Holy Mary mother of God, am I screaming? I must be. But this fact has no effect on the archers; they merely lower their bows and run past, barely pausing to see that the fallen gentleman is dead. I close my eyes. Surely this is a nightmare. But even before I open them again, I know that the body of the gentleman will remain; the odor of blood fills my nostrils.
I begin to move again, faster and faster. The windows to my right give a view of the courtyard where, when last I looked, four hundred Protestants stood. I hear a barked command echo up the stone walls. Running to the nearest casement, I look down upon a scene from Dante. His Majesty’s soldiers run pikes through men who, by their garb, are as Protestant as those who stood demanding justice yesterday. In fact, to my horror, I recognize the Seigneur de Pilles, his breast pierced, lying face upward on the stones. I have no desire to gaze on the terrible scene, but cannot turn away. I find myself frantically searching for my cousin. Is that him pursued by three guards? No, too tall. Is that him fighting furiously with a sword, then crying out as he is felled? I hold my breath and am strangely relieved when the victim’s head falls back: the face is that of the Seigneur de Pont, not the King of Navarre. Then it dawns on me: I know very few of the King’s gentlemen by sight. The fact that I have already identified two below suggests the men being slaughtered are of the highest sort—my cousin’s inner circle. I am frozen to the spot by the thought. A window on the other side of the courtyard opens. A gentleman runs directly out of it, his legs pumping in the air as he falls. He lands on the paving stones below with a sickening crack, limbs akimbo. Two of the King’s gentlemen wearing strange white crosses upon their sleeves lean out of the casement, laughing. Somehow this spectacle frees my feet. Crossing myself, I set out again at a dead run, hoping I am not too late.
I pass more bodies, bodies of both men and women. I see Marquis de Renel struggling with his cousin Bussy d’Amboise, who stabs Renel again and again. I am not insensible to these sights but they are not my focus. I feel certain my cousin is in mortal danger and worry that I myself may be wounded if I stay in the open. I must reach my sister’s apartments. I am nearly at her door when I hear a shout from behind. Spinning, I find myself face-to-face with Monsieur Bourse, so close that I might touch him, just as he is pierced by a halberd. The point emerges from his belly, bringing with it such matter that I nearly swoon. He gasps for breath, then tries to speak but only rattles. Only a sharp pull on the weapon by the guard wielding it keeps the dying gentleman from falling upon me. The guard lets the body drop facedown at my feet, pulls his halberd from it, opens a nearby window and, lifting the still-writhing Bourse, casts him out. Then, his halberd gleaming red, the guard says, “Apologies, Your Majesty.”
I bang on Claude’s door as I have never knocked anywhere, crying out again and again who I am. When it opens, I drop my dagger and fall into my sister’s arms, sobbing.
“Margot! Are you all right?”
“She bleeds!” The second voice causes me to look around. Charles’ Queen stands behind my sister.
“Let me see!” Claude wrenches my mantle from me.
“It is not my blood,” I say, looking down and realizing just how much there is.
“Thank God, thank God!” Claude hugs me to her.
“What is happening?” I ask.
“Sin and madness,” the Queen Consort says. Her face is streaked with tears.
“And the King? Has someone told Charles?”
“He knows,” she replies softly.
Dear God, can this be laid at my brother’s door, then? “What can we do?”
“I intend to pray,” the Queen Consort replies firmly. “I came hither to see that the Duchesse de Lorraine was safe and to ask her to pray with me. I have brought my Book of Hours.” She holds it up as if it signifies something in all the chaos.
I believe my sister-in-law to be a truly pious woman, but prayer seems unlikely to save anyone at the present moment. “Who do you pray for? Charles?”
She blushes.
“You waste your breath! If he has a hand in this, he is destined for the flames of hell. Gentlemen of the highest ranks are being hunted and slaughtered without mercy in the chambers, halls, and courtyards of his palace.”
“Margot”—Claude puts a hand upon my arm—“Elisabeth takes no part in that, nor do I, but what are we unarmed women to do? Run out among the carnage and die ourselves?”
“You are safe here and may remain so without fear of failing in any duty.” I stoop to pick up my dagger, then square my shoulders. “But I cannot. Those I saw dead and wounded were Protestants to a man. I must find the King of Navarre.”
Claude places herself between me and the door. “You cannot go out again.”
“I can and will, but I need not wander aimlessly. Last evening you knew something of this.”
Claude turns her face away.