I lower my voice, though I have no hope of saying anything privately. “You will not get so far as the streets, Sir. You will die a dozen yards beyond the King’s door, most likely on the end of a halberd like the others I have seen spitted today as if they were game to be roasted.”
The pain in my cousin’s eyes burns me. But I am not sorry I am explicit. He has not seen what I have. I must make him understand the true nature of his situation before he gives my family the excuse to leave his fate to the armed men running wild throughout the palace.
Looking at Charles once more, I say, “Decisions of faith are not to be made lightly. If you ask my husband to decide between renouncing his religious beliefs and a dungeon, you must give him time.”
“I must give him nothing—I am king.”
“Well, then I beg time for him.”
“Three days, and not an hour more. He will either be my Catholic brother and embraced as such, or he will be my prisoner.”
I nod. Mother smiles as if my capitulation were part of her scheme. Rising, she shakes out her skirts. “Let your sister manage her husband. You and I have more important matters to attend to.”
Charles’ wild eyes flit to the door. “Yes, I am missing everything.”
I shiver at what he misses, and at the thought that he desires to see what I devoutly wish I could purge from my memory and know I never shall.
“Margot, you may take your husband away,” Mother says. “I will send a company of guard to escort you.”
When they are gone, my cousin sinks to the floor, knees pulled to his chest as if he were a young boy, head resting upon those knees, hands grasping his short hair. It takes me some moments to realize he is crying, for he makes no sound. Only the shaking of his shoulders gives him away.
I do not know what to say, because no words will make his situation less grim or his losses less staggering. I feel as if I intrude, but as I move to withdraw, he raises his head.
“Do not leave me.”
“I will not. But we must, together, find a way to get to my apartments. I do not know that we will be safe there, but we are not safe here, and we certainly cannot trust whatever guard Her Majesty sends.”
“According to your mother, all whom I could trust are dead.”
“Then we will call upon those I trust. If you trust me.”
For a moment he stares at me blankly. Then he says, “Call who you like; lead me where you will—even to my doom. I have not the faculties to think clearly, nor the will to act in my own self-preservation. The man who left your rooms this morning is gone as surely as if he died with his many friends.”
“Courage, Sir. I will not allow them to kill you so long as I breathe.” It is a fearful promise, and may be hard to keep.
CHAPTER 21
August 25, 1572—Paris, France
It is a new day, yet the killing continues. Not in the palace but in the streets. I can hear the dreadful cries through my windows. My closed shutters do little to diminish them, merely leaving my rooms dark as if it were perpetually night. It is night—the night of the soul. I feel sick. I cannot eat. I cannot sit still. I cannot even pray. I’ve tried. My husband fares even worse. The only peace afforded his tortured soul came before dawn when I sang to him as one might a babe, and slumber spared him a few short hours of consciousness.
News filters into my chambers by many sources.
Henriette, accompanied by six armed men to keep her safe on her journey to the Louvre, brought a report of what passed in the Rue de Béthisy when the admiral was slain. The conduct of Guise in that matter disheartened me, and reports that he joined with Anjou to continue killing others of the admiral’s sect sickened me. I pray they are not entirely true.
Gillone collects whispers and boasts every time she ventures beyond my apartment. Word in the palace is that Charles has grown sick of the slaughter and insists to any who will listen that he ordered it to stop yesterday at noon. If that be so, it speaks poorly of his power as king.
No, I am not being fair, I think as I complete another circuit of my antechamber with Gillone’s anxious eyes upon me. It may well be that the noblemen have heeded his command and are no longer in the streets. They are not needed. Ordinary people do extraordinary things. “Drapers and wine merchants toss the children of their Protestant neighbors into the Seine,” Charlotte tells me as she slips in. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her face stricken. “Is he still here?”
I nod.
“You will keep him safe?”
I nod again, unwilling to give voice to a promise I may not be able to keep. “Do you wish to see him?”
“Does he sleep?”
“Yes.” I lie to spare my friend. My cousin does not sleep. He mourns. One minute lying curled tight in a ball like a small child, sobbing and pulling at his hair, and the next pacing like a caged beast, casting about wildly for some action he can take to assist those still hunted throughout the city. I do not love him, yet his agony is painful to witness. Charlotte, I begin to suspect, does love him, so his despair would be her own. It would crush her.
“Tell him…” Her voice dissolves and silent tears track down her cheeks.