Edouard and I met with Marshal Tavannes, whom we had entrusted with the news of the coming assassination, as well as Anna d’Este, her husband, and her son the Duke of Guise. Anna’s husband, the Duke of Nemours, reported that the arquebusier, Maurevert, had already arrived on the rue de Bethizy property and was busily determining which location gave him best access the street.
The conspirators’ expressions displayed grim exhilaration and the occasional pang of conscience. I felt nothing, only the sense that everything around me-the conversation, the faces, the music and voices of the gay revelers in the distant ballroom-was unreal.
That night I lay abed in a pool of sweat and struggled to relax my limbs, my quickened breath, my curiously throbbing heart. A sickness settled over me, the same burning chill I had often experienced during pregnancy just before a bout of retching. This time, I could not expel what troubled me; this time, I was not giving birth to life.
I did not dream because I did not sleep. I did not sleep because I feared the dreams that had dogged me for so long. I stared up into the darkness, praying that the stifling air above me would not suddenly transform itself into blood and spill down on me like mortal rain, drowning me in my bed.
I wish now that it had.
Forty-three
Friday, August twenty-second-the day the government resumed its business-dawned the hottest of them all. There had been no rain since the previous Sunday; in the streets, carriage wheels and horses’ hooves kicked up clouds of dust. The air was heavy with unspent moisture: I traded my soggy nightgown for a chemise and petticoats that immediately clung to my shining, damp skin.
Edouard and I had agreed that the best course of action on that fateful day was to make as many public appearances as possible, so that it was clear we royals were consumed by far happier things than an assassination. I went to early Mass at the nearby cathedral of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois with Anjou and Margot-who was exhausted but remarkably cheerful-as well as all the Catholic members of the wedding party.
Edouard and I returned for the Privy Council meeting scheduled for nine o’clock; we arrived early, and the Duke of Anjou took the King’s place at the head of the long oval table. I sat beside him. I had already warned His Majesty that Coligny would be present and would again press Charles to support his Netherlands war, more vehemently now that he realized he was in danger of losing the King’s tacit blessing. As a result, Charles decided to linger cowardly in his bed that morning and left the running of the meeting to his brother.
Coligny arrived at the stroke of nine, just after the white-haired Duke of Montpensier, and before the dashing young Gonzaga, the Duke of Nevers, and the aging soldier Marshal Cosse. Last to enter was the bald, near- toothless Marshal Tavannes, whose years of service had earned him the right to keep royals waiting.
I studied Coligny, knowing this would be the last time I should see him. His once sun-browned skin had faded after his prolonged absence from the battlefield, and he had gained a bit of weight on the Court’s fine fare. Despite his talent for duplicity, he had been unable to fully mask his disappointment at the King’s absence. I felt no anxiety at the sight of him, only a curious relief at the knowledge that he would be dead on the morrow. If I hated him, it was only as a mother might hate a viper that threatened her children; there was no personal animosity, only a desire to protect my own.
After giving the assembled a chance to share complaints about the abysmal heat, the Duke of Anjou called the meeting to order. Coligny asked to present his argument for war in the Low Countries again. Just beyond our northern border, he claimed, fresh atrocities were being committed in Flanders. Given the location, we could deploy troops quickly there, and the victory would give us the needed momentum to move farther, into the Netherlands.
Edouard listened to his request with exquisite composure, then said, “The matter of war with Spain has already been discussed, and a vote taken. There is no need to revisit the issue. Are my fellow councillors agreed?”
We were.
Fury flickered brightly in Coligny’s eyes and was replaced by hard determination. He had prepared for this probability; his decision had already been made. The meeting continued another two hours. During that time, the Admiral sat with his fist against his chin and stared out the window as he plotted war. Upon adjournment, he left quickly, without a word.
Afterward, the Duke of Anjou and I made our way to a public lunch. The shutters had been opened and the curtains drawn in order to light the vast, high-ceilinged chamber. Dust hung in the air and glittered in shafts of harsh sunlight.
Edouard and I sat at one end of the long dining table. Guards hovered discreetly at intervals between us and the standing crowd of nobles. While Edouard and I were served the first course, an octet performed a pair of songs that spun witty tales of love peppered with misunderstandings, double entendres, and jokes, all of which led to happy endings. The crowd applauded them enthusiastically.
As the music died, cathedral bells throughout the city marked the time: eleven in the morning, the hour of Coligny’s death. In the Guises’ chateau on the rue de Bethizy, Maurevert was lifting his arquebus and taking careful aim.
I looked to my son. As we directed our attention to our bowls, Edouard seemed lighthearted and at ease. If Lorenzo, the wise-eyed boy from the mural on the Medici chapel walls, could have seen us, I wondered, would he have approved?
We began our meal in silence. I was keenly aware of every sight, sound, touch: of the clang of my spoon against the porcelain bowl, of its handle, quickly heated in my hand, of the ripples in the broth when the edge of the spoon broke its surface. Edouard’s black eyes were very bright, his hands steady.
“I should like to take Henri to the chateau at Blois,” I said languidly. “It would be much cooler there than in the city. I hope to go as soon as business allows.”
“An excellent idea,” my son replied. “I would enjoy taking Henri on the hunt.”
We soon finished the first course. Given the weather, I had little appetite and sent it back to the kitchen half- eaten. The second course-one of my favorites, eels in red wine-was delivered piping hot, and the steam from it prompted me to draw back in my chair and wave my fan. As it cooled, Edouard and I exchanged a few more inanities.
How could Ruggieri have been such a monster? How could he ever have suggested that I harm my beloved child?
A plate of cold pickled beef had just been set before me when I saw the Duke of Anjou glance up sharply; I followed his gaze.
Marshal Tavannes was moving urgently through the crowd of waiting nobles. Of all those assembled, he alone did not smile, but was discreet enough to contain his shock so as to avoid catching the attention of those around him. I caught sight of his eyes-guarded, intense-and I knew.
I forced myself to smile as he neared. He could not bring himself to respond in kind but bowed and asked permission to approach.
He came to me first and leaned down to speak in my ear, so quietly that even Edouard could not hear him.
Admiral Coligny had been shot in the arm. His men-some of them guards Edouard had given him upon his arrival at Court-had carried him to the safety of his lodgings at the Hotel de Bethizy.
The smile was still on my lips, frozen there by shock. “Is the wound fatal?” I whispered to Tavannes.
“They think not,
“Who else knows?”
“The Admiral sent two of his captains to inform the King immediately. I understand that Henri of Navarre is speaking to the King this very moment.”
Tavannes said more, surely, but his words were muffled by an insistent, growing drumming in my ears, like that made by the hooves of approaching horses. I put a hand upon my son’s forearm.
