“I fear you misunderstand,” he said. “The king and I did speak but I never counseled him against you. I merely told him—”
“That I might have poisoned Jeanne and will make Navarre convert.” I smiled as I saw the impact of my words drain the color from his face. “Oh, and I must be exiled from France, because I’ll bring the realm to ruin. Is that all, my lord? Or did I miss something?”
He didn’t shift a muscle. He met my stare and said in a low voice, “I loved you once. Yet now you accuse me of conspiring against you?”
It felt as though my heart twisted in my chest. “How can you say that? You deceived me, believed lies told of me, waged war against me. You never loved me.”
“Oh, I did. I loved you so badly I did what I never thought I could.”
The sadness that rose in his eyes riveted me. “Or have you forgotten how I saved you from le Balafré?”
“Le Balafré? What … what has he to do with this?”
“Everything. I had him killed, you see. I did it for you.”
I stood as if melded to my spot. “You declared yourself innocent of the charge. I ordered an investigation. You swore you had nothing to do with it.”
“I lied.” His voice quavered, as if he held back a near-overwhelming emotion. “I lied because I thought … I believed at the time we would find our way back to each other, once it was over. But I was wrong. You went on progress and when you came back, everything had changed.”
I did not feel my hand rise, not until I was pressing it to my lips.
“I am to blame,” he said. “I know that now. I never let you know how I felt. When I saw you again, two years had passed and my wife was dead. I felt such guilt at her passing. I watched her agonize for months and all I could do was long to be free of her. But when she finally went, I was so alone. I had nothing but my children and my faith. Then you summoned me to Blois and I saw we would never be who we were, and it was as if something died inside me, forever.”
“Dear God.” I turned away. Even as I fought against it, a terrifying hope began to rise in me. “You never said a word—not even then, at Blois, when it might have made a difference …”
“I know. What good would it have done? You had changed. I thought it best to let you go.”
His words shuddered through me. I whirled around, stabbed my finger at him. “I did not change,” I said, my voice trembling. “You did. You believed I’d agreed with Philip to persecute your faith and you went to war. It wasn’t me who did this to us: it was you. It was always you!”
He bowed his head. He looked as if he might weep. I thought that if he did, if he begged my forgiveness for what he’d done, for the betrayal and the pain he’d caused, I would let him live. I would send him back to Châtillon and his children, deprived of all power but unharmed.
I would not stain my conscience with his blood.
Then I heard him say, “Sometimes we must strike first, before we are struck in turn,” and I froze, meeting his eyes. In them, I saw what I had for so long anticipated—and dreaded.
Silence fell between us, taut like the pull on fabric before it shreds.
“You admit it,” I breathed. “You admit everything.”
“I do. I fought for the only thing I had left: my faith. You and I had reached an impasse. Where you saw compromise, I did not. But believe me, I never meant to become your enemy.”
“And yet,” I said, “here we are.” I drew back, lifting my chin. “You will resign from the Council and leave Paris. You are unfit. Be grateful that I spare your life, for no other monarch would.”
“If His Majesty commands it, I will submit.” He stepped close to me, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. “You make a mistake if you think I am of any account. My faith will prevail, with or without me. We will fight for Navarre and a Huguenot France. Nothing you do can change that.”
“You … you think you can threaten me?” I whispered. “If so, then you are the one who is mistaken, for come what may,
I
will prevail.” I took one last look at him, engraving this moment in my memory so I would never be tempted to rue this day. “We are done here, my lord.”
He bowed and walked out, without a single glance back.
A cold pit opened in my stomach. I turned to my desk, retrieved the sealed note I had written that morning. I called for a page. “Bring this to my son, Prince Henri.”
After that, I went about my business. I wrote my letters, bathed, changed one black gown for another, and sat down to dine. At one in the afternoon as my supper was being served, in the street winding from the Louvre to the rue de Béthisy a shot rang out.
Lucrezia was clearing the table when Henri came to me. Leaning to my ear he whispered, “They got him. But he’s not dead. He had men with him; they saw the house from where the shot was fired. When they broke in, a harquebus was on the table. It had Guise’s insignia on it.”
I looked at Lucrezia, standing still with the water pitcher in hand. I waved her out, shoving back my chair angrily to stand. “He’s a fool! I told you, I wanted it done anonymously.”
Henri heaved an exasperated breath. “He wanted them to know who had avenged his father.”
“Then he’s put us all in danger. Coligny threatened me; he said he’d fight for Navarre. Now, instead of a corpse, we have a wounded leader who’ll demand justice.”
Henri frowned. “They say the shot went through his shoulder. Maybe he’ll die.”
“Not soon enough.” I struggled for calm, for control, even as I felt myself tumbling into an abyss. “We must send our Dr. Paré to him. Then I’ll take Charles and visit.”
Henri gaped at me. “But they’ll all be there, his men, the other Huguenot leaders …” His voice faded into understanding. “I see. We must act as if we had nothing to do with it.”
Turning from him, I called for Birago. As he hustled away to get Charles, I said to Henri: “Keep Guise out of sight. At dusk, bring him to the oleander grotto in the Tuileries.”
We went by coach to the rue de Béthisy, flanked by armed guards.
A crowd of Huguenots already stood vigil outside Coligny’s house. In less than an hour, word had spread. By nightfall, I feared, all of Paris would be in tumult.
As we descended from the coach, someone yelled, “Murderers! Papist fiends!” and Charles cringed. I raised my chin. No one dared forbid us entrance, and in the main hall of the house we found more Huguenots, all men who went silent at our appearance. To my disbelief, Navarre stepped forth, his hair disheveled and chemise unlaced, as if he’d just woken from a nap.
“How is he?” I asked.
Navarre searched my face. I almost looked away, wondering if he’d see the complicity etched on my features. “He was shot in the shoulder. It’s bad, but we’re told he’ll survive.” He glanced at Charles, then back at me. “You shouldn’t have come. It wasn’t necessary. They already know who did it. You should be issuing a warrant for Guise’s arrest.”
“We will, when we know all the facts. Now, take us to him.”
Navarre led us to the staircase. The Huguenots parted as we passed. No one said a word.
Upstairs, Paré bustled to me, older now, but with the same brisk efficiency he’d shown when attending to my husband and eldest son in their death throes. “The wound is deep,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve extracted the bullet and set the bone. He lost a finger and his elbow is shattered,
but if he rests and keeps the dressing clean, in time he will recover.”
Charles had stepped to the bed where Coligny lay. Supine on the narrow mattress, he looked very small, almost insignificant.
Until he raised his eyes to me and I saw them smolder with all the force of his will.
Charles said softly, “My friend, I promise to find the culprit and exact full retribution.”
Coligny did not take his stare from me. Everything around us faded. “Your Majesty,” I heard him whisper, “I suspect no other than Guise.”
I moved to the bed. “Paré says you will recover. I am glad, for I remember when le Balafré was shot. The doctors said if the bullet could have been extracted, he might have lived.”
Coligny smiled. “As I said once to you, my life is of no account.”
As his smile knifed through me, I suddenly understood. It all came into monstrous focus. He wanted to die. He wanted to perish for his faith, for then he’d wield greater power than he ever had alive. He too had learned his lesson from the murder of le Balafré.
He had seen the devotion martyrs could engender.
I met his burning stare. “My only regret,” he said, and he turned his eyes to Charles, “is that my wound prevents me from serving Your Majesty at this perilous time.” His hand reached up to grip Charles’s; even as I watched, horrified, Charles bent down and Coligny whispered, pressing as he did something into Charles’s palm.
Then he collapsed upon his pillows, his face ashen.
Charles turned to me and held out his hand. “Here is the bullet.”
I glanced at the shredded nub. “We must let the admiral rest,” I said, and I could feel Coligny watching us as I took Charles by the hand and guided him to the door.
Our guards surrounded us. In the coach, seated opposite each other while we lurched over cobblestones, I asked, “What did he say to you?”
Tears swam in Charles’s eyes. “Nothing,” he murmured, and the moment we reached the Louvre, he rushed past Birago into the palace. Birago met my stare.
“Come with me,” I said to him.
• • •
In the oleander grotto, delicate bushes transported from Florence sat in tubs filled with native soil, waiting to be replanted. Their red and white blossoms were brazen, their scent as overpowering as their distilled essence could be lethal. Hedges ringed beds of rosemary and marjoram; scattered throughout were enamel salamanders, frogs, snakes, and grinning satyrs.
Two men approached us. One moved with a grace I recognized at once; the other was taller, broader. My throat tightened when he swept back his cloak’s hood. With his handsome, chiseled features, white-gold hair, and those deep blue eyes he had the beauty of a young lion.
Beside him, Henri was a dark panther, rubies glimmering about his bare throat, his hair loose about his shoulders and the beginnings of a goatee sharpening his chin.
“You are in grave danger,” I told Guise. “You should not have failed me.”
His eyes met mine. His voice when he spoke was husky, made for the bedroom. “I know. Already the heretics surround my
hôtel
. They wave cudgels and knives, and scream for my head. I’m fortunate His Highness was with me or they’d have fallen on me like locusts.” His full lips parted in a disdainful smile. “I hope there are no heretics hiding in the bushes here.”
As Henri let out a laugh, I retorted, “It is no joking matter. If we don’t act quickly, we could face another war, only this time they’ll burn down Paris.” I motioned to Birago. “Tell them.”
Birago was like a gnarled branch in his velvet robe, wisps of hair on his liver-spotted pate, yet he spoke with authority. “Over six thousand Huguenots are here; many came for the wedding but have yet to leave. Should they decide to seek retribution for the attempt on Coligny, they’ll do far more than wave cudgels and knives at our gates. They could storm the Louvre itself.”
Guise stood silent. “Then let me make amends,” he said at length.
I stared at him. “I gave you a time and place to do the deed, and you bungled it. What makes you think I’d entrust anything more to you save safe passage to your estate in Joinville?”
“I don’t expect you to trust me,” he replied with surprising calm. “But I assure you that this time, I will not fail. Unlike Lazarus not even Coligny can rise from the grave.”
Henri stepped to me. “Maman, I will go with him. We will kill everyone in the house.”
Without warning, I heard my dead father-in-law’s voice in my head.
That is the way of life
, ma petite.
Sometimes we must strike first …
I pressed a hand to my chest, turning toward the Seine, its acrid stench intermingling with the sweetness of my garden. I couldn’t deny it anymore. If he recovered, Coligny would fight me—to the death. It was his life or mine.
I turned back around. They shifted in the shadows: Guise a statue of ivory, Henri sleek and part of the night, Birago a wavering reflection of my own self.
“All of them?” I whispered, and the faces of those I’d seen in the house flashed before me. They had wives, children. Could I live with their deaths?
“All of them.” Guise recited the names impassively. “Coligny’s son-in-law Teligny, his captain Aubigne, the nobles Rochefoucauld, Souissy, and Armagnac: they are in that house and they must die. The Huguenot cause will never recover.” He paused, glancing at Henri, who made a deprecatory gesture. Guise returned his gaze to me. “You have Navarre. I suggest you keep him under guard until this is over. It goes without saying he can never return to his realm.”
I hesitated, looking at each of them. My heart pounded in my ears. I thought of what they were asking of me, what I would set in motion if I agreed, and then, just as I began to doubt, I remembered Coligny’s words:
We will fight for Navarre and a Huguenot France …
It was him or me. It had always been him or me.
I felt myself nod. “Tomorrow night,” I said quietly. “You can act then.”
Guise bowed. With a wink at me, Henri pulled up his hood.
“What day is tomorrow?” I asked, as they disappeared into the lengthening shadows.
“Sunday the twenty-fifth,” said Birago. “The Eve of St. Bartholomew, patron of healers.”
• • •
The next day, at twelve o’clock of another scorching afternoon, I received word that Navarre had returned from his morning visit to Coligny. My son Hercule had joined him in his apartments and I dispatched our court prostitutes there, to ensure they had enough flesh and wine to lull them for hours, so they’d fail to notice the guards at their door. When Henri returned from his evening patrol to report that there had been no disturbances in Paris, though Huguenots still crammed the alleys and lanes around Coligny’s house, I went to see Charles.
As I spoke to him, he sat on his bed with his hound beside him, juggling the shred of bullet back and forth in his hands. “So, it’s true,” he said when I finished. “Guise shot him.”