better suited to a country priest than a nobleman, and his square cap was of plain brushed cotton. Yet his manner and movements were those of a man who expected the world to grant his every desire.
His first act was impressive: Ignoring the growling dog in Edouard’s lap and the King’s threatening glare, Coligny walked up to Charles, sank to his knees, cap in hand, and bowed his head, revealing a balding, sunburned crown.
“Your Majesty,” he said, “there are no words to express my gratitude at your invitation. Your generosity, forgiveness, and trust overwhelm me. Thank you for the opportunity to show you that I, and those who share my faith, revere you as our sovereign lord.”
Coligny delivered his pretty speech with such apparent genuineness and humility that Charles was mollified: His scowl was replaced by an expression of hesitant curiosity.
“Welcome to Blois,” he muttered and gestured impatiently. “Get up, get up.”
Graceful and strong, Coligny rose without using his hands to steady himself. His blond eyelashes were barely visible, giving the impression of a naked, guileless gaze. I shared a surreptitious glance with Edouard that relayed our favorable impressions and our skepticism.
The Admiral’s attention was so thoroughly fixed on Charles that Edouard and I might as well have been absent. “I firmly believe, Your Majesty, that God directed you to send for me, so that peace could be restored to France. As your former enemy, let me congratulate you on your military acumen. You have proven, time and again, which of us is the better commander.”
Charles’s lip curled faintly. “Don’t patronize me, Monsieur. You know very well that my brother won the battles.”
“Yes,” Coligny allowed, “but it is a wise king who surrounds himself with talented men. Ultimately, you are responsible for every victory.”
At this, the muscles in Charles’s face and body softened. “Admiral,” he said, gesturing, “this is my brother, the Duke of Anjou.”
For the first time, Coligny’s gaze acknowledged Anjou. The little dog on Edouard’s lap bared its teeth, but the Admiral seemed not to see it. He bowed very low, and when he straightened, he said, “
Despite Coligny’s flattery, a subtle ripple of disapproval emanated from him as he-so strong, square, and plain- stared down at my bejeweled son in lavender velvet, with his glittering little dog.
If Edouard realized he was being judged, he did not show it; he laughed easily. “I could well say the same to you, Admiral. I’m glad to finally have you on our side.”
“And this,” the King announced, “is our beloved mother.”
Coligny stepped to my bedside and kissed my hand. His beard was soft against my skin.
“Admiral,” I said, smiling despite my feverishness. “I’m pleased to call you friend. I look forward to discussing how we might strengthen the Treaty of Amboise.”
Coligny faced my elder son. “Your Majesty, I would like nothing better, but such negotiations are best limited to two people. I look forward to discussing it with you man to man.”
Smoothly, Edouard interjected, “Being the wise sovereign, my brother relies heavily upon our mother’s advice. She was pivotal in negotiating the treaty.”
Again, Coligny turned to Charles. “Should you wish to appoint your mother as your emissary, I shall speak to her. Only give me direction, Your Majesty.”
Charles bloomed. “Tonight we shall dine privately and will speak of the Treaty.” He patted the seat beside him. “Come, sit and take some refreshment.” He snapped his fingers at a chambermaid, who hurried to fill a goblet with wine.
“I am honored, Your Majesty,” the Admiral replied. “But I drink no wine, lest it interfere with my ability to serve my God and my king.”
I marked the pious pride in that announcement. Coligny’s words were calculated to give the impression of humble honesty, which made me trust him not at all. He sat down beside Charles, who seized his arm and quipped: “We have you now,
Coligny laughed, too, without a shadow of the unease such words might have inspired in a less confident man. We chatted about his journey, the loveliness of the Loire Valley, and his new young wife.
Within the first quarter hour, Coligny became the King’s fast friend. The two left together, as Charles was eager to show the Admiral the palace. Edouard and I stared after them.
“There goes trouble,” Edouard murmured, once they were well out of earshot.
“I believe I have made a terrible mistake,” I answered softly, “by asking him to come.”
Once Edouard and I had recovered, we held a formal reception in Coligny’s honor, inviting three hundred dukes, cardinals, and ambassadors. Charles was pleased by the fuss.
The festivities began shortly before dusk. The massive outdoor spiral staircase overlooking the courtyard was festooned with silver brocade and gilded leaves. As our guests watched from the steps, a bevy of young women, scantily draped in gossamer, waved tall plumed fans in the air, then gathered in a circle to touch the tips of the plumes together. These were lowered dramatically to reveal the newborn Venus, standing upon a large “shell” of painted wood.
The nymphets spun away. Venus performed a short dance, after which Mars-Edouard’s Lignerolles, in a white toga and scarlet mantle-appeared, brandishing a sword. After a threatening display, Mars pursued the frightened Venus. When he captured her, she kissed him, rendering him a docile creature. The pair promenaded happily, to much applause.
The reception moved inside, where swaths of sheer silk hung from the ceiling; from time to time, the nymphets stirred the fabric to recall the undulating sea. Amid this oceanic backdrop, the King and his family were formally announced, followed by the guest of honor.
As he walked into the hall, Coligny’s composure was formidable, his appearance less so: He wore a new doublet of black silk but no ruff, as fashion required, only a plain white collar. It was a brilliant strategy: Against the satins, velvets, and gems, drab Coligny stood out dramatically. He knelt at Charles’s throne and, eschewing His Majesty’s proffered hand, instead kissed his slippered foot.
Not only was the hostile Catholic crowd impressed, but Charles was giddy at such a show of loyalty. Grinning, he drew Coligny to his feet and kissed his cheeks.
“We are convinced of Admiral Coligny’s fealty and goodwill,” the King announced, his arm around the Huguenot’s shoulder. “We love him as a faithful subject and a friend; whosoever lifts a hand against him, lifts it against us.”
Coligny bowed to the Duke of Anjou. For the Admiral’s reception, Edouard wore rose damask studded with pearls and a huge ruffed collar of pink lace; his white lapdog wore a matching pink ruff. To my amusement, sly Edouard took the Admiral’s hands and kissed him on the mouth like a blood relative; only someone paying careful attention would have noticed how eagerly Coligny disengaged from the embrace.
At a nod from Charles, the lutists and violists began to play. The King was as cheerful and garrulous as I had ever seen him; he took Coligny’s arm and marched off to display his new prize.
Margot, Edouard, and I also left our thrones. I hurried over to the Guises-the young Duke, Henri, and his uncle the Cardinal of Lorraine, who had the most cause to be offended by the honors heaped upon the Admiral, because Coligny’s spy had murdered Henri’s father, the elder Duke of Guise.
The Cardinal took my proffered hand; his own was cool and weightless, and his lips kissed the air just above my cheek.
His nephew the Duke of Guise wore a white ruff collar larger than his head; the stiff lace scraped my skin as he kissed my hand. He smiled, but the gesture was far from genuine; his posture was coiled and tense.
“Gentlemen,” I said warmly, “I am so grateful to you both; the circumstances are not easy for either of you, but you put the good of France ahead of any personal considerations. I will remember your graciousness.”
“You are too kind,” the young Guise said, but his tone was distracted; he was watching Charles’s and Coligny’s
