He turned from me in marked dismissal. With my head bowed, I slowly left the hall. The deed was done; there was no turning back. For the first time in my long life, I had invited war in. If Navarre kept his promise, he would not invade; he would not take my son’s throne by force. He would fight Guise and kill him, and then, God willing, we would finally have peace.
From my apartments, I watched men toiling in the courtyard, grinding swords to a lethal edge, loading carts with munitions. The dragon of
war burgeoned before my eyes, and even as I recognized it would be commanded to my purpose, a band of fear circled my throat.
The night after Navarre’s troops were sighted marching toward us, Henri came to me. We had deliberately kept our distance and after he shut the door he embraced me. His body was hardened from training; he looked like his old self as he drew back to gaze into my eyes.
“I leave tomorrow,” he said. “Do you truly believe Navarre will fulfill his bargain?”
I nodded. “He will. Just remember, you must not enter the fray. Above all else, you must stay safe. Let Navarre have his moment.” I stood on tiptoes and kissed his mouth, tangling my stiff fingers in his long hair and inhaling his scent.
Never had I been as proud of him as I was in that moment.
The army left; Paris was put under curfew. As I waited, my faithful Birago, weakened by years of gout, collapsed at my feet and was taken to his bed.
I immediately called for Paré.
Our elderly doctor hadn’t fared much better than the rest of us, health-wise; lame in one leg and losing his eyesight, he peeled back Birago’s fur-lined robe, put his ear to my friend’s concave chest, and listened. When he righted himself, he shook his head sadly.
Birago chuckled faintly. “Say a prayer for me, physician. I’m luckier than most to have escaped your potions and leeches all these years.” He turned to me. “You needn’t stay,
madama
. France needs you more than I do.”
“Nonsense.” I fought back the hot rush of tears in my eyes. “You’ve served France faithfully; now, let France wait.”
I didn’t move from his side. We avoided any mention of the present or future, finding solace instead in shared recollections of the past, of our voyage in stormy seas to France, of my wedding and our years together, shoring up the kingdom, masterminding spies, and tutoring my sons. Of all the men in my life, Birago had been with me the longest. I couldn’t imagine my world without him. And yet as the days passed, I watched him ebb. The gout had turned his legs into a morass of inflamed flesh; he began to suffer high fevers and had trouble breathing, so Lucrezia
and I took turns sleeping on a truckle bed in his apartments, attentive to his distress.
The day he left me, his breathing was shallow, rattling in his chest. His withered fingers clutched mine. For the briefest moment, his frail smile conquered the pain.
“Madama,”
he said, “I will miss you.”
He died as he lived, without complaint. I held his hand as he grew cold and watched the unwavering purpose lift from his face, so that he seemed at peace, youthful again.
I bowed my head. “Do not stray far, my friend,” I whispered. “Wait for me.”
I mourned Birago deeply. I felt more alone than I’d ever been, waking every day and half expecting him to limp in with his portfolios. He had been my ally, my counselor; now he was gone. All purpose seemed to vanish from my life, so that I felt lost, bereft of the one person who’d known me better than I knew myself.
Even as I grieved, word came that Guise had clashed with Navarre on a field near the Loire River, with the Huguenot army chanting the Psalm of David as they entered battle behind their king’s white-plumed hat. In less than four hours, countless dead lay strewn across the blood-soaked grass. Couriers brought me updates, but everything was garbled, confused. None could say if Guise or Navarre had been injured or killed. I went to my knees and prayed. Toward nightfall I received a letter sent secretly by Navarre. I opened it with quivering hands.
It was brief, devastatingly so.
I have failed. Guise eluded me and has proclaimed victory. I will do as I promised and retreat. I cannot risk my surviving men nor do I wish to endanger you further
.
God be with you
.
There was no signature, a precaution in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. The paper floated from my grasp. I stood still. I wanted to cry, to wail and curse fate. I made myself envision the worst, seeing myself and Henri beholden to Guise forever, captive pawns in his design to turn France into a Catholic stronghold. The Spanish would overrun us, the Huguenots would be exterminated, and my son’s reign would not go
out in triumph but in ignominious disgrace. I had been so certain of success, that the prophecy uttered by Nostradamus all those years ago bound Navarre and me to this deed.
But no truth can be certain that concerns the future, I thought, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, stifling an acid burst of laughter. Fate, it seemed, was the cruelest trickster of all.
Then I got up and prepared to welcome my son home. He had done nothing except sit out the short war in his armor, and as he rode into the Louvre I saw the shock on his ashen face.
Louise subjected him to a tearful embrace. “God save me,” he said as he held her close. “Everything I have now lies open to Guise.”
I went to him. Trembling, he motioned Louise aside. My voice plunged low. “Remember, he doesn’t know we planned anything. I will invite him to court as if you were still allies.”
“He has an army at his command! He’ll ask for my soul.”
“I promise you, he’ll not win.” I pulled my son close. “We have one last chance …”
Even from within the hall in the Louvre we could hear the muffled cheers outside in the streets. I could imagine children tossing flowers, women wiping tears from their faces and the men—all the men, the tanners, shopkeepers, merchants, and beggars—brandishing fists as they roared Guise’s name, praising the man who had delivered France from the Huguenot menace. I found it grimly ironic that they had no idea who had unwillingly allowed Guise this triumph.
I glanced at Henri, dressed in his crown and gem-encrusted mantle. He was rigid on his throne on the dais beside Louise, whose ringed hands knotted in her lap. I sat below the dais; lining the hall’s far wall was the full complement of Henri’s personal guard, the Forty-five. Valette, dressed in chain mail with a pistol shoved in his belt, guarded the hall’s gilded doors.
Suddenly I heard footsteps tromping toward us. I tensed in my chair, caught up in a vivid recollection of the time when le Balafré had stormed this palace and I’d confronted him in this very hall, with my son Charles at my side. Then I had been furious, defiant; ready to do battle with the Guises unto the death. My desire for retribution had not waned, but now
I waited in apparent tranquillity, like a spider in her carefully woven web.
We had come full circle, yet unlike them I had learned from my mistakes.
I shot another look at Henri; he straightened his shoulders as Guise strode in through the doors, a group of six black-clad lords behind him. He looked enormous in his white doublet and slashed trunk hose, his muscular legs encased in leather boots, his signature red cape girded off one shoulder in the new fashion. His fair beard had been trimmed to a point; his eyes were keen as a bird of prey’s in his sun-bronzed face, where only a few lines betrayed the passage of his thirty-seventh year.
He bowed when he came before the dais. “I’ve come as Your Majesty requested.”
“My request,” replied Henri, “was that you attend me alone, without an escort.”
“I cannot help it if the people love me,” Guise replied, with an arrogance that made me clench my teeth. “If you so command it, I will ask them to disperse.”
Henri rose from his throne in a swift movement. He stabbed his finger at Guise. “Who is king here, my lord—you or me? You will send your lords away!” As he spoke, his gaze flicked over the Catholic nobles, whose voluminous cloaks might hide a multitude of weapons. As if on cue, the Forty-five unsheathed their swords with a metallic hiss that echoed in the cavernous hall.
The color seeped from Guise’s face. It gave me a dark surge of pleasure that we could still rouse his fear. He hadn’t forgotten how easily blood could be spilled between these walls. Yet he did not instruct his lords to leave. Instead, he reached into his cloak and removed a scroll.
“The League only wishes to see our agreements honored.” Guise set the scroll on the edge of the dais. “These are our terms. We request that you establish the Holy Inquisition to rid France of the Huguenots. We ask that Charles of Lorraine, son of your late sister Claude, be titled your heir, and that the heretic Navarre be disbarred from the succession and declared a traitor, forbidden from entering this realm again, on pain of death.”
I felt sudden apprehension as I saw Henri’s jawbone clench visibly under his skin. I half expected him to roar out his order for Guise’s
death, though we had agreed: not here. Not in Paris, where the populace was predominantly Catholic and would wreak vengeance upon us should anything happen to their hero. I realized Louise must fear the same, for her gaze met mine in mute terror. Poor Louise: untrained as a queen, tethered to a sterile marriage with no child to call her own, she was caught up in our maelstrom of hatred and deceit. Henri should never have married her. She had no place here.
My son stared in silence at Guise. To my relief, I marked the subtle lift of his chin, the change of cadence in his tone as he bent down to retrieve the scroll. “It seems you’ve thought of everything,” he said, with a brittle laugh. “You and your lords must dine with us tonight so we can discuss these requests at length.”
Guise frowned. My heartbeat quickened. Had we gone too far in our feigned compliance?
“Once Your Majesty signs the terms,” said Guise, “there’ll be time enough to dine. I’ll expect your response in three days.” Without another word he turned and walked out, his red cloak billowing, the lords of his entourage folding in behind him.
As soon as they were gone, Henri flung the scroll aside, abandoning the dais to stride to the casement window. From where I stood, I could hear the people’s renewed cries of
“Vive Guise! Vive le duc!
” as Guise and his men emerged from the Louvre.
I went to him. “Be patient,” I said. “Your hour will come.”
He did not look at me. “When?” he asked in a taut whisper.
“Soon,” I said, and I touched his shoulder. “He has set his own trap. All we need do now is wait and let him step into it.”
Storm clouds converged in the leaden sky, crackling without rain. The air was humid, sulfuric. In my apartments, I missed Birago desperately as I received hourly reports from his informants, who still worked for me. While Guise waited for my son to deliver the signed scroll, symbol of his capitulation, he’d wasted no time in bringing his family to join him in their Parisian house. And as the populace gathered outside his doors in reverential patience, waiting for him to appear, his retainers infiltrated the city.
Paris, seat of the monarchy for centuries, had become his stronghold.
At dawn on the third day, I was awoken by the sound of pulsating drum rolls. I dressed hurriedly. As I reached for my shawl, Lucrezia entered, carrying something wrapped in black cloth. She handed it to me.
“Use this,” she said. “Plunge it into Guise’s black heart. No man has earned it more.”
I unraveled the cloth to reveal a dagger with silver chains interlocked on its hilt: I hadn’t seen it since Guast’s death, but it was the same one my son Hercule had used to kill Henri’s lover.
I rewrapped it and nodded at Lucrezia, making my way through the hushed corridors.
Henri sat in his apartments. I took a seat beside him and we waited, hearing the roar building outside like some savage cry.
Information came to us sporadically; we learned that most of our palace officials had fled when they learned Guise had roused the populace to drag planks across the streets, impeding any escape through our front gates. Except for the gardens of the Tuileries, which were enclosed by gated walls and unpatrolled, every other path to and from the palace was manned by Guise’s retainers, as they’d been during the massacre.
All was ready for our defeat. We had not delivered the League’s terms, so Guise would bring us down by force and set Henri’s nephew, my grandson, on the throne.
At last, Guise had declared himself a traitor. Whatever we did next would be justified.
When word came, it was brought by one of his retainers. Handing the folded note to Henri, the man waited fearfully, glancing repeatedly at the Forty-five stationed at the walls. My son opened the note, scanned it, and let it fall at his feet. He waved the messenger out.
“Guise orders me to submit.” He lifted his eyes to me.
I felt as if I’d lived my entire life in rehearsal for this moment. I went to his table, inked the quill. “Then you must sign their agreement. Sign it and leave it here. I’ll deliver it. Pack what you can carry, take Louise, Valette, and your Forty-five, and make haste for the Château of Blois. You can ride out through the Tuileries, disguised as servants. No one will notice you among the crowd, seeing as they abandon us like vermin.” I reached for the cloth-shrouded dagger. “When the hour comes, use this in memory of your Guast.”
He gazed for a long moment at the dagger before he leaned over the
desk and scrawled his signature on the scroll. “What about you?” he said, gnawing at his lip. “How can I leave when I do not know if you’ll be safe?”
“Guise will not dare harm me,” I said softly. “Go. And no matter what, do not turn back.”
Guise didn’t assault the Louvre, though he would have encountered little resistance. Our remaining courtiers, servants, most of our hired guards—they had all deserted us, leaving me alone with only my women, to face whatever fate held in store.
As I sat in my rooms, sleepless before my fire, my women around me on pallets in case I had need of them, I thought for the first time of the night when I gave Guise and Henri permission to murder Coligny. Had he waited in that house as I did now, knowing his end was near? Had he prayed to his passionless god in his bed of pain or let himself wander among the scorched recesses of his memories, back to a time in an enchanted palace called Fontainebleau, where he had come upon a young bride, alone and in need of someone to believe in? And if he had thought of me in those final minutes before the door crashed in, did he smile, if only for a moment, knowing that in the end we all meet our reckoning in the same place?