“They will pay, yes.” The menace in Mother’s voice cuts through my numb misery. “Dearly. We will pursue them even into their beds to extract satisfaction for this infamous enterprise.”
“You—” Charles’ reply is cut off by a shout.
We stop dead and the pikemen surrounding us turn to face outward. A murmured word—“Cavalry!”—rolls across the stalled party.
Anjou stands in his stirrups. “Perhaps we will not need to chase the Huguenots, Madame.”
I burst into tears.
“Control yourself!” Mother snaps.
I clap a hand over my mouth to stifle my sobs. The commander pushes his way through the pikemen to Charles.
“Your Majesty, scouts have espied Huguenot cavalry not a half mile past that large hill. They do not seem to be lying in wait but, rather, move along the same road as we in the opposite direction.”
“Looking for us,” Mother replies.
“Looking but not yet finding. Inexplicably, they do not appear to be using scouts.”
“They expect us to be at Meaux,” the Duc d’Aumale posits. “They have no reason to imagine us where we are.”
Thank God for small mercies. But what is to be done? I am nearly choking on my own fear.
“If we were still at Meaux, we would be able to defend ourselves,” Anne de Montmorency says dourly.
“There is nothing to be gained in rearguing that decision,” Mother says. “We are here. The Huguenots are there. What now?”
“Retreat. Take a different path,” the constable urges.
“I will not be driven back like a rabbit harried by hounds!” Charles says savagely.
“Well said! Let us fight!” Anjou puts his hand on the hilt of his sword and my throat contracts.
“Not fight, but seem as if we are prepared to,” Aumale interposes. “We have the advantage of surprise. If we march on at a blistering pace, we will cross the Huguenots’ path not much after they apprehend the sound of our soldiers’ footfalls. They will have no time to count us—no time to determine their advantage—and, being caught unawares, may be unwilling to engage.”
The commander nods. “I will have my pikemen run at them. This fearsome sight alone may get us past.”
“‘May.’ I do not like ‘may.’” The constable shakes his head.
“I do not like anything about our present situation, but the King says he will not retreat, and I agree,” Mother says.
Aumale gives the constable a slightly triumphant look. “May I suggest, Your Majesties, you surround yourself with every armed gentleman and a score of mounted soldiers. Once past the Huguenot villains, such a group could ride for Paris with great speed.”
“I will leave the balance of my soldiers to impede the Protestants and harry them as they go,” the commander adds.
Mother looks from Duc to commander. “Quickly, then. Let everything be arranged.”
As the soldiers make ready, I concentrate on controlling a nearly insurmountable urge to scream. I wonder if only my lack of breath, rather than my willpower, defeats the impulse. My stomach contracts into a ball as hard as stone. Mother is too focused on Charles to offer me a word of comfort, and Anjou is too excited. But as the King’s gentlemen encircle us, comfort comes. The Duc de Guise draws his horse beside mine. Leaning toward me, he says, “You pray, Your Highness, I will fight, and we will both tell stories of this day to our grandchildren.”
Then we are in motion. Pikemen quick march up the gradual slope in front of us. I am certain from the crest we will be able to see Condé’s men. I clutch my reins so tightly that they cut my palms, wondering how many they will be. The pikemen disappear over the rise. I hold my breath. Nothing. From the top I can see nothing but the next, larger rise. Down we go into the dip between prominences, my stomach sinking as we descend, my hands still clutching. I do pray as the Duc bade me. Pray that by some miracle we will reach the top of the next hill and again see nothing—that the Protestants have turned off the road or been wiped from our path by God. I pray in vain. Reaching the next apex, our party stops abruptly though no command was given. A hundred yards from the bottom, scores of mounted men move along the road.
I spot Condé at once. As I do I hear Guise mutter, “Coligny,” as if the word tasted foul in his mouth.
Two chiefs, and surely a thousand men. A stunning sea of horses.
Looking into the faces of the nearest Protestant riders, I observe that they are astonished as well. Like us they stare, gape-mouthed. I wonder if they know precisely who we are. Have they spotted the King among our number?
A sharp command. We move down the incline. Reaching the plain below, we pause. Another command. Lines of pikemen lower their weapons to charge position, and the drums, which have been silent all this way so we might be stealthy, begin to beat. My heart keeps time with them. The pikemen pick up speed, presenting a wall of points to the enemy. Ranks of soldiers with two-handed swords and a small number of cavalry follow.