“That would not happen,” Coligny countered swiftly, “because we would not fight alone. The Prince of Orange will fight alongside us, and he has recently secured aid from Germany and England.”
“But it has already happened,” I said. “Five thousand of our soldiers died. French blood has already been spilt.”
“I submit,” the Admiral said, “that war with Spain is inevitable. We can face her now, in the Netherlands, or later, upon our own soil, when Philip finally yields to the craving to expand his empire by straying over our border. That is why we must strike now-while we have the support of Orange, England, and the German princes.”
Tavannes spoke in a low growl. “I have seen two kings make the error of starting foreign wars with hopes of conquest. They, too, were given promises of support. In the end, we retreated after heavy losses, only to return to a country in financial ruin. A foreign war will claim more lives and gold than we have to spend.”
“I fought beside Montmorency at Saint-Quentin when I was a callow youth,” Gonzaga, the Duke of Nevers, added passionately. “I went into battle filled with dreams of an easy victory. I came to my senses when the Constable and others-including myself-were captured by the Spanish.”
“I was there at Saint-Quentin,” Coligny muttered, indignant.
Gonzaga’s tone was deprecating. “Yes, you were there-responsible for the city’s defense, as I recall. Why, then, should we trust you to take more of our soldiers to war, when five thousand have already died as a result of stupidity?”
All the other men in the room began speaking at once. Gonzaga offered the Admiral another insult, while the Duke of Montpensier railed about the damage another war would inflict upon the economy. In the end, old Tavannes shouted them down and, when the room was silent, asked:
“Admiral Coligny, have you anything else to offer?”
“Yes,” Coligny said. “When His Majesty King Henri II listened to the advice of his privy councillors, he was obliged to consider it carefully-but he was not required to obey it. Such is not the case with King Charles; he is obliged by law to follow this Council’s bidding.
“This was understandable when the King ascended the throne as a boy of ten, but he is a man now, twenty- two years old. It is an insult to him to force him to accept the rule of his elders, even when it goes against his judgment.”
Coligny continued. “I am a Huguenot, speaking before a group of Catholics. Yet I know every one of us would agree that Charles is King because God set him on the throne. Is that not so, gentlemen?”
Tavannes and Montpensier allowed that it was; Edouard and I exchanged dark glances, while Gonzaga refused to reply to a question whose answer was known.
“If Charles’s will is thwarted by this Council,” Coligny said, “then God’s will is thwarted. And it is Charles’s will to go to war with Spain.”
I gasped at the man’s audacity, at his wild reasoning.
Coligny directed a pointed look at me. “Her Majesty gasps. Yet I tell you now that government is the business of men, not women; such is the rule of Salic law. And I ask you: Who rules France? Who rules this Council? And who rules Charles?
“Each man sitting here must look into his own heart for the truth: Listen to the small, still voice of God within you. Is it right that the will of our King should be foiled by a womanish fear of war?”
My face burned. Beside me, Edouard muttered a barely audible curse.
“By God, you are a lunatic,” Tavannes said, “and a mannerless cur to speak so of our Queen.”
I did not look at him, or my fellow councillors; I could only stare at the bright piety in Coligny’s eyes, at the beatific self-righteousness that glowed upon his face, stoked by the internal fires of madness.
“It is a holy war,” the Admiral said; his voice paled to a whisper. “A war to free men who wish to worship in freedom. I tell you, it is God’s own war; only the Devil would bid you not to wage it.”
The room was silent until I gathered myself and asked coldly: “Is that all, Admiral? Have you finished your presentation?”
“I have,” he said, with an air that said he was most pleased with it, and with himself.
The Duke of Montpensier interjected, “Your Highness, Your Majesty, I should like to move that we dispense with any further discussion. Admiral Coligny has presented his viewpoint sufficiently and heard the major objections to it. I see little point in revisiting these in an exchange that is likely to grow heated. I suggest a vote be taken immediately.”
“Point well taken,” I said. “Gentlemen, are there any objections?”
There were not. Coligny-confident that his appeal had swayed hearts-was asked to wait in the corridor. He went happily, though he paused on the threshold to direct a smug, triumphant look at me.
What followed did not take long. The members were in such obvious agreement that the paper ballots went unused and a voice vote was taken.
I rose and put a hand up to stay my fellow councillors from their impulse to spring to their feet with me. “I should like to tell Admiral Coligny myself.”
I went alone into the corridor. Aside from a pair of bodyguards, there was no one within earshot. Coligny leaned against the opposite wall, hands folded, head bowed in prayer; at the sound of the door opening, he looked up eagerly.
At the sight of my face, his own went slack with surprise, then slowly hardened.
“So,” he said. “I should have realized their ears were closed. After all, you chose them because they were loyal.”
“I chose them because they were wise,” I retaliated, “and loyal to my son-who was born without the temperament needed to rule. Should you persist in taking advantage of this fact, Admiral, I will banish you from Court.”
His eyes-starkly blue inside a fringe of golden lashes-narrowed with the same sullen, bitter obstinacy I had so often seen in Charles. He took a menacing step closer, to remind me that he was a large man and I a small woman.
With the slow, emphatic delivery of a bully, he said, “Madame, I cannot oppose what you have done, but I can assure you that you will regret it. For if His Majesty decides against this war, he will soon find himself in another from which he will not be able to escape.”
Though he loomed in my face, I refused to take a single step backward. Imperious, unafraid, I scowled up at him.
“We welcomed you as a guest. And you dare threaten us-under the King’s own roof-with another civil war?”
“You would not be fighting me,” he said, “but God.”
He turned his back to me without taking his leave and strode away. When he had moved out of view, I closed my eyes and let go a sigh as I leaned back against the wall.
Forty-one
I charged the fearless Tavannes with reporting the results of the Privy Council’s vote to the King. I then took Edouard aside to tell him of the Admiral’s threat.
I convinced the Duke of Anjou to accompany me to our estate at Montceaux, a day’s hard ride from Paris. We left immediately without informing the King, so that he would be surprised by our departure and assume I had made good on my threat to abandon him. I prayed that Charles would rush to Montceaux to beg me to return-thus allowing me to keep him out of Coligny’s clutches, at least until the wedding celebrations commenced.
Within three hours of the Council meeting, Edouard and I were in a carriage moving south out of the crowded city. The rain had ended, and the wind chased slate clouds away to reveal a scalding August sun; the streets were once again crowded with merchants, nobles, clerics, beggars, and the black-and-white garb of Huguenots, strangers to this Catholic city, come to celebrate the marriage of their leader, Navarre.
I leaned back against the wall of the carriage and stared out the window, too pensive to acknowledge
