“Please,” I said, “invite the Duke of Anjou to visit me at once, in my chambers. Tell him it is a matter of pressing urgency.”
When she had left, I laid my head wearily upon the desk, my cheek resting against the cool wood. The lamp flickered, casting my leaping shadow against the far wall; I thought suddenly of my aunt at her desk, writing letters late into the night despite her injured wrist, on the day we had fled Florence.
I thought of the stableboy’s eyes, wide with shock and mute reproach, and hardened.
The next morning, a Saturday, the betrothal ceremony took place in the Louvre’s great ballroom, officiated by the groom’s uncle, the Cardinal de Bourbon. In full view of some three hundred guests, Navarre and Margot prepared to sign the thick marriage contract.
As Margot hovered over the final page of the contract, quill in hand, she let go a wrenching sob, then threw down the quill and covered her face with her hands. I moved forward and put my arms about her, then smiled up at the Cardinal.
“Nerves,” I said to him, then whispered in Margot’s ear: “Do not think-simply do it. Now.”
I placed the quill in her fingers and closed my hand over hers. Her shoulders shook with repressed tears, but she lowered her hand and scrawled her signature.
Navarre kept his pleasant, dignified gaze focused on the Cardinal, politely ignoring the incident. Like the reluctant bride, I could not bear to look at him: At the same time, I reminded myself I had no real evidence that he was abetting the Admiral and his war. If I called off the wedding, I would quash any real hope for lasting peace, and signal my intent to act against Coligny.
Instead, I wrapped my arm around Margot and stood beside her as the Cardinal made the sign of the cross over the couple and intoned a blessing. When it was done, I kissed my daughter, then Henri, and welcomed him into the family.
“You are my son now,” I told him.
During the reception afterward, I caught the arm of the Duchess of Nemours, an old friend. “Will you come to see me tonight, in my cabinet?” I whispered into her ear.
She bowed graciously in assent. She had spent her entire adulthood at the French Court and was known for her scrupulous discretion-a quality on which I planned to rely heavily.
Night found us alone in my cabinet, with the door closed and barred, despite the stifling heat; I had not invited Edouard, for if the conversation went awry, I did not want him implicated.
The Duchess sat smiling placidly across the desk from me, fanning herself. She was forty-one years old, soft and plump, a woman who possessed no natural beauty and therefore appeared to change little as she aged. Her eyes were large and her nose and lips small; folds gathered easily beneath her receding chin, a gift from her grandmother, Lucrezia Borgia. Her eyebrows were so heavily plucked as to be invisible.
She had been born Anna d’Este and raised in her native Ferrara until she was married at the age of sixteen to Francois, Duke of Guise. She quickly mastered the subtleties of courtly life and proved an able helpmeet to her ambitious husband. When Francois was assassinated by Coligny’s spy, the Duchess did not retire quietly into widowhood. Seething with outrage, she demanded that Coligny be prosecuted for the murder and brought so many petitions before the King that an exasperated Charles declared the Admiral innocent and forbade her to bring up the matter again. But like her son Henri of Guise, who had inherited the title of Duke from his late father, she continued to despise Coligny and to denounce him vehemently whenever she could. Six years ago, she had married Jacques de Savoie, the Duke of Nemours, a staunch Catholic who had fought bravely against the Huguenots.
“Anna,” I said, speaking to her in Tuscan to indicate the intimate, delicate nature of our conversation, “I know that it must be difficult for you to smile so graciously in the company of Huguenots. On behalf of the King, I thank you for your civility in Admiral Coligny’s presence.”
“He is no less a murderer, Your Majesty; today I felt as though I had fallen into a nest of vipers.” She said this softly and with complete composure, as if we were discussing the most mundane of subjects. “I can only pray that His Majesty and France suffer no harm as a result of your association with him.”
“This is precisely what I wish to speak to you about,” I said, “for I have come to realize that the Admiral does indeed wish His Majesty harm.”
Her composure did not waver. “I am not surprised to hear this.”
“Then perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that Admiral Coligny has violated the King’s order forbidding the deployment of troops to the Netherlands.”
She snapped her fan shut. “The Admiral boasts to everyone that he is leaving for the Netherlands as soon as the wedding celebrations end, and that he will be taking many troops with him. Troops who are here in Paris, armed for war. I fear, Your Majesty, for the safety of the King.”
“As do I.” I drew in a long breath, then said, “His Majesty will no longer protect the Admiral from the justice that is due him.” I leaned back in my chair and studied her intently.
She was still as a portrait for several seconds before she finally glanced down at her hands, one of which held the fan. When she looked up again, her eyes held tears. “I have waited many years. I made a vow to my dead husband’s soul that I would avenge him.”
“It must happen on the twenty-second,” I said, “the day after the celebrations end. There will be a Council meeting that morning, which Admiral Coligny will certainly attend.” I paused. “It must be done in such a way that the King and the royal family are not implicated.”
“Of course,” she answered softly. “That would be disastrous for the Crown.”
With that, she indicated that the House of Guise would take full blame for the assassination. It would be seen as the result of a blood feud, an isolated incident for which the King could not be blamed.
“I will see you and your family protected from any backlash, though your son would do well to quit the city when it happens. I will send for you tomorrow morning to discuss the details. Tonight, speak to no one save your son; you and he must consider how our aim might be skillfully accomplished.”
I dismissed her and went out to my antechamber to find Madame Gondi.
“Will you please invite the Duke of Anjou to visit me in my cabinet?” I asked her.
When Madame had left, I returned to the tiny, airless room and sat at my desk, leaving the door open behind me. I stared down at the backs of my hands and marveled at their steadiness. Unlike Anna d’Este, I shed no tears.
The night brought no breezes, only a suffocating dampness that settled over me as I lay on my bed, the sheets kicked away. When the darkness finally eased, I rose and directed Madame Gondi to invite Anna d’Este and her son the Duke of Guise to visit me as soon as possible that day.
Wedding preparations followed. I visited Margot’s apartments with Edouard-who had an artist’s unerring eye-to oversee the final placement of jewels on the wedding gown and its dazzling blue cloak and train. My daughter’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, though I pretended not to notice. When the last diamonds had been carefully sewn in place, Margot stood before a full-length mirror and studied herself with awe.
Unable to contain himself, Edouard jumped up from his chair. “How stunning you are! You will be the most beautiful queen in all the world!” He took both her hands and kissed her on the mouth-lingering, I thought, a bit longer than a brother ought. Margot flushed and giggled, just as she had when Henri of Guise had flirted audaciously with her.
Once the cloak was prepared, three princesses-one Guise, two Bourbons-were ushered into the room to practice holding the train, which was so long that one girl stood holding its end in Margot’s bedchamber, while two stood out in the antechamber to lift the middle and Margot herself laughingly walked out of her apartment and down the corridor before the train was taut enough to lift off the ground.
I left my daughter laughing with the three young princesses and took Edouard to my apartments, where Henri of Guise and his mother waited in my cabinet.
Our efficient conversation lasted less than a quarter hour. The Guises owned property on the rue de Bethizy-a house that Anna d’Este herself had once occupied. As chance would have it, Gaspard de Coligny had rented a hostel on the same street, only a short walk from the Louvre.
