Edouard—now the Duke of Anjou—grew to be tall, with his father’s long, handsome face and black eyes. He also showed a Medicean taste for elegant clothing and favored jewelry, the more glittering, the better. With Edouard, I shared all that I knew about governing, and he proved himself an apt pupil, quick to understand intrigue and the more delicate nuances of diplomacy.
Charles grew, but I cannot say that he ever became a man. His chin was weak, his eyes and forehead too large; this unfortunate combination of features was not improved by the glaring birthmark beneath his nose. The slightest exertion left him pale and gasping. He was angered by his poor health and slow-wittedness, and deeply jealous of his brother’s good looks and brains, and often flew into incoherent rages.
I thought that he would outgrow his fits of angry mania, but over time the frequency and intensity of them worsened. When His Majesty reached fourteen—the age of majority—he continued to rely on me to govern the country; I passed a law requiring him to have the approval of his Privy Council before issuing a command. In public, Charles did a fine job of parroting the speeches I wrote for him. But he made a show of rebelling against me in every other way, and on his fourteenth birthday he insisted, against my wishes and those of his physicians, on joining the hunt.
Edouard, almost thirteen, and his younger sister, Margot, rode alongside the King and me. It was late June, and the Loire Valley rolled out before us, lush and alive. Even white-haired Montmorency had accepted our invitation to the hunt, adding to the feel that it was just like old times.
It was difficult for me not to cast a thousand nervous glances in Charles’s direction, or to call for a halt when his breath grew wheezing. But the chase filled him with such excitement that he spurred his mount to go faster and burst into unrestrained laughter, his eyes wide and bright.
I had told the Master of the Hunt to make the chase short and the prey easily taken. In half an hour, the hounds trapped our target in a thicket: a wild hare, the least threatening victim for a sickly boy.
“I have it!” Charles crowed, as the Master called the hounds off. My son dismounted and began to thrust a spear savagely into the thicket. When the hare emerged, Charles skewered the creature through its stomach, pinning it to the ground. By then, Edouard and Margot and I had dismounted and approached, in order to congratulate Charles on his first kill—but the odd light in my son’s eyes silenced us.
The hare struggled to free itself, legs scrambling, yellow teeth bared. Laughing, Charles crouched down to touch the animal’s wound and the hare bit him.
He let go a terrible howl and feverishly worked his fingers into the creature’s wound, then pulled outward until the hare screamed; its skin tore, revealing glistening red muscle beneath. This excited Charles even more; he reached inside the dying animal and pulled out its entrails. With a maniacal grin, he held them up—intestines trailing from his fingers—for the world to see.
As the other riders arrived behind us, Charles lowered his face to his hands. Against a backdrop of alder leaves and evergreen, he looked up, his eyes bright, his teeth bared in a ferocious grin. From between them, the entrails—sinister red, like the birthmark above his lips—dangled.
He growled and tossed his head like a dog snapping the neck of its prey. I stepped in front of him, vainly trying to shield the others from the sight.
“My God,” Edouard whispered.
He strode up to Charles and, with a hard blow, sent the King reeling. Charles roared and choked on the gore, then spat it out.
“Damn you to Hell!” the King bellowed. “How dare you strike my person!” He lunged at Edouard.
I tried to position myself between them: Charles struck out blindly, forcing me away, while Edouard tried to grab his brother’s arms. Old Montmorency appeared in the middle of the melee; in the scuffle, Charles was knocked down and Edouard pulled off.
The King shouted incoherently. Tufts of sod flew as his fingers and teeth tore spastically at the grass, as if he meant to murder the innocent ground.
The other hunters left quietly. In the end, Charles exhausted himself and had to be carried away on a litter. He coughed so long and so hard that his kerchief grew soaked with blood.
I sat at his bedside that night, his only attendant besides Doctor Paré, who could not entirely mask his alarm at the sight of the blood. Fortunately, Charles developed no fever and, during breaks in the coughing, became his usual sour self.
“I shall die young,” he announced gloomily, “and everyone will be glad.”
“Don’t speak so!” I chided. “You know very well that, if you were ever to die, it would break my heart.”
He lifted a thin brow. “Surely you would rather Edouard be king.”
“What a horrible thing to say! I love all my children equally.”
“No, you don’t,” he said wearily. “You love Edouard best. And that is sad, Maman, because when I am dead, he will show himself as the monster he really is.”
None of my well-reasoned arguments could convince him otherwise; soon, I gave up trying altogether.
When the King reached his seventeenth year, and the Duke of Anjou his sixteenth, trouble developed in the Netherlands and Flanders, ruled by Philip of Spain. The inhabitants were Protestants—Huguenots, as we called them all—and they rebelled at the harsh repression of their religion. Philip sent hundreds of Spanish troops to quell the uprising, but they were not enough to stop what had become a war.
On a cold winter morning in Paris, the Spanish ambassador, Alava, announced that Philip was sending twenty thousand troops to the Netherlands: Would I permit them to march through France?
I would not. Our relations with French Huguenots were strained enough without putting twenty thousand Catholic soldiers in their midst. As a precaution, I hired six thousand Swiss mercenaries to guard the border. I did not for an instant think that Philip intended to invade France, but I did not trust his army.
I never expected that the Huguenots would be alarmed by the Swiss soldiers at the border, nor did I consider that they would launch a rumor: While Philip quashed the rebellion in the Low Countries, I would send the Swiss to slaughter the Huguenots.
Indeed, with the Swiss watching over our borders, I felt confident—enough to take His Majesty, whose health was still poor, to the village of Montceaux, southeast of Paris.
On a cool September day just before noon, Margot, Charles, and I were sitting on the balcony looking out at the little carp-filled pond in the courtyard below. Beyond, the forests spread out in shades of crimson, rust, and saffron.
Edouard appeared suddenly on the balcony, sweating and flushed.
“They’re massing,” he gasped, “in the very next town. We have to leave at once!”
“It’s only rumor,” I chided. There had been talk earlier that the Huguenots were planning an attack, but I judged it unfounded. “Calm down and sit with us.”
“I was off riding, Maman. I saw them myself!”
“Who?” Charles asked, but I was on my feet before Edouard finished talking.
“Where are they?” I demanded. “And how many?”
“Two villages away, to the west—hundreds of infantrymen. I’ve already sent scouts. If we’re lucky, they’ll report within the hour.”
I drew in a steadying breath and reminded myself that an army moved with a fraction of the speed as a rider on horseback.
Charles thumped his fist on his chair’s armrest. “I am the King. Will no one answer my question?”
Although Margot’s features were slack with fear, she put a soothing hand upon her brother’s arm. “The Huguenots, Your Majesty. We might need to take precautions.”
Charles got up from his chair. “You’re dreaming,” he said to Edouard. “Surely you misunderstood—”
“They were carrying swords and pikes,” Edouard retorted, “and the cavaliers had arquebuses. They spoke French, and there are no royal armies nearby. Who else would they be?”
I turned to Charles. “If there are
indeed Huguenots on the march, we must protect your person. There is a fortress half an hour’s ride from here, at the town of Meaux. We should go there at once.”
“Edouard lies,” Charles grumbled. “If anyone at this Court loves to start rumors, it’s he.”
But I was adamant. Within an hour, we boarded a coach and left behind all but our most valuable possessions to head straight for Meaux.
Encircled by a long-dry moat, the keep at Meaux was an intimidating bulwark topped by jagged battlements. We rode inside its gaping jaws and flinched at the earsplitting squeal of the ancient iron gate as it was lowered behind us.
The castle rooms were dank and bare, the gatekeeper deaf and unwelcoming. For the next several hours, Edouard paced the battlements with our Scottish bodyguards, while Margot and I sat with Charles. In between fits of coughing, he insisted that this was all a cruel practical joke of his brother’s.
Night fell. His Majesty fell asleep with his head in Margot’s lap. I wandered up and down long, dank corridors, blaming myself for my family’s peril, wondering how I should ever get them safely back to the Catholic stronghold of Paris. Well past midnight, a figure hurried toward me, a lamp in his hand.
“Maman!” Edouard hissed. “They are coming!”
“Who?” I asked.
“The Swiss,” he said, “or the rebels. Either way, we shall know the answer soon.”
He led me up to the battlements. The wind at the top of the tower was strong and cold; I pressed my hand against the stone to steady myself and my flapping skirts, and gazed down.
Beyond the grassy meadow in front of the castle stood a forest; steadily approaching lights twinkled between the black limbs of its trees. The bearers of a hundred blazing torches emerged onto the meadow below; the wind in my ears swallowed their footfall. The lights slowly moved up to the edge of the dry moat and assembled themselves into a perfect square.
Far beneath us, one of our Scotsmen bellowed at the gate. “Who goes there?”
I seized Edouard’s arm. The answer was garbled by the wind, but I understood the gist. The Swiss army had arrived, to serve at the pleasure of the King.
The immaculately courteous commander, Captain Bergun, wore the same uniform as his men, a plain brown tunic with a square white cross upon the breast. He and his mounted officers flanked the infantry that had come to our rescue. Bergun politely ordered us back into the coach and instructed our driver how to proceed to Paris.
Our carriage was situated at the center of a formation of one hundred men. A row five men deep marched ahead of us and behind us, and a row five men deep marched on either side of us, each holding a pike. I peered out the carriage window at a sea of gleaming steel blades moving to a rhythmical chant in Swiss German.
For a quarter hour, we rumbled along slowly; I fell into an uneasy reverie, which was interrupted by the crack of an arquebus. One of our horses reared; the drivers’ curses were drowned out by Captain Bergun’s shouts. Torchlight swept wildly over the dark landscape as another arquebus fired. The ball struck our carriage door, prompting Margot to pull the terrified King’s head into her lap.
Outside, a blond, downy-cheeked pikeman stumbled and struck the wheel with his shoulder, his cheek and upper lip blown away. He fell, trampled by the others as they hurried to close the gap.
From the darkness came the battle cry: Monjoie!
Margot crossed herself while Charles wailed in her lap; Edouard and I stared out at the play of torchlight on the pikemen’s backs as they lowered their blades in unison. An arquebus sounded again; our driver fell sideways to the ground as our horses screamed. The carriage tilted backward, slamming my shoulders against the interior wall; Margot fell on top of me. Charles and Edouard became a tangle of limbs until the carriage righted itself with a jerk.
I scrambled to the window and stared out at the dancing pikes. The wounded screamed: One Swiss fell, then another, and I began planning how to convince the rebels to spare my children.
Lead shot whizzed past my ear, and Edouard yelped. He pressed a hand to his shoulder and drew it away, bright with blood. I rose, thinking to shield him with my body, but he caught my arm and yanked me hard against the seat.
“For God’s sake, Maman, sit down before they blow your head off!”
The Swiss closed ranks about us again; an officer abandoned his mount to take the reins of our coach. We rolled on for a bit, then stopped as Captain Bergun rode up alongside.
Leaning low in his saddle, he called, “It was a Huguenot scouting expedition; two escaped and will return to tell their superiors of our location. We cannot continue at this pace. They will send more cavalrymen with arquebuses.” He peered beyond me at Edouard. “Monsieur le Duc, you are injured!”
“Only grazed,” Edouard called back.
I craned my head out the window. “How far are we from Paris, Captain?”
“An hour, if we move swiftly,” he replied. “My officers and I will ride with you, though we cannot offer as much protection as the pikemen.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Tell the driver not to spare the horses.”
We rode so fast and hard that the carriage shuddered mercilessly, forcing us to cling desperately to our seats.
“God damn every Huguenot ever born!” Charles gasped. The effort to hold on left him ashen and breathless, but no less furious. “We must hunt them down to the last man—and I will draw and quarter the wretch who ordered this attack myself!”
Like Edouard, I remained darkly silent on that frenzied ride, my hand pressed to his shallow wound as I nursed my growing hatred. Before that night, my life had been devoted to keep the peace at all costs, but this attack on the persons of Anjou and the King was beyond forgiving. I stared past Charles and Margot toward the future, and the war that was surely coming.
We arrived at the Louvre forty-five minutes later, an hour before dawn. Montmorency awaited us: I had sent a message saying that he was needed to head an army. When I saw him—white-bearded but still square and resolute—with Doctor Paré in the driveway, I felt gratitude. I had never much cared for Montmorency, nor he for me, but he had led my husband to victory in battle.
He and Doctor Paré were alarmed to see the blood on Edouard’s upper sleeve and were not easily convinced that the Duke of Anjou was not seriously injured. As the doctor herded my sons off, I took Montmorency’s huge hands in mine.
“You were right, Monsieur, and I wrong,” I said. “The rebels were ready to kill the King and Anjou. If I learn who is behind this—”
“The Prince of Condé,” he answered at once. “My spies say that my nephew”—by whom he meant Admiral Coligny, a name he uttered only with great shame—“disapproved and did not lend his support.”
“But Condé is a traitor,” I said, “and I will not rest until he meets a traitor’s end.”
I never saw my bed that night but summoned my generals and advisers. Montmorency’s scouts had determined that Condé’s army was marching from the northeast toward Paris.
Over the next month, we rallied an army sixteen thousand strong while Condé’s men camped on the banks of the Seine just outside the city, effectively cutting off our supplies. I swallowed my hatred and sent emissaries to Condé—whom he returned with the message that the good people of France were “tired of paying taxes to support the lavish lifestyles of foreigners, especially Italians.”
Oh a drab November day, The Battle of Paris began. In the Louvre’s courtyard, Montmorency and his commanders mounted their horses to salute the King before riding off to the front. Impetuous Charles, eager to spill blood, ran to one of the saddled steeds, but Montmorency hurried over and seized the bridle. “Your Majesty,” he said, “your person is too dear to us, and the Huguenots have demonstrated their desire to capture you. Do not tax us; we would need at least ten thousand more men to protect you properly.”
Even Charles could not argue with such logic. We royals remained inside the Louvre; never before was I so grateful for its reinforced walls an
d iron gates. I climbed up to the roof and looked northeast, though buildings blocked my view of the battle. Edouard—who had casually dismissed the gouge left in his shoulder—soon discovered me; together we watched as storm clouds converged overhead, driven by cold winds.
The armies engaged each other at three o’clock in the afternoon. Condé had amassed ten thousand men against our sixteen thousand; our victory seemed assured. After an hour, scouts brought word that the rebels had taken heavy losses; the second hour brought news that we had suffered equally. My mood darkened with the clouds, which now blotted out the sun.
The third hour brought cold rains, and a messenger soaked to the bone. “Constable Montmorency is at the western gate!”
I frowned, confused: Were we so lost that Montmorency had abandoned his troops? I hurried down to the gate, where an exhausted rider and horse trotted up, dragging a litter in the rain.
Montmorency was strapped to the litter; the blanket beneath him was covered with blood, though I saw no wound. His helmet had been removed, and his white hair was slicked to his scalp; the rain was falling earnestly, and I leaned down to shield him.
“Montmorency,” I said. “Dear Constable . . .” I put my hand upon his filthy one, and his eyelids fluttered.
“Madame la Reine,” he croaked. “I have failed you.”
“No, Constable, did you not hear?” I forced a great smile. “Our troops are victorious! You have routed the enemy; you have saved France.”
“Is it true?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I answered, “yes!”
At that, he let go a long sigh and closed his eyes. Edouard had followed and was already shouting for Doctor Paré. I took the old man’s hand as others carried the litter inside and had him laid in my bed.
He died there the next day, without coming to himself again. I had him entombed near Henri, the King he had so loved.
Thirty-Five