Courtiers break into groups. Anjou, moving past to join His Majesty, reins in his horse to salute Mother and me. I do not acknowledge the gesture.
“Come,” Mother says. I follow in her wake, moving farther afield. When we stop near a wild tangle of underbrush, Mother unhoods her bird. I follow suit, carefully bending my neck and using my teeth to pull one of the laces. The dark eyes of my bird sweep the field and mine follow. I see the dogs standing at rigid attention, their handlers stroking their backs to keep them calm. The excitement of the women in our party is nearly as difficult to keep in check. We all know that we are but a moment away from heart-pounding sport. The leads come off. The dogs move into the brush. To my right, the first of the game birds is flushed. Mother’s reflexes are quickest, her falcon released only an instant after the bird breaks cover. And suddenly the sky is full of birds—both the pursuing and the pursued. We put our horses in motion, dislodging still more game. All eyes are on the sky. I do not see Mother’s horse stumble, but I hear it hit the ground. Pulling back the reins of my own mount, I am able to stop before I run upon the Queen’s horse—or, worse still, upon the Queen.
Mother, focused on urging her horse to its feet, looks up. “Go on!”
Perhaps I ought to ignore her urging and wait to see that she is all right. But she has been unhorsed many times and, like hers, my blood is up. So I pull my horse hard left and charge off. Before I have gone twenty yards, Mother passes me. We ride, race, and give chase until both horses and riders breathe heavily. More than one rider besides Her Majesty goes down, and the Baron de Sauve gets stuck in brambles after enthusiastically following the dogs in.
We are gathered about the King before moving to another field when the sound of horses is heard. Shading my eyes, I leave off trying to maneuver myself closer to the Duc de Guise. Three members of the royal guard come into view. Riding straight for the Queen, they pull up sharply. The man in the middle leaps from his horse. “An urgent message.”
Mother scans the page. Then, without a word, she hands the note to the Baron de Retz. “Your Majesty,” she says to Charles, “we must return to the chateau. Ride beside me.” She holds out a hand, beckoning the King as if he were a child standing too near a ledge. The King, by long habit obedient to Mother, does not question. He merely nudges his horse in the direction of the spot that has been made for him.
“You,” she commands the guards, “stay close.” Then with a sharp kick she urges her animal into motion.
Fear clutches my breast and ripples through the surrounding courtiers as we hurry to follow. Bad news has come—who can say of what sort?
Being an excellent rider, I reach the chateau not far behind the King. Anjou appears to help me down. The vexation I felt at him earlier is forgotten as I take the hand he offers.
“Come,” he says, pushing through dismounted courtiers, dragging me along. We are not five steps behind Charles and Mother as they meet Her Majesty’s secretary on the steps. Mother is speaking.
“Fifteen hundred horsemen did not worry me at Montargis. But when they are only a short ride from here, that is another matter. Who is at their head?”
“Condé,” her secretary replies.
Mother walks on, drawing all the important men with her. “We need soldiers.”
“The closest troops are garrisoned at Chateau-Thierry,” the constable replies. “Most of them are Swiss—the same men who were sent to the border when Alba marched past to keep the Spanish from straying.”
“Curse Alba,” Mother says. “His maneuvers and his arrest of Coligny’s cousin bring us to this. Are four years of peace to be spoiled by a Spaniard?”
There is an uncomfortable silence, during which I take the opportunity to gauge where we are heading—clearly to His Majesty’s council chamber. When that destination is reached, Henri and I have no chance of entering. My brother must be thinking the same thing, for he grows bold.
“What is the threat, Madame?” he asks. “And how can I help the King, my brother, face it?”
Mother pauses and considers Anjou appraisingly. “Come,” she says, decisively. “You are old enough to hear what will be said, and brave enough to be His Majesty’s strong right arm.” Then her eyes dart to me. “Margot? Why are you here?”
I have no choice but to go, but I am not happy about it. At sixteen, Henri is not much older than I, yet he is included and I am dismissed. As I make my way to Mother’s apartment, I wonder if I shall ever be permitted to participate in anything at Court more important than a pavane. I arrive to find a crowd. Apparently the fear of missing something important has caused at least two dozen women to overlook the nicety of changing after the hunt.