protection as the pikemen.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Tell the driver not to spare the horses.”
We rode so fast and hard that the carriage shuddered mercilessly, forcing us to cling desperately to our seats.
“God damn every Huguenot ever born!” Charles gasped. The effort to hold on left him ashen and breathless, but no less furious. “We must hunt them down to the last man-and I will draw and quarter the wretch who ordered this attack myself!”
Like Edouard, I remained darkly silent on that frenzied ride, my hand pressed to his shallow wound as I nursed my growing hatred. Before that night, my life had been devoted to keep the peace at all costs, but this attack on the persons of Anjou and the King was beyond forgiving. I stared past Charles and Margot toward the future, and the war that was surely coming.
We arrived at the Louvre forty-five minutes later, an hour before dawn. Montmorency awaited us: I had sent a message saying that he was needed to head an army. When I saw him-white-bearded but still square and resolute-with Doctor Pare in the driveway, I felt gratitude. I had never much cared for Montmorency, nor he for me, but he had led my husband to victory in battle.
He and Doctor Pare were alarmed to see the blood on Edouard’s upper sleeve and were not easily convinced that the Duke of Anjou was not seriously injured. As the doctor herded my sons off, I took Montmorency’s huge hands in mine.
“You were right, Monsieur, and I wrong,” I said. “The rebels were ready to kill the King and Anjou. If I learn who is behind this-”
“The Prince of Conde,” he answered at once. “My spies say that my nephew”-by whom he meant Admiral Coligny, a name he uttered only with great shame-“disapproved and did not lend his support.”
“But Conde is a traitor,” I said, “and I will not rest until he meets a traitor’s end.”
I never saw my bed that night but summoned my generals and advisers. Montmorency’s scouts had determined that Conde’s army was marching from the northeast toward Paris.
Over the next month, we rallied an army sixteen thousand strong while Conde’s men camped on the banks of the Seine just outside the city, effectively cutting off our supplies. I swallowed my hatred and sent emissaries to Conde-whom he returned with the message that the good people of France were “tired of paying taxes to support the lavish lifestyles of foreigners, especially Italians.”
Oh a drab November day, The Battle of Paris began. In the Louvre’s courtyard, Montmorency and his commanders mounted their horses to salute the King before riding off to the front. Impetuous Charles, eager to spill blood, ran to one of the saddled steeds, but Montmorency hurried over and seized the bridle. “Your Majesty,” he said, “your person is too dear to us, and the Huguenots have demonstrated their desire to capture you. Do not tax us; we would need at least ten thousand more men to protect you properly.”
Even Charles could not argue with such logic. We royals remained inside the Louvre; never before was I so grateful for its reinforced walls and iron gates. I climbed up to the roof and looked northeast, though buildings blocked my view of the battle. Edouard-who had casually dismissed the gouge left in his shoulder-soon discovered me; together we watched as storm clouds converged overhead, driven by cold winds.
The armies engaged each other at three o’clock in the afternoon. Conde had amassed ten thousand men against our sixteen thousand; our victory seemed assured. After an hour, scouts brought word that the rebels had taken heavy losses; the second hour brought news that we had suffered equally. My mood darkened with the clouds, which now blotted out the sun.
The third hour brought cold rains, and a messenger soaked to the bone. “Constable Montmorency is at the western gate!”
I frowned, confused: Were we so lost that Montmorency had abandoned his troops? I hurried down to the gate, where an exhausted rider and horse trotted up, dragging a litter in the rain.
Montmorency was strapped to the litter; the blanket beneath him was covered with blood, though I saw no wound. His helmet had been removed, and his white hair was slicked to his scalp; the rain was falling earnestly, and I leaned down to shield him.
“Montmorency,” I said. “Dear Constable…” I put my hand upon his filthy one, and his eyelids fluttered.
“No, Constable, did you not hear?” I forced a great smile. “Our troops are victorious! You have routed the enemy; you have saved France.”
“Is it true?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I answered, “yes!”
At that, he let go a long sigh and closed his eyes. Edouard had followed and was already shouting for Doctor Pare. I took the old man’s hand as others carried the litter inside and had him laid in my bed.
He died there the next day, without coming to himself again. I had him entombed near Henri, the King he had so loved.
Thirty-Five
Within four days, our army forced Conde to retreat. The rebel forces marched southwest into the countryside and were joined by those of Montmorency’s heretic nephew, Admiral Coligny. Our spies reported that the Huguenots were hiring German mercenaries to increase their ranks.
We had no choice but to recruit mercenaries of our own. But I faced an even greater dilemma: Montmorency’s death had left a critical vacuum-that of Lieutenant General, head of the French army-yet none of the candidates for the position filled me with confidence.
At the end of a long day spent with my advisers, Edouard came calling at my chamber door.
“Make me Lieutenant General,” he said.
I laughed. He was only sixteen, dressed in a scarlet velvet doublet and a ruffed collar of spidery ecru lace; large pearls hung from his ears. The thought of him smeared with grime on the battlefield was ludicrous.
“You’re mad,” I said.
His manner was intensely serious. “I’m not. Look at me, look at Charles-we’re spoiled and cosseted, living in splendor while the people suffer the brunt of this war. Yet we ask them to die for us. Charles, with his evil temper, is hardly the sort to inspire loyalty, and I waste my days fencing and playing the fop.
“Let me give the people a Valois worth fighting for,
“You have no military experience,” I said flatly. “You cannot lead an army.”
“True. But if you give me someone experienced as my second, I’ll listen to him-just as Father listened to Montmorency.”
“Where will I find such a person?”
He answered very quickly. “In Marshal Tavannes.”
I lifted an eyebrow, impressed by Edouard’s choice. A man of unquestionable loyalty, Tavannes had begun his career as a page to old King Francois, defending his master at Pavia even as enemy Spanish troops surrounded and captured them. Tavannes then served Henri and played a large role in the victory at Calais. Although nearing his seventh decade, and blind in one eye, Tavannes was as sharp-witted as ever.
But the thought of sending my much-loved son to war caused an old, familiar fear to well up within me. Edouard read my thoughts in a glance.
“Make me Lieutenant General,” he said lightly, “and I shall make you a promise.”
“What is that?” I asked cautiously, and he replied: “I won’t die.”
He spat into his palm and held it out to me.
Slowly, reluctantly, I spat into my own, and clasped his hand.
Months passed, during which time Edouard educated himself in the art of war. On the day he left for the front, I
