I will not have my name spoken in the same breath as theirs when this horror is recounted.
Mother shakes her head slowly. I am transfixed by the motion. Simple as it is, it seems threatening. “Let us see if you have lost all ability to reason. I have Jean d’Armagnac.”
“The King of Navarre’s valet de chambre? My husband thinks him dead.”
“Not yet. Do you want him?”
The room jerks, or perhaps I stagger. My eyes lock with Her Majesty’s. Can she possibly be so cruel? Can I be so foolish as to doubt it? I just told my cousin he must sacrifice honor for survival; how, then, can I flinch? “I want him here.”
“After.”
“Before. When I have seen him I give you my word I will dress.”
“Why should I accept your word when you decline to accept mine?”
“Because the only blood my hands are stained with is that of those I saved on Saint Bartholomew’s morn, while yours are red from the slaughter.”
“I’ll be back.”
“White,” I say as the door shuts behind Mother. “I want to wear white. The color of mourning.”
I do not return to my husband, because I do not know what to say to him. To claim credit for saving Armagnac—just the thought sends me into dry heaves. To admit I will ride out with my family to celebrate the decimation of his friends and followers—that thought is even worse. And the fear of what I will surely see in the streets of Paris nearly paralyzes me.
I wait, my mind wandering nowhere, numb.
When the door opens next, Mother is not alone. A member of the Swiss Guard, his uniform streaked with grime and blood, pushes Armagnac before him.
“Sir, are you unharmed?” The question sounds absurd. It is absurd.
“Your Majesty, yes.”
Mother nods sharply. The guard shoves Armagnac forward so that he stumbles into my arms. “We leave within the hour.”
I close my arm protectively about my husband’s valet, pulling his head onto my shoulder. “Get out.”
The guard obeys at once, but Mother lingers.
“Is Navarre here?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder how long he will be content to live as a prisoner.”
“He has not yet decided for Vincennes.”
She laughs. “There are all kinds of prisons, daughter. Even should he return to the Church, he will not be at liberty. Nor, thanks to your show of disobedience, will you. Today’s outing will be your last for some time.”
“Madame, do you expect confinement in the Louvre to be a hardship to me? How so when I have never been free? My whole life has been directed by your will, my brother’s whims, and even by chance pieces of gossip—everything but my wishes. I have no wings for you to clip.”
As she departs I feel Armagnac’s shoulders shake as he begins to weep on my shoulder.
* * *
Just reaching my horse is horror enough. The halls of the Louvre have been cleared of the dead, but random garments and weapons left behind, along with the quiet that pervades spaces usually overflowing with people, are reminders of what has passed. As I emerge into the courtyard I am confronted by a figure sprawled where he fell, doubtless one of those unfortunate souls who threw himself from a window yesterday in a desperate bid for escape. I cannot see his face and that is just as well, because all the sadness I feel must be swallowed. Mother is watching. May I be damned if she sees me break.
A large party has assembled. Among them, just next to my mount, is Henriette. Looking past her, I see Henri. He gazes at me with a mixture of triumph and concern. Behind him a pile of bodies, some with pikes still in them, stands in the blistering sunlight as if it was composed of something more benign, like hay for the horses. Meeting the Duc’s eyes, I spit, then climb into my saddle.
“What was that?” Henriette asks under her breath, but I merely shake my head.
As we form up to pass through the gates, I spot Charles at our head with a pair of priests. We move into the road in a tight pack. We could not pass otherwise. The Rue Saint-Honoré is a broad thoroughfare, but it is greatly constricted by bodies, many of them, after so many hours, stripped naked. Yet pickpockets and scavengers have not given up hope of finding something of value. They look up at the sound of our horses’ hooves, and scurry off like rats at the sight of the Swiss Guard.
A small child in his nightshift lies at the side of the road just ahead. His hand is within a hair’s breadth of a woman’s, doubtless his mother, who was equally unable to save him or to retain his hand in death. I cannot take my eyes off those hands. As we pass, my head turns over my shoulder to see the pair of them. The effort of holding back my tears is physically painful. My chest burns. My stomach is hollow. I glance at Henriette but she looks straight ahead.
What monsters we are.
I try to keep my eyes from returning to the road, looking at the back of the King’s head, at the cloudless sky, at anything but the fallen—anything but the fallen or the large ceremonial cross carried by one of the priests. God has no place in this moment. Of this I am certain.
Guise pulls his horse alongside Henriette’s. “I suppose we ought to have thought of the stench and thrown more of them in the river. By tomorrow the odor will be unbearable.”
Anjou, riding just in front of me, laughs and turns back over his shoulder. “I have it on good authority that near the Pont aux Meuniers the river could hold no more bodies. One could traverse from bank to bank upon them without wetting one’s feet. But never fear, Guise, we shall send soldiers to clear what the thieves and the grieving relatives do not. And only think how much better Paris will smell this fall with cooler weather and fewer heretics to pollute it.”
The Duc smiles. I never thought to see Henri reduced to my brother’s level. Their conduct always distinguished them one from the other—with all of the good on Henri’s side—as did their antagonism. Yet here they are, joking together, and over what? The deaths of innocents.
“And how will you remove the stench from your persons?” My voice is low; I have not enough breath to speak more loudly and not enough self-control to stop shouting if I start. “No amount of the perfumes you favor, brother, will banish the scent of death from you. It will cling to you until you are a corpse yourself.”
“Spoken like a woman whose husband smells of dogs and garlic,” Anjou replies.
Henri snorts.
I turn to him across the figure of my friend. “What is garlic compared to the odor of the grave?” I will myself to look into his eyes, daring him to break the stare. “If moral decay had a stench like the decay of the flesh does, you, Sir, would be given a wide berth by all. As it is, I am profoundly thankful for the odor of my horse at this moment.”
His eyes drop, but not before I have the satisfaction of seeing a flare of pain in them. Before this I could not have imagined causing Henri pain without feeling it myself.
I am relieved to reach the cimetière. Here at least the dead are belowground. I experience a strange urge to spring from my horse and run to hide among the bones stacked in the charnel house, but what behavior toward me might be excused if it appears I have run mad? I will not offer myself as sacrifice to my mother and brothers, nor will I offer the King of Navarre.
The bush is old and frames a grave so ancient, the name has been worn from the marker by the drops of a thousand rains. A single branch blooms. I must admit, the white of the blossoms is startling against so much gnarled wood. Against so much death. We dismount and the priests move forward, praying as they go. The King and Mother follow. I am allowed, momentarily at least, to hang back, clinging to the reins of my horse. Henriette comes to my side.
“Margot, calling out the Duc d’Anjou and the Duc de Guise! What possessed you?” Her voice is a whisper but chastisement nonetheless.
“Grief and guilt—maladies which seem to affect far too few in our party.”
Taking my arm, Henriette leads me to the far side of my horse. “Who have you lost that you should griev
e? You had little liking for your husband’s companions, and your acquaintance with them was so fleeting that you had yet to learn many of their names.”
“But they were my guests nevertheless. If I cannot mourn them as men, may I not despise the fact that my wedding put them in the way of dying?”
“You may do whatever you like. But whether you should … that is a different matter.” The dismay in my friend’s face leads me to feel dismayed in turn. “How do such thoughts and actions help you?” she asks. “It is a foolish thing in war to side with the losers, most particularly where the losers are already dead. La mort n’a point d’ami.”
“We were at peace.”
“And we will be so again. Who precisely is left to raise arms against His Majesty? Whatever you think of the actions of yesterday, a generation of Huguenot leaders is dead. They drag the admiral’s body through the streets.”
I pry her hand from me. “You speak of that as if it were nothing. You who dined with Coligny, and hunted with him! Just a week ago he was everywhere we went, a royal advisor, one of the most powerful men in Charles’ court.”
“Too powerful.”
“Too powerful for the House of Lorraine.”
“And”—Henriette’s voice drops so low that it comes out as a hiss—“for the House of Valois. Did you consider that when you savaged Guise? He is not the only one who wanted Coligny dead, or who had a hand in the first attempt.”
“There is plenty of blame to go around,” I whisper back furiously.
“Thus laying blame is both futile and dangerous. We are here to celebrate. Put on a smile, if only as an act of political expedience. If it is less than honorable to kill women and children in their beds, be glad common men, not courtiers, did that dirty work. Henri finished the admiral, yes, and in doing so avenged his father. Is that not the act of an honorable man? I thought you loved him.”
And, without waiting for my reply, she is gone. When I slide from behind my horse, she is with the others, in a ring about the bush, head bowed. Henri is not far from her. Looking at the profile I know so well, at the sandy hair I have tousled in play and in lust, I know that I did love him. I love him still. Perhaps that is why I find myself unable to embrace Henriette’s justifications of his actions.
Mother casts a look in my direction. I glare back but move to join the others, bowing my head as if in prayer, though my thoughts are more temporal.
Guise is not the only man who committed murder last evening. Without question, such a massacre, however it began, could not have proceeded without the acquiescence of my family. Doubtless Anjou wet his hands in blood driven by petty grievances and ambition more than by any desire to rid France of heresy or safeguard Charles’ reign. And Charles owned that what was done inside the Louvre was done in his name when I confronted him. But Henri is not supposed to be as my brothers are—governed solely by self-interests and whims as given rein or checked by Mother. He is charged, as I love him, with being a man of honor possessed of a conscience, guided by God. Glancing at the Duc, his eyes shut in prayer, my heart aches. I am bitterly disappointed in him for being less than he appeared through my loving eyes.
I realize those around me are moving, filing forward toward the bush. At the front, Charles receives a blessing and stoops to kiss the white blossoms. Courtier after courtier follows suit. My feet will not move. I stand rooted like a bush myself as others pass. Then my hand is drawn through an arm. I know even before I see his profile that my escort is Guise. He does not turn to meet my gaze but very softly says, “If you will not have a care for yourself, I must do it.”
He draws me onward and then, as the bush is reached, steps back so I am in front of him. Just before me, Amboise d’Bussy accepts the blessing, murmurs “Thanks be to God” and kisses the blinding-white flowers. Advancing upon me, the priest makes the sign of the cross, then lifts the branch so I may offer thanks and kiss it in my turn. I have no intention of doing any such thing. Then I think of poor Armagnac sobbing on my shoulder. I have things, even at this horrible moment, I should be grateful for. If they are not the same things commemorated in the others’ prayers, so much the better.
“Deo gratias!” Unlike the others I do not mumble, but say it clearly so all can hear. Deo gratias, I think, for giving me the strength to save La Mole from the archers and Armagnac from my mother. Deo gratias for the life of the King of Navarre. As I kiss the blossoms, I ask for God’s help in keeping my husband alive awhile longer. Then I move back to my horse as quickly as possible. I am done with this place. I wish it were as easy to break with some of the people in it.
* * *
When I return to my apartment, the King of Navarre is sitting at my table, writing with Armagnac beside him. Both gentlemen have changed into fresh clothing. I give Gillone a questioning look.
“I went to His Majesty’s rooms and collected some of his things.”
“For which I am profoundly grateful.” My cousin looks up. He is a man entirely different than the one I left sitting on the floor of my bedchamber. He has marshaled his composure, and the strength such an act reveals impresses me deeply. “As I am for greater acts of compassion.” His eyes move in Armagnac’s direction.
I look away, still unwilling to take credit for the valet de chambre’s life, as the price I paid for it is so loathsome to me.
“What are you writing?”
“An accounting of those I know to be dead. Perhaps you can assist me.”
I wince.
“Or not.” His voice is gentle. “It is a grim task, but I think it important, for perhaps those not yet dead can be preserved.”
Hope, it seems, is in Navarre’s nature.
“If you think it to be valuable, Sir, I will help. When we have a list, I shall ask the Duchesse de Nevers to examine it. Her knowledge will be greater than either of ours.”
“You could ask the Duc de Guise for his list. He must know how many and who he killed. Or perhaps he killed so many he lost track.” The words are as quiet as his last, but they are angry—the first angry words he has spoken that seem, at least in part, directed at me.
“I could not. I believe it will be a long time before I speak with the Duc again.”
There is a knock. Gillone cracks the door. Her eyes widen. The hand she slips through the crack returns, clasping a note. I know the moment I see the handwriting it is from the same man whose company I have just forsworn. Only three words: “Talk to me.”
“I must go out.” I know my face betrays surprise and perhaps even dread, but certainly there might be many causes for such a reaction. The King of Navarre cannot suspect the Duc waits on the other side of the oak. And this is well, for if he did there might be violence. There has been enough of that.
Slipping into the corridor, I find Henri waiting, his eyes traversing the space from end to end. When they find me I cannot distinguish if they contain surprise or hope. Perhaps both.
“You do not invite me in.” Awareness comes upon him, slowly changing his expression. “He is with you.”
“If you mean my husband, then yes. He has been with me since the King saved him yesterday.”
“The King saved him?”
“Of course! You could not honestly have believed His Majesty would permit the murder of a man linked to him by both blood and marriage.” There is absolutely no reason for me to reveal how uncertain I was upon that very point yesterday.
“I hoped he would. Just as your brother Anjou doubtless prayed Condé would lie among the dead.”
A horrible admission but hardly surprising. Henri hates my cousin not just as a heretic but as the man who holds the place he wanted himself. I have felt the same about the Princesse de Porcien, and, if I am honest, I would, I think, have been glad of my cousin’s death before I wedded him. Would I have cared who killed him or how?
“Is this what you have come to tell me?” I ask.
He looks about again.
“Is there not somewhere we can go?”
How many
times have I heard those words? This time I am struck by the fact that, thanks to the slaughter, it has never been easier to be alone without subterfuge. Countless rooms stand empty, with no chance their tenants will return. The closest belong to my husband.
When we arrive, I am shocked by how normal everything looks. Perhaps the guards seeking to arrest the King of Navarre found them empty and simply had no reason to cause destruction. I have never asked my cousin how or where he was taken, assuming the recitation of the event would increase his pain.
I stand facing Henri, waiting for him to begin.
“Marguerite, as I love you and you once said you loved me, I want to know why you treated me as you did this morning.”
I am being called to account? Me?
“Sir, I find it discouraging that you cannot arrive at such a conclusion on your own. Are you not the man who slew the admiral? The man who joked this morning about the dead lying naked in the avenues?”
“I do not understand,” he says. I can see that—in Henri’s eyes, in his defensive posture. “You have always known what I was. And you have always known I was sworn to kill Coligny. When I marched to the last war, you wept and told me to kill as many heretics as I liked, and certainly as many as I needed to come back safely. You wished me luck in avenging my father’s death. Now I have had that luck and done a son’s duty, yet you seem to think I should be ashamed.”
How can I explain? I do not believe I have changed so much—or perhaps I do not wish to believe it. I would like to think that Henri’s manner of killing the admiral would have mattered to me even long ago.
“I knew you would kill Coligny, yes,” I reply. “But I thought it would be in battle, or sword to sword in the combat that befits gentlemen. I could never have imagined you would have an injured gentleman pulled from his bed and thrown from the window of his own hôtel.”
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