The Duke of Guise’s eyes burned with a cold, bitter light as he said, “Coligny walks past our property every morning when he goes to meet with the King, and returns every afternoon the same way.”
“There is a window,” Anna added, “from which a shot could be fired.”
“And the shooter?” I asked.
“Maurevert,” the Duke replied.
“I know him,” Edouard said. “During the war, he infiltrated the Huguenots”-he turned to explain to me-“in order to assassinate Coligny. He was not able to reach the Admiral, so instead he shot one of his closest comrades, a man named de Mouy. De Mouy had been Maurevert’s tutor at one point; they had known each other for many years, but Maurevert pulled the trigger without a second thought.”
“Cold-blooded,” I said, nodding. “He will be perfect. There remains the matter of timing: This must not mar the wedding celebrations, which end on the twenty-first. I will arrange a Council meeting the next morning requiring Coligny’s attendance. I will send a messenger to you with the time. Tell Monsieur Maurevert to be ready, for we may not have another opportunity.”
“Very good,” young Guise replied. “Before it is done, however, I would humbly request one thing of His Majesty…”
“You will have royal protection,” I said. “Secretly, of course. You would be well advised to quit Paris immediately afterward, if not sooner.”
When the Duke and his mother had been escorted out, Edouard signaled for us to remain behind.
“The situation in Paris has grown volatile,” he said. “I have ordered the deployment of a few troops to keep the peace, but I believe our good friends the Guises are fomenting trouble. Most of the priests in the city are denouncing the Huguenots and stirring up the Catholics against them. Let us hope that the wedding distracts the people from their hatred.”
I unfurled my fan and fluttered it rapidly; the room felt as close as an oven. “It will,” I said shortly. “It must.”
At dusk, I accompanied Margot to Cardinal de Bourbon’s palace, where she was to spend the night. As our carriage rolled over the ancient, creaking bridge to the Ile-de-la-Cite, Margot looked behind us at the Louvre palace and burst into tears.
“My darling,” I said kindly, “you will sleep at home tomorrow night. Very little will change.”
“Except that I will be the wife of a Huguenot,” she said, “and if there is another war… Neither my husband nor my family will trust me.”
She was right, of course, and the realization broke my heart. I put my arm around her and smoothed the tears from her cheeks.
“Sweet girl,” I said and kissed her. “Sweet girl, there will never be another war, thanks to you.” I paused to lighten my tone. “Did you know that the day I married your father, I despised him?”
She stopped crying long enough to frown at me. “Now you are teasing me,
“But it is true. I was in love with my cousin, Ippolito.” I smiled, remembering. “He was so tall, so handsome- older than your father and far more sophisticated. And he said that he loved me.”
Margot dabbed at her nose with her kerchief. “Why didn’t you marry him?”
I sighed. “Because my uncle Pope Clement had different plans. He delivered me to France in exchange for prestige and political backing. And so I married your father. He was only fourteen, shy and awkward, and he resented me, a stranger from a foreign land. We had not yet learned how to love each other.
“I am glad now that I never married Ippolito. He was brash, foolish… and a liar. He didn’t really love me; he meant only to use me as a pawn in his political schemes.”
Margot was listening, wide-eyed. “How awful,
I nodded. “It was terrible. You must understand, Margot, that there are men willing to use you only to further their aims. Luckily, Henri of Navarre is not such a man. Things are not always what they seem; and although you might not appreciate Henri now, in time, you will come to love him if you open your heart.”
Margot leaned back against her seat, her expression thoughtful. We were both exhausted, and the rocking of the carriage lulled us into a drowsy silence.
With feigned offhandedness, I said, “I am concerned about your brother Edouard. He and Charles despise each other so; when the King learns that his younger brother favors something, he immediately opposes it. Edouard has often confessed to me that he wished he had a useful spy, one to whom the King opened his heart.
“You are so very close to them both, my daughter; does Edouard ever speak of such things to you?”
Margot’s cheeks flamed; she turned and looked out the window with eyes so full of guilt that I closed my own, unwilling to see more.
She had been a gift to me, a child not bought by blood. A child who, I hoped, had been heaven-sent, to undo the evil wrought by the purchase of her brothers’ lives.
We rode the rest of the way in silence.
Forty-two
On Monday I woke to a joyous cascade of church bells exhorting the citizens of Paris to rise and ready themselves for this most festive day. I went to the open window in the hope of a hint of morning coolness. But the sky was already bleached by a harsh, fast-rising sun. The Louvre’s courtyard was filled with grooms fastening bright carapaces to the horses that would pull the royal carriages; the palace itself was alive with voices and footfall.
The ritual of dressing soon began: My nightgown was pulled over my head and replaced by a chemise of sheer lawn, which was followed by two voluminous crinoline petticoats and a corset with wooden stays laced cruelly tight. I stepped into my aubergine gown and held out my arms as huge sleeves were laced to it. My hair was brushed out, then braided and wound into a thick coil at the base of my neck; the whole was covered with a French hood, its band of purple damask edged with dozens of tiny seed pearls. I was already melting by the time the corset was laced; by the time the hood was set in place, I was drenched.
After a dozen long strands of pearls were hung round my neck, and diamonds affixed to my ears, Madame Gondi pronounced me ready. I went down to the courtyard, where Edouard and Charles stood watching Navarre’s beribboned carriage roll out the gate.
My sons wore matching doublets made from pale green silk heavily embroidered with silver thread. Edouard had added a toque adorned with peacock feathers and pearls the size of raspberries. The Duke of Anjou was of good cheer, the King dismal and distracted.
We climbed into our carriage and rode over the bridge through the pressing, curious crowds, punctuated by black flocks of Huguenots; the Duke of Anjou and I leaned out the windows and waved to them while Charles sat back, sulking.
We arrived shortly at the episcopal palace next to Notre-Dame, where the Cardinal de Bourbon greeted us, already accompanied by Henri, who wore the same pale green with silver embroidery as my sons. The King of Navarre was accompanied by his mentor, Coligny, and his cousin Conde. The Admiral wore finery that matched Conde’s: a doublet of dark blue silk damask with gold velvet piping and breeches of blue satin striped with red. Coligny was giddy, one moment laughing and cuffing Navarre upon the shoulder, the next, wiping away tears. He seemed not to notice the King’s reticence, or the way Charles averted his eyes every time the Admiral glanced at him.
“I am as proud of him as I would be of my own son,” Coligny said, referring to Henri. “Proud of his bravery as a lad, prouder still of the man he has become. He is an inspiration today to all Huguenots.” He impulsively wrapped his arm around the young king’s neck and kissed the side of his face.
Navarre responded with a queasy smile and silence. He looked grand in his silver costume and ruby-encrusted crown, but nerves had bested him: He kept wiping his hands on the sides of his doublet and responding to questions or comments with monosyllables. He returned Edouard’s enthusiastic embrace mindlessly, and did not notice when
