The Hostage Queen (20 page)

Strategies were set in place to protect their own people, each to wear a white sash upon their right arm to identify them. Arms were issued to the Catholic nobles, and armed guards made available to protect their properties. Every conceivable angle was considered. Nevers, Tavannes, and the rest would deal with Rochefoucauld and the other Huguenot leaders. The signal for the start of the attack would be the bell of the Palais de Justice when it tolled three in the morning.

Catherine was well satisfied. It had been a good night’s work.

Any reservations Charles experienced in the following two days were easily dealt with. From being an unwilling participant he became zealous in their cause, the blood lust upon him. He wanted his beloved wife and his old Huguenot nurse protected, as well as the surgeon Ambroise Paré.

Catherine made no objection. Once taken into the Louvre in her keeping, they would not be at liberty to offer any warning to others. There would be no further difficulties with the King, so long as she kept him closely watched.

And there could be no delay. Speed was of the essence.

Two nights later on Saint Bartholomew’s Eve, the 23 August, Margot went to her mother’s coucher as usual. There seemed to be more persons present than she expected, both Huguenot and Catholic, whispering together in their separate groups. No one spoke to her, but then she did not expect them to. She knew the Protestants to be suspicious of her because she had insisted on remaining a devout Catholic. Margot was also distrusted by the Catholics because of her marriage to the King of Navarre, a Huguenot. Not for a moment did it occur to her that the Queen Mother’s bedchamber might actually be a hive of conspiracy.

Margot sat on a coffer and chatted with her sister. ‘Why do you look so sad?’

‘No reason,’ Claude protested. ‘You are imagining it.’

The Queen Mother was talking to her ladies when she seemed suddenly to notice her. ‘Daughter, what are you doing here? Go at once to your bed.’

Margot felt an immediate urge to rebel, to say that she was a married lady now and could surely retire when she wished, but she did not possess the courage to pick a quarrel with her mother. She rose, made a curtsey and turned to take her leave.

Claude at once burst into floods of tears and, seizing her by the hand, prevented her from leaving. ‘Mon Dieu, my sister, for the love of God, do not stir out of this chamber!’

Margot was greatly alarmed. ‘Why? What is it? What’s wrong?’

The Queen Mother clicked her tongue in annoyance and called Claude over to her. Margot watched in puzzled silence as the pair exchanged heated words, but she caught only a few scraps of what was being said.

‘There is no reason for her to be sacrificed,’ Claude cried.

‘She will not be!’ Catherine spat the words from under her breath.

‘But if any discovery should be made, she would be the first victim of their revenge.’

‘If it please God, she will not suffer any hurt. It is necessary she should go to bed as normal, to prevent any suspicion that might arise from her staying.’ Turning
 
upon Margot, the Queen Mother again ordered her to bed.

Claude tried to smile, the tears still standing proud in her eyes. ‘Goodnight, dear sister.’

‘Goodnight,’ Margot softly replied, mystified by their behaviour, and departed the Queen’s bedchamber deeply troubled. She’d already been sacrificed in this marriage; what more were they asking of her? In what way was she a victim? And from what further hurt must she be protected? Something was clearly afoot, but what?

The moment she reached her closet, Margot threw herself upon her knees and prayed to God to take her into His protection and save her, although from whom or what, she had no idea.

By the time she had changed into her nightgown and went to her bed, she found Navarre already there, surrounded by thirty or forty of his comrades, all Huguenots.

‘What is this? My bedchamber has been invaded by strangers?’

Nobody answered. But then no one was listening. Margot almost stamped her foot with annoyance but instinct warned her such an action would only make her look foolish, as no one was paying her the least attention. She climbed disconsolately into bed beside Navarre, anxiously wondering what was troubling them all, and if they would ever leave. It wasn’t that she was particularly anxious to make love with her new husband, although the act was never without its pleasure, but she was weary and ready for sleep.

There was little chance of that as the men talked throughout the night, much of it about the attack upon the Admiral. They resolved to demand justice of the King, to call for the Duke of Guise to be arrested. And if the King refused to comply then they would take him themselves, with their own swords at his throat.

Margot listened to all of this with increasing dismay. She kept well snuggled down beneath the sheets, her eyes tight shut, hoping they would not realize that she listened, for they all knew Guise had been her lover. Sleep was quite impossible, however, and Margot could not get the thought of her sister’s distress out of her mind. What was it exactly that was troubling her? Why were Claude and her mother arguing?

The instant Margot left her mother’s coucher, even as Huguenots and Catholics still mingled together in the same room, Guise was summoned and Catherine quietly issued her final orders. Everything was now in place, and so secretly had they made their plans, with only a handful of trusted people, that no suspicion had leaked out.

Charles ran to his chamber in no fit state to object, once more in the thrall of his mother. He was convinced the Huguenots intended to destroy both the Catholic religion and himself, but deeply regretted that he had not the power to save Téligny or La Rochefoucauld. He made a feeble attempt to save the latter when he came to bid the King goodnight.

‘Do not go, Foucauld,’ he begged. ‘Stay here and sleep with my valets de chambre.’

La Rochefoucauld, young and hot blooded, and with a pre-arranged assignation with a court beauty, laughingly told the King that he had a better offer and begged to be released. He drew the King’s bed curtains and departed.

Charles found no peace that night. He barely closed his eyes, and when in the early hours his mother came to him, as she had promised, he was waiting for her fully dressed.

The Queen Mother, Anjou, and the King stood together in a window embrasure, the shutters open to let in the cool of the night as they waited for the toll of the bell, the signal for the killing to begin. It was to come in the hour before daybreak with the bell of the Palais de Justice, but Charles’s courage was fast slipping away.

‘We cannot do this terrible thing. Have we all run mad?’ he cried. ‘God will punish us.’ He was in a state of indescribable fear, but panic was spreading amongst all three conspirators.

The Louvre seemed to glow with a strange light, cast upon it by royal messengers carrying flaming torches as they moved about their secret business in the streets below. Catherine could hear raised voices as people demanded to know why extra guards had been placed there, and what was causing this stir of unrest. She heard shouts and the exchange of blows, the numbers gathering in front of the Palace a warning that if the enterprise was to succeed, it could not long be delayed.

Catherine had by now convinced herself that all her exaggerated claims of Huguenot conspiracy were in fact true. She was more than ready to twist the facts in order to devise a policy to suit herself. She heard only what she wished to hear, believed what she wished to believe, and would always have her own way in the end.

In any case, they had come too far to back down now. How many times before had they tried and failed to rid themselves of Coligny and cripple this new religion he so zealously guarded? Too many to count, it seemed, and always he had escaped them. This was surely her last chance to honour that promise made so many years ago at Bayonne.

But Catherine very much feared the King might retract his agreement and spare his dear friend at the last moment. He could easily call off the plan, and she dare not contemplate the consequences of such an action. The entire royal family would be slaughtered in their beds once word spread of what they had been about this night. She searched for a way forward, for the right words to persuade him, and while she hesitated, a single pistol shot rang out. They all three started as if they themselves had been shot. Catherine was the first to recover.

‘There, it is too late,’ she cried. ‘They are coming for us already.’

The King fell to his knees in a state of abject terror, his hands clasped tightly in prayer.

‘We cannot wait for daybreak,’ she announced, and ordered Anjou to send word that the signal was to be changed. They would act when the tocsin of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, the church opposite the Louvre, sounded, as that would be the first to ring. As her favourite son hurried to do her bidding, Catherine thought she might even have it moved forward an hour.

In another bedchamber in the Rue de Béthisy, the old Admiral lay quietly dozing, making a slow but steady recovery. Sleep wasn’t easy because of the pain and discomfort in his arm and hand. The surgeon Ambroise Paré had earlier tended to his wounds and remained by his side, as did Téligny, Carnaton, and Coligny’s faithful old servant, Nicolas Muss.

Sometime in the early hours he heard the sound of the tocsin of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, followed by horses’ hooves in the street, but he was untroubled, accustomed as he was to these sounds. Outside his door stood a guard posted there by the King, so he felt no alarm when he first heard the sound of raised voices, one insisting they needed a word with the Admiral, that he bore an urgent message from the King.

‘Let the fellow in,’ the Admiral ordered with weary resignation, and his maître d’hôtel faithfully obeyed. Going downstairs, the unsuspecting servant opened the door only to be stabbed through the heart. Men at once flooded into the courtyard, killing one of Coligny’s own Swiss guards. The other managed to escape and rushed up the stairs, slamming shut doors and barricading each as best he could as he passed through.

Startled by the sudden fracas Coligny struggled to sit up, realizing in an instant that the moment he had long dreaded had finally arrived. Showing no sign of fear he got out of bed and pulled on his robe de chambre before turning to his chaplain. ‘Let us pray together, Monsieur Merlin. I fear we may have need of His strength this night.’

As the two men knelt to pray, they heard the pounding of fists on the door below. One of his colleagues, Cornaton, cried, ‘They are knocking down the inner door.’

Paré said, ‘God summons us to His holy rest. The house is forced, and we have no means of resistance.’

Téligny turned in a panic to the Admiral. ‘Go quickly, Father-in-law. If you hurry, you can make an escape through the window and over the rooftops.’

But Coligny remained on his knees. ‘For a long while now I have been preparing for death. You, my friends, if you still can, must save yourselves, for you cannot save me. I do not wish those who hold you dear to be able to reproach me with your death. I commend my soul to God’s Mercy.’

‘If you stay, Father, then so shall I. I would not desert you now.’

Coligny shook his head. ‘No, save yourself, boy. Think of my daughter, think of Louise. Is it not enough that she loses her father this night? Let her not lose a husband as well. Go now; there is not a moment to lose.’

Even as he spoke they all heard the door below give way, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps on the stair.

The men clambered quickly out through the window, Téligny’s thoughts on his beloved wife. Only his pastor, the surgeon Paré, and Nicolas Muss, Coligny’s old servant, remained by his side, refusing to leave. There was a loud shout as the door to the outer chamber was breached. The Swiss guard fought valiantly, but, greatly outnumbered, fell dead before the onslaught.

The bedroom door was flung open and the assassins barged in: Bême, Tosinghi, and others. They were startled by the sight of the white-haired old Admiral on his knees praying with a quiet dignity, his pastor beside him, and paused, suddenly indecisive.