Authors: Sophie Perinot
“Surely, Monsieur, room can be made for a dozen—the admiral has so many who are concerned for him and who cannot be made easy on report alone,” Mother says.
The royal physician is not so foolish as to speak in contravention of Her Majesty, so he nods. Charles, Anjou, Mother, and the King’s chief councilors head up the stairs. I attach myself to the rear of the party.
The room is stifling. The admiral, lying on his bed, lifts his head. “Your Majesty, I regret I am in no condition to greet you properly.”
“And I regret, my dear father, that you have been so brutally attacked.” Charles moves to the bedside, displacing my cousin, who goes silently and without looking at me to where Pilles and Téligny stand near an open window.
“I have ordered an inquiry into this cowardly assault,” the King says, laying his hand gingerly upon the admiral’s bandaged one. “Whoever struck at you struck also at me, for you are my right arm and good counsel.”
“I hope, Your Majesty, to shortly be sound enough to sit beside you in council once more. In my absence, I urge you to listen to your conscience, not to those who would steer you in a manner beneficial to themselves but not France.”
“Admiral,” Mother says, “you need have no fear. I remain steadfastly at His Majesty’s side.”
I seriously doubt this comforts the gentleman.
Téligny steps forward. “Your Majesty, my father and I have every faith in your justice. To that end, may we hope to hear before this dreadful day ends that the Duc de Guise has been arrested?”
The admiral casts his son-in-law a warning look.
“If you have evidence implicating the Duc,” Charles says, “I charge you by the duty you owe me to present it to me.”
“Everyone knows Guise vowed as a mere boy to kill my father.”
“And everyone also knows,” Mother says, “that His Majesty forbade action on that pledge. And yet”—she sighs—“too often men of heated blood disregard their sovereign’s will.”
I cannot believe it! Mother has just suggested, in a room full of Protestants, that my beloved may be responsible for the admiral’s wounding. She has thrown him to the dogs!
“Still,” she adds, “inquiries demand evidence, Sir, not conjecture.”
“Your Majesties, perhaps you have not yet heard, but an arquebus, still warm from firing, was found on the first floor of a house in the cloisters of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois—a house belonging to the Duchesse de Nemours.”
I grow cold at the mention of Henri’s mother.
“This will be looked into,” Charles says.
“There, you have the King’s word!” Mother crows triumphantly. “Now let us have no more talk of such things. They are not soothing. The admiral needs rest, is that not so, Monsieur Paré?”
I can see that the admiral’s coreligionists are far from satisfied. And those Catholic gentlemen who came with His Majesty are also displeased. I wonder if the admiral, who has lately worked so tirelessly to see Charles’ Protestant and Catholic subjects drawn closer, sees that they are being rent asunder over this attempt on his life, or if he is in too much pain to be aware. I am aware—excruciatingly aware. I have the horrible thought that my hand was likely wasted—that I may soon be the wife of a king who is at war with my brother. I look at my cousin where he stands silently taking everything in. Is he enough of a man to bind Bourbon and Valois together in a way his father could not? Can he take the admiral’s place at my brother’s side if needs be?
“Sir”—Mother stoops over Coligny—“I take my leave. Know that, whatever our disagreements have been, I wish desperately you were not wounded.” Mother straightens and beckons to the courtiers we brought. “Come, we leave the admiral among friends. They will, I am sure, lay down their lives before they allow further harm to come to him.”
Charles lingers as people file from the room, speaking low to Coligny. I move to my cousin’s side, resolutely ignoring how his companion bristles at my approach. “Sir, do you return to the Louvre with us?”
“No, Madame. I will rest here awhile.”
I go to Charles and take his arm. He looks down on the admiral with such sadness that it wrings my heart. “Have faith in me,
mon père,
” he says softly. “I will give you justice, whomever I must punish to do so.”
Mother, who waits at the foot of the bed, shifts uneasily.
“In the meantime I will send guards to ensure you rest undisturbed.” The King puts his hand over mine where it rests in the crook of his arm. We move through the throngs of somberly clad Protestants and out to our horses. When we are all mounted, Charles turns to Mother. “This wicked deed rose from the enmity between the houses of Châtillon and Guise and the House of Guise shall pay for it,” he exclaims. “I will send for the Duc the moment we reach the Louvre.”
“Apologies, Your Majesty,” Mother says. “His Grace sought permission to leave Paris, fearing some angry Huguenot would take a shot at him before the truth could be known, and I gave it him.”
At last, something to be glad of on this wretched day.
* * *
By the time I am put to bed, I am exhausted, not because I have done anything very much but from the tension in the Court. Every sort of theory is whispered, from the straightforward and insistent Protestant claim that Henri had the admiral shot, to conspiracies too absurd to be given a second thought—among them that the Huguenots themselves maimed their chief, hoping a wounded admiral would have even more sway with the King. Some of those accusing Guise mention me.
“When asked why the Duc acts at a moment likely to bring the wrath of the King upon him, those who posit Guise’s guilt reply that the admiral’s support of your marriage was the final provocation,” Gillone says as she tucks me beneath the covers.
“Utterly ridiculous!”
“Will the Duc come tonight?”
“He has left the city.” I try to say it lightly, as if I am equally unconcerned by the accusations against him and his lengthening absence from my bed.
A strong knock sounds on my outer door.
Who can it be?
“Wait,” I call as Gillone turns to go. “Help me into a
surcote
. Whoever it is, I have no intention of receiving them in bed.” We go through to my antechamber. She opens the door to reveal my cousin, his page at his side and his men at least four deep behind him.
“I am sorry it is so late, wife,” he says, smiling pleasantly. “But I stayed long at the admiral’s.”
I could not be more confused, nor could Gillone. She stands looking helpless as the King of Navarre and his men sweep in without waiting for my leave. My cousin takes my hand, lifts it to his lips, and kisses it audibly. The whole display has the feel of bad farce.
“Gentlemen,” he says, smiling at those around us—not a one of whom smiles back—“I must have a private word with the Queen.” He slips an arm around my waist and, utterly bewildered, I let him walk me to the bedchamber. As he releases me to shut the door, I find my tongue.
“Are you mad? This morning you told me my advice was of value to you, and yet tonight you come to my rooms in full state like a true husband, thereby assuring you will receive no more of it.”
“Restez tranquille,”
he says, raising his hands in a gesture of pacification. “I am not here to violate our agreement, but to make the most of it.”
“Oh, really? I will admit I do not see how!”
“It seems to me that on a day such as this—when Catholics in the streets cursed me and rattled their swords, and when my own gentlemen have said things about your family too unkind to repeat—all at Court need a reminder that I am bound to the King in a special manner: that we are man and wife. Hence my very public procession to your apartment.”
“You were seen coming?”
“By as many as I could manage.”
I am so angry that I can do nothing but sputter.
My cousin moves closer. “Madame, truly, I believe this ruse is in both our interests. Do you wish the peace broken?”
His words echo my thoughts of the afternoon: my fears that our marriage will be rendered irrelevant by events. It may be a bad union, but it exists and the only thing I can think of that would make it worse is for it to be made immaterial to the King and to my mother.
“No,” I concede. “But I did not anticipate you would need to break my peace in such a manner to preserve the larger one.”
“I apologize for doing so.”
“Having come in such great state, you have doubtless given the desired reminder. Take your gentlemen and leave me to my sleep.”
He does not move other than to shift his weight from one foot to the other. “I wonder if you would honor your pledge of friendship by letting me bide the night.”
“Here?”
“In the next room with my gentlemen would suffice. We are used to sleeping rough in the mountains of Navarre and can easily stretch out on the floor. When I leave in the morning, none will be able to say that the wounding of the admiral at the behest of a man rumored to be your lover has driven a wedge between us.”
He has me, damn him.
“I
have
overheard whisperings that the Duc was driven to act by our marriage.”
He nods. “Perhaps he was.”
I ignore the remark, because I do not think my cousin means to offend—merely to consider the point.
“So you must stay,” I answer matter-of-factly. “But I would have the action stem the gossip not only of Catholic courtiers but of your Protestant gentlemen as well. They have no love for me and no trust either. If you lie with them in the next room, they will know our marriage is a fiction and believe you yourself share their distrust.”
His eyes widen.
“So you must sleep here, within the curtains of my bed.”
“It can hardly be necessary to subject you to the intrusion.”
“It is very necessary. I saw the way your gentlemen looked at me this morning when word came of Coligny’s wounding. They think me capable of harming you—”
“No, Madame!”
“Yes!” When he does not reply, I consider the matter settled. “Turn your back,” I command. He does so with admirable swiftness. Removing my
surcote,
I cast it onto a chair and get quickly beneath the bedcovers. “Now take off your things and climb in beside me.”
He laughs.
“What is so funny?”
“You ordering me into your bed, when not a week ago you made it painfully clear I am not wanted there.” I avert my eyes, imagining what Gillone will think; what Henriette will think when she hears tomorrow; what Henri will think. This last gives me pause. For while I do not care if Gillone thinks me intimate with my husband, and while I will be in a position to tell Henriette the truth, I shall have no opportunity to explain to the Duc. Perhaps, given his shameful treatment of me, he does not deserve an explanation.
The curtains on the opposite side of my bed open and my cousin jumps upon the mattress as if he were a boy of ten. Lying down without a word, the man is asleep so quickly I cannot believe it. Considering the events of the day, I would have expected him to lie awake. I do. Staring into the darkness, I try to see his profile and cannot. Many bells toll, yet I continue to stare in his direction—sleepless, sweltering, and wishing he were someone’s husband other than mine.
August 23, 1572—Paris, France
Charlotte eyes me oddly as I enter Mother’s apartment. She is not the only one. If it were not for the wounding of the admiral, I am certain I would be the center of all gossip today. Then again, were it not for the wounding of the admiral, the King of Navarre should never have passed the night with me.
“What ails everyone?” I ask, taking a seat with my friends. “There is an air of hysteria among Her Majesty’s ladies.”
“It is not limited to them, I assure you,” Henriette says. Then, perhaps seeing some trace of incredulity in my expression, she continues. “You doubt it? Well—”
“There are rumors,” Fleurie interrupts, “rumors that the Protestants will take violent revenge upon the King for the wounding of their chief. That they will rise up and begin the next war in the streets of Paris.”
Henriette gives me an I-told-you-so look.
“Nonsense,” I say. “No one can possibly blame Charles. All know of his devotion to Admiral Coligny.”
Fleurie shakes her head in disbelief.
“You think no one can blame your brother?” Henriette asks. “Well, while you were sleeping late, a handful of your husband’s gentlemen had a tussle with the royal guards.”
“It is said they were trying to force their way into His Majesty’s presence,” Charlotte adds.
I nearly curse under my breath. “And where is my husband?” When I woke he was gone and I did not bother to look for him.
“The King of Navarre, the Prince de Condé, and a legion of their friends went to the admiral’s at dawn. Or so I
heard
.” Charlotte gives me an accusatory look.
Henriette shifts closer. “The talk that Protestants will rise in the streets is not confined to the Louvre. And rumors of a plot to kill not only the King but all your family—”
“And to put your husband on the throne,” Charlotte interjects.
“—travel through the city like a contagious fever,” Henriette finishes.
I am gripped by fear. Not that my cousin and his coreligionists are coming to murder my family—I simply cannot credit that—but that things have so swiftly run out of control.
“Charles ought to take the Court to Fontainebleau at once,” I say. “It is too hot here for people to be sensible. If we go and stay away a month, the people of Paris will see there is nothing in these hysterical reports and calm down.”
“You are too much the optimist, Margot,” Henriette admonishes. “The King has ordered an inquiry into the wounding of the admiral, and Parisians will follow those proceedings—”
“Like dogs track a wounded animal,” I say, finishing my friend’s thought.
“They will be whipped into a frenzy by them.” Henriette nods.
God’s blood!
“And yet, what could Charles do but seek justice for Coligny, lest he appear a weak king?”
“I would not like to be His Majesty at this moment,” my friend replies softly. “Trapped between the Protestants and Catholics he has pulled together. To placate the former, he must punish the guilty. But”—she lowers her voice further still—“this same action will enrage the latter: the people of Paris do not want Guise punished.”