.”

I glimpse Gillone’s face over Mother’s shoulder: her fear is palpable. But after the horrific sights of yesterday, and the tales I’ve heard since, my mother lacks the power to frighten me.

“The King commands your attendance. You refuse to obey him?”

“I do.”

The smile fades, the eyes narrow. “You will be made to go.”

“How? By force? I warn you, Madame, should you order the strongest of His Majesty’s guards to transport me, they will have an awful time of it. And how will it serve either your purpose or the King’s to have me carried kicking and screaming through the streets? Or do you mean to have me bound and gagged. That would be a spectacle for the populace to enjoy.”

“Marriage to a heretic has made you obstinate.”

“I believe it has.” As I speak I understand in a blinding flash why I have decided to protect my husband and why I must be stubborn now. If I am not, I will be damned. Never did I imagine that the guests at my wedding would be slaughtered before they could return home. But who will believe it? And more particularly who will believe it if I am seen celebrating those events at the
cimetière
? I
know
I am innocent. I am even willing to believe that the King and my mother had no inkling such events would transpire as I took my vows. But nothing can save
them
from being linked with the massacre now.

I will not have my name spoken in the same breath as theirs when this horror is recounted.

Mother shakes her head slowly. I am transfixed by the motion. Simple as it is, it seems threatening. “Let us see if you have lost all ability to reason. I have Jean d’Armagnac.”

“The King of Navarre’s
valet de chambre
? My husband thinks him dead.”

“Not yet. Do you want him?”

The room jerks, or perhaps I stagger. My eyes lock with Her Majesty’s. Can she possibly be so cruel? Can I be so foolish as to doubt it? I just told my cousin he must sacrifice honor for survival; how, then, can I flinch? “I want him here.”

“After.”

“Before. When I have seen him I give you my word I will dress.”

“Why should I accept your word when you decline to accept mine?”

“Because the only blood my hands are stained with is that of those I saved on Saint Bartholomew’s morn, while yours are red from the slaughter.”

“I’ll be back.”

“White,” I say as the door shuts behind Mother. “I want to wear white. The color of mourning.”

I do not return to my husband, because I do not know what to say to him. To claim credit for saving Armagnac—just the thought sends me into dry heaves. To admit I will ride out with my family to celebrate the decimation of his friends and followers—that thought is even worse. And the fear of what I will surely see in the streets of Paris nearly paralyzes me.

I wait, my mind wandering nowhere, numb.

When the door opens next, Mother is not alone. A member of the Swiss Guard, his uniform streaked with grime and blood, pushes Armagnac before him.

“Sir, are you unharmed?” The question sounds absurd. It
is
absurd.

“Your Majesty, yes.”

Mother nods sharply. The guard shoves Armagnac forward so that he stumbles into my arms. “We leave within the hour.”

I close my arm protectively about my husband’s valet, pulling his head onto my shoulder. “Get out.”

The guard obeys at once, but Mother lingers.

“Is Navarre here?”

“Yes.”

“I wonder how long he will be content to live as a prisoner.”

“He has not yet decided for Vincennes.”

She laughs. “There are all kinds of prisons, daughter. Even should he return to the Church, he will not be at liberty. Nor, thanks to your show of disobedience, will you. Today’s outing will be your last for some time.”

“Madame, do you expect confinement in the Louvre to be a hardship to me? How so when I have never been free? My whole life has been directed by your will, my brother’s whims, and even by chance pieces of gossip—everything but my wishes. I have no wings for you to clip.”

As she departs I feel Armagnac’s shoulders shake as he begins to weep on my shoulder.

*   *   *

Just reaching my horse is horror enough. The halls of the Louvre have been cleared of the dead, but random garments and weapons left behind, along with the quiet that pervades spaces usually overflowing with people, are reminders of what has passed. As I emerge into the courtyard I am confronted by a figure sprawled where he fell, doubtless one of those unfortunate souls who threw himself from a window yesterday in a desperate bid for escape. I cannot see his face and that is just as well, because all the sadness I feel must be swallowed. Mother is watching. May I be damned if she sees me break.

A large party has assembled. Among them, just next to my mount, is Henriette. Looking past her, I see Henri. He gazes at me with a mixture of triumph and concern. Behind him a pile of bodies, some with pikes still in them, stands in the blistering sunlight as if it was composed of something more benign, like hay for the horses. Meeting the Duc’s eyes, I spit, then climb into my saddle.

“What was that?” Henriette asks under her breath, but I merely shake my head.

As we form up to pass through the gates, I spot Charles at our head with a pair of priests. We move into the road in a tight pack. We could not pass otherwise. The Rue Saint-Honoré is a broad thoroughfare, but it is greatly constricted by bodies, many of them, after so many hours, stripped naked. Yet pickpockets and scavengers have not given up hope of finding something of value. They look up at the sound of our horses’ hooves, and scurry off like rats at the sight of the Swiss Guard.

A small child in his nightshift lies at the side of the road just ahead. His hand is within a hair’s breadth of a woman’s, doubtless his mother, who was equally unable to save him or to retain his hand in death. I cannot take my eyes off those hands. As we pass, my head turns over my shoulder to see the pair of them. The effort of holding back my tears is physically painful. My chest burns. My stomach is hollow. I glance at Henriette but she looks straight ahead.

What monsters we are.

I try to keep my eyes from returning to the road, looking at the back of the King’s head, at the cloudless sky, at anything but the fallen—anything but the fallen or the large ceremonial cross carried by one of the priests. God has no place in this moment. Of this I am certain.

Guise pulls his horse alongside Henriette’s. “I suppose we ought to have thought of the stench and thrown more of them in the river. By tomorrow the odor will be unbearable.”

Anjou, riding just in front of me, laughs and turns back over his shoulder. “I have it on good authority that near the Pont aux Meuniers the river could hold no more bodies. One could traverse from bank to bank upon them without wetting one’s feet. But never fear, Guise, we shall send soldiers to clear what the thieves and the grieving relatives do not. And only think how much better Paris will smell this fall with cooler weather and fewer heretics to pollute it.”

The Duc smiles. I never thought to see Henri reduced to my brother’s level. Their conduct always distinguished them one from the other—with all of the good on Henri’s side—as did their antagonism. Yet here they are, joking together, and over what? The deaths of innocents.

“And how will you remove the stench from your persons?” My voice is low; I have not enough breath to speak more loudly and not enough self-control to stop shouting if I start. “No amount of the perfumes you favor, brother, will banish the scent of death from you. It will cling to you until you are a corpse yourself.”

“Spoken like a woman whose husband smells of dogs and garlic,” Anjou replies.

Henri snorts.

I turn to him across the figure of my friend. “What is garlic compared to the odor of the grave?” I will myself to look into his eyes, daring him to break the stare. “If moral decay had a stench like the decay of the flesh does, you, Sir, would be given a wide berth by all. As it is, I am profoundly thankful for the odor of my horse at this moment.”

His eyes drop, but not before I have the satisfaction of seeing a flare of pain in them. Before this I could not have imagined causing Henri pain without feeling it myself.

I am relieved to reach the
cimetière
. Here at least the dead are belowground. I experience a strange urge to spring from my horse and run to hide among the bones stacked in the charnel house, but what behavior toward me might be excused if it appears I have run mad? I will not offer myself as sacrifice to my mother and brothers, nor will I offer the King of Navarre.

The bush is old and frames a grave so ancient, the name has been worn from the marker by the drops of a thousand rains. A single branch blooms. I must admit, the white of the blossoms is startling against so much gnarled wood. Against so much death. We dismount and the priests move forward, praying as they go. The King and Mother follow. I am allowed, momentarily at least, to hang back, clinging to the reins of my horse. Henriette comes to my side.

“Margot, calling out the Duc d’Anjou and the Duc de Guise! What possessed you?” Her voice is a whisper but chastisement nonetheless.

“Grief and guilt—maladies which seem to affect far too few in our party.”

Taking my arm, Henriette leads me to the far side of my horse. “Who have you lost that you should grieve? You had little liking for your husband’s companions, and your acquaintance with them was so fleeting that you had yet to learn many of their names.”

“But they were my guests nevertheless. If I cannot mourn them as men, may I not despise the fact that my wedding put them in the way of dying?”

“You
may
do whatever you like. But whether you should … that is a different matter.” The dismay in my friend’s face leads me to feel dismayed in turn. “How do such thoughts and actions help you?” she asks. “It is a foolish thing in war to side with the losers, most particularly where the losers are already dead.
La mort n’a point d’ami.
”

“We were at peace.”

“And we will be so again. Who precisely is left to raise arms against His Majesty? Whatever you think of the actions of yesterday, a generation of Huguenot leaders is dead. They drag the admiral’s body through the streets.”

I pry her hand from me. “You speak of that as if it were nothing. You who dined with Coligny, and hunted with him! Just a week ago he was everywhere we went, a royal advisor, one of the most powerful men in Charles’ court.”

“Too powerful.”

“Too powerful for the House of Lorraine.”

“And”—Henriette’s voice drops so low that it comes out as a hiss—“for the House of Valois. Did you consider
that
when you savaged Guise? He is not the only one who wanted Coligny dead, or who had a hand in the first attempt.”

“There is plenty of blame to go around,” I whisper back furiously.

“Thus laying blame is both futile and dangerous. We are here to celebrate. Put on a smile, if only as an act of political expedience. If it is less than honorable to kill women and children in their beds, be glad common men, not courtiers, did that dirty work. Henri finished the admiral, yes, and in doing so avenged his father. Is that not the act of an honorable man? I thought you loved him.”

And, without waiting for my reply, she is gone. When I slide from behind my horse, she is with the others, in a ring about the bush, head bowed. Henri is not far from her. Looking at the profile I know so well, at the sandy hair I have tousled in play and in lust, I know that I did love him. I love him still. Perhaps that is why I find myself unable to embrace Henriette’s justifications of his actions.

Mother casts a look in my direction. I glare back but move to join the others, bowing my head as if in prayer, though my thoughts are more temporal.

Guise is not the only man who committed murder last evening. Without question, such a massacre, however it began, could not have proceeded without the acquiescence of my family. Doubtless Anjou wet his hands in blood driven by petty grievances and ambition more than by any desire to rid France of heresy or safeguard Charles’ reign. And Charles owned that what was done inside the Louvre was done in his name when I confronted him. But Henri is not supposed to be as my brothers are—governed solely by self-interests and whims as given rein or checked by Mother. He is charged, as I love him, with being a man of honor possessed of a conscience, guided by God. Glancing at the Duc, his eyes shut in prayer, my heart aches. I am bitterly disappointed in him for being less than he appeared through my loving eyes.