TWENTY-EIGHT

A BEARDED MAN GALLOPS ACROSS A BURNT PLAIN ROILING WITH dying and wounded soldiers. It is the throes of a battle nearing its end; cries shatter against the black whorl of the sky. The man’s horse is panting, its flanks flecked with spume. He looks over his shoulder, digs his spurs into the animal’s ribs. From the melee, another rider races toward him, clad in gold armor, a sword bright as a razor in his gauntleted fist. Relentless, he slashes at figures in torn white tunics. His blade seems to strike a thousand places at once, beheading a man here, thrusting another through the chest there, disemboweling a charger and sending its rider tumbling to the ground. But he is intent on the one who eludes him, who even now begins to vanish into the haze.

“Traitor!” The man in gold screams. “You will die! You will die for France!”

I struggled to open my caked eyelids. When I succeeded I found a group of shadowy figures crowded about my bed. A hand pressed a chamomile-soaked cloth to my brow; I cracked my mouth open to talk. My voice issued hoarse, raw. “Water … I need water.”

“God save her, she’s talking!” Lucrezia bent over me.

“Of course I’m talking,” I muttered. “Did you think I was dead?”

The people about the bed assumed identities: Anna-Maria, her head only reaching the height of my daughter Margot’s waist. Dark shadows ringed my daughter’s blue-green eyes, as if she hadn’t slept in weeks.

“You look terrible,” I muttered.

Margot gave a weak smile. “And you’ve begun to recover.” To my bafflement, Lucrezia started to cry. “We thought we had lost you,” she whispered, grasping my hand in hers.

I frowned. Anna-Maria nodded; with a start, the pain of Elisabeth’s death crashed over me. For a second I wanted to close my eyes and fall back into oblivion. But I couldn’t; I had to organize our new expedition against La Rochelle, see to the envoys and ambassadors who seemed to always be a half step behind me. I had to—

I went still, looking at the somber faces. “How long have I been here?”

Lucrezia put a goblet of water to my lips. “More than a month.”

“A month!” I pushed her hand aside. “That’s impossible. What happened?”

“A fever.” Lucrezia took away the goblet and rinsed the cloth in a basin at my bedside. She returned it to my forehead; it felt cool, flooding my parched senses with the tang of the herb. “A tertian fever. We found you on the floor in your rooms. The physicians could do nothing. They bled you, but you didn’t wake. We’ve been taking turns watching over you. Oh, my lady, the sweat came out of you like rivers, cold as ice. Yet you didn’t move. It was like a living death. When you started speaking just now … we thought it was the end.”

“What did I say?”

“You spoke of a battle, of a rider fleeing and a man in gold. It sounded like …” Her voice trailed off into silence.

I could feel the scores on my arm from the bleedings. I didn’t tell them that what I had was no ordinary fever but rather a recurrence of my childhood ailment. And with it had come my gift.

A crash at the door jolted everyone about. “Is she awake? Is she speaking?” Charles came to my bed, his brow smudged with powder from the latest armory he’d set up in the Louvre. He leaned over me, his person pungent with smoke. “Maman, is it true? Did you see it?”

I looked past him to see Margot peering behind his shoulder. She must have slipped out to fetch him. “What,” I said, “am I supposed to have seen?”

“Their defeat!” His voice trilled. “We attacked La Rochelle. Birago and I organized everything while you were ill. Philip’s Spaniards joined us. We blockaded the city and routed the Huguenots. They run for their lives.”

“Gold armor,” I whispered. “Henri had gold armor. I gave it to him. Dio Mio, is he …?”

“He’s fine. He went after Coligny; he followed him for miles on horseback. He told Guise he’d made you a promise. But Coligny got away.” Charles paused, staring at me. “You saw it, didn’t you? Did you also see the constable? He’s dead. He died on the field, fighting to protect Henri. We had him buried in St. Denis, close to Papa. The constable always loved Papa. I did right by putting him there, didn’t I?”

Montmorency: Coligny’s uncle. I saw him as he’d been on the day I first met him in Marseilles: a titan, blocking out the sun. He’d been my friend and foe, veteran of three reigns and staunch defender of our faith, which he’d put above himself. Now, like so many others, he was gone. I couldn’t say I was deeply saddened by his death, not after what he’d done with the Triumvirate, but I felt the weight of the years as I never had before, every link with my past severed so that I seemed to stand alone, with a surfeit of memories no one else shared.

Overcome by lassitude, I said, “Yes, you did right. I didn’t see him. I didn’t know.” I felt myself slipping away, this time into dreamless sleep. “Forgive me. I’m so tired.”

Charles kissed my cheek. “Rest, then. And don’t worry. The war is over. Soon we can issue a pardon and go back to living as we were.” He patted my hand. “Oh, I almost forgot. Happy birthday, Maman. We must celebrate when you feel better.” He turned and swaggered out.

Margot stood still, regarding me with an almost fearful look in her eyes.

“My birthday,” I mused, “my fiftieth.”

As I drifted off, I didn’t know how I felt about the fact that Coligny still lived.

Once I left my bed we announced an amnesty, allowing the Huguenots exercise of their religion in designated towns and occupation of four cities, including La Rochelle. The settlement also pardoned all rebel leaders. I chose to make an occasion of it by honoring Birago’s efforts on our behalf with the title of chancellor.

I then disbanded our army. My son Henri came home from the front. He looked fit as ever, triumphant from his first foray into blood-soaked manhood. He was accompanied by Guise, broad-shouldered and golden as a god. They were like opposite sides of a coin: one dark, the other light; exploding upon the court like comets, bringing raucous antics in their wake.

I was pleased. My sons had taken initiative during my illness and done their Valois blood proud. None could say they weren’t everything a prince of France should be.

As for Coligny, no one knew where he’d gone into hiding. I did not rescind the price on his head but I let it be known he was included in the general amnesty, providing he refrained from any further acts of treason. Though he’d been defeated, he still had his brethren’s respect and I didn’t want more trouble from him.

Instead, I set myself to building a future where he no longer had a place.

“Philip says no to Margot.” I glanced at the dispatch in hand. “Monsignor claims he did his utmost to persuade him, but it seems Philip is too full of sorrow over Elisabeth to consider another wife at this time. However, he does agree to Charles’s betrothal to his sixteen-year-old cousin, Isabel of Austria.”

I looked up in triumph at Birago. “Spain will stay married to France. Our Austrian envoy has sent a miniature of the bride for Charles to see. I trust you’ve already spoken to him?”

Birago rustled in the satin box on my desk, the gold chain of the chancellorship slung about his concave shoulders, adding authority to a bony face carved by years of tireless service. As I watched him hold up the small gold-framed painting, I was overcome by sudden remorse. This stalwart Italian of mine had never strayed from my side and he had paid the price. I often forgot that he had never wed, that I knew nothing of his private life. To me, he lived in an industrious world regulated by quill and parchment, fulfilling his duties and overseeing a vast underworld of spies and intelligencers, striving to keep me and France safe.

“Such white skin and blond hair,” he mused. “She’ll make a lovely bride.”

“Indeed,” I remarked. “Well, perhaps now that we’ve seen to Charles we should go about finding you a bride, yes? There must be some lady at court who’s caught your fancy.”

He smiled, exposing his brown teeth. “I fear I’m too old for such things.” I detected a melancholic note in his voice, and before I could say more, he added, “I have spoken with Charles about the marriage and he had one essential requirement: that she be unassuming. In other words, he said, as unlike his sister Margot as we can find.”

I laughed. “Charles does adore Margot, but I agree with him: one of her is quite enough. And Isabel fulfills his requirement, according to our envoy. She’s of strong Hapsburg stock, virtuous and pious. She’ll give him no trouble and many healthy sons, God willing.”

Birago replaced the painting in its satin box and I turned to gaze out the window to the Tuileries, where workmen were converting the barren soil into an Italian grotto. Distant hammering sounded from the Hôtel de Cluny, which I’d ordered demolished so a new palace could be built in its place: my Hôtel de la Reine. Building had become my latest passion. Since my illness, I’d been obsessed with it. Birago said it was because architecture exalted the soul, but I believe that in truth it gave me something tangible to revel in, a visible display of my power.

“What of the Princess Margot?” Birago asked, wincing as he righted himself. “It’s disappointing that Philip won’t have her, but there are always other alliances.”

I nodded, going to my chair to caress old Muet; as she nuzzled my hand with her nose, still spry at twelve years, I heard Nostradamus as if he whispered in my ear: You are two halves of a whole. You need each other to fulfill your destiny.

I paused. My heart did a slow tumble in my chest. “What about Navarre?” I looked at Birago, who regarded me as if I’d spoken in a foreign tongue. My voice quickened with excitement. “Margot and he are both nearing their eighteenth year; they’d be perfect for each other. When Jeanne dies, he’ll become king of Navarre, and remember, Coligny exalted him as a Huguenot savior. But if we marry him to Margot, he cannot go to war against us, and Huguenot and Catholic will be united through their persons. They are cousins, after all; they share the Valois blood through Jeanne’s mother, François I’s sister, and Margot will bear him Valois heirs.”

Birago rubbed his chin pensively. “It’s an interesting solution, but I doubt our Catholic lords or Rome would ever approve. Monsignor says His Holiness is so keen to eradicate heresy he would excommunicate all Protestant princes, including Jeanne of Navarre. Marrying Margot to Jeanne’s son will not be viewed as the act of a true Catholic queen.” He gave me a cynical wink. “And we’ve had enough accusations about your lack of religious zeal already.”

“Bah!” I waved my hand. “I don’t care what they say about me! But what if Navarre would agree for all children born of the marriage to be raised Catholic?” I was convinced now, the idea shining like a beacon. Surely this was what Nostradamus had meant. With Navarre as my son-in-law I could both protect and mold him, depriving the Huguenots of a royal figurehead to rally behind and forcing both sides to lasting compromise.

“In time,” I went on, “we might even persuade Navarre himself to convert. He’s young, impressionable; and if he and Margot live here, at court with us, who knows what we might achieve? At the very least, Navarre won’t take a stance against us.”

“All well and good,” said Birago, “but what about Coligny? Do you think he’ll agree?”

The mention of his name darkened my mood. “I hardly see how his opinion matters either way,” I retorted, yet even as I declared my defiance I braced myself for Birago’s next words.

“His opinion matters greatly,” Birago said, “as you well know. He may be disgraced and unwelcome at court, but he still holds great standing with the Huguenots and he’ll protest any arrangement that binds Navarre to the Catholic cause. He also holds tremendous influence over Queen Jeanne, whose approval you’ll need to conclude the marriage.”

There was nothing I liked less than being reminded of my limitations. “Leave her to me,” I said. “As for Coligny, every Catholic in France would leap to earn the reward I put on his head, if I give the word. He’s in no position to gainsay me. He owes me his life.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. I feared you might still nurture affection for him.” He met my eyes with a knowing look I couldn’t avoid. “After all, not too long ago you were still … friends.”

“That was before he broke his word and nearly brought us to ruin. Whatever affection I had for him is gone.” As I spoke, I pushed aside my doubt. I would always retain a remnant of emotion for Coligny; it was unavoidable, after everything we had shared. But never again would I let passion cloud my reason.

I passed my hands over my skirts, eager to start my plan. “We mustn’t tell anyone save Charles. I’ll need his consent, of course, but I don’t want word getting out until I return from Chaumont. Is that understood?”

“Yes, madama. My lips are sealed.” He did not need to ask why I wished to consult Cosimo.

“Are you certain? There must be something.” I paced the observatory at Chaumont as Cosimo examined Nostradamus’s chart, my stomach empty and my back and buttocks aching from the ride in my coach from Paris. All I wanted was a roast pheasant, a goblet of claret, and to rest my bones in the bedchamber readied for me.

“I see only the marriage with the Austrian.” Cosimo raised sunken eyes.

In his forties, he’d grown emaciated, moved with the furtive scuffle of a hermit, and had developed a disconcerting tic, his left shoulder twitching in tandem with a quiver in his cheek. The château itself also felt abandoned, the many rooms and halls shuttered, the staff I’d appointed to serve him dismissed. The smell of mold was so pervasive, Lucrezia had set herself to lighting fires in the hearths and dusting the mantels, while I climbed the stairs to the observatory, where Cosimo spent his waking hours.

“Cosimo,” I said, repressing my impatience, “Nostradamus claimed that chart contains ten years of my future; he told me I must protect Navarre. I already know about the Austrian. Don’t you see any other marriages there?”

I looked at the chart, which swirled with intersecting colored lines and planetary illustrations I couldn’t have deciphered to save my life. I had the unbidden thought that perhaps I should not trust his judgment in this matter. After all, did he possess any real power beyond interpreting vague portents and devising appropriate days for coronations, or did he seize on opportunistic moments of lucidity, random occasions when he managed to pierce the veil between this world and the next? After knowing Nostradamus, I found Cosimo’s demeanor disconcerting, as if he sought to personify the shadowy character he thought a seer should be.

He sniffed. “The chart is arcane. Nostradamus obviously didn’t study in Italy.”

“Of course he didn’t. Do you see Margot’s sun sign, at least? She is a Taurus.”

“Let’s see.” He traced a line. “Yes, her life passage moves through this quadrant.” He tapped the paper. “According to this, she will marry a Sagittarius.”

I gasped. “Henri of Navarre is Sagittarius!”

His cheek twitched. “I said passage, not union. And an eclipse in Scorpio here signals blight.”

“Blight?” I paused. “What does that mean?”

“It’s unclear.” His lips pursed. “As I said, this chart was devised by one unskilled in such matters. Perhaps if you tell me what you wish to know, I can better assist you.”

I drew in a deep breath. I might as well tell him everything or we’d be here all night.

“I want to know if I should arrange a marriage between Margot and Navarre. I need to find a way to bind Catholic and Huguenot in peace and I think this might be it.”

Cosimo regarded me with one skeletal hand caressing the strange pendant at his chest. I’d noticed it when I arrived—a silver amulet depicting a horned creature, a hole piercing its middle.

“You could marry Margot to this prince,” he said, “but peace will not come so easily.”

“Of course not; I realize one marriage won’t solve everything. But if I can manage it, the Huguenots will have to lay down arms for the foreseeable future. Navarre will be one of us; they’ll have no prince to support their cause. All I need is Coligny and Jeanne’s consent.”

“And do you think they’ll give it?” he asked.

I snorted. “I think they’d rather die.”

“Then perhaps they should.” He turned to a nearby cabinet, removing an oblong lacquer box. He set it before me. Inside, arranged like tiny corpses on black velvet, were two perfect mannequins: a man and a woman, genitals delineated. I lifted the male form with a mixture of awe and repulsion; it felt almost like living flesh.

“One for him and one for her,” Cosimo said. “With these, you can bring Coligny and Jeanne of Navarre under your control and make them do whatever you desire.” He withdrew a cloth bag from the box, containing silver pins. He held one up. “You must first personify them by attaching an article from the person: a hair, a piece of clothing, anything that belongs to them. Then you invoke your will. It’s like prayer. You can light candles too, red for domination, white to purify, yellow to vanquish. When you wish to exert power, drive these pins into the limbs. You can cause pain, illness, and incapacitation. Even death.”

With one long finger he pried back the velvet lining to reveal a secret compartment. Unhooking its tiny latch, he uncovered a small vial filled with white powder, much like the one his father had given me in Florence.

The candlelight sent distorted shadows across his hollowed face. “They call it cantarella: a combination of arsenic and other secret ingredients. It was said to be the Borgias’ favorite poison. Few know how to create it. It can cause illness, madness, and death. Mixed in food or wine, it is untraceable. No one will ever know.”

I met his unblinking stare. The male figure dropped from my hand into the box. It sprawled over the female, like macabre toys about to copulate. I snapped the lid closed, as though they might leap out.

“Now,” Cosimo breathed, “you have everything you need. You cannot fail.” He took off his amulet, sidled close to slip it over my head. It hung against my breast, heavier than it appeared. “Evil against evil,” he said, “in case they seek to counter you.”

I held back my smile at the thought of Coligny resorting to black magic. Cosimo’s stare unnerved me; he was quite serious in his suggestion that I invoke spells and poison my opponents, and I had the sense I’d best not refuse his bizarre gifts. Whatever he’d been doing in this château had addled his brain; he had crossed into a place where I did not wish to follow.

“You should be careful,” I said, eager now to eat and depart. “If you were ever overheard, you’d risk arrest and prosecution for witchcraft.”

His laugh was brittle and too high-pitched. “Who will ever hear me but you, my lady?”

I nodded and took up the box. He led me onto the torchlit landing. “I leave tomorrow at first light,” I said. “If you divine anything else in the chart, you must send word.”

His eyes seemed to go right through me, as if he intuited the unspoken rupture between us.

“I’ll devote myself to it entirely.”

I didn’t look back as I descended the stairs, but I felt his stare, stalking my heels.

“You look splendid.” I stepped aside to allow my new daughter-in-law full view of herself in the mirror. Isabel of Austria had arrived a week before to a lavish reception, which she endured with stoic gratitude despite her swollen eyes and the handkerchief she clutched to her nose as she sneezed every few minutes. She’d caught a nasty cold during her travels, but when I suggested we postpone the wedding until she recovered, she shook her head.

“No,” she stated in her accented French. “I must marry as planned. Then I bear a son.”

She seemed confident and I now watched her scrutinize her reflection without vanity, her fair brows furrowed inward as she adjusted the coronet on her dark gold hair. She wasn’t as attractive as her portrait. Her oval face was marred by the jutting Hapsburg chin and her blue eyes were too small and serious. If she felt frightened or overwhelmed, she didn’t show it. Judging by her expression I’d have thought she was going to one of her three daily masses.

Resplendent in crimson brocade, her bosom displayed to the limit of decency, and her gorgeous hair spangled with jeweled combs, Margot exclaimed, “Why, you look pretty!” as if it came as an unexpected surprise.

I threw her a stony look. At eighteen my daughter had shed the last vestiges of her childhood to reveal a startling beauty; her slanted eyes seemed to absorb whatever color she wore and her naturally titian hair was the envy of every woman at court. She had become our official muse, to whom the poets dedicated reams of overblown verse. I’d perceived a predatory light in her eye as the gentlemen paraded before her in the hall, their muscled thighs in skin-tight hose, their oversized codpieces bobbing; and I did not like it. I needed her to remain a virgin and had insisted her women accompany her everywhere. I also received reports on her activities and knew she dutifully practiced her dancing, music, and poetry; sat for portraits and endless dress fittings—all the expected activities of a princess. Still, her passion for life reminded me of her grandfather François I, kindling my fear that despite my efforts she would find a way to whet her appetite, though I’d yet to discover any proof.

“This dress”—Isabel plucked her overskirt—“it is not—how do you say it—too rich?”

Margot giggled. My other daughter, Claude, squat and fat in violet velvet and pregnant with her second child, elbowed Margot.

“It’s perfect.” I smoothed her cloth-of-silver skirt embroidered with pearl fleur-de-lis. “It suits your complexion. You have such nice skin, my dear. Doesn’t she, Margot?”

Margot blew air out of the side of her mouth. “I suppose so,” she said, and flounced to the dressing table to examine Isabel’s jewelry. “Oh. These are nice.” She snatched up a set of ruby earrings. “Look how well they go with my dress. Red is my best color. Everyone says so.”

“Take them,” Isabel said, before I could protest.

Margot plucked off her opals and clipped the rubies on her ears. As she gazed into the mirror, I thought there couldn’t have been more marked difference between her narcissistic adoration and Isabel’s indifference. As if a malign being whispered in my ear, I knew with absolute certainty that one particular admirer had told Margot to wear red.

“Aren’t you going to thank her?” I said, and Margot kissed Isabel. “Thank you, dearest sister. I adore them.”

As she skipped back to Claude to show off her trophies, I bent over to rub the stain left by her slipper on Isabel’s hem. Isabel touched my shoulder; I looked up. “That’s not important,” she said. “No one sees dirt on a bride, yes?”

She won me over with those words, testament to the common sense she’d learned as merchandise on the royal marriage market. “Indeed,” I said, and I winced as I straightened up. My kirtle was laced too tight. I shouldn’t have asked Lucrezia to yank the stays an extra notch in the futile hope of restoring something of my vanquished figure.

“You too look splendid,” she said, gesturing at my reflection.

I had no choice but to turn to the mirror. I beheld a short, stout woman in an almost-black shade of violet, my hair covered by a peaked coif, my dark eyes pleated at the corners. I’d donned sedate emeralds for my ears, an onyx brooch beneath my ruff and my black pearls. But nothing in the world could restore my youth, and I turned away.

Bells tolled. Isabel’s regal mask settled back over her face. “It is time,” I said, and I took her hand, leading her from the chamber to wed my son.

Under the vaulted ceiling, we assumed seats in the royal pews: Henri and Hercule to my right, Margot and Claude and her husband to my left. Courtiers and nobles filled the chapel to capacity, the heady aroma of perfume mingling with the harsh smoke of the candelabrums and torches on the walls, and occasional whiff of horse droppings caught on some lord’s boots. Clad in his crown and royal robes, Charles knelt beside Isabel at the altar as Monsignor the Cardinal performed the interminable ceremony.

I watched Margot out of the corner of my eye and caught her gaze straying to the pew occupied by the Guises. Young Guise certainly merited notice in his scarlet doublet, which highlighted his intense blue eyes and white-gold hair. He’d grown a mustache and beard that added gravity to his years: for a heart-stopping second, I saw the falconlike reflection of his dead father, le Balafré, and a tremor rippled through me.

Both he and Margot wore red.

All of a sudden Henri’s lips were at my ear. “There’s a ghost with us. Look. Coligny is here.”

I froze. “He … he can’t be.”

“Well, he is. Can’t you feel him? He stares at you even as we speak.”

Blood rushed to my head. I couldn’t hear or see anything. This couldn’t be happening. I wasn’t ready. I’d known this day must come, but I wanted to orchestrate it at my convenience, after I’d set in motion my plan to wed Margot to Navarre. I didn’t have the players in place yet. Queen Jeanne still eluded me; I’d invited her to court to celebrate Charles’s marriage, but she’d sent her regrets, saying that she was ill. I’d assumed Coligny would also stay away, as I had not lifted my restriction on him. He would not risk his safety. Henri must be mistaken.

I braved a glance over my shoulder, past the bored courtiers eager for the ceremony to conclude and festivities to begin, past the whispering ladies and matrons fanning themselves despite the chill, onward to the darkened recesses, where a collection of figures was standing.

There in the shadows he stood, his eyes gleaming like arctic fire in his careworn face.

“See?” said Henri.

“I told you so. The dead are with us.”

“How could you?” I remonstrated as Charles changed for the banquet.

“He hasn’t been officially pardoned! How could you invite him here?”

My son whirled to me, knocking aside the kneeling page who’d removed his gem-encrusted slippers. “You said our settlement pardoned all the Huguenot leaders!”

“That’s different. They acted under his command; the leaders followed his direction.”

“I don’t see a difference. A pardon is a pardon. I’ll not go back on my word as king. I invited him because it’s my wedding and I want him to know we bear him no ill will.”

I stood open-mouthed, so taken aback I had no idea what to do. It was like that day in Blois: whenever Coligny appeared, my son transformed into someone else. I saw my own weakness in him, the trusting person I had once been. I knew Coligny’s lure, how he could attract and convince others, for I’d felt his power. I could still feel it. Only now, I knew better.

“Did he write to you?” I asked, and Charles gave me a startled look. Then he spat, “Yes, he wrote to me. What of it? And I wrote back. I removed the price on his head and assured him he had my protection. I mean it too. The war is over. I want peace and I will have it.”

“If you want peace, then you must be the one to send him away. Your bride is a Catholic princess, cousin to Philip of Spain. She cannot receive him.”

“She’ll receive him if I say she will.” The page scrambled out of his way. “I’m sick to death of this enmity between the religions. Coligny is a peer of France; he deserves to be at court. It’s the perfect time for us to make a lasting peace.” He paused, looking at me through narrowed eyes that reminded me of his father. “You told me not to mention the marriage with Navarre and I agreed. Have you changed your mind? Would you rather we kept killing each other?”

“Of course not,” I replied, and I couldn’t keep the anger from my voice. “But you know Coligny waged war against us. He refused all compromise until he had no other choice.”

“He didn’t wage war against me. I didn’t make agreements with Spain.”

I resisted the urge to grab him by his collar and shake some sense into him. I had no authority over him anymore; at twenty years of age, he was firmly our king. I’d kept him under my care as long as I could. I now saw that in doing so I’d inadvertently sowed his resentment.

I softened my tone. “Mon fils, I agree with the sentiment, but this is neither the time nor the place. You must send him away for his protection. The Guises are here. You risk his life.”

“If Guise or anyone else touches a hair on his head, they’ll answer to me.” He yanked his cap from the cowering page. “Coligny stays. In fact, I’ll reinstate him in Council. He can serve as a Huguenot adviser, as he used to before the damn war.”

He stalked past me to the door. “I’ll see you in the hall.”

Charles disappeared right after the feast, leaving Isabel and me to preside over the nuptial festivities. I reasoned he’d gone off to change his clothes, as he detested finery. Left on the dais with Isabel, I watched Margot, flushed by wine and the fawning compliments of the gentlemen. She seemed oblivious of Guise, who sat with Henri. If he in turn took notice of her, he had an expert facility for disguising it, smiling and nodding as Henri whispered in his ear and a court strumpet refilled their goblets every chance she got. Indeed, Guise appeared engrossed in whatever Henri was saying, unaware he was being watched by the handsome Spaniard Antonio de Guast, who’d served under Henri’s command during the war and now acted as his bodyguard.

The Spaniard’s dark stare gave me pause. I’d seen that look before, countless times among the women at court who assessed each other like combatants in the arena: it was covetous and jealous, and it made me wonder at the depth of his relationship with my son.

A high-pitched squeal wrenched my attention to Hercule, already bedraggled in his new clothes, snatching morsels from platters as a group of ladies—flown on wine—hastened after him, slapping his buttocks with their feathered fans. He was almost sixteen and a disaster. He’d shown no improvement in his studies or deportment, despite Margot’s pains, and I winced as I caught Isabel watching his antics with a rigid frown.

I couldn’t blame her. It was her nuptial feast, her introduction to our court, and all semblance of decency had degenerated the moment the tables were dismantled. Courtiers slipped into the shadows by the pilasters to nuzzle; the musicians’ kettledrums and pipes sounded in tandem to shrieks of drunken laughter as dancers swirled on the open floor. In my father-in-law’s time, such behavior was unheard of; as full of wit and hedonism as his court had been, the women never shoved their bodices past their shoulders to expose their nipples, nor had the men leered and cupped themselves as if in a brothel.

I reached for the decanter to refill her goblet. “The court,” I started to explain. “We haven’t celebrated in some time. We’ve been at war and they’re overly exuberant …” My explanation faded as the sparse color drained from her face, her eyes fixed forward.

I followed her stare. Around us, the court’s laughter sputtered and died.

Charles marched to the dais, his long hair falling to his shoulders, his billowing chemise sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing sunburned forearms. At his side was Coligny.

In a ringing voice my son said, “Admiral de Coligny wishes to greet my queen.”

Coligny bowed. The last time we’d been this close was five years ago. To my surprise, he seemed smaller than I remembered, his chiseled features marked by deprivation. His eyes were still lucid, still penetrating, but he looked haunted by everything he’d seen and done in the name of his faith, a man compelled by doctrine to sacrifice his ideals.

He’s getting old, I thought. He’s a weak and aging man. There’s nothing for me to fear.

“Seigneur,” I said. “Welcome to court.”

“Thank you. Your Grace looks fit. I trust you are—”

“I’m fine. May I present my new daughter-in-law, Her Grace Queen Isabel?”

As he started to bow, Isabel stood with a rustle of skirts. She inclined her head, forcing him to step aside so she could leave the dais. With a perfunctory curtsy to Charles, she exited the hall. I could have applauded. Her nerve, it seemed, was tempered with steel.

“Her Majesty complained of a headache before you arrived,” I said, noting the embarrassed flush on Charles’s cheeks. “She’s had a long day and needs to rest.”

“Of course,” said Coligny. “I understand.”

“The admiral has agreed to serve at court,” Charles informed me, with a defiant lift of his chin. “He says he’ll be honored to regain his seat on the Council and assist us in forging peace.”

“Is that so?” I forced out a smile. “Well, let us first ensure there’s peace with your new bride, yes? This is your wedding night.” I braced myself for his retort; instead, Charles mumbled, “Yes, of course. I shouldn’t neglect her.” He clapped Coligny on the shoulder. “I’ve had your old apartments readied. You can worship freely there and receive your Huguenot friends.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious.” Coligny lowered his head.

“Good. And we’ll hunt together in the morning.” Charles started to follow Isabel; I snatched him by the hand. “Let me accompany you.” I glanced at Coligny. “We should speak more at length, Seigneur. Perhaps tomorrow, after the hunt?”

His reply was inscrutable. “If you wish.”

I turned away, moving with Charles through the courtiers. After seeing him to Isabel’s rooms, I returned to my own.

“Is it true?” Lucrezia asked. “Is he back?”

“Yes.” I went into my bedchamber and shut the door. By the light of a candle, I pried up the loose floorboard under my bed and removed Cosimo’s box. I didn’t open it.

But I thought about it. I thought about it for a very long time.

The following afternoon, I waited for him in my study, sitting at my large desk where hidden levers could be released to expose secret drawers, in which I stored important documents. On the desk itself I’d placed a portfolio and the royal seal—manifest symbol of my power.

He walked in, his unadorned black doublet fitted to his lean frame. He had retained his figure and the sight of him caught at my breath. We had not been alone since Blois.

He spoke first. “I know you are angry with me.”

I regarded him coldly. “Do you fault me?”

“No. But you’ve nothing to fear. I would not undertake another war, even if I were in a position to do so. No man desires peace more than I do.”

“I’ve heard such words before.” I fixed him with my stare. “Yet you still chose to believe the worst of me. Why should I think that anything has changed?”

“I don’t expect you to. I only ask that you let me prove myself.”

“Prove yourself? I’ve given you more than one occasion, if I recall, and you did not think it worth your while. Were it not for my forbearance, you’d be a hunted man.”

A spark surfaced in his eyes. I’d forgotten how self-contained he could be, how unrevealing of his self. Now that he was before me I recognized that mastery he’d always had over his emotions, a talent I only now was beginning to grasp. With him, everything ran under the surface. Everything was hidden.

I sat forward in my chair. “I pardoned you once. I can do so again. Contrary to what you may think, I’ve no desire to persecute your faith. I never have. Indeed, I hope to soon arrange a marriage between a Huguenot and a Catholic. What say you to that?”

“My faith has never opposed such unions. I believe yours, however, does.”

“Yes, but this is no ordinary marriage. I wish to wed Margot to the prince of Navarre.”

To a less discerning eye he would have appeared unmoved. But I noticed the subtle tightening of his posture. “I don’t see how this matter concerns me.”

“I will tell you how it does. You carry influence with Jeanne of Navarre, do you not?” I paused. “And you say you wish to prove yourself. Very well: I want you to sign this letter to her, requesting that she come to court with the prince. It will show her that you believe the enmity between our faiths can be resolved and that you support my marriage suit for her son.”

This time, I saw it in his eyes. At last he revealed the suspicion lurking under his impervious facade. “I fear Her Grace of Navarre has been quite ill. Traveling will be difficult for her.”

“She wasn’t too ill to travel to La Rochelle,” I rejoined, unable to conceal a flash of anger. Did he think me a fool? “I hardly see how a trip to Paris can be an inconvenience. Unless I’m mistaken, she would be only too happy to see you reinstated at court and, I assume, welcome the chance to end the discord between our faiths. After all,” I added, “her son is in our line of succession, but he could be removed. The pope has declared anathema on all Protestants and would excommunicate Jeanne of Navarre, thus opening her realm to invasion by a Catholic power. I could convince His Holiness to reconsider, should circumstances warrant it.”

The air thickened. I didn’t believe Navarre posed any real threat to the succession: I had other sons, should Charles, God forbid, die without an heir. Still, if Jeanne was excommunicated, her kingdom would be forfeit to its nearest Catholic neighbor: us or Spain. I had no intention of wasting my resources trying to overtake her realm, but Philip would, and Coligny knew that he himself had contributed to it by his wars. I wondered if he ever regretted his actions, if he ever looked back to that hour when he’d betrayed our alliance over Philip’s lies.

If so, he would never say it. And no matter what, this time he must submit. Promises were not enough. He had to prove he was capable of bowing to a higher authority than his own.

“Is that all?” he said at length. “This is what you offer me: a bribe?”

I let out a short laugh. “Come now, it’s a friendly arrangement. We were friends once, yes?”

He ignored my question. “Will you expect the prince of Navarre to convert?”

I paused. How did he know?

“His conscience is his own,” I said carefully. “Yet if we show our people that princes of different faiths can live together in harmony, perhaps they too will follow suit.”

He did not speak. I reached to the portfolio, retrieved the letter. “Just sign. After that, I’ll ask nothing more of you. If Jeanne refuses, so be it.”

I inked a quill, extended it to him. He hesitated for a moment, but he did not read the letter. Then he leaned forward and appended his signature, so close I might have touched him.

I sanded the letter. “We’ll celebrate our Christmas court in Paris this year; you’re welcome to stay. Our next Council session will be held after the New Year.”

“By your leave, I’ll spend Christmas at Châtillon with my wife and children.” His mouth shifted into what might have passed for a smile. “I wed again in La Rochelle. God has seen fit to bless me again at this late stage in my life.”

I could not look at him. “Congratulations,” I heard myself say. “I hope you’ll both be very happy. Good day, my lord.”

He bowed. As soon as he left, I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth. Birago slipped in.

“He signed,” I said. “But I want him watched. I … I don’t trust him.”

Birago retreated, clicking the door shut.

I looked at the letter, at the tight curlicues of his signature, and felt torment prowl the fissures of my heart, like a howl seeking its way out.