by Jane Yolen
“It would be better, Your Majesty,” the duke called out, “if you stayed in the carriage with the queen.”
“I am the king!” King Francis said stubbornly. “It is my duty to lead our cavalry, even in a retreat.” He spoke with such unusual authority that de Guise had no option but to let him go, though I could see from the duke’s face what he thought of the idea.
“Your Grace ...” I cried out. “Please ...” But I found I was speaking to his back.
“Nicola!” The queen spotted me and called from the carriage window. “Come here.” Before I could get to her, the coachman had started the horses with a crack of his whip, and they were gone, galloping down the road at such speed, I was choked by the dust.
Was I to be left? In a danger 1 had no name for?
“Here, girl,” a man said from behind me. “Into my wagon.” He put his beefy hands on my waist and lifted me up before I could say a word.
I grimaced when I saw that Madam Jacqueline was aboard the same open wagon, along with two of the kitchen maids. Madam had made certain that she sat as far from them as possible—which was not actually very far. It was not a very large wagon.
The man with the big hands climbed up onto the front, picked up the reins, and slapped them against the rumps of the two great geldings. “Walk on!” he cried, and the horses began pulling us through the gate.
We were bounced along as the cart drove across the cobbles and onto the dirt road with a change of tune, from a racheta-racheta to a softer sound.
And still no one had told me why we were away.
Madam Jacqueline said nothing, but brought out a book of devotions, silently turning the pages. The two kitchen maids, though, chattered to one another, full of gossip which held my attention for some way down the road. But I guessed from what they were saying that they knew no reason we were hurrying from Blois.
I glanced back at the château, where heaps of baggage still sat in the courtyard. We had never been so separated from our belongings before, and it only served to emphasize how quickly the court was moving.
For what purpose? I wondered. The image of stags being driven by hunters with their dogs would not leave my mind.
“Why are we leaving?” I asked the driver.
“La Renaudie,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“Amboise.” He parceled out his words like a miser his gold.
We were first in the line of wagons that followed the royal carriages along the north bank of the Loire. The river wound green and lazy through the countryside, like an adder in the sun, but our wagoner pushed the horses to their limit.
As the day went by, my stomach announced the hours as surely as a church bell. Luckily the kitchen maids had wrapped some food in a kerchief before leaving Blois-big hunks of cheese and two small baguettes. Shyly they shared this with me, and with the wagoner, who pulled out a bottle of wine which he likewise passed around. It was not very good wine, being bitter and raw, but I had had much worse with Troupe Brufort. At least it was wet. Madam Jacqueline made a point of being absorbed in her book and did not share our small meal.
“You should not speak with them, Nicola,” she whispered to me. “They are beneath you.”
“They are beside me, madam,” I said, pointing.
She sniffed and turned back to her book, but evidently the maids thought as she, for they did not include me in their conversation.
It was only when the sun was sinking that we came in sight of our destination. The cart rumbled over a bridge to the southern side of the river, crossed a small island, and entered the town.
“Amboise,” the wagoner said, grinning and showing a mouth full of teeth like old gravestones. “We go up there.” He pointed to a castle perched high on a corner of a nearly vertical rock. “The locals call it a château, but it is well fortified.”
As we wound through the town, I was surprised at the empty streets. But then I began to notice faces appearing furtively at windows. I wondered what the people of Amboise made of this sudden visit by the king and queen. Were they used to such invasions? Or was this as new to them as it was to me?
The road looped upward from the town, approaching the castle from the west. Now the road was filled with people—all foot soldiers-checking us out as we drove up.
The wagoner called out, “A fine burden I have here.”
“Save some for us!” a couple of men shouted back, gesturing at the maids and me.
The maids giggled and I smiled, but Madam Jacqueline sniffed loudly, burying her nose further into her book.
We rode on, now through a wide, terraced garden and orchard in the midst of which was a chapel of grey stone. Above the doorway a curious carved scene on the lintel showed a huntsman kneeling before a magnificent stag with a crucifix set between its antlers.
“Who is that?” I asked, pointing.
“Saint Hubert,” Madam Jacqueline said. Her tone implied we should have recognized him. “A nobleman whose love of hunting caused him to neglect his religious duties.” Her sniff informed us all what she thought of such behavior. “One day he came upon a stag with a crucifix between its antlers. After that Hubert abandoned his self-indulgent ways and took up the religious life.”
“That is quite a story, madam,” said the wagoner, winking at me. “A stag with a crucifix. I never seen any such in all my years.
“It is true, every word of it,” she replied haughtily. “Eventually he became a bishop.” She turned back to her book.
Every word true? I did not believe that for a moment, any more than I still believed every word of Maman’s tales. But that the story was true in some deeper sense, I was certain.
Above us, more soldiers came trooping out of the castle. There must have been two or three hundred of them descending towards the town. They were oddly quiet as they passed us. Whenever I had seen soldiers before, there had been pounding drums or braying trumpets.
We rattled on through the arched gateway into the château courtyard. I had not even time to leap from the wagon before servants rushed to unload what few supplies were on it.
All around us more soldiers moved about briskly. Cannons were shifted as if they were mere toys. The newly-arrived wagons were drawn up in rows of twos and threes, like some sort of barrier, while the horses got led away to the stables.
Suddenly I glimpsed the duke striding past, issuing sharp orders as he went.
“You there!” he called to one man, showering him with curses. Another he sent back the way he had come. A third waited patiently by the duke’s elbow for orders which never seemed to be given.
The king was watching all the furor from his horse, but he did not say a word. It was as though he was suddenly stunned by what was happening, recognizing that here was a game far beyond his meager grasp of strategy. His face was the color of the tops of waves.
“What is this all about?” I asked, turning to the wagoner, but he was gone. As were the maids and Madam Jacqueline.
Madam Jacqueline had found quarters for herself, and for me as well. Although she was annoyed with me, I was still in her charge. When I caught up with her, she had already organized her room, setting her book of devotions in the very center of the desk.
Of course we did not have our belongings yet, other than what we stood up in—she in her familiar dark dress and me in my second-best black velvet gown. So settling in took no time at all.
We sat down to a quick supper with other low-ranking members of the court: the king’s valet, several coachmen, the chambermaids. La Folle was at one end of the table and I at the other. The valet laughed and said, “We now have a parliament of fools.”
Neither La Folle nor I was amused.
The talk then turned to our headlong rush from Blois.
At last! I thought and tried to listen to every conversation at once.
“Astonishing,” Madam Jacqueline pronounced to the valet.
“But necessary,” Henri, the valet, said. “These are times of unrest, and the Huguenots
were rioting near Blois.”
Madam Jacqueline drew in a deep, frightened breath. “Those filthy imps of Satan.”
“But, madam, you told me they were very far away.” I said it with much aggrievement, but she simply stared at the wall, toying with the topmost aglet on her collar, too agitated to respond.
A coachmen across the table from me shook his head grimly. “Not so far away, my girl. Not so far away at all. La Renaudie himself has set his evil eye on this town. He and all his fellow Huguenots.”
Henri interrupted. “Not to worry, little one. Amboise is much more defensible than Blois. That is why we are here.”
The room Madam Jacqueline had picked out for me was little more than a closet, but I was glad of the chance to be alone in it. I wanted to make sense of all that had happened.
I could not ignore our headlong flight from Blois. The duke certainly thought there was something to worry about. Otherwise why flee so quickly? Why gather so many soldiers and set out the cannon? Why erect barriers of wagons? Why wall the court up behind great stone walls?
And yet one part of me was fascinated by the Huguenots. Madam’s stories about those imps of Satan made me curious. Perhaps at last I would actually see their hairy hides and impish faces. Perhaps even hear their pernicious doctrines.
Of course I did not want to get too close. Still, I wanted to see them from behind the defensible walls of Amboise.
I was not that much of a fool.
Between these two warring armies of sense and nonsense, I fell asleep at last on the small, hard bed. I dreamed all night of a garden. Not Eden exactly, for there was no serpent in it, no Adam, no Eve.
In the dream, I sat high in an apple tree which was some magical kind on which both blossom and fruit grew at the same time. The tree overlooked a wild garden where wildflowers grew in weedy profusion. Below me a great stag came on silent hooves to eat the windfalls, a crucifix glowing between his antlers. When he looked up at me with his soft brown eyes, I saw my own face reflected as if in a mirror, darkly.
Suddenly out of the woods came a hunter, seven small dogs at his heels. He looked just like the king, puffy-eyed and a pasty complexion. But he had the king’s mother’s fierce anger pinching his pockmarked face. Raising his bow, he killed the stag with a single arrow, then slit its throat. The blood fountained down for the dogs. Then the hunter broke off the crucifix, slung it over his shoulder, whistled to his dogs, and off they went.
I climbed down from the tree and held the stag’s bloody head in my lap, weeping for the king and for the stag and—I guess—for me as well.
I woke, shivering, and thought about that dream garden. And about the other garden, in the cardinal’s palace in Rheims, where I had first really talked with the queen.
Dreams are supposed to mean something. At least that is what Maman always told me. But what could my dream possibly mean?
Then I thought about the carved stag I had seen above the chapel door as we arrived at Amboise. Perhaps, I mused, I am supposed to find the answer in the garden here.
The more I thought about that, the more certain I was. The dream wanted me to go to that terraced garden by the chapel outside the château gates. So I stood up, smoothed down the skirts of my dress, and buttoned the top aglet at my collar which I had loosened for sleep.
Then I crept out of my room and down the unfamiliar corridor, alert for signs that anyone else was awake.
Pausing at each window, I peered out through the gloom to get my bearings. At last I saw trees and flower beds below me, though they were little more than dark shapes in the early dawn.
There was a small door nearby, and when I pushed through it, I found the stairs that ran down into the walled garden.
A thin ribbon of pale crimson was visible between the eastern hills, and slowly the garden began to come into focus, filled with early spring flowers. I remembered my mother’s small plot where onions, turnips, and beans had grown in intimate connection, one with the others.
Flowers were a luxury only a king could afford.
Or God.
This garden, with its tidy borders and careful plantings, was certainly not the unkempt garden of my dream.
Standing on tiptoes, I looked over one of the stone walls. Below, the terraces descended to a weedier place. There I saw Saint Hubert’s chapel in its grey solitude, shrouded by an early morning mist.
That, I knew, is where I am meant to go.
Carefully, I stepped into one of the beds of flowers to get to the wall. I checked over my shoulder and saw no one around. Fitting my right slipper into a chink, and my fingers into others, I started to climb. For a moment—only a moment—I gave a care to my dress. Then I scrambled up to the top and over.
It was a long drop to the terrace below, and it had been a while since I had done any acrobatics. But my training stood me in good stead. Without planning, I landed with knees bent, did a forward roll through a small bush, and stood up again only slightly out of breath.
Brushing my dress off as best I could, I made my way around to the entrance and stared up at the carvings on the lintel.
There Saint Hubert, his hands clasped in prayer, gazed at the crucifix between the stag’s great antlers. It was a meeting the saint had not expected but it had changed his life forever. I knew nothing else about him, but I knew we had that much in common, for hadn’t I been changed by a meeting in a garden as well?
Is that all the dream wants me to know? It had certainly not been worth the ruin of my dress.
It was then that I heard a cry of alarm from somewhere below. I squinted down at the orchard that stretched between me and the town.
Suddenly I felt terribly alone and foolish. I was unarmed and exposed. Shaking, I pulled back into the shadow of the chapel. Where was everyone? What had become of all the king’s soldiers? Could I get back to the castle before being seen?
Then there came the crack of pistols and the blast of muskets followed by an uproar of voices—screams and shouts and cheers, all intermixed. I heard orders being bellowed and the beating of hooves, as though a battle were taking place.
What a fool I am indeed, I thought, looking back at the high wall I had just leaped from. Climbing down was certainly easier than getting back up. I might have to go by the road.
The road!
The road was where the horses and riders and soldiers would be. I could not go there.
I turned back to stare at the trees below. Were those shadowy movements coming towards me?
And then there came the odd flash and puff of smoke.
Was I to die, then, for a dream?
14
LA RENAUDIE
I do not know how much time passed by as I stood in the shadow of the chapel, unable to make a decision. I moved as if through water, as if in a waking dream.
Just as I had that thought, I was startled by the sound of running feet. I pulled back behind a corner of the building when an enormous bearded man, with neither hat nor helm, came rushing through the orchard. He held a bloodied sword in one hand.
Halting by the chapel, he gasped for breath. Blood trickled from a wound in his thigh, staining his cream-colored breeches. His hair looked clammy with sweat in spite of the early morning chill, and his jerkin was smeared with mud and grass, as if he had been crawling across the ground.
I thought: Clearly he is not one of the king’s soldiers.
And then I thought: Is he a Huguenot?
Eyes darting about, he came forward again, and I shrank back, hoping my black dress would make me invisible in the shadows. But the grass was slick with dew and I slipped, falling against the wall.
A bit of the wall crumbled and the pebbles struck the ground with a sound that was no louder than a whisper, but loud enough.
The stranger rounded on me, his sword raised to strike. When he saw who I was, he laughed.
“Jesu—just a girl,” he breathed, lowering his sword. Then he added in a hoarse whisper, “Come to me, child. What are you doing her
e? This is no place for children.”
I took a stuttering step forward. “I ... wanted to walk in the garden. I had a ... a dream.”
He threw a quick glance over his shoulder before speaking again, his voice still low. “From your clothes, you are from the château.”
I nodded, too frightened to speak again.
Then the man said something surprising. “Can you take me to the king?” His voice was almost imploring, “I must get to the king, before we are all taken or killed.”
I backed away from him and he followed until I was pressed right against the chapel wall.
“King Francis must understand,” the man continued, his voice rushed and heated. “We are not His Majesty’s enemies. I swear to you, child, we are his loyal subjects, as loyal as any in his court. All we want is an end to the persecution the de Guises have inflicted upon us.”
“Are you ... a ... a ...” I stammered at last, “a Huguenot?”
He nodded and opened his arms. “Yes, child, but I am not your enemy. ”
“But what of your pernicious doctrines?” I asked, drawing back. Then added, “Are you not imps of Satan with hairy hides and tails?”
He shook his head irritably, his gaze darting about for signs of pursuit. “Girl, you repeat nursery stories. We are as human as you.” His right arm moved as if to grab me, and then he must have thought better of it, for he placed his hand—filthy and bloody—to his breast. “The king, child, where is he? I swear all I want to do is plead our cause. Quickly. I have but little time.”
“That much is certain,” interrupted a voice from behind him.
It was the Duke de Guise, dressed in a steel breastplate and helmet, a very large and bloody sword in his hand. He was mounted on a huge black warhorse and he reminded me of nothing so much as the black knight from the chess game.
A dozen foot soldiers, their armor much muddied, charged up behind him and quickly surrounded the Huguenot.
For a moment, I thought the big man was going to fight. But then, as if assessing the odds, he tossed aside his sword and allowed the soldiers to seize him. There was something wonderfully heroic in the gesture.