Médicis Daughter (14 page)

At the door Mother turns, claps her hands, and says, “Get dressed.”

I scramble out of bed. Gillone hunts for a clean chemise. “Never mind,” I tell her. “Help me into what I took off last night and have done with it.”

Taking the steps two at a time, I arrive in the torchlit courtyard to find that the unseasonably warm weather has flown. The air is chill and moist. A stiff breeze off the river rattles shutters. My riding cloak is too light for such conditions but I do not have another. Climbing into the saddle, I lean over my horse’s neck and say a little prayer of thanksgiving for the warmth of its body. I look for Mother, but see neither her nor the King. I do spot Anjou beside a sleepy-eyed Mademoiselle de Rieux. He abandons her and rides toward me.

“Stay with me that I may keep you safe,” he says.

“I am frightened.”

I expect him to say something dismissive, to call me a goose. That is his way. But he merely mutters, “Accursed Protestants.”

Charles and Mother emerge, causing a stir. We move to them, arriving as the captain of the guard does. In silence we move through the courtyard gate and find a line of mounted soldiers waiting. They are not very many and I shudder at the thought of what quick work fifteen hundred heretics might make of them. When we clear the city gates a much larger party awaits, thank God. We are placed at its center. Being surrounded by a forest of pikes, their metal tips gleaming in the torchlight, ought to reassure me, but the idea that such fearsome precautions are necessary only lends credence to my rising fear. I reach out and take Anjou’s hand.

The captain of the Swiss gives a command and we begin to move.

“Do we not wait for the rest of the Court?” I ask, stunned. The party around us includes only my family and a small number of the highest-ranking gentlemen.

“We wait for no one,” Mother replies.

The pikemen quick march, but we must still restrain our horses. As we stumble along at a stultifying rate my mind races.
How dare the men who pursue us threaten the King? They are his subjects and he was chosen by God almighty to sit upon his throne above them.
Perhaps, though, I ought not to be surprised: these are heretics, with no respect for God or his Holy Church. Why, then, should I expect them to respect God’s anointed ruler?

After hours in the saddle, my nerves and ears continue to strain—alert for any sound of danger, and only briefly reassured when they perceive nothing but the marching of scores of feet and the thud of horses’ hooves upon damp ground. Dawn breaks, but we do not. My legs ache from being so long in the same position.

Finally, we halt outside of the village of Le Pin. Turning my horse in place, I can see a party of courtiers riding behind our fortress of pikemen. Their number is small. I examine faces, but I cannot spot Gillone, Henriette, or Charlotte. I wonder what has happened to the balance of our entourage. Did they remain at Meaux? Are they captured already?

My stomach growls, and as I climb down from my saddle, I am glad to hear riders ordered to secure something for us to eat. I wish to stretch my legs, but I have no desire to exit the safety of our living citadel. So I content myself with stamping my feet beside my mount. As I do, the Duc de Guise threads his way between riders to join me.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Wishing Paris were in sight on the horizon.”

“We will see it before the sun sets.”

“You do not think we will break our journey?” This possibility never occurred to me. The trip from Meaux to Paris must be in excess of fifteen leagues! While the horses might stretch to this, it is an extraordinary—nay, nearly impossible—journey in a single day with soldiers on foot.

“I know we will not.”

“But the pikemen?”

“Those who cannot keep up will be left behind.”

“We have not so many soldiers, I think, that we can spare any.”

“Perhaps not. But we certainly do not have enough to be sure of winning should we give the Protestants time to catch us.”

“Do not be an old woman, Guise.” Anjou steps around my horse. “You will alarm my sister. We do not need equal numbers to achieve a victory when stout Catholics face rabble.”

“Apologies, Your Highness,” the Duc says to me. “It was not my intention to frighten you, merely to explain our actions.” Then, turning to Anjou, he says, “I am as eager as you to fight in the next war—a war which must come, thanks to the heretic plot. We can both look forward to killing many Protestants, but I would rather begin with good odds and once His Majesty’s person is secured.” With a parting bow, the Duc makes his way back to his horse.

Anjou laughs. “I hope the Duc’s dire predictions have not ruined your appetite. There is bread and cheese.”

Bread and cheese? After nearly eight hours in the saddle …

Henri leads me to where Mother, Charles, and Marie stand. Mother is handing out our poor provisions. Chilled and hungry, I crowd in beside Charles so that I can feel the comforting warmth of his body. There is something sad about the noble house of Valois gobbling such fare in a huddled mass. Sad and frightening. Henri can be as cocky as he likes, but no one else seems sanguine about confronting Protestant troops on our road home.

Shortly after Mother urges us back into our saddles, the sun disappears.

“Are we to have no luck at all?” Charles says with disgust. “Will it rain too?”

Mother shifts in her saddle. “Your Majesty, I would say we have been very lucky. We make good time and we have not seen a single Protestant soldier.”

“Madame, you amaze me! The Protestants have us on the run whether we see them or not. It is undignified. It is maddening. They make me feel and look a fool. And I tell you, they shall pay!”

“They will pay, yes.” The menace in Mother’s voice cuts through my numb misery. “Dearly. We will pursue them even into their beds to extract satisfaction for this infamous enterprise.”

“You—” Charles’ reply is cut off by a shout.

We stop dead and the pikemen surrounding us turn to face outward. A murmured word—“Cavalry!”—rolls across the stalled party.

Anjou stands in his stirrups. “Perhaps we will not need to chase the Huguenots, Madame.”

I burst into tears.

“Control yourself!” Mother snaps.

I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle my sobs. The commander pushes his way through the pikemen to Charles.

“Your Majesty, scouts have espied Huguenot cavalry not a half mile past that large hill. They do not seem to be lying in wait but, rather, move along the same road as we in the opposite direction.”

“Looking for us,” Mother replies.

“Looking but not yet finding. Inexplicably, they do not appear to be using scouts.”

“They expect us to be at Meaux,” the Duc d’Aumale posits. “They have no reason to imagine us where we are.”

Thank God for small mercies.
But what is to be done? I am nearly choking on my own fear.

“If we were still at Meaux, we would be able to defend ourselves,” Anne de Montmorency says dourly.

“There is nothing to be gained in rearguing that decision,” Mother says. “We are here. The Huguenots are there. What now?”

“Retreat. Take a different path,” the constable urges.

“I will not be driven back like a rabbit harried by hounds!” Charles says savagely.

“Well said! Let us fight!” Anjou puts his hand on the hilt of his sword and my throat contracts.

“Not fight, but seem as if we are prepared to,” Aumale interposes. “We have the advantage of surprise. If we march on at a blistering pace, we will cross the Huguenots’ path not much after they apprehend the sound of our soldiers’ footfalls. They will have no time to count us—no time to determine their advantage—and, being caught unawares, may be unwilling to engage.”

The commander nods. “I will have my pikemen run at them. This fearsome sight alone may get us past.”

“‘May.’ I do not like ‘may.’” The constable shakes his head.

“I do not like anything about our present situation, but the King says he will not retreat, and I agree,” Mother says.

Aumale gives the constable a slightly triumphant look. “May I suggest, Your Majesties, you surround yourself with every armed gentleman and a score of mounted soldiers. Once past the Huguenot villains, such a group could ride for Paris with great speed.”

“I will leave the balance of my soldiers to impede the Protestants and harry them as they go,” the commander adds.

Mother looks from Duc to commander. “Quickly, then. Let everything be arranged.”

As the soldiers make ready, I concentrate on controlling a nearly insurmountable urge to scream. I wonder if only my lack of breath, rather than my willpower, defeats the impulse. My stomach contracts into a ball as hard as stone. Mother is too focused on Charles to offer me a word of comfort, and Anjou is too excited. But as the King’s gentlemen encircle us, comfort comes. The Duc de Guise draws his horse beside mine. Leaning toward me, he says, “You pray, Your Highness, I will fight, and we will both tell stories of this day to our grandchildren.”

Then we are in motion. Pikemen quick march up the gradual slope in front of us. I am certain from the crest we will be able to see Condé’s men. I clutch my reins so tightly that they cut my palms, wondering how many they will be. The pikemen disappear over the rise. I hold my breath. Nothing. From the top I can see nothing but the next, larger rise. Down we go into the dip between prominences, my stomach sinking as we descend, my hands still clutching. I do pray as the Duc bade me. Pray that by some miracle we will reach the top of the next hill and again see nothing—that the Protestants have turned off the road or been wiped from our path by God. I pray in vain. Reaching the next apex, our party stops abruptly though no command was given. A hundred yards from the bottom, scores of mounted men move along the road.

I spot Condé at once. As I do I hear Guise mutter, “Coligny,” as if the word tasted foul in his mouth.

Two chiefs, and surely a thousand men. A stunning sea of horses.

Looking into the faces of the nearest Protestant riders, I observe that they are astonished as well. Like us they stare, gape-mouthed. I wonder if they know precisely who we are. Have they spotted the King among our number?

A sharp command. We move down the incline. Reaching the plain below, we pause. Another command. Lines of pikemen lower their weapons to charge position, and the drums, which have been silent all this way so we might be stealthy, begin to beat. My heart keeps time with them. The pikemen pick up speed, presenting a wall of points to the enemy. Ranks of soldiers with two-handed swords and a small number of cavalry follow.

It is a moment of decision—for the Protestants. Will they take the charge? Or will they part and let us pass? I feel light-headed and fear I will fall from my horse and be trampled in whatever comes.

When the wall of pike points is almost upon the first line of enemy riders, Condé shouts. He signals with his hand and his followers turn off the road, riding right.

Anjou gives a yell of triumph. Mother throws him a look that would freeze the Seine in August.

“Gentlemen,” she barks, “do your duty to the King.” Swords are drawn.

“Children,” she continues, “once the pikemen pursue the heretics, ride as quickly as you can. Do not stop. Do not look back. And, Henri, do not engage our enemies—not even by mocking salute or shouted insult.”

Anjou pouts but makes no reply.

We are impatient to be gone, but it takes time for the last of the Protestants to leave the road. As the final riders cross onto the flattened grass, Aumale cries, “Now!” He kicks his horse. Charles plunges after him. I dig my heels into my mount. He is not at his best, but he is willing, leaping forward at my touch. Run! I think.
Run.

I love to ride, the faster the better, but there is no joy in this moment. No pleasure in the feeling of the wind rushing past or the thundering sound of my horse’s hooves. The dust of the road swells in a brown cloud as every tired horse reaches a gallop. I wonder if the Protestants have turned and will charge, but I do not allow myself to look. When we have gone perhaps half a mile, my horse slows. I cannot bear the thought of slipping behind. I apply my heels once more, viciously. The beast gives a high-pitched whinny and jumps forward, galloping full out again, out of my control. We race past the others until I am alone at the front of the party. I hear Mother shout my name and desperately try to rein in my horse, but I cannot control or direct the animal, only cling to my seat. Gradually the beast winds himself, and when he reaches a trot I am able to stop him at last. I sit exhausted and shaking when two riders reach me at the same moment: Anjou and Guise.

“Magnificent madness,” my brother crows. “I will wager not two among the Protestants ride so well.”

I feel the compliment and seek to show myself as cavalier as Anjou by tossing off my fear and grinning.

“Madness indeed,” Guise chimes in. There is no admiration in his tone.

The look on Mother’s face as she arrives suggests she shares the Duc’s lack of tolerance for reckless behavior. “If you cannot control that animal,” she says, “you will have to double up with someone.”

The glow of Anjou’s praise is wiped away. “Madame, my horse merely reacted to the fear in the air. I do not believe he will bolt again. He has not the energy even should he wish to.”

“We must have a change of mounts, Your Majesty,” the Baron de Retz interposes, “if we are to stay ahead of Condé. I will ride ahead and see what may be done.”

Having been reminded of the Protestants, Mother clicks her tongue and puts her horse in motion. “Pay what you must,” she tells the Baron.

He salutes and drives his horse forward mercilessly.

I wonder how far the animal will go. Will we find the Baron on the road beside its carcass?

Perhaps our luck has turned, for we do not come upon Retz until we reach Chelles, where he is waiting with horses. There are not enough. Only a handful of the party can be re-horsed. Those who are not fall behind one by one. I worry for them. But I worry for us as well, for we begin to lose members of the royal guard as their horses are spent. The riders who remain are more tired than their mounts. My back aches, my arms too. We do not speak. Nor do we go above a trot until—oh, blessed sight!—the walls of Paris rise before us. The sun, beginning to set, gives the city a glow as if it were afire.