The King of Navarre steps close. “I take solace in the idea that Madame Catherine, while capable of much that is unpleasant, is generally careful to keep herself above suspicion.” His voice is soft, as if he is sorry he was compelled to tell me what he did. This bewilders me but also lessens my anger.
“Do you dismiss the tale, Sir? Or do you merely presume that if Her Majesty was involved, there will be no evidence of it?”
“Either will do for the present.”
I am stunned. “You would not care if my mother supported the assassination of the admiral?”
“I would care—deeply. But the consequences should such a fact become known … I cannot imagine them, and that uncertainty fills me with apprehension.” He pushes a hand through his hair in a manner not unlike my Henri. “What are your thoughts? You know many of the players in this drama better than I. What do you think His Majesty will do when he hears the rumor—as he surely will before the day is out? What will he do if it is proved?”
What would Charles do if Mother were implicated? I have no ready answer. If Anjou was involved, I certainly believe that Charles would act savagely. But Mother …
“I cannot say, Sir, and the question frightens me as it does you.”
He nods vigorously. “We are both wise enough to be afraid—far wiser than the rumormongers on either side. They speak without thinking.”
It is my turn to nod, for his words express what I felt sitting among Her Majesty’s ladies.
“Madame”—he puts a hand on my shoulder—“neither of us can predict what the King will do. You cannot predict what the Catholics will do, and I cannot foretell the actions of my fellows should the trail of blood lead from the admiral’s house to the Louvre. I wish you to know one thing, however: I will see no harm comes to you.”
It is a strangely gallant thing for him to say, given the situation. It ignites in me both a desire to reassure him and a compulsion to take equal care of his person. These are proprietary feelings—feelings with which I am not comfortable. “Sir, I can take care of myself.” I step out from under his hand. “I am not the one who risks the open streets. Keep your wits about you as you return to the admiral’s bedside.”
“Bien sûr.”
“And before you do”—I force a smile so that I will seem less worried than I am—“you had best take care of the Baronne de Sauve’s misperceptions. I will not be deprived of a best friend by misplaced jealousy.”
He smiles slightly. “You are a most accommodating wife.”
“I promised I would be.”
I do not follow him to the next room but sit down to pen my note to Henri. Not an easy task. The man to whom, less than a week ago, I confided everything without censoring thought or feeling is suddenly separated from me—in part by my simmering anger, but also by a growing recognition that his interests and mine are no longer one. I settle for the short, plain, and unembellished. Will such a terse message wound? Or will Henri recognize that my sending a note is, alone, proof of my caring? Such questions hardly matter. They are overpowered by a more momentous one: Will my words result in action on his part? I cannot know. All I can be certain of is that if Henri is arrested and, God forbid, banished or worse, the thought that I have tried to save him may salve my conscience but it will not prevent my heart from shattering. And to think I believed it broken already.
* * *
“You will not find the Queen in her bedchamber.” The Baronne de Retz is alone in Mother’s vast antechamber.
“Where, then?” I have spent all afternoon wandering, looking for something more substantial in the way of information than the whisperings that continue to circulate.
“She has gone to the Tuileries.”
At such a time? Then it comes to me: no place is more private. “With whom?”
My former gouvernante hesitates.
I shrug. “I will go and see for myself.”
“Anjou, my husband, the Duc de Nevers, and Cardinal Birague.”
Serious company—all Mother’s Italian favorites and her favorite son, but not the King. An icy shiver runs up my spine. Such a group raises every sort of alarm. I force myself to smile. Then I go directly toward Charles’ apartment. If he does not know where Mother is and with whom, he ought to. As I approach the lesser entrance, the one which only those closest to him use, I am startled to see a hooded figure moving away from that door. The figure raises his head.
“Marguerite!” Henri’s eyes meet mine. I see surprise, pain, love, and anger.
“Why are you still in Paris?”
“Why did you—who know me better than anyone—think I would flee it like a coward?”
“Do brave men skulk around hooded?”
He pulls himself up to his full height and pushes back his hood. His eyes soften and I find it in me to soften as well.
“Henri,” I say, reaching out a hand to touch his arm, “brave men may die as well as cowards.”
“Brave men may die, yes. But they always die better than cowards.”
“I would prefer you live to be a very old man.” I drop my eyes to the floor.
“Would you?” His voice is imbued with a desire to know. I look back up into his face.
“Of course.”
“Do you wish me alive so that you may torture me?” His voice is rough and I know he has heard. “You promised.” The accusation is nearly childlike in its raw anger.
I want to tell him that my cousin has not touched me. But the words will not come. He does not deserve to hear them. And saying them would undo a ruse that my cousin and I agreed to. So instead I say, “We each promised many things. Can you say, Henri, you have been entirely faithful to your word? You who deserted me after saying you would love me forever?” If his conscience twinges, I cannot detect as much in his face.
“I must go.”
“Go, then. But before you do, I must call upon our long friendship. You know I am told nothing. I have passed all day fearing I know not what. You have been with the King: Can you not at least tell me what passes in fact? For the rumors are too wild to be credited.” I do not honestly expect an answer, but, having nothing to lose, a bold play seems the thing.
He hesitates, then says, “I cannot say what your brother will do, and I will not breach the confidence of the others who counseled him. But I advised him to strike the Huguenots before they stop demanding justice and rise up. You see, I too care—I would have you live to old age and your family along with you.”
“Strike how? Arrests?”
He ignores my questions, pulling up his hood once more. When he tries to pass, I reach for him again.
“Pilles was a fool to bring four hundred men to the Louvre, but there was no violence. And not every Protestant gentleman was with him.”
He tries to shake me off, but I cling tighter. If he will dislodge me, he will have to use force.
“Please”—I am begging, and I take no joy in doing so—“if Charles moves against the Huguenot chiefs, will he be indiscriminate? Will he arrest them all?”
Henri breaks my grip. In the next moment he has hold of my arms—both of them—and he is shaking me. I have never been frightened of him before, but I am now.
“You spy for him, but you would not spy for me! You really are the Queen of Navarre! God weeps for you, Madame. I do not intend to.” I expect him to release me, but instead he pulls me closer and kisses me roughly. I wriggle in his grasp, trying to break free. And at last he thrusts me away, doing so with such violence that I stumble, striking the wall and barely managing to remain standing. He stalks off without a backwards glance, leaving me cradling my arm.
“I do not want your tears!” I shout after him. “And you will not have mine!” It is a lie. I begin to cry as soon as he is out of sight, pounding on Charles’ door as I do. When it cracks open and my brother looks out, his eyes are wild. He does not admit me. Nor does he say a word. He merely shuts the door in my face.
There is only one place left for me to go. And, dam
n them all, they have driven me there. Wiping my eyes, I turn in the direction of the King of Navarre’s rooms, praying he is returned.
He is back, and not alone. When Armagnac opens the door, my husband’s antechamber is full.
“Look who is here.” The Prince de Condé accompanies his words with an undisguised sneer. Far across the room my husband looks up.
“Madame.” The greeting is polite but not warm.
“We are busy,” someone murmurs. “Go away.” The looks I am given are filled with hatred.
“Sir”—I have to raise my voice, as many of my cousin’s fellows are talking—“a moment.”
“I am sorry for your reception,” he says when we are alone in his bedchamber. “Tempers run high. It is rumored the King will let Guise escape. And there is continued talk your family was involved. It is even said Anjou’s purse paid the shooter.”
I have no time to discuss theories. “Guise may well escape,” I say, “but you would do better to plan your own than worry about him. That is why I have come. I too hear rumors; the latest is that if your coreligionists do not temper their calls for justice, and if they continue to show themselves armed in the streets, inciting the ordinary people, there will be arrests.”
“His Majesty would not dare! Arrest the guests at his sister’s wedding—men he invited to the city—when they have done nothing more than deplore a cowardly attempt to assassinate one of His Majesty’s true servants? ’Twould be an ignoble act, and an unwise one.”
“Is that a threat?”
My cousin looks startled. “No.”
“Well, it sounds like one. Can you not perceive that? So much of what you and your fellows do is being seen as threatening, whatever your intentions. You need to urge restraint upon your gentlemen. No more demands upon the King. Keep off the streets, or at least do not go about so obviously armed.”
“Cower?” He looks at me with disgust. “You urge us to cower? No, Madame, we will not. In fact, we will send a delegation to His Majesty tomorrow morning, a delegation I will be a member of, to accuse Guise formally.”
“Cousin, you must not. Is Guise’s head more valuable to you than your own freedom and safety?”
“Is that what the Duc bid you say? He would like it very well if we did not pursue this.”
“Argh!” I throw both my hands into the air. “I cannot help you. Why do I try? Listen to me: If you go to Charles tomorrow, be prepared to fly afterwards. And if you do not do so successfully, do not expect me to visit you in the dungeons of Vincennes.”
I assume he will bristle. Instead he gives me the most cavalier of smiles—almost a smirk. This is far more maddening, for it tells me that he thinks he knows better. Fine! I am finished trying to help him, just as I am finished trying to help Henri. These men are fools and must survive—or not—by their own wits. Mine are wasted on them.
* * *
I arrive at Her Majesty’s apartment to offer a dutiful evening of attendance, and find Mother relaxed as I have not seen her since word came that the admiral had been shot. She embroiders quietly, her hand steady, her smile beatific. Unnerving.
Claude, seated tout près to Her Majesty, pats the cushion beside her. I seat myself.
“How is the King this evening, Madame?” I ask.
“He was well when I left him.”
Well? Under such circumstances? The implausibility of her answer raises my suspicions even further.
“I am glad to hear it.” Two can dissemble.
Henriette moves to join Claude and me. When she sits down, she angles herself so that her back is to Mother, partially blocking that lady’s view of me. “The prévôt des marchands have been here,” she says quietly.
There is nothing inherently odd about Charles meeting with the authorities charged with securing Paris, but under the circumstances the news seems significant, as do the looks given me by my sister and my friend.
“Duchesse, would you go to my wool stores and get me another ball of this blue?” The request is pretext. A servant might be sent for the wool. It is clear Mother does not want Henriette speaking to me.
“With pleasure, Your Majesty.”
While Mother hands Henriette a sample of the blue, Claude leans in and whispers, “They reminded Charles of Montceaux today.”
Of the long-ago kidnapping attempt?
“Who?” I whisper back.
“Birague, Tavannes, Montpensier,” she says. “Retz has been with Charles for hours by Mother’s express command.”
Henriette moves out of Her Majesty’s line of vision and Claude sits bolt upright.
What is she trying to tell me? The men she names are influential with the King and all heavily under the influence of Mother. Tavannes is a military man and much inclined, therefore, to military solutions.
“May I have something from your basket to work on?” I ask Claude, careful to speak unconcernedly, as if nothing more than embroidery were on my mind.
She bends down to take up the basket and I with her.
“Mother has bent Charles to her will,” Claude whispers frantically. “It is no longer justice he seeks.”
Straightening, I am not surprised to find Mother’s eyes upon us.
I take up a needle and attempt to thread it, but my hands shake. Is Claude trying to reassure me Henri is safe? If so, why is there terror in her voice? What exactly is there to fear if Charles has given up his investigation into the attempt upon the admiral’s life?
“Margot, you look tired,” Mother observes. “You must go to bed early. In fact, you may go now.” I stare at her, wide-eyed. I do not wish to be dismissed. Not until I have divined what goes on.
“Your Majesty, I thank you for your concern, but I assure you I am fine. Will you not permit me the honor of helping you prepare for bed, as is my right and duty?”
“It is pleasing to have a dutiful child,” she replies. “But as your mother I must look to your health before my own pleasure in your company. You can be spared and it is my wish that you return to your rooms.”
There is nothing for it. I must go. I hand Claude the basket, stand, and curtsy. As I rise a hand clutches my sleeve. Half turning, I find tears coursing down my sister’s face.
“Margot,” she says, choking back a sob, “do not go! This is not a night for bed.”
“Enough! Claude, you are overwrought and will upset your sister to no purpose.”
“Your Majesty, I beg you—”
“Not another word.”
Claude hangs her head.
“Good night, then.” I move toward the door, keenly aware all eyes are upon me.
When I reach my apartment, Gillone sticks her head out of the next chamber. Within moments she is ghosting away with a note for the King of Navarre. Something dire goes on, and no mistaking.
I am on my knees at my prie-dieu when they come en masse in response to my summons—my cousin and three dozen of his gentlemen. “Let only the King come through,” I instruct, staying where I am. Having humbled myself before Guise earlier, I now mean to do the same before my husband. Well, I tell myself as he crosses the threshold, humility is a virtue before God.
“Wife, you may cease your prayers, for I am come.” The joke, the smile—awkward and out of place—put me in mind of all the times he vexed me as a youth.
“I did not pray for your arrival, Sir, but for both our safety.”
“You have news.”
“The Duchesse de Lorraine tells me the King no longer seeks justice.”
“Ventre-saint-Gris! Well, we seek it still. If that is all, I will leave you to your devotions.”
“Do not be so hasty. I have been with my mother and something has changed. She smiles the sort of smile that generally presages ill for those she considers her enemies.”
“Surely I do not fall into that category. If she considered me such, I doubt sincerely she would have given you, her own daughter, to me as a bride, embraced me as a son, and encouraged the King to call me ‘brother.’”
He tilts his head slightly, clearly both curious and wary.
I swallow and plunge onward. “Stay with me tonight.”
“You cannot be eager for my company, so you must truly feel to your bones that something is coming.”
“I am as certain as the day I saw blood.”
“All right. If you will rest more easily knowing I am here, it will be so. But the hour is early; my gentlemen and I have much to discuss. I will go and return.”
I wait for a feeling of relief. It does not come. So I shake my head. “No. Do not return to your rooms. You and your gentlemen may have the use of my antechamber. Gillone and I will stay tucked away here and leave you to your business.”
“You wish my gentlemen to remain too?”
“I have seen how they guard you. If the King’s men are sent to arrest you, then your own men will buy you time to flee.”
“In such an instance I will do my best to escape, for I know I shall have no visitors at Vincennes.”
“That is right,” I reply, trying to match his bravado. It is yet another of the day’s lies, for, without understanding why, I know I would descend to the dungeons to see him were he taken.
Gillone returns. “You grow accustomed to your husband, I think,” she says as she helps me change.
“Go to sleep if you like,” I tell my shadow. “God and I are not finished.” I return to my prie-dieu. The rise and fall of voices—sometimes angry—punctuates my devotions. The tapers burn down and the room, dim to begin with, becomes dark. I pray on. So lost am I in my thoughts and mumbled words that I do not hear the door open.
“You do not sleep.”
My cousin stands on the threshold, a light in his hand and his valet de chambre beside him.
I feel suddenly embarrassed—worried that Armagnac will think I wait up for my husband, and half expecting that same husband to mock my devotion. Instead he says, “Shall we withdraw awhile longer?”
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