The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (66 page)

“Let me relay a message then, to the captain of the guards,” the halberdier said, “for your own safety, Madame.”

His manner was unctuous, his gaze insincere. If I trusted him, Navarre would die. I took a step to my right, and he matched it, polite but determined.

“Get me through!” I demanded of my freckled young guard.

He put a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

A sound penetrated the palace walls, causing the men to freeze: the low, dolorous toll of Saint-Germain’s bell. It rang once, twice . . .

On a nearby Paris street, the Duke of Guise and his men were breaking down the doors of the Hôtel de Béthizy.

In my mind, Ruggieri whispered,
It may already be too late
.

On the third chime, I propelled myself past the guards; my young Scot came to himself and followed. The others dared not desert their posts; we ignored their muted calls and dashed into the gallery.

It was a long, arduous run, past paintings, statues, dazzling murals framed by Cellini’s gilded molding. To our right, tall windows looked onto the paved courtyard, where Swiss halberdiers and crossbowmen waited beneath a great marble statue of the god Vulcan reclining on his anvil, his freshly forged spear lifted heavenward. The raised windows admitted a sultry breeze, which stirred the sconce flames, casting looming shadows on the walls. My side pained me; my breathing grew ragged, but I dared not slow. As we neared the southwestern wing, I heard shouting: The attack had already begun.

The gallery ended abruptly at a corridor that also served as a staircase landing. As I passed, two men in nightshirts hurtled screaming down the steps from the floor above.

Aidez-nous!
“Help us!”

They almost collided with my young Scot, who drew his sword and bellowed, “Make way for the Queen!”

The wild-eyed victims seemed not to hear him, or to see me at all; they fled shrieking down the stairs that led out of the palace to the courtyard.

Ignoring the frantic footfall behind us as others fled down the stairs, we continued on, and made our way into the hallways of the new wing. Soon we were at the entrance to Navarre’s antechamber. Across its open threshold, a naked man lay on his side—pale-haired, with the handsome, sculpted muscles of youth and a bloody gash at the juncture of his neck and shoulder; dark rivulets coursed across his hairless chest and ribs onto the marble floor. From beyond him, in the antechamber, came the shouts and groans of the battlefield.

“Madame la Reine!”
my young Scot ordered. “Put your hands upon my hips, and cling to me! Do not lift your head!”

I obeyed without a blush, pressing myself against his sweat-soaked back. We took two staggering steps forward into the chamber, dark save for lamplight coming from the open door of the bedchamber beyond. I glimpsed movement in the dimness, the flailing of limbs, the whistling sweep of swords, the lurching of torsos, all accompanied by grunts, screams, curses. The room had becoming a writhing mass of bodies, but I did not try to interpret them. I ducked my head and held fast to the thick leather belt encircling my savior’s narrow hips. The muscles in his back bunched as he hefted his weapon; I winced as it crashed against another’s sword.

Death to the Huguenots!
a man cried out, and was answered hoarsely:

Death to Catholic assassins!

“Navarre!” I cried, my words swallowed by the young Scot’s flesh. “Navarre, it is Catherine!”

“We come in peace!” my Scot bellowed, as he struck out, again and again. “Make way for the Queen!”

A horrid gurgling came from in front of us; my man’s muscles suddenly relaxed as he lowered his sword and we advanced two steps. On the second, I nearly stumbled over a body and was forced to let go of the leather belt for an instant in order to lift my tangled skirts and hop clear.

Everywhere around us, innocents screamed for help. The Scot collided with one of his own and spoke frantically in Gaelic; I made out the word
Navarre
. The leather belt pulled me along as he turned toward the door to the bedchamber. I stumbled again over a sprawling limb and lost my grip. My man quickly turned to offer me his hand.

As he did, I glimpsed up. Limned by the window, a man’s black form
stood; a tiny flame, smaller than that of a lamp, floated in front of his shoulder. I caught the smell of burning match cord just as my Scot cried out.

A deafening boom followed, accompanied by the tang of gunpowder. My guardian fell backward onto me, knocking me to my knees. I struggled from underneath his limp weight; in the dimness, I made out his open eyes and reached for his chest. My fingers fumbled, searching for the rise and fall of breath, for a beat, and found neither; they slipped into a warm, hot chasm near his heart and recoiled instantly.

I pushed myself up just as the arquebusier was reloading his weapon and staggered into the bedchamber. It was brighter there, given the bedside lamp, but no less chaotic: a dozen bodies—of Huguenots, naked or in thin nightshirts, of Swiss soldiers, of Scottish royal guards—sprawled on the floor, while the survivors fought on.

On the far side of the bed, the captain of the guards, his sword wielded in battle against a bald, cursing Huguenot, caught sight of me.

“
Madame la Reine!
My God!”

He dared not disengage to rush to me but returned his attention to his combatant. Nearby, at the foot of the bed—five fighting men away—stood Navarre.

He was still in his white undershirt and black leggings, as though he had not dared to undress completely. His damp shirt clung to his chest and back, his hair to his scalp. He was grimacing, his eyes ablaze, his face gleaming with perspiration as he wielded his sword against that of an equally fierce Swiss soldier. At the captain’s cry, he glanced up quickly at me, and his face went slack with shock.

I ducked my head at the whizzing blades. “Navarre!” I scrabbled past another pair of fighting men, and another. I held my hand out to him, not knowing whether he would grasp it or cut it off. As I did, a figure stepped into my path.

It was the white-haired giant of a Huguenot who had threatened me two nights before, at my public supper; he gripped a short sword at the level of his waist. He leered down at me, baring his great yellow teeth, and drew it back, the better to plunge it forward and run me through. I staggered backward; my foot caught on a prone body, and I went down, arms flailing.

The grinning giant bent over me, then just as suddenly toppled sideways, encouraged by the flat of a sword against his skull. Navarre appeared beside me, his eyes wild with rage, confusion, and despair. I looked on him with infinite hope: He had not killed me.

“Catherine!” His voice was barely audible over the roar.

“I’ve come to help! Follow me to safety,” I shouted, but he shook his head, unable to hear, and gave me his hand.

As he pulled me to my feet, I glanced over the slope of his shoulder to see a white equal-armed cross looming; as the Swiss swordsman lunged toward him, I cried out. Navarre turned swiftly to him and reared backward from the waist in an effort to avoid the oncoming blade. He failed; the tip split his brow with a thud and he dropped to the floor.

I fell to my knees beside him as his eyelids fluttered.

“Help us,”
he whispered and fell still.

Bright blood welled up from his forehead and spilled onto the carpet. Gasping, I unfastened my dressing gown, gathered up what I could of the hem, and pressed it hard against the wound. Above us, the Swiss soldier bent his elbow and pulled his weapon back, ready to deliver the final blow.

I crawled atop Navarre and lay my body atop his.

“Kill him,” I shouted, “and you kill the Queen!”

Beneath me, Navarre stirred and groaned. The stunned soldier lowered his weapon and stepped back. He, too, fell suddenly away, and I looked up to see the young Prince of Condé, his features slack, his eyes very wide. At the sight of Navarre bloodied, he let go a short cry, then pulled off his nightshirt and flung it at me. I pulled my sodden dressing gown away; the wound was still bleeding, and the victim’s brow swelling, but the skull had not been split. I tied the shirt around Navarre’s head and looked up at Condé, who leaned his ear toward me.

“Help me get him to safety!” I cried.

Condé did not hesitate. He pulled me up, and together we dragged Henri to his feet. Navarre was dazed, unsteady, but he understood enough to wrap his arms about my shoulder and stagger with me behind Condé, who raised his sword and slashed his way past the Swiss and Scots—some of whom drew back, chastened and confused, at the sight of me.

“Why?” Henri sobbed as we lurched into the antechamber, where the fighting had abruptly stopped. A score of his comrades lay slaughtered on the marble. “Why?”

I did not answer as we headed into the corridor but addressed Condé, whose eyes were guarded but free from the rancor that I had always encountered before. “This way.” I pointed east.

We passed the staircase—quiet now—and entered the deserted gallery. A humid breeze had found the drapes and softly stirred them. Two floors below us, out in the courtyard, victims cringed in Vulcan’s colossal shadow. Henri let go a wail and stopped to stare through the window, his eyes stark with horror.

More than a hundred terrified Huguenots had fled from the palace into the courtyard, only to discover the Swiss waiting with their crossbows and halberds. Mounds of bodies were heaped along the western wall; in the glare of torches, a dozen screaming men huddled together as the crossbowmen forced them, step by step, back over the blood-slicked cobblestones onto the waiting blades of the halberdiers. I pressed a fist to my lips, to stifle bitter nausea and grief. I had ordered this because I feared war, because I had not wanted men to die.

Condé watched darkly, too stricken for words.

“Why?” Henri moaned again; he turned to me. “Why do you do this to us?”

“We must not stop here like this,” I said. “If we do, they will find us and kill both of you. Come.”

I stole a lamp from its sconce and guided them to a small door at the midpoint at the gallery, which hid a narrow, spiraling staircase—an escape route known only to the royal family. The stale air inside was wilting, and Navarre swaying, but we managed to make our way down three flights to the blessedly cool cellars. I led them past great, ancient wine barrels to a prison cell and took the rusted key hanging from the wall to open it. Condé helped his cousin to one of the hanging planks that served as a bed; Henri sat down and leaned heavily against the earthen wall while I lingered outside—then closed the bars and locked them. Both men started as the metal clanged shut.

Condé flared. “What do you mean to do with us? A public execution?”

“I mean to keep you here,” I said, “until I can determine my next action. It is the one place you will be safe. Before God, I will not harm you.”

Henri pulled the blood-soaked undershirt from his head and stared down at it, disbelieving. “Why do you kill our fellows?” His tone was mournful, dazed.

“Because you meant to kill
us
,” I answered fiercely. “Because your army is marching on Paris even now. Because you meant to kill the Dauphin, and me, and steal my son’s throne.”

He and Condé stared at me as if I had suddenly stripped off my nightgown.

“You’re mad,” Condé whispered. “There is no army.”

Navarre put a hand gingerly to his swelling brow and squinted as though the feeble light of the lamp pained him. “Whose lies are these?”

“I have your letter to your commander in the field,” I said, “revealing the plot to make war on Paris and force Charles’s abdication.”

“You lie!” Condé said. “You lie to make war on us! Pardaillan, Rochefoucauld, all my gentlemen—you have killed them for a lie!” He began suddenly, bitterly, to weep into his hands. Navarre put a hand upon his shoulder and turned to me.

“Bring this letter to me,” he said, “and I will show you a forgery. We have committed no crime, save to tolerate Coligny’s boorishness on the matter of the Spanish Netherlands.
Madame la Reine
, for the love of God you must stop this. All my men”—his voice broke—“fifty of them came from their own quarters to sleep upon my floor, because they feared for me after the attempt on the Admiral’s life. And now they are dead . . .” He let go a gulping sob, and lowered his face.

“What of your army?” I demanded. “Edouard’s scouts say that it is on its way and will encamp outside our walls tonight.”

“There is no army!” Condé cried out. “Anjou and his scouts lie! Madame, your younger son is as crazy as his brother—but more dangerously so!”

“Don’t insult him!” I cried, but my anger was tinged with growing confusion. I gripped the bars separating us. “You came here armed for war. You came here ready to fight.”

Henri lifted his face, so contorted by grief that he could not open his eyes to look on me. “We came here afraid for our lives,” he said and bowed his head.

Muted by stone and earth, Saint-Germain’s bells marked the fourth hour after midnight. Up in the heavens, the star Algol moved opposite Mars: Coligny and some two hundred Huguenots who had patrolled the area around the Hôtel de Béthizy were dead. My grip on the bars loosened; my palms slid against the cool metal as the weight of my actions forced me to my knees. I was the author of this—I, and my fierce love for my misbegotten sons.