Edouard’s lengthy diatribe against the Admiral or the whining of his dog, a spaniel perched in a jeweled basket that hung from the Duke of Anjou’s neck by a long velvet cord. I remained silent as the air grew sweeter, and the clatter of the wheels was muted by the mud of country roads. Stone buildings gave way to the dark green, trembling leaves of late summer; mist rose from the road ahead like vaporous souls streaming heavenward.
I could not yet digest my final conversation with Coligny. As the carriage rocked, I closed my eyes and imagined Aunt Clarice beside me, shaken to the core yet fearless, in her tattered, glorious gown.
“Such hubris!” Edouard railed; the little dog in his lap cringed, and he began to stroke it carelessly. “He thinks he is Moses, and we Pharaoh!”
I opened my eyes. “He thinks he is Jesus,” I said, then fell silent at the implications of my own analogy.
My son stared across the carriage at me. “He will not stop,
I shook my head. “What can we do? We cannot arrest him now, before the wedding. Think of the outcry: He is an honored member of the wedding party. Think of the embarrassment to Navarre, to us…”
I had not permitted myself to reflect on Navarre for days. I had loved him as a son; I was going to marry my daughter to him. Now I looked on him with distrust. Had he come here knowing what Coligny was planning?
“Coligny is sincere in his desire to see our troops sent to the Netherlands,” I added, as though trying to convince myself. “He has spent a great deal of time ingratiating himself with the King. It would not make sense for him to attack us now.”
“Attack us?” Edouard leaned forward abruptly. “Are you saying that everything he has done is simply a distraction? That he means us harm?”
I stared out at the changing countryside and thought of Paris’s streets, flooded with Huguenots, and of the Louvre, its corridors brimming with black-and-white crows.
“No,” I answered. “No, of course not, unless…”
…
“Unless this is part of a greater plot,” Edouard finished. “Unless Coligny and Navarre and the rest of them came here with the thought of capturing the Crown. Henri brought an entourage of hundreds, and thousands of his followers have descended on the city. Every inn in Paris is overflowing with Huguenots; they have even opened the churches to house them all.”
My fingers found the heavy iron ring of the Gorgon’s Head and began to worry it. “They could not be so foolish,” I murmured.
“We are speaking of Coligny, who is fool enough to admit he thinks God has sent him here,” Edouard reminded me, a look of sickened distrust settling over his long, handsome features. “And he will do whatever ‘God’ bids him. Even if he is not guilty of plotting a revolution-even if he means us no real harm-he will continue to manipulate Charles. We must do something.”
“If we do something now, in a city crowded with Huguenots and their resentful Catholic hosts,” I said slowly, “there will be a full-scale riot.”
“We will discuss it at Montceaux,” I said. “I don’t want to think about it now.”
I closed my eyes again, lulled by the rocking carriage, and saw the prophet’s round full-moon face.
Charles arrived at Montceaux in the middle of the night. I feigned mute, sulking anger when I was summoned from my bed by a desperate King, but I could scarcely hide my gratification when Charles fell to his knees and, wrapping his arms about my legs, swore to abide by the Privy Council’s vote and begged me to return with him to Paris.
I insisted Charles stay with us at Montceaux for four full days. During that time, Edouard and I spent endless hours trying to convince the King that Coligny had coldheartedly manipulated him. At many points, Charles sobbed like a child or let loose venomous, spittle-laced rage, but by the third day, he was spent and began to listen to our point of view. I made him agree to avoid Coligny until after the celebrations.
Only then did we return to the city-on the fifteenth of August, the day before the betrothal ceremony. Since the tenth, the withering sun had hung unobscured in a faded blue sky; our carriage kicked up clouds of dust on the return journey.
I climbed from the carriage exhausted. At Montceaux, I had spent long days with Charles and long evenings discussing Coligny with Edouard; we had resolved nothing, only that we should wait to take action until after the wedding.
As I climbed the stairs to my apartments, I spied Madame Gondi-still beautiful, but worn and in failing health- waiting for me at the top of the landing. She did not smile when she caught my gaze but tightened her grip on something in her hands: a letter.
When I arrived at the landing, I held out my hand for the letter. Once I had it, I broke the seal, unfolded it, and, walking alongside Madame Gondi and her lamp, began to read.
The handwriting was masculine but not Zuniga’s. It belonged to the Duke of Alba, that dastardly persecutor of Huguenots, and it was dated the thirteenth of August.
I had reached my antechamber by the time I finished reading Alba’s letter; I sank into the chair at my desk and glanced up as Madame Gondi set the lamp down beside me.
