I do not know what to say. To hear him speak so brazenly about falsely recanting his heresies is not a pleasant thing. Yet, did not Christ admonish us to beware condemning others when we are sinners also? I made false oaths before man and God when I married him.
“God forgives much, Sir. And there are many this morning whose sins are so grave that they make yours in falsely professing the Catholic faith seem but a feather in the scales.”
There is a sharp knock on the outer door. My cousin releases my wrist. I know Gillone will not open without me. Those are her orders. Rising, I take two steps. The ladder. Returning to the bedside, I kneel, reach beneath the bed, and draw it out. Another knock sounds.
“Here.” I shove the bundle at him. “This will take you down to the fosse. I like your chances better in the Louvre than in the streets, but if they have come for you and they are many, I will say, ‘The King of Navarre is not here.’ Let that be a signal for you to make your escape, and good luck to you.”
“Merci.” His thanks tighten my chest and bring tears to my eyes. I wipe them furiously on my sleeve as I open the door to the next room. “Lock it,” I command without turning.
As soon as he complies I signal Gillone to open the outer door. Mother glides in.
“Get dressed to go out.”
Whatever I expected her to say, it was certainly not this.
“Out, Madame? The streets run with blood and ring with the cries of the dying! Who but a lunatic would wish to venture into them?”
“They will be safe enough for us.”
The truth of her words disgusts rather than reassures me.
“What would Your Majesty propose? Will you take us all to church? Prayers for your soul and for the souls of my brothers can as easily be said in the chapel here, and to as little effect.”
“Such histrionics. We have no reason to fear the wrath of God or godly men—quite the contrary. A Franciscan brings word that a hawthorn in the Cimetière des Innocents has burst into bloom. It is a sign from God that he commends the work of his Catholic children.”
“What work? You cannot mean the slaughter of their Protestant brothers.” Dear God, all around me is madness, and it is celebrated as miracle.
Mother offers me a dismissive smile. My outrage is clearly not worthy of response. “We will make a pilgrimage to see the bush, and you will come with us.”
“I will not.”
I glimpse Gillone’s face over Mother’s shoulder: her fear is palpable. But after the horrific sights of yesterday, and the tales I’ve heard since, my mother lacks the power to frighten me.
“The King commands your attendance. You refuse to obey him?”
“I do.”
The smile fades, the eyes narrow. “You will be made to go.”
“How? By force? I warn you, Madame, should you order the strongest of His Majesty’s guards to transport me, they will have an awful time of it. And how will it serve either your purpose or the King’s to have me carried kicking and screaming through the streets? Or do you mean to have me bound and gagged. That would be a spectacle for the populace to enjoy.”
“Marriage to a heretic has made you obstinate.”
“I believe it has.” As I speak I understand in a blinding flash why I have decided to protect my husband and why I must be stubborn now. If I am not, I will be damned. Never did I imagine that the guests at my wedding would be slaughtered before they could return home. But who will believe it? And more particularly who will believe it if I am seen celebrating those events at the cimetière? I know I am innocent. I am even willing to believe that the King and my mother had no inkling such events would transpire as I took my vows. But nothing can save them from being linked with the massacre now.
I will not have my name spoken in the same breath as theirs when this horror is recounted.
Mother shakes her head slowly. I am transfixed by the motion. Simple as it is, it seems threatening. “Let us see if you have lost all ability to reason. I have Jean d’Armagnac.”
“The King of Navarre’s valet de chambre? My husband thinks him dead.”
“Not yet. Do you want him?”
The room jerks, or perhaps I stagger. My eyes lock with Her Majesty’s. Can she possibly be so cruel? Can I be so foolish as to doubt it? I just told my cousin he must sacrifice honor for survival; how, then, can I flinch? “I want him here.”
“After.”
“Before. When I have seen him I give you my word I will dress.”
“Why should I accept your word when you decline to accept mine?”
“Because the only blood my hands are stained with is that of those I saved on Saint Bartholomew’s morn, while yours are red from the slaughter.”
“I’ll be back.”
“White,” I say as the door shuts behind Mother. “I want to wear white. The color of mourning.”
I do not return to my husband, because I do not know what to say to him. To claim credit for saving Armagnac—just the thought sends me into dry heaves. To admit I will ride out with my family to celebrate the decimation of his friends and followers—that thought is even worse. And the fear of what I will surely see in the streets of Paris nearly paralyzes me.