*
I cannot help but think of the first time I rose early hoping to catch Henri’s eye as he played tennis. That day he played Anjou. Today he partners Charles against my husband and the admiral’s son-in-law. In the opposite gallery Anjou watches with his head in Mother’s lap. The way she plays with his hair reminds me of doing the same with Henri’s. Before the gentlemen began, my husband saluted me—or perhaps he saluted Charlotte, who sits beside me. In either case, I noted a certain stiffening in Henri’s form which suggests he is not inured to the King of Navarre’s attentions to me. Yet, when I catch his eye during a pause, he quickly looks elsewhere.
“If only there were some gentleman handy for you to flirt with,” Henriette says, noticing the avoided glance. She cranes her neck. “Ah, the Seigneur de La Mole arrives. He is a heretic, but a handsome one.” She slides down to make room then hails him. I give her a look. “Why not?” she whispers. “He may only be one of Alen?on’s gentlemen, but he is the best dancer at the Court.”
La Mole takes the seat between us, looking overwhelmed by his luck. I smile at him, doubting whether Henri will notice or care.
The Seigneur gazes at me like a child at a pastry tray.
What has Henriette started?
Charles scores. We all applaud appreciatively, applause that is interrupted by a cry. “My King, my King, they have shot the admiral!”
The Seigneur de Pilles runs out onto the court, stopping when he reaches Charles.
“What! What is this you say?” the King demands.
“I come from the Rue de Béthisy. They shot the admiral as he made his way from the Louvre.”
It is the blood! Oh, I knew it meant something!
Courtiers gasp. Protestant spectators jump to their feet. There are mutterings of every sort, including more than a few, plainly audible “Praise Gods.” On the court Charles physically staggers, then throws his racket to the ground. “Mort de Dieu!” he screams, looking first at one gallery and then the other. “When shall I have a moment’s peace? When will it stop? Why can you not be contented with peace when I struggle so to give it to you?”
Across from the King, my husband of four days stands, his face pale. His tennis partner, Téligny, looks entirely stricken.
“Is the admiral dead?” Mother’s voice is calm. Strange.
“No, praise God! By divine intervention he paused to check his shoe, bending just as the ball came. Otherwise I am certain I would bring worse news. But he is badly injured.”
“My poor father!” Charles cries. “Amboise Paré must go at once.”
“You!” The Seigneur de Pilles looks past the King and points an accusatory finger at Guise. “I see your hand is in this.”
The Duc makes no reply, merely staring back with contempt.
“Whoever is to blame, I will find him.” Charles looks at the Duc, then Pilles, and finally at my husband. “I will see justice done.”
I glance in Mother’s direction to assess her reaction. She is gone! So are Anjou and the Baron de Retz, who sat at Her Majesty’s other side. Charles storms from the court calling for his counselors. The moment he is gone a hundred bodies are in motion. Joining the throng seems futile. Instead, I move down and press against the mesh separating me from the court. By force of habit my eyes look first for the Duc. Like Mother, Henri has disappeared. My cousin has not. He stands in conversation with Pilles.
“Husband!” The term is calculated to get his attention, for despite our discussion I have never yet accorded him this appellation publicly. It works. The King of Navarre’s gaze finds me and he moves toward me, his followers trailing.
“Madame.”
“Sad news.”
“Yes, though the root of that sadness lies, I suspect, in different things for different people. There are some, I think, distressed not by the violence against the admiral but by his survival.”
“Is his survival certain?” The question elicits hostile looks from several of my cousin’s men.
“Pilles cannot say: he ran here while Coligny was still being carried to his house.”
“You will go.” It is not a question.
“Directly.”
“Take care in the streets.” Behind my cousin, Pardaillan, who called me spy, sneers. My temper flares. “Smirk if you like, Monsieur!” I glare at him. “But whoever wounded the admiral would doubtless like a shot at my husband as well.”
“She would know,” someone murmurs.
“Come, Margot.” Henriette takes my sleeve. “These idiots have not the wits to tell the difference between enemy and friend, and they have the manners of peasants.” She spits the last word.