This was Friday night, the twenty-second.
I thought of the huge entourage Navarre had brought with him to the wedding-most of them housed here, at the Louvre. Military commanders, captains, generals, all of his former comrades-in-arms-three hundred men.
“I welcomed him into my home,” I whispered, “and he brought his army with him, in open daylight. Coligny may truly want his war in the Spanish Netherlands, but Navarre sent him here only to distract us. They are lying in wait for us. They mean to kill us in our beds.”
“We must stop them,” my son said softly.
I looked up at him. Edouard’s eyes, infinitely black, glittered in the lamplight. I had worked so hard for peace, not knowing that we were already at war.
“We must strike first,” I said.
I spent the next few hours with Edouard in the Council chamber, planning the attack. I recruited him to send a discreet messenger to the young Duke of Guise, directing him to gather men for an attack on Coligny’s lodgings at the Hotel de Bethizy. Coligny must be assassinated, and every one of his commanders killed. With my guidance, Edouard wrote the secret orders for the Swiss troops who protected the palace and the Scots who guarded the King: At the same instant that Guise moved against Coligny, our soldiers would attack the Huguenots sleeping at the Louvre.
To avoid mass slaughter, Edouard and I wrote down the names of those fated to die, all of them military commanders or strategists. I wanted no revenge, only the swift, if ruthless, execution of those who could bring war. With their leaders gone, the Huguenots would be crippled, unable to threaten the Crown or the city.
It was all to begin before dawn’s light on Sunday, the twenty-fourth of August, when Saint-Germain’s cathedral bell struck the third hour after midnight-one hour before the demon star, Algol, moved into precise opposition to warlike Mars.
When the list of the victims had been written, I looked somberly up at Edouard. “We must tell Charles,” I said. Without the king’s signature upon such a gruesome order, the guards would not obey it; and once the killing began, it would no longer be secret.
Edouard nodded. “It will be safer for him. We will have to reconcile him to our viewpoint.”
“But not tonight,” I said, sighing, and fell silent as Saint-Germain’s bell signaled midnight and the first seconds of the Eve of Saint Bartholomew.
We parted then. Both of us were exhausted by the strain and retired to our separate apartments.
I did not dream that night; my long nightmare had grown waking now. I abandoned my bed and pulled a chair to the window to stare out at the brooding darkness and listen to the occasional faint shouts of angry men in Paris streets. I thought of Aunt Clarice’s strength in those awful hours before we escaped the Palazzo Medici; I thought of Ruggieri’s cruel words during our final conversation, and my response:
I answered them silently with Clarice’s words.
I had made my choice; I would not sacrifice my own.
Outside the Louvre’s gates, the shouting began in earnest at sunrise and grew steadily in volume throughout the day. As soon as it was light, I dressed and went to find Edouard. He was in the Council room with Marshals Tavannes and Cosse, commanders of the Paris militia, and the city provost; the guards at the door insisted they were not to be disturbed. I left word for the Duke of Anjou to come to my chambers after his meeting and went to my cabinet to write a message to Anna d’Este about the specifics of our plan. I did not dare write her son the Duke of Guise directly but instead trusted Anna to relay the information to him; she would no doubt be delighted to tell her son that he had been chosen to lead the strike against Coligny. I instructed her to send his confirmation as soon as possible.
Edouard arrived an hour later in my antechamber looking haggard. He had not slept at all either but had roused Tavannes and Cosse and read them Navarre’s letter. Both men heartily approved of our decision to strike first. At dawn, Edouard was visited by the provost and militia commanders, who revealed that street fighting had increased. Gangs of armed Huguenots were roving the city, alarming citizens. Merchants had boarded up their shops, innkeepers their taverns. Members of the militia were quietly distributing arms to Catholics eager to protect themselves from the growing threat.
We agreed that Charles should be told that evening, after supper. The King was fond of crusty old Tavannes and, of all our confidants, trusted him best; I insisted that Tavannes be the one to tell Charles the truth. Once he had time to recover from the shock, Edouard and I would appear with the fateful royal order and its list of victims, for the King’s signature.
At midday, when Navarre and his cousin Conde returned from their vigil at Coligny’s bedside, a scuffle broke out between his Huguenot bodyguards and the King’s Scotsmen, fueled by incendiary comments on both sides. I did not witness the fighting, which quickly broke up-though not before one of Charles’s senior guards lost an ear.
I saw Charles briefly after lunch. His conversation with Navarre and Conde had left him elated; he revealed eagerly that Doctor Pare was very pleased with the patient’s progress. Coligny’s wound showed no signs of infection and was already beginning to heal.
“As soon as he is well enough,” Charles said cheerfully, “I will move him to the Louvre and care for him myself.” His features suddenly went cold with anger. “Did they tell you,
“But it was Guise after all who ordered the killing-what nerve, playing tennis with me that very morning and smiling at the Admiral!”
I shook my head and feigned shock but said nothing.
By late afternoon, my nerves were utterly frayed. For appearances’ sake, Edouard and I were required to separate and attend to our usual business-he to discuss the matter of military pensions with his advisers and treasurers, I to hear petitions and, afterward, to take Margot to my chambers for an hour of embroidery. Despite the palpable tension at the Louvre, my daughter was obliviously cheerful. At my mild statement that she appeared in good spirits, Margot blushed and smiled primly.
“Henri is very kind,” she said. “You were right,
Had we been speaking about any other man, my smile would have been genuine. I waited until the subject shifted, then put my hand upon my daughter’s arm.
“I’m troubled,” I said, “by the violence in the streets. Ever since the Admiral was shot, I worry that something else terrible will happen. It might be wise…” I paused. “Perhaps it would be better, Margot, if you slept in your own room tonight.”
She looked up from her embroidery with a start. “You don’t really think Henri is in danger, do you?”
I looked away quickly, casting about for words that warned but did not frighten. “Not that anyone is in danger, but that we should be cautious. Perhaps you heard that there was a fight between your husband’s guards and your brother’s today. I’m merely saying…” Anxiety stole my words, my breath. I stared down at my sewing, suddenly terrified for my daughter, and aware that I had no idea how to protect her. I dared not take her into my confidence; she would have been aghast, disgusted, she would have gone directly to Navarre.
She saw my panic and dropped her sewing in midstitch. “
I looked up at her, for an instant speechless; then habit overcame me, and I managed a feeble smile. “Of course not,” I said. “Nothing bad is going to happen. I’m simply worried, as any mother would be, with all that has happened. Indulge me, Margot. Retire early tonight, to your own bed.”
“All right,
