The Hostage Queen (21 page)

Bême pointed his sword at Coligny’s breast, causing a prick of blood to form. ‘Are you the Admiral?’

‘I am indeed, young man. You should have pity on my age, but do what you will. My life is almost done; you have no power to shorten it.’

‘Have I not?’ The man asked as he ran him through with the sword. ‘Traitor! Take this for the blood of my late lord and master Francis of Guise, whom you didst so perfidiously slay. Die!’

Coligny was knocked to the floor and the rest of the assassins fell upon him like a pack of ravenous wolves, all wanting a share of the kill. The faithful Nicolas was likewise dispatched, the Admiral’s belongings looted. Merlin, the loyal chaplain, was spared, perhaps because he was a man of the cloth, and he escaped through the window and over the rooftops in the wake of Téligny. Ambroise Paré, the surgeon, was apprehended by a group of archers to be taken back to the Louvre, under instructions from the King.

Guise had not even dismounted from his horse, and called from below in the street. ‘Is it done? Bême, have you finished?’

‘It is done,’ he called through the window.

‘Well then, throw him down here, so that we may see for ourselves.’

They lifted the old man, who, in his last gasps of life clung desperately to the window sill for a second before being hurled into the street below.

As he lay crumpled on the cobbles, Angoulême insolently wiped the blood from his face to check he was indeed Coligny. ‘Yes, it is he.’

Guise, still on his horse, having taken no part in the murders, watched in silence as the old Admiral was kicked and sword whipped, his head cut off to carry it to the Louvre, from whence it would later be taken in solemn state to Rome. His body was then dragged through the streets to be further savaged by the mob before being hung on the common gallows of Montfaucon, and left to be picked at by the crows.

By this time houses blazed with light as the people rose from their beds to see what all the disturbance was about. They found men clad in the livery of the city carrying lanterns at the end of long poles, soldiers prowling the streets, mingling with the growing masses.

Pursued across the rooftops, Carnaton was the first to be shot, swiftly followed by Téligny, who fell to the street below with the name of his beloved Louise on his lips. Merlin remained in hiding.

And having dealt with this most pressing of tasks, the assassins remounted and moved on in search of fresh prey.

Margot must have slept eventually, for when she woke, daylight was creeping in around the bed curtains. She pulled them back to discover it was day break, and that both the bed and the bedchamber were empty. The King of Navarre and his men had gone.

She sat up, wondering if it was too early to call Lottie, who was growing old and could be a slug-a-bed in the morning these days, when Madame smilingly appeared, as fresh and serene as ever.

‘Did you sleep well, my lady?’

Margot pouted. ‘No, I did not. My husband and his chattering comrades kept me awake half the night.’ At least whatever danger her sister had feared must now be past. Claude seemed to be flinching at shadows these days.

Madame looked around. ‘And where is your good lord, might I ask? It is barely dawn.’

‘I know not and care even less. Make fast the door, Lottie. Having suffered such a disturbed night I mean to catch up on some lost sleep.’ And, flopping back upon the pillows, Margot turned over and fell instantly asleep again.

It must have been an hour later when she was wakened by a violent banging at the door. It sounded very much as if someone were hammering on it with both hands and feet, a voice calling out, ‘Navarre! Navarre!’

‘Ah, that must be your good husband now,’ Madame said. ‘All right, all right, no need to shout, my lord, I am coming,’ and the old lady hurried to let him in.

The room was instantly filled with men, none of them Navarre. One young man, badly wounded with a gash on his arm from a sword or pike, ran in hotly pursued by four archers. He threw himself upon the bed in terror, begging for the Queen of Navarre’s protection. Margot screamed, struggled desperately to get out of his way, but the man grabbed her by the waist, holding her fast so that her body shielded him from his attackers. He too was screaming, both of them utterly terrified, while the archers strove to take aim upon their victim.

Margot was convinced they were both about to be shot when Nançay, Captain of the Guard, strode in, and on seeing the Princess thus surrounded, the intended victim clinging to her like a limpet, he actually laughed out loud at the sight.

Margot was incensed. ‘I see nothing to amuse you, good sir. These men would kill us both, me and this poor quivering fool wrapped about my waist.’

‘Begging your pardon, Madame.’ Somewhat chastened, the Captain ordered his archers to stand down, severely admonishing them for their indiscretion, and ordered them out of the chamber.

The man was still shivering in her arms, making no attempt to move, and Margot cradled him to her breast. ‘Your men attacked this poor fellow, hunted him down like a wild animal. I refuse to release him to you. I order you to spare his life.’

The Captain graciously bowed. ‘I concede his life to you, my lady, and I apologize for the over-enthusiasm of my archers.’

Margot imperiously called for Madame de Curton, who crept shakily forward, as shocked by the invasion as was her mistress.

‘Please see to his wounds, dear Lottie. Let him lie down in my dressing room for a while to recover.’

‘My lady.’

While Madame helped the injured man into the closet, Margot demanded to know what was going on. De Nançay’s expression was sour as he told her swiftly and calmly what was taking place that night within the walls of the Louvre.

Margot was stunned, shocked to the core, quite unable to take in what he was telling her. ‘Dear God, and my husband?’

‘Safe, in the King’s bedchamber.’

‘But, I . . . I don’t understand. Coligny and his fellow leaders again attacked, you say? Who would do such a vile thing?’

‘There is no time to explain further. With your permission, Madame, I would escort you to your sister’s bedchamber. Perhaps you should dress.’

It was then that Margot thought to examine her gown, her eyes opening wide with horror as she saw the state of it. All down the front of the young bride’s silken nightgown was a dark red stain. It was covered in blood.

This was indeed her Noce Vermeil, or Blood Red Wedding, as it would ever after be called.

Paris was in uproar. False rumours were spread in every quarter that the Huguenots had attacked the King in the Louvre.

The cry went up. ‘Kill! Kill!’

But it did not stop with the leaders. The streets of the city were soon thick with corpses, with children riffling through their pockets for treasures, or playing amongst them out of sheer daring. Men armed themselves with pistols, cutlasses, pikes, poniards, whatever they could find, and prowled the streets ransacking houses, cruelly killing without respect to sex or age. Tavannes and his men rode through the streets urging people to commit the most outrageous atrocities. Throats were slit, heads lopped off, entrails disembowelled. Private vengeance was swiftly acted upon, old enemies disposed of, every petty jealousy or squabble viciously settled. Debts, family feuds, betraying husbands and expensive lawsuits alike were dealt with by sword or dagger, whatever the victim’s religion, under the pretence that it was at the orders of the King.

Catholics also perished, sometimes by accident or mistaken identity, more often through an act of vengeance by their enemies.

Carts rumbled through the streets, sometimes filled with items from the looted houses, others laden with mutilated bodies which were then cast into the Seine. The gutters soon ran with blood, and the rats crept up from the sewers to taste the spoils of the night.

And there was no way out for those who ran for their lives. Chains were drawn across each street, all chance of escape blocked, every exit barred, even the river. Men and women were pulled from their houses and slaughtered without ceremony; babies stolen from their mothers, ostensibly to save their souls with Catholic baptism, but butchered whether the deed were done or no.

Throughout the night Catherine and her sons kept vigil within the Louvre, the King continually raving, roaring and cursing; by turns enthralled and revolted by the smell and sight of blood. Alençon sat nursing a silent resentment over having been kept out of the secret plotting, a slight he found hard to forgive.

Rochefoucauld, alone in his own bed in the early hours when the masked murderers came for him, thought he’d been invaded by the King in disguise. He was familiar with how Charles loved to play this game of thrashing his friends for sport.

‘You won’t take me in,’ he called out, laughing as they approached. ‘See, I have got my clothes on.’ Without troubling to respond, they brutally stabbed him to death, showing no mercy.

By morning the followers of Condé and Navarre were summoned to the courtyard, only to be mown down, one by one. Charles watched from his window, grotesquely entranced by the whole performance. Catherine stood beside him, perhaps to ensure that he did not escape or weaken when the hapless victims called up to him for mercy. Seeing the King standing there, in apparent charge, they could not then blame her.

All was chaos, a dozen or more dispatched in very short time.

Some Protestants, believing the massacre to be the work of the Guises, arrived at the Louvre seeking protection from their Sovereign. They came on foot and by river, but what they found there soon had them turning tail and running for their lives. Seeing them run, the King, inflamed by what he had just witnessed, snatched up an arquebus and fired after them. His shots failed to reach the fleeing mob, but the guards proved more skilled, and Charles laughed with macabre satisfaction when he saw their dead bodies floating upon the water.

‘Have I not played the game cleverly?’ he cried.

Catherine, as composed and cold as ever, calmly discussed with her Escadron Volant which Huguenot was the most handsome, or had died the most heroic death, and even who should be next, rather as they might discuss the most favoured colour for a new gown. That night her ladies disposed of several gentlemen who had long been an irritation to them.

As dawn was breaking, wrapped in the Captain’s cloak, Margot was led along the passages of the Louvre by Nançay. She’d quickly changed her nightgown but not troubled to dress, and was half fainting with dread at what she might find.

‘You say my husband is in the King’s apartment, and quite safe?’

‘He is, Your Majesty. Would you have me take you to him?’

‘No, I will go to my sister, as you suggest. I believe I can manage now.’

But the Captain insisted on accompanying her, which proved to be wise, for, as they entered the antechamber of her sister Claude, another gentleman came running in, fleeing from the very same archers who had so recently invaded her bedchamber. They charged and ran the poor man through with a pike, leaving him dead at her feet.

Margot screamed and fell into a dead faint. Caught by the Captain, he half carried her into her sister’s apartment, other Huguenots fleeing with her. Navarre’s First Gentleman of the Bedchamber, and Armagnac, his First Valet de chambre, all begged their new Queen to save their lives. Right at that moment she doubted she could even save her own.

Margot threw herself on her knees before the King and Queen Mother and begged for the life of her husband, and of Condé, his much loved cousin. Catherine agreed without argument. Not out of the goodness of her heart, but because she dare not destroy all the Bourbons as that would place too much power in the hands of the Guises. She needed to have some form of insurance.

Unaware of the workings of her mother’s mind on this matter, Margot simply praised God that they were to be spared.