He flinches slightly at my account, and this moves me more than anything he has said or any look he has yet given me. Then his eyes harden.
“One might kill a dog in such a manner,” he says. “Coligny was a dog.”
“No. A heretic, yes, but a gentleman. And even were he not, you are one. It ought to have been beneath you to kill him as you did.”
I wonder what will happen if he hangs his head in shame and admits his fault. If he pleads a sudden madness. Surely many who roamed the Louvre and the streets that night were mad. I think that if he is contrite, I will take him in my arms and soothe him.
“I cannot be sorry the admiral is dead,” he says. “And rethinking the manner of his death is entirely futile.” Lowering his voice, he steps forward, closing the gap between us. “Marguerite, there are things about the long night which make me sorry.”
“Yes?” I keep my voice cold, but my heart leaps.
“Children ought not to have been slaughtered. They were but innocents who might have been brought to see the error of their parents’ ways and reclaimed for the Holy Church. Even some of the adults abjured.”
“God cannot reclaim a heart by force.” I think of my husband facing the pain of his own abjuration, of his guilt and of the loathing he so obviously feels for himself at the prospect of becoming Catholic in name again.
Henri throws up a hand. “And it seems that I cannot reclaim your heart no matter what I say! What would you have me do? Shed tears because we have rid His Majesty’s kingdom of his worst enemies and God’s?”
He paces away, and I think our conversation is over. But, rounding, he returns, this time stopping much closer, intimately close. “Is this truly about dead Protestants, or is this really about my asking you to spy on the King of Navarre, and turning from you when you would not? That spat ought never to have been allowed to continue for so long. I have lain awake more than one night reliving my long climb down the ladder from your room and the moment when, at the bottom, I thought to scramble back again and take you in my arms. I have wished countless times I had acted on that impulse. And I tell you now that though my body may have left you standing alone in darkness, my soul in good part did not leave you and has never left you since.”
So I have not been tout seul in my loneliness. There is comfort in that—comfort and something more. I feel the understanding between us rekindling. The spark is weak but it is there. I do not wish to speak for fear I will speak wrongly and extinguish it. Henri weighs my silence, examines my eyes, and presses onward.
“Do not spy on the King of Navarre if you do not like it. Such a little matter must not be allowed to separate two hearts meant to be conjoined.”
This concession—which would have made me happy as late as the day before yesterday—fails to satisfy. How surprising. How infuriating.
“I will grant you this: it is a ‘little matter’ now,” I say. “You no longer need anyone to spy on the King of Navarre. You, my brothers, and Her Majesty have made certain he is a lonely, friendless prisoner. Who can he conspire with now when all his gentlemen lie dead—some in pieces? You think to be magnanimous, but you have missed the mark. You offer nothing of value.”
“I offer you my love,” he says quietly. “Something I did believe you held dear, as I treasured yours.”
He is right, of course. I valued his love. I lived for it. Even at this moment, when I am confused, angry, hurt, and terrified for my future and the future of France, I find it difficult to imagine a life without our mutual affection. Our love, having gone on so long and survived such hardships, seems part of the warp and weft of me. I close my eyes for a moment to see my own thoughts more clearly.
Henri’s voice again cuts through my silence.
“Are we really finished, then? Separated by a victory for the Church you hold as dear as I do and by a man whom you do not love?”
Opening my eyes again, seeing Henri before me, I find that, despite his great sins of late—and they are mortal, to be sure—I am not ready to foreclose the possibility that he will be my own again, and I his. He may repent. God may forgive him. So why not I? But I do not feel that forgiveness in my breast at this moment.
“Peace, Henri,” I say.
His eyes soften at my use of his Christian name.
I lay a hand on his arm. It feels strange to do so, strange but not unpleasant. “Mayhap things between us will be restored, but at present too much happens that is larger than both of us. We are in the grip of history. You and my brothers think to mold it. I have no such pretentions. But I believe all of us, myself included, will be molded by it. I charge you, as I have loved you, to reflect upon that. Who you will be when these dark days come to a close—who I will be—I cannot foresee. I hope I will be a woman you can love. I hope you will be a man I can embrace once more without reservation.”
“And in the meantime?” he asks.
“In the meantime, take your leave and do as you feel you must. God go with you.”
“God and a kiss?”
I hesitate. A great part of me wants to lean forward and taste his familiar lips. I wonder if doing so would make all that has been ugly between us disappear. Then I remember where we are. These rooms are filled with my cousin’s things. The King of Navarre trusts me. Not as wife, perhaps, but as friend. I do not think his trust would long survive should he see me kiss his mortal enemy. He is not here, of course, and would never hear of any such kiss, but knowing how it would make him feel makes the kiss wrong.
“God and my good wishes,” I reply. Then I move past him quickly. I do not want to see Henri’s disappointment or acknowledge my own.
CHAPTER 22
August 31, 1572—Paris, France
On the one-week anniversary of what is being called the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, the royal council grants my cousin his life. I stand beside him to hear them pronounce it. I am with him everywhere now. The massacre bound us in a way that our childhood and our marriage utterly failed to. As we leave the council chamber, the King of Navarre turns to me.
“Madame, I owe you my life twice over.”
“That is not the case, Sir. You overestimate my influence with the council. I have none. I promised I would go with you and I did. But it is you who spoke eloquently on your own behalf.”
“All my words would have availed me nothing were I not your husband. That title alone saved me—not ‘King of Navarre’ or ‘First Prince of the Blood.’”
“Nonsense. The Prince de Condé was also granted his life. I tell you, the mania for killing has exhausted itself, at least in Paris.” I am not so certain as I try to sound, and both of us are keenly aware that the carnage so lately halted here has spread to Meaux, Troyes, La Charité—so many cities.
“Perhaps,” my cousin says. “There were several present whose eyes looked murderous. Did you notice the expression on Anjou’s face? And he was not the only duc unhappy with the council’s decision.”
He refers to Guise, of course. Henri lacked his usual self-control. When he saw me enter with my cousin, he looked personally wounded. When the grant of clemency was made, his disappointment was palpable.
We walk in the direction of my apartment—our sanctuary and prison, waking or sleeping. I am afraid to let my cousin live in his apartment alone, and neither of us desire to participate in Court events. We have been ordered to some, and those the most horrible of all. Two days ago we were compelled to take part in a procession to Mountfaucon, where the remains of Coligny were displayed. My cousin was forced to look at the poor tortured body, and so was the admiral’s seventeen-year-old son. The young man cried. My husband did not. But in his sleep that night he called out for Coligny, and I, retreating to the next room after soothing him, cried for both men, and for myself too.
As we come in sight of my door, my cousin sighs. Glancing at him from the corner of my eye, I see a man being eaten alive by captivity, as Mother predicted. This frightens me. If my cousin can be lured into doing something stupid, eve
n the council’s pardon may not be enough to keep him from being consigned to a grave like his fellows.
“Thank God, the Cardinal de Bourbon does not come today. I do not believe I could sit through his catechism though my life depends on it.” My cousin paces to the window. “Two weeks, Madame,” he says with his back to me. “Two weeks from today I must embarrass myself with a false conversion. And before that I must find a way to choke down my pride and write a letter beseeching the forgiveness of the Holy Father.” He turns to me, his face animated. “Why should I apologize to him when it is said he organizes a great Te Deum at Rome to celebrate the deaths of those I held most dear?”
“It is not a matter of should.”
“You are right.” His shoulders fall and he appears older than his years.
“Sir, you must find a weapon—a shield to protect yourself—or you will be broken by the aftermath of a horror which failed to kill you.”
“I have never felt more impotent.”
“I have felt impotent all my life.” The admission surprises him, but me more.
“How have you survived?”
I am not sure that I have. My life at the moment is no life at all. I have no consequence; I am alienated from the man whose love I thought would sustain me always; I have not even the facile distractions of Court entertainments.
“By subterfuge. You would do well to clothe yourself in that bravado which used to mark your speech and actions. The more my family can determine what hurts you, the more accurate their blows become.”
He nods. “All the roles I played in the pageants surrounding our wedding were given me. You urge me to create my next role myself. I would be the King of Navarre, free and far from here. I must find a way to escape south and raise an army.”
“Yes, but such a flight will take time. Do it precipitously and you will be displayed at Mountfaucon for the crows to desecrate. Until your chances of escape improve, while you may live for revenge, you must find some other occupation.”
Looking at my cousin, I ask myself what I miss most in my own life. The answer is immediate: love. That is something I cannot give him. But I know who can. Charlotte has made several attempts to see my cousin these last days, but he has been unwilling to receive her. It is time for him to start.
“Sir, why not pass an afternoon with the Baronne de Sauve? Surely that would be better than sitting here with me, contemplating my family’s sins.”
He colors. “It seems wrong, Madame, to repay your kindnesses with infidelity.”
“Political allies do not demand that sort of faithfulness,” I reply. “If they did, then no man would ever have one.” He ought to laugh but he does not. “Come, Sir, you know the nature of our agreement and by its terms your dalliance has my blessing.”
He looks at me incredulously. “I feel as though our bargain has been overtaken by events.”
“Everything has been overtaken by events. If we are to have control of our lives once more, we must wrest it back.”
“All right,” he says. “I will take comfort in another, if only so you may have your rooms to yourself again for a few hours.” He smiles and even manages a touch of insouciance.
“I will find Charlotte.”
I am moving through the halls with a lighter step than in many days when I hear it—a wild, croaking cry, then another. They ring in such a way as to suggest they come from the courtyard. My blood runs cold. Rushing to the nearest window, I peer out. An enormous crow sits on the cobblestones below. Raising his head, he meets my eyes, then sounds again. Birds begin to fall from the sky—no, not fall, plunge—down into the courtyard with a great flapping of wings. I stand transfixed. Soon there are too many to count, yet more arrive. Unlike the first bird who drew me to the window, these are silent, eerily so. When there is no more room on the ground, birds perch on outcroppings in the architecture. One lands on the ledge outside the window where I stand. It tilts its head and considers me with its beady black eyes. I open my mouth to say I know not what, and he opens his black beak, issuing something very like a scream. His cry is but a beginning. The moment he makes it, his fellows join him in a concert of shrieking, groaning, and howling.
I have the wild thought that these are the souls of my husband’s men come back to the scene of their murders. I want to run but I cannot move—cannot turn away or even raise my hands to cover my ears. I am aware of movement around me. People stream to the windows as they did on the day Pilles brought his four hundred. Within moments the cries of the crows are joined by the wailing of ladies. I feel a hand on my shoulder. Someone leans forward until his lips nearly touch my ear. “‘And shall not God avenge His elect, which cry to Him day and night?’” The voice is my husband’s.
I begin to tremble, for I believe I hear the cries of the dead, and I am certain God must. My cousin, moving beside me, puts his arm about me and pulls me close against his side. There is a great commotion. The King arrives with Mother at his elbow.
“You see,” she says as Charles looks down upon the cloud of screeching birds. “They are only crows. There was no need to send your guard into the streets.”
So Charles too mistook the cries for human.
The King looks at my husband. “Make them stop!” His shrieking sounds very much like the birds’.
“Your Majesty, if I could, I would, for they frighten my wife. But the birds of the sky are no more my subjects than yours.”
“It is an omen.” Anjou sidles up to the King. “I told you it was a mistake to leave any alive.”
The Duc de Guise, standing just behind my brother, nods.
“Henri,” I say, “I have heard and seen enough.”
It takes my cousin a moment to realize I speak to him—takes him far longer to react than it takes Guise. At the sound of his shared Christian name applied to his hated rival, the Duc blanches and his hand twitches across the pommel of his sword. He casts my husband a look of pure hatred.
As my cousin turns me from the scene, his arm still about me, I realize I have made a misstep. Much as I wanted to pain Guise, I ought not to have left him so long with the false impression that I have been intimate with my husband. The thought clearly feeds Guise’s hatred, making him more dangerous. As we move through the crowd, I spot Charlotte, whom I sought in the first instance. I mouth the words “Henriette” and “Come.”
Despite the distance, I can still hear the birds in my apartment. The others must be able to as well, but, like me, they studiously avoid remarking on the fact. We three ladies draw together and put our arms around one another—a unit as we have not been since the violence began. Then Henriette notices that Charlotte and I are crying.
“Come, my beloveds, there have been enough tears already. Where we three are together there ought to be smiles, or at very least schemes.”
“The latter is what I had in mind,” I reply. “Charlotte, you and the King of Navarre have been too long apart.”
My friend, who had been drying her tears, begins to weep again. “I fear we will be parted more permanently. Her Majesty declares I am no longer to see him.”
She has forgotten that my cousin never knew of the Queen’s sanction. I cannot see his face from where I stand, but Charlotte can. Whatever she sees brings horror to her eyes. She covers her face with her hands and sobs. The King of Navarre turns his back on my friend.
“The time has come for truth,” I say, putting a hand on his shoulder. “At least between the four of us. If we can be honest with each other, then we shall have a great advantage over those others who go about the Court.” I take a deep breath. “The Baronne was set upon you by my mother, just as I married you by her will. But what does that signify?”
My cousin spins to face me, his expression full of disbelief and fury. I put up a hand before he can speak. “Hear me out. I had no desire to marry you, yet we have since pledged ourselves of our own accord and on our own terms. Charlotte seduced you for my mother’s purposes, but I suspect she cries now at the loss of you for h
erself.”
“It is so,” Charlotte says.
“You see, Sir. What does the beginning matter if the end is love?”
His eyes soften slightly. I push harder. “Are there so many who love you in France that you will let pride keep you from embracing a true heart?”
“No.” He opens his arms and Charlotte runs to him.
“Charlotte,” I say, “as a wife I have no objections to your amour, but as an ally of the King of Navarre I must ask for your word that you will no longer carry tales to Her Majesty. She has forbidden you from continuing with my cousin. Let her think that you obey.”
Charlotte looks into my husband’s face. “You have my word. I will cut out my tongue before I will say aught that will damage you, Sir.”
“Now off with you. While all the Court wails over a flock of crows, you two have better things to do.”
“Ally of Protestants, matchmaker, your marriage has made you many surprising things,” Henriette says when we are left behind by the departing pair. “But I would venture to say it has not made you happy.”
“No. Yet I can hardly complain, because this does not seem an auspicious time for happiness in the court of France. If you can tell me one person who is happy presently, I will be astonished. My mother, perhaps?”
“Not even she, not completely. She is celebrated by the common people as savior of the kingdom and she is taking credit for the events of last week where that will help her, but did you not see her face this morning as His Majesty ranted?”
“She fears losing control of the King and the situation,” I say.
She nods. “Neither His Majesty nor France is known for fidelity of opinion. And the latter has always had a healthy skepticism where Madame Catherine is concerned. So Her Majesty still reaches. My husband worried that all the begging I urged him to would be insufficient to save Condé.”
“So you are an ally of Protestants too.”
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