All the Sweet Tomorrows

by Bertrice Small

  The King of Navarre was agreeable. He saw the obvious advantages in such a match. Marguerite of Valois was not so agreeable. She was in love with Henri de Guise, and had even allowed him to take her maidenhead in the childish belief that it would force her mother to consent to their marriage. Catherine laughed at her daughter’s tactics, and hinted to the de Guise family that unless Duc Henri took himself a wife he might find himself in an early grave. To Marguerite’s fury and frustration, Duc Henri quickly wed with the Princesse de Porcien, and now tomorrow, August 18th, 1572, she was to be married to that big boor, Henri de Navarre.

  Staunchly Catholic Paris was outraged that their adorable Margot, who was so terribly in love with the handsome blond Duc de Guise, should be sacrificed this way; but Catherine de Medici wanted peace between Catholics and Protestants lest Spain and England involve themselves in France. Now, however, on the night before her so carefully arranged wedding, she was having second thoughts about the advisability of it all.

  Paris was filled with wedding guests, many of them Huguenots. The Huguenots were in many cases being extremely offensive, boasting in the taverns of what they would do to the Catholics when their leader, the King of Navarre, became the King of France. Then, too, there was the very strong influence wielded by Admiral Coligny, the great Huguenot nobleman, on the weak-willed King. Twice today Charles had overridden Catherine’s advice in favor of Coligny’s, and it was not the first time this had happened. Catherine de Medici decided that Admiral Coligny had to be removed. She was convinced that once that was accomplished, the King would accept her advice again and the Protestants would calm down.

  August 18th dawned fair and warm. Because the groom was not a Catholic the marriage ceremony itself was to take place on the steps of Notre Dame Cathedral, and the bride would then enter the great church to hear mass while her new husband waited outside. The square outside the cathedral was crowded with the invited who ohhed and ahhed as the bride arrived clothed in azure-blue silk, the underskirt of her gown embroidered with the golden lilies of France. Several small children of the highest nobility held up the heavily trimmed ermine and cloth-of-gold cloak that fell from the bride’s shoulders as she made her way to her place. All the agreements had been signed before the ball at the Louvre the night before, and now the actual marriage was to be quickly accomplished.

  But Marguerite de Valois was defiant to the bitter end. When the elderly Bishop of Paris asked in his quavery voice if she would have Henri de Navarre for her husband, the princesse remained mutinously silent. A very long minute passed, and the bishop, now visibly nervous, repeated his question. A small, wicked smile played about Margot’s mouth as she sensed victory. If she didn’t answer, they couldn’t force her to this marriage! It was all so simple. Why hadn’t she thought of it sooner? Suddenly King Charles leaned forward, and hooking his fingers into his rebellious sister’s hair nodded her head vigorously up and down. With a sigh of relief the bishop then demanded of Henri of Navarre if he would take Marguerite de Valois as his wife. Henri hesitated just a brief second, long enough to tease Margot into thinking that perhaps he wouldn’t, after all. When he finally spoke up in a loud, sure voice she sent him a quelling look, but Henri was not intimidated and grinned back at his furious bride.

  Along with the de Savilles, Skye and Adam had been invited to enter the cathedral for the mass. Afterward, as they rode back in the enormous royal procession toward the Louvre and the marriage feast, they heard people in the streets cheering the Duc de Guise, who pretended he did not notice. Skye raised an eyebrow, and said, “Well, that should take M’sieur de Navarre down a peg or two.”

  Adam laughed. Henri of Navarre had really annoyed his beautiful Skye with his persistent refusal to believe she was not interested in him. There had even been flowers this morning for Skye, brought by a dirty-faced street urchin who only said, “For Madame Burke from Navarre,” before grinning impudently and running off. Skye had thrown the bouquet from the window with a shriek of outrage.

  “De Guise deludes himself if he thinks he can overcome Navarre’s claim to France,” Adam said. “I suspect we have not yet seen the last of France’s civil wars. How unfortunate!”

  “How foolish of the French to fight over semantics,” Skye replied. “I have never understood how sane men could argue about the way in which they worship.”

  “I have often thought,” Adam said softly, “that if the Christ returned to earth today he would shed bitter tears over the cruelties men perpetrate in his name.”

  She nodded and slipped her hand into his. “Let us think on something more pleasant, my darling, like our own wedding.”

  “I have already sent a messenger to England for the children,” Adam replied. “They all will be easy to gather, but for Robin. I have written to Robbie asking that he bring Robin from court on the pretext that his sister is ill and wishes to see him. I will not write to the Queen until after our marriage, for fear she forbid it. I do not want to have to go directly against Elizabeth Tudor.”

  “No,” Skye said. “She will be angry enough when we present her with the fact of our marriage, but I, too, would prefer not to defy her openly.”

  For the next week Paris was a city of celebration in honor of the royal marriage. There were fairs with fortune-tellers, and dancing bears, and wonderful food distributed by the King in honor of his sister; and for the nobility the feasting and the dancing at the Louvre hardly stopped. Neither did the intrigue. The Huguenot Coligny’s influence grew, and Catherine de Medici seethed.

  “Well, madame, you see what your meddling has gotten you,” the Duc de Guise sneered softly to Catherine one evening.

  “It is not good, I will admit,” the Queen Mother said. “I would be quit of Coligny. Navarre will come around eventually.”

  “Admiral Coligny must pass by the house of an old tutor of mine on his way home, madame. I would consider it an honor to aid you in your hour of need. We are both of us, after all, for France.”

  The Queen Mother’s eyes gave no indication that she had even heard de Guise. “You will, M’sieur le Duc, of course do as your conscience dictates,” she murmured as she moved away from him.

  On the twenty-second of August Admiral Coligny was shot at and wounded as he walked the short distance from the Louvre Palace to his own Paris house. There had been witnesses, unfortunately, and it was ascertained that the shot had come from a house owned by the Duc de Guise. Who had fired the shot, however, was not known.

  The Huguenots in Paris for the wedding were outraged, and it was all the King’s men could do to keep order, for the city was seething with anger as the two factions met in various public places, trading insults, threats, and sometimes blows. The princes of Navarre and Condé as well as Admiral Coligny himself worked valiantly to keep their people under control. “A hothead,” the admiral declared. “ ’twas only a shot fired by a fanatic. Did God not spare me, my friends? Is that not a sign that I am meant to live on to carry out his work?” The Huguenots settled down to an uneasy truce with the Catholics.

  In the Louvre Charles IX was outraged, furious, and fearful by turns. The lucid mood that had prevailed due to his sister’s nuptials was fast dissolving into terrified paranoia, helped along by his mother and the Duc de Guise. Still rational, Charles demanded that the assassin and his accomplices be brought to justice.

  “Coligny is my friend!” he shouted. “His first thoughts are for me, and for France. He would end this civil strife between his Huguenots and the Catholic League. Civil war is not good for the country! You have said so yourself, Mother! You have told me a hundred, nay, a thousand times that a king who cannot maintain order is doomed!” Charles paced nervously about his apartment. “A blow against Coligny is a blow against me, against France! I want the cowardly assassin found!”

  Catherine de Medici sat very still in her chair. Her hands were folded in her lap, her black eyes flat and expressionless. “You are getting needlessly upset, Charles, and you are beginning to babble. No o
ne has struck a blow against either you or France. Admiral Coligny has of late usurped your very authority, and it is obvious that someone who saw that attempted to correct the situation. That the means chosen were less than peaceful is regrettable. Still, we must examine why Coligny and his Huguenots have of late been less than cooperative.”

  “Come, sire,” de Guise murmured, “you have been more than generous to these heretics, and now they attempt to stab you in the back.”

  “What do you mean?” The King was beginning to look terrified.

  “Now, Chariot,” the Duc of Anjou replied, the King’s next brother, “is it not obvious?”

  “Is not what obvious, Henri? I do not understand,” Charles quavered.

  Anjou put an arm about his elder brother, and spoke in a confidential tone. “Coligny is shot at, and his witnesses, all Huguenots, claim the shot was fired from a house owned by Coligny’s archenemy, de Guise here. How do we know that Coligny did not plan the whole thing himself, and that the alleged assassin is a Huguenot.”

  “But why would he do that, Henri?”

  “Most obvious, dearest Chariot, most obvious. If Coligny could rouse all his supporters to believe that you, our beloved King, and de Guise, your loyal servant, were responsible for the attempted murder, he could then incite them to rebellion right here in Paris. He could convince them to storm the Louvre itself, and the Louvre could scarce be defended against an armed mob, brother. They would kill all the Valois, and then put their Huguenot King of Navarre upon your throne. His claim, after we are all gone, is quite legitimate, and with our sister, Margot, as his Queen, who would gainsay him France? This is not a plot against Coligny, my brother. It is a plot against you! Against France!”

  “Rubbish!”

  Everyone, the frightened King included, turned to look to Charles’s youngest sibling, the Duc d’Alençon.

  “Really, Charles,” the good-natured Alençon drawled, “you are allowing de Guise and Anjou to terrify you out of your wits. Whatever the truth of this matter, neither Coligny nor his Huguenots are plotting to destroy you. If I were looking for a villain I should certainly look closer to home, brother.”

  “And exactly what do you mean by that, Alençon?” the Duc de Guise demanded, his hand going to his sword.

  “Mon Dieu, de Guise, you are bold, and quite sure of yourself,” the youngest Valois prince taunted. “Will you dare to draw your weapon in the king’s presence?”

  “Messieurs, messieurs!” Catherine chided, seeing the situation begin to get out of hand. Damn Alençon, anyway! “We are getting away from the heart of the matter. Why are the two greatest houses in France, the Valois kings, and their premier noblemen, the house of de Guise-Lorraine, bound not only by blood but by religion, squabbling? May God have mercy on me for my shortsightedness in trying to make peace between the heretics and the Mother Church. I have been wrong, and it has caused needless suffering.” Catherine de Medici rose from her chair, and walking over to her son, she knelt at his feet. “Forgive me, Charles! I have been wrong, and I have given you bad counsel! I shall retire to a convent and spend my days atoning for this terrible sin.”

  Both Anjou and de Guise cast their eyes heavenward in their attempt to appear pious, but the poor Duc d’Alençon was hard put not to burst into laughter at his mother’s theatrical gesture. He knew, as did the others, that she had no intention of taking up the religious life. A less religious woman he had never known!

  The King, however, was now totally shaken and confused. The one constant in his life had always been his mother. She had never, ever failed him. “No, Mother! No! Do not leave me! We will solve this problem together!” he cried, helping Catherine to her feet.

  “There is only one way, Majesty,” de Guise said ominously. “We must kill the Huguenots.”

  “But it is a sin to kill,” the King whispered.

  “No, brother,” Anjou murmured soothingly, “the Church will not condemn us for destroying the heretics. They will sing our praises.”

  Charles looked to his mother. Catherine de Medici said nothing, but she did nod her head in the affirmative.

  “I can’t.”

  “You must!” de Guise pounded.

  “There is no choice,” Anjou said. “It is either you or them, dearest brother! We cannot lose you. You are France!”

  “All of them?”

  “All!” de Guise thundered, a fanatic’s gleam in his eye.

  “Not Navarre or Condé,” the Queen Mother said with sudden determination in her voice. If Margot were freed of Navarre it would only be a matter of time before the Princesse de Porcien was put aside by her husband de Guise. Catherine knew that her sons would then be killed ruthlessly, and with Navarre gone, de Guise would press his slender claim to the throne with a Valois heiress as his wife. Oh no, my clever friend, Catherine thought. I am smarter than that!

  “It must be all,” de Guise insisted.

  “Navarre and Condé will convert to Catholicism when faced with no other choice. With their leaders gone the remaining Huguenots will also have no other choice but to return to Mother Church. We need these people, Charles. They are industrious and clever, and have much to offer us. Navarre and Condé must be spared.”

  “Yes, Mother, I understand, but as for the rest, kill them all! I want not one left alive to reproach me! Not one!” He began to shiver uncontrollably with fear. “Marie,” he whimpered. “I want Marie!”

  Catherine turned her all-seeing eyes to Alençon. “You,” she snapped, pointing a fat accusatory finger at him, “Fetch Mademoiselle Touchet!”

  With a mocking smile of congratulation and a sketchy bow, the Duc d’Alençon said, “Of course, maman. At once,” and he left the King’s chamber.

  Mademoiselle Touchet, the King’s mistress, was quickly brought to him from her nearby apartments. Seeing his distress, Marie Touchet ran to the King with a sympathetic little cry and began to soothe his fears with her gentle reassurances, from soft hands and voice. The Queen Mother nodded approvingly, and then signaled to the others to follow her out of the room. The frightened King never even saw them go.

  Outside the King’s rooms Catherine de Medici turned to her son, Anjou, and the Duc de Guise. “I mean what I say, gentlemen. If anything happens to Navarre or Condé, you will not survive them any longer than it takes me to find out; and you know that I do not speak idly, messieurs.”

  “When is it to be done?” Anjou demanded.

  “Come with me to my apartments, and we will speak further on it,” his mother said, moving swiftly away from the King’s rooms. Entering her salon, she abruptly dismissed her women, and then, turning to de Guise and her son, said, “It must be done tonight.”

  “There is no time,” replied de Guise, the soldier.

  “You have no choice,” Catherine said. “At this very moment Coligny lies wounded, but tomorrow or the next day he will be well enough to come to the King with his personal accusations. Then all is lost for us. It must be tonight! Now! Before Coligny has the opportunity to see Charles again.”

  “It is not yet evening,” de Guise mused slowly. “Perhaps if we worked quickly, and spread the word to our people. Once it has begun, all Paris will join in to destroy the Huguenots. Yes, it can be done! When the tocsin sounds at two o’clock tomorrow morning, we will begin. Is that satisfactory, Majesty? Is that time enough?”

  “Yes,” was the reply. “It is a good time, for the pious Huguenots will be sleeping in their houses.” She smiled. “All but my good beau-frère, who will be celebrating with the rest of the court at the last ball to be given in honor of his marriage to my daughter. Tomorrow Margot and Navarre will go down to Chenonceaux for their honeymoon trip away from all distractions of the court.”

  “I still say that Navarre should be killed, too,” de Guise muttered.

  “Why? So your adulterous union with my daughter might be made legal—after, of course, the removal of your wife? I think not, de Guise. Be grateful I did not have you removed forcibly these
past three afternoons from my daughter’s bed where you have lingered while Henri of Navarre played tennis with Alençon in the courts by the river.”

  “Madame!” The Duc de Guise made an attempt at denial, which Catherine waved aside.

  “Do not bother to deny the truth, m’sieur. It is of no import in this matter. What is important is that we keep our dear Navarre and Condé amused tonight. I think for Condé it will be Mademoiselle de Grenier.”

  “You cannot lure Condé with a woman, Mother! He is newly married himself, and besides, he is an awful prude,” Anjou said.

  Catherine laughed. “You underestimate me, my son. Condé’s passion, military strategist that he is, is chess. Mademoiselle de Grenier is the finest chess player at court. She will engage him in a tourney, and keep him thus occupied. As to his wife, I will see that Alençon keeps her amused, for she is quite fond of him in a sisterly way.”

  “And Navarre?” the Duc de Guise queried Catherine.

  “For Navarre I have a special treat, messieurs. Since the night before his wedding he has been vigorously pursuing the Comte de Cher’s soon-to-be belle-fille. She is an Irishwoman named Madame Burke, betrothed to marry the comtesse’s son by her first marriage, a Seigneur de Marisco. The lady has been quite adamant in her refusal of Henri, which, of course, only makes him more ardent.”

  “What of the betrothed husband?” Anjou demanded. “Where does he stand in all of this?”

  “He is amused,” the Queen Mother said, “and does not consider Navarre a severe threat to his betrothed wife. Were it not for my aid, Navarre would not have a chance with the lady, but I shall give him that chance. The Duchesse de Beuvron was once to marry the Seigneur de Marisco. Now that she is widowed, she would like to regain his favor. I will see that she has a chance to plead her case tonight while you, Anjou, will lead Madame Burke to a secluded place to meet Navarre. She will not, of course, know she is meeting him. She will believe she is to see me, that I wish her to carry a personal message from me to Elizabeth Tudor when she returns to England.”