It is a moment of decision—for the Protestants. Will they take the charge? Or will they part and let us pass? I feel light-headed and fear I will fall from my horse and be trampled in whatever comes.
When the wall of pike points is almost upon the first line of enemy riders, Condé shouts. He signals with his hand and his followers turn off the road, riding right.
Anjou gives a yell of triumph. Mother throws him a look that would freeze the Seine in August.
“Gentlemen,” she barks, “do your duty to the King.” Swords are drawn.
“Children,” she continues, “once the pikemen pursue the heretics, ride as quickly as you can. Do not stop. Do not look back. And, Henri, do not engage our enemies—not even by mocking salute or shouted insult.”
Anjou pouts but makes no reply.
We are impatient to be gone, but it takes time for the last of the Protestants to leave the road. As the final riders cross onto the flattened grass, Aumale cries, “Now!” He kicks his horse. Charles plunges after him. I dig my heels into my mount. He is not at his best, but he is willing, leaping forward at my touch. Run! I think. Run.
I love to ride, the faster the better, but there is no joy in this moment. No pleasure in the feeling of the wind rushing past or the thundering sound of my horse’s hooves. The dust of the road swells in a brown cloud as every tired horse reaches a gallop. I wonder if the Protestants have turned and will charge, but I do not allow myself to look. When we have gone perhaps half a mile, my horse slows. I cannot bear the thought of slipping behind. I apply my heels once more, viciously. The beast gives a high-pitched whinny and jumps forward, galloping full out again, out of my control. We race past the others until I am alone at the front of the party. I hear Mother shout my name and desperately try to rein in my horse, but I cannot control or direct the animal, only cling to my seat. Gradually the beast winds himself, and when he reaches a trot I am able to stop him at last. I sit exhausted and shaking when two riders reach me at the same moment: Anjou and Guise.
“Magnificent madness,” my brother crows. “I will wager not two among the Protestants ride so well.”
I feel the compliment and seek to show myself as cavalier as Anjou by tossing off my fear and grinning.
“Madness indeed,” Guise chimes in. There is no admiration in his tone.
The look on Mother’s face as she arrives suggests she shares the Duc’s lack of tolerance for reckless behavior. “If you cannot control that animal,” she says, “you will have to double up with someone.”
The glow of Anjou’s praise is wiped away. “Madame, my horse merely reacted to the fear in the air. I do not believe he will bolt again. He has not the energy even should he wish to.”
“We must have a change of mounts, Your Majesty,” the Baron de Retz interposes, “if we are to stay ahead of Condé. I will ride ahead and see what may be done.”
Having been reminded of the Protestants, Mother clicks her tongue and puts her horse in motion. “Pay what you must,” she tells the Baron.
He salutes and drives his horse forward mercilessly.
I wonder how far the animal will go. Will we find the Baron on the road beside its carcass?
Perhaps our luck has turned, for we do not come upon Retz until we reach Chelles, where he is waiting with horses. There are not enough. Only a handful of the party can be re-horsed. Those who are not fall behind one by one. I worry for them. But I worry for us as well, for we begin to lose members of the royal guard as their horses are spent. The riders who remain are more tired than their mounts. My back aches, my arms too. We do not speak. Nor do we go above a trot until—oh, blessed sight!—the walls of Paris rise before us. The sun, beginning to set, gives the city a glow as if it were afire.
From that moment we run our horses hard, hoping only to be within the city gates before they drop. I watch in fascinated horror as the Cardinal of Lorraine’s horse collapses. His brother Aumale stops to take him up. Several royal guards lose mounts. Unlike His Eminence, they are left to walk. I do not know if anyone would stop for me should my horse fail. I do not know who there is I would stop for. And I do not realize I am crying until we pass through the gates and I must wipe my eyes to see my way.
I am not the only one who weeps. In the courtyard of the Louvre, Marie becomes hysterical, sobbing on the ground beside her foaming, sweated mount. Charles tries to help her to her feet but stumbles, the muscles of his legs too fatigued to properly support him. I long to get down from my horse but feel powerless to do so. Again it is Guise who comes to my aid. Climbing the steps put in place by a servant, he half lifts, half drags me from my saddle. “You are all right,” he tells me softly. “You are home.”
I may be home but I am not all right. I will not be all right for a long time. Not until my friends who are God knows where between Meaux and Paris arrive safely. And not until the Protestants have been taught their duty to their King at swords’ points.
CHAPTER 6
October 1567—Paris, France