The Second Jezebel E-Book

Peter Mowbray

• Herausgeber: Grosvenor House Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 511

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The wedding between the Princess Marguerite de Valois and Henri King of Navarre was intended to be a celebration that would at last bring peace to the warring Catholics and Huguenots in France. Instead, it was a precursor for the infamous Massacre of Saint Bartholomew. By the time the bloodshed had abated, none was seen as guiltier of creating the horrors of that night than the Queen Mother - Catherine de Medici. Seventeen years later, as Catherine's life hangs in the balance, the mob threatens to drag her body through the streets. To them she is no longer Queen Mother, merely the second Jezebel in history to be thrown to the dogs.

Leseprobe

Contents

Title

By the Same Author

Dedication

Cast of Characters

Author’s Note

Foreword

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

References

Copyright

ALSO BY PETER MOWBRAY

The Serpent of the Valois

FOR

OLIVER & ROSS

No father could be more proud of his sons

Cast of Characters

CATHERINE DE MEDICI, QUEEN MOTHER OF FRANCE

THE HOUSE OF VALOIS:

Claude, Duchesse of Lorraine

Charles IX

Henri III

Marguerite, (Margot) Queen of Navarre

Hercule, (rechristened François) Duke of Alençon

Three other children died in infancy.

Catherine’s two eldest children François II and Elizabeth, Queen

of Spain had died by the year in which this story begins.

THE HOUSE OF CHÂTILLON

Gaspard de Coligny (Admiral of France)

Charles de Teligny (the Admiral’s son in law)

THE HOUSE OF BOURBON:

Henri, King of Navarre (son of Antoine and Jeanne) *

Charles, Cardinal d’Bourbon (Navarre’s uncle)

THE HOUSE OF GUISE:

Henri, Duke of Guise (son of François) *

Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine (his uncle)

Some other players:

Cosimo & Lorenzo Ruggieri (Astrologers to the Queen Mother)

Charlotte de Suave, (a member of the Queen Mother’s “escardon”)

Jean Louis de la Valette, Duke of Épernon (one of Henri III’s mignons)

Anne d’Arques, Duke of Joyeuse (one of Henri III’s mignons)

Elizabeth, Queen of England

William Cecil, (later Lord Burghley) Elizabeth’s chief minister

Philip, King of Spain

PLUS

Assorted other Royalty, courtiers and officials, with a generous helping of innocent victims and a sprinkling of spies and assassins.

*In order not to confuse the reader (or, indeed, the author!) I have decided that as the story here has three principal characters all with the christian name of Henri, I will adopt the rule of reverting to family name rather than a forename in order to distinguish who is who! Therefore, Henri of Navarre will become simply Navarre; Henri de Guise will similarly be identified as Guise. It seems both protocol and good manners dictate that King Henri Trois be titled either the King or Henri.

Author’s Note

The events in this story follow, in chronological sequence, those described and related in my previous book – The Serpent of the Valois.

At the end of the book I have noted some of the excellent reference books used as the basis for the story, all of them are scholarly works from master historians, and I thank them for such valuable information.

Naturally some artistic licence has been taken in some aspects of the book, and will no doubt horrify serious academics, but remember – this humble tale is only an interpretation!

Peter Mowbray 2016

Foreword

France by the summer of 1572 was a country on the brink of complete collapse. The civil wars, fought between the Catholics and the French Protestants, (known as the Huguenots) had almost torn the country apart.

The great families of Catholic nobility, the Guises and the leaders of the Huguenots, the Bourbons, and Châtillon, had raged war on one another for almost 12 years, ostensibly in the name of religion, but with an enmity between personalities that transcended all theological reasoning, and was becoming cruelly exposed as blind, murderous hatred.

Ruling this war-torn nation was the House of Valois whose King, Charles the ninth, leads an unhappy existence, torn between friends and family, duty and dishonour. His remaining siblings were his younger brothers, Henri and François and sisters, Marguerite (Margot) and Claude.

It is however, the King’s mother that commands the greatest power. A woman that in the annals of French history embody all that is wicked and deceptive. A woman who the French, be they Catholic or Huguenot, revile more than any other – the Queen Mother of France, Catherine de Medici.

Charles’s younger brother, François had died in December 1560, and his young wife, (a Guise) the infamous Mary, Queen of Scots, had left her beloved France for a trouble-filled life that would end in the cold, damp hall of Fotheringay Castle in 1587. By the time of his ascension Charles had not yet come of age, his formidable mother therefore claimed the regency.

A country that was controlled by a regent was, at best, a vulnerable state in 16th Century Europe. That its regent was a woman, rendered it, in this “Anciem Regime” on a fast track to destruction!

Catherine de Medici was certainly a formidable force. She was neither liked nor respected by the vast majority of the French people. She trusted no one, and was considered to be without scruples, morals, compassion or kindness.

Those who stood in her way paid a heavy price for doing so. What had for her begun as a regency to protect the interests of her young family became a personal thirst for ultimate power and control. Whatever needed to be done to ensure that power was in no way threatened was done. All were expendable in the eyes of “Madame Serpent.”

Poisoner, mistress of the occult, murderess, the great dissembler. All these terms were used to describe her. Both main religious parties hated the Queen Mother of France. A rather “lukewarm” Catholic herself, she was seen as too tolerant of the Huguenots, who in turn distrusted her motives because of her faith.

Catherine’s main fear was her former son-in-law, the mighty King Philip of Spain. His power and his obsession with a Catholic League throughout Europe caused him to question Catherine’s policy and her own commitment to such a great cause.

The Admiral of France, Gaspard de Coligny, head of the Châtillon family, was the Huguenot’s main figurehead, and he was reported to have much influence with the increasingly unstable King.

A message of clear intent, evidence that she was as good a Catholic and would stem the flow of Huguenots in France, needed to be made and, during private talks with one of Philip’s senior ministers, Catherine divulged a plan to rid the realm once and for all of heresy, when the opportunity arose to carry it out.

The chance for the instigation of the Queen Mother’s “remedy for all ills in the realm” came on the occasion of the wedding of her daughter, the Princess Margot to Henri, King of Navarre. The union of a Catholic Princess to a Bourbon King drew hundreds of Huguenots to Paris, unknowingly walking straight into the trap that history would title, “the Massacre of Saint Bartholomew.”

An assassination attempt was made on the Huguenot hero Coligny, and whilst the bungled attempt resulted in severe injury rather than death, such a crime was bound to create a dangerous mood throughout the Huguenot followers.

The Queen Mother held council with Guise and other Catholic intimates, and informed them of her plans. She then convinced the mentally fragile King that a plot to avenge the attempt on the Admiral’s life by storming the palace and killing all the Royal family was imminent, and that striking first was the only way to prevent the Huguenots from committing regicide.

Coligny had narrowly escaped the attempt to kill him, only for Henri of Guise to command his men to break into the victim’s house and see the job properly carried out. The Admiral’s body was then thrown from the window for his enemy to confirm himself satisfied and thereafter, leaving the remains to be decapitated with a knife and the head taken to the Louvre as a gift for the Queen Mother.

Catherine had held her nerve and resolve right up until the ringing of the bells in the south tower of the church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the pre-arranged signal for the slaughter to begin. At this point one can imagine that the cold rush of fear coursed through her blood like ice, and she was about to cancel the commands she had given earlier that day.

Such indecision (rare as it was for the Queen Mother) and her uncertainty could not call a halt to the events she had set in motion. The reality however was evident once the head of the Admiral was laid at her feet!

Less than seventeen years later, Catherine de Medici lies dying at the Palace of Blois, and while she hovers close to death, her moments of lucidity are spent in recollection of these and many other events that have brought her long, eventful life to its climax.

Looked on only by her physician, her confessor, and at various times, ladies in waiting, the Queen Mother drifts from the haze of death to the clarity of her memories…

It did not take many hands to hold her down, as the woman was old and frail, her muscles weak against the strong arms of her assailants.

Someone pulled roughly at the black skullcap on her head, exposing the thinning auburn streaks. Someone spat at her, the warm phlegm trickled towards her eye, but she had no free hand to wipe it away. All around her noise, shouting and screaming and a red haze of fire. She looked through the smoke and her eyes focussed on the frightful images in front of her.

People everywhere were running around, their swords and daggers seemed to appear from nowhere, but their swift work created so much blood; it was splattered onto cobbled streets, streams of it clung to her shabby gown, her hands dripped with it as though it was pouring from her own body.

All around her, corpses began to pile up, slowly at first and then so many that they fell closer and closer to her but she could not move to pull away. All manner of severed limbs and headless cadavers reeked of the foul stench of death and seemed ready to swallow her up.

Then, suddenly she was staring at a figure clad in a long dark cowl, without image save for bony, white hands that gripped a dagger, the tip of which was pressed lightly against her throat, its point just piercing her skin. The figure spoke in a deep, hateful snarl “Welcome lady to your own Saint Bartholomew’s night”

The last thing she heard was the crackling noise as the dagger was pushed straight into her throat…

The sudden loud gasp from the dying Queen Mother startled the three other people in her chamber. She had tried to sit up in her obvious anguish, her fevered brow now soaked in a cold sweat. Strands of her once full head of hair stuck to her skin like the harsh raindrops that ran down the outside of the windows of her chamber.

Her physician, Dr Cavriani, nearly upset the tincture that he was carefully preparing. The Queen Mother’s confessor who had been sat with her for so many hours, dropped his prayer book in alarm, and the two of Catherine’s ladies of her bedchamber who had kept close by their mistress should they be needed, noticeably jumped.

Catherine de Medici was trembling, in fear as much as anything else; the dreams were vivid enough, her life playing out before her, she could close her eyes and it would all be there, as though it were a mummers play of which she had been so fond. It was the violence of this latest nightmare that had a realism she feared even when she had been woken from its terrifying clutches. Those events of Saint Bartholomew’s Eve, the nightmares of it had been more vivid as she slipped closer towards her death.

Cavriani, with the attendants, helped the Queen Mother to settle again, wiping the beads of perspiration from her face and down her chin and around her neck with a cloth bathed in cool rosewater. The physician was not optimistic about a miracle recovery, but his patient had at least regained the use of her limbs, and could manage some movement, limited though it was.

The chamber was stifling; the fireplace was stoked with pine logs the scent of which wafted around the room, whilst its fierce heat seemed to devour all the air. Now and again, one of the attending ladies would be handed a cordial or other concoction to give her mistress, and she would carefully support the Queen Mother’s head as it was trickled into her dry mouth.

The chamber was gloomy and dull, its once luxurious décor was old and fading, threadbare tapestries hung on grey walls, and dust had settled into the folds of the heavy cumbersome bedclothes. Catherine had in recent times felt no desire to update the ornate, dated façade of the room. Her son, the King, had remonstrated with her time and again to have the chamber redecorated, and refurnished he would specify the colours and designs himself. Catherine had always smiled, she who had taken such great delight in building, said she had no mind to have anything changed, she was happier with it as it was.

Even as she looked to every corner of the room, figures seemed to step out of the shadows and a scene would play out in front of her. It was as though faces in some of the costly paintings looked away from her. The firelight would throw gross figures across the ornate ceiling of the chamber like ghosts; although it was often painful to move her neck, her eyes followed the shapes as they grew ever larger, and she would close her eyes tightly and shut them out.

Now as she began to calm after the nightmare, everyone in the room seemed to drift away until they had all gone. She peered over to one of the corners of the chamber, and there she could see figures running around, there was shouting and screaming, and there…yes, she was there! She could see herself standing watching everything. She was talking to someone, a familiar face, that of her good Italian friend Petrucci. He had laid something at her feet, and she was now telling him to take it away, her face aghast with horror. The images began to take form more clearly, and she felt she was floating closer and closer to the scene before her…

PART ONE

“This Kingdom is still so weak that I fear even the slightest relapse may cause it to fade and die.”

—Catherine de Medici

Paris was a city growing more and more dense and filthy with each passing year. The streets of the capital were dark and polluted with all manner of filth. In its very depths, beggars scratched around for food and especially anything of value that may have been dropped by the melee of the hundreds that had arrived so recently. Wine had flowed from every fountain, and those who barely ate from day to day, filled their gnawing stomachs with the rich liquid; so much so, that the very streets that had so recently watched the passing cortege of exalted figures with an unsettling silence, now lay amongst the debris, unconscious in their intoxication.

The sewers that did exist in the city were hopelessly inadequate, and the gutters ran slowly, carrying along the putrid, rotten matter that congested in almost every evil smelling street and its maze of dark back alleys. All that had been cleared away and cleaned to impress the visiting dignitaries and the French nobility, was now again awash with human waste and the careless litter from the visiting hordes who had followed their leaders into the city for the recent Royal wedding.

Across the capital however, the eerie silence that had seemed to settle over the city, began to turn to an alarming sound that would soon awake even the most inebriated of its citizens.

The Royal palace of the Louvre by contrast, was ablaze with colour and light from almost every window. Richly coloured drapes adorned the large windows, vast sconces held ornate candles, and almost seemed to set the rooms alight with their dazzling flicker. A visitor to this noble building would swear that one of the famous masques or balls that the Louvre had become famous for would soon take place.

Yet its atmosphere was very different from the gaiety and colour that were the hallmark of such festivities. One could ascend the sweeping staircases, passing rich tapestries and hangings in sumptuous red and gold that covered the walls, and step on the ornate patterned floors and feel a very different atmosphere than one of laughter and music.

Soldiers seemed to be everywhere. Captains shouted their instructions as the Royal guards were sent in all directions. Their usual plain expressions now gave way to concerned glances to one another, their normal fearlessness underlined by a feeling of great uncertainty. Their number had been doubled in and around the Royal apartments.

The Queen Mother of France, Catherine de Medici presented a sinister figure dressed in a gown of black, a colour she had adopted after the accident that had killed her husband, Henri Deux. The only other colours to show were a short white trimmed collar at her neck, and the slightest wisp of auburn hair, just visible at the edges of her black skull-cap. Her large hooded eyes, they too almost black in colour, could strike fear in any who crossed her. Her demeanour was generally one of calm, and few could read from her placid appearance what went on inside the cautious, quick mind.

She had at first been horrified by the sight of the severed head of the Admiral of France, Gaspard de Coligny. Now as she looked into the lifeless face of the man who she had come to regard as her deadliest enemy, she was unusually calmed by it. Strange, she thought, that as she cast her gaze from the staring horrified eyes to the grey neck with its fringe of roughly cut strands of skin, she felt almost empowered, lucid again after a brief unfamiliar feeling of dread.

When she looked once more at the bringer of this gift, her faithful countryman, Petrucci, she at last, smiled. “Guard this prize well my friend,” she said and, after taking a deep breath, she returned her attention once more to the scene she was witnessing beyond the very gates of the Louvre.

Some hours before she had given instructions that the city gates were to be closed, and that there was to be no traffic on the Seine. At first her orders had caused some consternation. Those who had been given commands knew better than to disobey her, and all precautions had been made. Almost at once, she could hear cries from within the very palace itself.

She started, alarmed again that maybe she had made a miscalculation, and that the Huguenots would be mounting a counter attack. No, she was certain that the she and the rest of the Royal family were well guarded. Some shouts outside her very chamber did cause her to jump violently, she strode to the door and flung it open, uncertain of what to expect. The figure standing in the doorway was a Huguenot assistant of the great surgeon Pare. He stood staring wide-eyed at her for a second and then fell at her feet; his tunic soaked in blood. Immediately behind him, sword in hand was one of the Duke of Guise’s henchmen. He bowed curtly, and with indecent haste, dragged the victim away from the doorway. One of Catherine’s ladies who with several others had witnessed the scene screamed, clutching at her mouth in horror.

The Queen Mother turned to her and those with her “Return to your chambers at once. Lock the doors and admit no one that you are uncertain about. Go at once!” The terrified women, and other servants who had watched the scene and were now aware of the violence that was taking place, ran to the sanctuary of their chambers and offices.

It seemed that the noise from outside grew with each passing moment. Catherine had by now completely overcome her earlier anxiety, and privately cursed herself for her weakness. Had she not lived in fear for herself and her children daily, never knowing when a traitorous mob would descend on her and butcher them all?

She and her brood had to survive. For Catherine, this was the only way, to safeguard both her very life and the commanding position she had. Power could not be shared with the Admiral Coligny. She had needed his death to eliminate a potential rival for control of her son, the King, as well as a sign to the mighty Philip of Spain that she earnestly desired to rid France of the Huguenot heretics. How convenient that such drastic measures as this intended butchery could be concealed by the enmity that existed between the Catholic Guise family and the Huguenot Admiral.

From her vantage point, Catherine could now watch the unfolding massacre; the lights from flares lit up the night sky like a shower of sparks. Screams from both adults and children hung in the air that was beginning to smell of death.

It had been agreed that all Catholics could be identified by a white cross on the back of their tunics or white handkerchiefs attached to their sleeves, and the Queen Mother could pick out many such emblems, as they darted around in a frenzy of murderous activity.

At first there had been only a trickle of people running from their homes. The streets were now a deluge of men women and children who dashed forth from the buildings like a burst dam. Despite the veil of secrecy to ensure that the imminent massacre was not known to the populace, Guise had obviously let some details be known to his own generals, and by process, many of the leading Catholic citizens had been afforded some measure of forewarning.

As a result, many of the houses belonging to these leading citizens had been decorated on their doors by a white cross identifying their households as the faithful rather than the heretic.

All around the city Huguenots were dragged from their beds and slaughtered. Those who attempted escape were seldom fortunate and once caught, could expect no pity. On the bridge of Pont Notre-Dame lived many Huguenots who were butchered before being thrown from their upstairs windows into the river below. One such victim was the wife of the King’s plumassier whose head struck a column of the bridge and was caught by her long, much admired hair. It became entangled, and her weakening body could not wrestle it free. The woman had by now been noticed and some Catholics took to hurling stones at her until she no longer struggled.

People were dragged from their homes and beaten to death with any weapon available. Throats were cut, limbs severed and bodies defiled as the frenzy of killing grew. This slaughter was not reserved for the Huguenot leaders alone. Indeed, no sooner had the Duke of Guise’s men heard the rallying cry of “To arms! Kill! Kill!” than they were urging all good honest citizens of Paris to do the Lord’s work and rid France of the Huguenot scourge and defend their God and King.

Soldiers under the Duke of Guise as well as the palace soldiers tore around the city, invading all known Huguenot areas, and dragging their hapless victims into the street, dispatching them with ferocity and by many garish methods. Men, women and children were killed with equal fervour. Those who were not Catholic were soon trying to paint the symbolic white cross on their doors and on the back of their clothing, but few escaped with such a ruse. Those who ran from their attackers would only receive a more brutal assassination. Flight merely inflamed a growing frenzy, and those who were caught could expect no mercy. The stifling city seemed to be erupting in fresh violence as the hours went by, and the air hung with the putrid smell of death and burning, as Huguenot owned houses and shops were set ablaze.

To the victims, there seemed to be no escape. The night sky was gradually giving way to dawn, but still the massacre continued.

In the basement of his house in the rue de Seine, Nicholas L’Mercier hugged his wife and two children as the noise of people trampling about upstairs set them shivering in terror. He was in no doubt that his premises were being looted by the insane mob that he had a short time ago witnessed murdering before his very eyes. The merchant desperately prayed that they would not be uncovered, and yet he could almost sense the danger that approached, his heart sank as the trap door to the basement creaked as it was opened from the room above, and the sound of footsteps could be heard. His daughter and small son began to whimper, his wife clasped her hands together in prayer. Seeking to conceal them all behind him as though they would not be seen, the Huguenot merchant raised an arm to deflect the first thrust of a sword from the two figures that stood over them.

Not far away, in the rue Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois, Madame Baillet, the wife of Lussant the Queen Mother’s goldsmith had heard the approaching assailants, and could see no means of escape other than out of an upstairs window. In her desperation she therefore climbed upon her stool and eased herself through the small opening. She had intended to leap to the safest area down below, which appeared to be the pile of dead meat and rotting vegetables from the eating-house next door. She retched at the thought, but there was no other choice. Unfortunately, in her haste she had mistimed her jump, and as a result caught her foot on the iron window fastener and landed with a crash on the stone ground. All she could feel was the most excruciating pain in her legs, and she gathered up her skirts to find to her horror that both her legs lay in distorted angles, a bone protruded from one like a bloody spear. She tried to stifle her screams, but could not control the cries of agony. Her Catholic killers found her thus and merely laughed at her injury, well deserved for being a filthy Huguenot. Before running her through with their swords however, they noticed her expensive bangles and sliced off both her hands in their eagerness to have these unexpected treasures. Moments later as the cruelly disfigured body of Françoise Baillet lay dead and mutilated a stray dog picked up one of the severed hands, and slunk away into a back alley. The Catholic owner next door had always hated his neighbours, and delighted therefore in finally running the woman’s corpse through with his spit.

The dark alley off the rue aux Ours had no means of escape, and even a man as large as Jacques d’Mazier could not pass through the thick chains that had been set across the end of the alley from where he had sought liberty. He stopped momentarily, the perspiration streaming down his fleshy face, his body heaved as he drew in great breaths of the foul stench of Parisian air. Suddenly a face appeared at his side. He jumped in alarm, and the blade sliced swiftly across his cheek, and then to his neck, and finally his chest and stomach. He fell onto the heavy chains, where his assailants robbed him of his purse, and his fine clothing. The pair of killers were not Catholics, but having ensured that their white handkerchiefs were still placed accordingly, they spat on the bulky body of their Huguenot neighbour. A man they had detested during a long business feud. After all, who would ever know? What would one more Huguenot body matter? In a night of such brutality, none could trace this crime back to their door.

Nor was it just adults who gloried in the slaughter of so many. Young children were openly encouraged by their parents and elders to kill the scourge of France that was the Huguenots.

At the Pont aux Meuniers, Madeleine Briconnet struggled to dress herself in the disguise of a Catholic nun, and after assuring herself that she could pass unnoticed, she set out from the back yard of her house and began to move as swiftly as she could, her heart beating so loudly she felt sure it could be heard. Several men carrying flares and bloodied swords and daggers watched her as she went by, but must have been convinced by her attire, as they did not hinder her. Almost as she began to feel she might make her escape from the madness that seemed to be all around, she noticed two soldiers had stopped before her. She tried to speak, and held up her crucifix as evidence of her sacred position.

One of the soldiers stared at her and she followed his eyes as they studied her apparel until coming to rest at her feet. He glanced up at her and smiled, exposing the yellow stumps of his rotten teeth. Only after a moment did she look down and see to her horror that she had misjudged the length of the false habit, which cruelly exposed her rich velvet dress beneath. The men cut her down brutally and left her bloodied body to the dogs.

The slaughter and mayhem raged throughout the long night. Many old scores were settled that night as neighbours turned on each other, husbands gave up wives to the mobs, children forced to watch as their parents were slain before them, before even they were not spared. Many who could afford it, tried to buy their lives from their assailants. Pregnant women were slain, even one who went into early labour from the shock of the massacre.

The Seine was now running red from the blood of so many of the victims thrown into it which were almost bringing the water to a standstill before men were instructed to keep it flowing by untangling the mess of bodies that threatened to cause a dam.

The English Ambassador in Paris, Francis Walsingham paced his apartments, deep in anxious thought. It had been several hours since the Catholic Duke of Nevers had been instructed to set guards on the embassy in order to ensure his personal safety. Since the middle of the night, several English Protestants had hurried to the building in the Faubourg Saint-Germain begging for sanctuary from the mob. The tall, dark figure of the ambassador went over to the window of his main chamber that looked out onto the bloody scene, wondering if he would even get out of Paris alive.

As dawn finally broke, the smoke filled air lay heavily over Paris and its Catholic citizens emerged from their frenzied activity of the past few hours, their thirst for Huguenot blood now sated. The slaughter had not ceased entirely, but the majority stared around them as though in a daze. Dead bodies seemed to be everywhere; severed limbs raw from the ravenous appetite of the stray dogs that roamed the city. Many victims were beyond recognition. All had seemed as one during the fanatical violence that had raged.

Salvation had only existed for those who wore the white cross, and although some Huguenots had survived the terror, none of them had ventured out to the streets, not daring to abandon their hiding places. It would be a brave soul that would raise a fist in defiance. All remained tense as citizens gradually began to take in the full horror of what had happened since midnight when the bells of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois had rung out their chilling alarm.

Whilst the massacre had been at its zenith in the streets of Paris, inside the Louvre, the tensions were just as palpable, and France’s King was becoming consumed with a rage to kill without mercy. Charles had wreaked havoc by tearing through the palace screaming at his guards to kill any Huguenots in the vicinity of the Louvre. “None shall live!” he had shouted, “None shall survive to reproach me when this night’s work is done!” Soldiers were despatched in all directions as the mayhem spread.

The King cut a pitiful sight. At nearly six foot tall, he should have cut a majestic figure; instead his face was drawn and haggard, grey in pallor, his bloodshot eyes were sunken and streaming. He looked more than double his age of twenty three, an old man almost, and one that was quite clearly bordering on the very edge of reason. He tore at his clothes, ripping at his white laced shirt that was now drenched in sweat. “I am the King!” he screamed. “None shall live to plunge a dagger into my heart! Take them! Take them all! Every heretic in Paris…!”

He stopped abruptly, as though suddenly realising something of great importance. He turned to speak to members of the court who would normally be in attendance at this time. Almost all the courtiers had taken refuge either in their own apartments if they resided in the palace, or had risked the streets, before the general mayhem and sickening bloodshed were really underway. The few attendants that had hurried to keep pace with him were now startled by his abruptness.

“No!” the King announced to any who cared to listen. “My dear friend Rochefoucauld shall not go; he must not be taken! Nor Pare, my doctor Pare shall not die this night! Marie, my beloved mistress…ah, but no,” he smiled suddenly, and pulling one of his valets to one side, spoke in a low, conspiratorial manner, that the terrified servant could barely hear.

“No, my beloved Marie is safe…but we shall tell no-one where I have hidden her and my nurse, my sweet darlings…they are safe, safe from…” He turned around quickly to check he was not being overheard. “Safe… from her!”

He giggled suddenly and then with a deep resigned sigh, as though his fury was spent, he at once again began to scream and tore after one of his guards who was dragging a body down a passageway, leaving a bloody trail in its wake. The sight of the red coloured smear seemed to inflame his madness still more and he raced to where the corpse was unceremoniously pushed over a balcony to the floor below.

Charles ran to see where the victim had been thrown, and saw a mound of dead bodies, there seemed to be chaos everywhere. The King stared open-mouthed, down at the pile of cadavers. Soon tears welled in his eyes and slowly dripped on to the bloody scene below. Then, almost as though he had woken from a sleep, he shouted for his guards again, and raced up another flight of steps with his hounds in excited pursuit.

The Queen Mother was now receiving regular reports about the carnage that was taking place throughout Paris and indeed, the Louvre itself. There was, she had been informed, indiscriminate butchery being carried out with many taking the opportunity to rid themselves of an enemy or a business rival, even an unwanted spouse. It was as though the city had gone completely mad.

All around her, Catherine could hear the cries and screams from the courtyards below as well as from the apartments and chambers throughout the palace. She could now ignore the violence with a dispassionate mind. With each passing hour she became more and more convinced that there had been no alternative to this night’s work. There was still however, one final guarantee that the power of the Huguenots was now severely checked, and she went in search of the Charles.

Upon the orders of the King, Navarre and his cousin Henri, Prince de Condé, had been held under close guard. Condé paced up and down his chamber where he had been confined with only a few servants. He too had heard the cries and screams from outside the gates of the Louvre. A scuffle had broken out earlier when the Swiss Guards had arrived to ensure he did not escape. His own men had naturally objected to their Prince being treated thus, and after a brief but bloody skirmish, at least eight of his soldiers had been cut down in front of his eyes. It seemed that the guards had neither pity nor concern for their actions, and one or two had even been seen to smile at their deeds.

The young Prince had been informed that the King and the Queen Mother had deemed it safer this night for him to be closely confined. Thus it was that he could do nothing until he was summoned.

The King of Navarre was better informed than his cousin, and ensured that his own spies were diligent and reported to him any goings on outside the palace. All he had been able to ascertain was that a Huguenot plot to kill the King, the Queen Mother and the rest of the Royal family had been uncovered, and it had been necessary to strike first before they were attacked.

Navarre did not need to be cleverer than he was to realise that this must be a great deal more than merely rounding up the instigators of a plot and having them examined under torture. Moreover, any proposed attack worth considering would never have been attempted without either himself or the Admiral Coligny being aware of it, and the old soldier and friend had implied nothing of the sort when they had last spoken.

He knew the brave Coligny would even now be remonstrating with the King and his mother. Navarre would certainly be glad to see the Admiral, who he felt still had some influence with the impressionable Charles.

As for himself he had always felt distinctly uneasy about being in Paris more so now that he was ever closer affiliated to the tainted Valois dynasty.

Throughout the Louvre, the Swiss Guard were now carrying out the Queen Mother’s orders that the palace should be secured, and all apartments thoroughly searched to seek out any remaining Huguenots that may be hiding. All along the palace galleries, dead bodies lay, some with throats slit, others with stab wounds that bloodied the ornate flooring, Women as well as men lay piled on either side of the walkways, heaped together in a tangle of butchered limbs.

As for the King, Catherine had sought him out and found him at the window in one of the chambers that looked out directly on to the Seine. He was taking careful aim with a harquebus and shooting at the bodies that were slowly moving down the river. A frightened attendant stood close by, recharging a second pistol to be exchanged once the first had been fired.

Charles was in a hysterical state; he was laughing with joy at hitting his target one moment and yet the next, he would begin whimpering pathetically, shouting how sorry he was. After some moments he leant against a wall and began to weep bitterly.

Catherine immediately snapped her fingers ordering that the attendants leave at once and take both the fire-arms and the ever-present hounds out of the chamber. Once they had gone, she turned on her son, grabbing him by his shirt, and shaking him violently “Charles, Charles-” she began.

However, the son that she had always been able to control, suddenly turned on his mother as he had never done before, and in one quick movement, he had his bloodied hand up at her throat, pressing his thumb and finger against the fleshy neck and gripping her tightly. Catherine’s eyes widened with horror, and she tried in vain to pull his hand away as he came close to her face, spitting the words with a frightening edge of menace.

“Now my mother,” he rasped, “I am master of this realm, and I will shoot you or my brothers or any I wish, yet it is your foul dealings that has led to this! See how I shoot at my own people? It is you who have brought me to this! You who have drenched France in blood…perhaps it is you who should perish this night, eh? You who should feel the close hand of death at your throat. Ah, yes I can do it…quite easily, I can kill you.”

Catherine felt terrified and her son’s grip was tightening with every word. He was becoming more and more unpredictable. With this madness upon him he was capable of anything and now, having dismissed all his attendants, she found herself totally at his mercy. Then suddenly, she could breathe again as something caused the King’s hand to drop away. The Duke d’Anjou had sought out his mother, and had grabbed his brother, pulling his grip from their mother’s throat. At once the Queen Mother gasped for air and fell to her knees, coughing. Anjou wrestled the King away, but then found himself under threat, as the maniacal Charles now leaned over him with a raised dagger.

Catherine dared to watch, although she was helpless to do anything, but strangely, Charles stopped breathing so heavily, and gradually it seemed that the madness had left him; his grip on the dagger loosened, and he rolled away from a relieved Anjou and lay on the floor, curled up into as tight a shape as he could, and began to wail uncontrollably. The Queen Mother allowed Anjou to quickly help her from the chamber as the King of France lay rocking from side to side, his loud sobs echoing down the deserted passageway.

Catherine gently rubbed a salve from her own cabinet of ointments on her bruised throat, and almost at once began to feel its powerful properties working to soothe her discomfort. She had dismissed her dwarf attendant once she had allowed Anjou to help her to her chamber, and he paced the room like a caged lion. The young Prince, the current heir to the throne was flushed after the incident with his older brother. Henri was as tall as the King, with striking good looks, high cheekbones and a flawless olive coloured skin, with large eyes like his mother’s, black and glittering.

“My dearest,” Catherine said quietly, in a voice strained and croaky as she motioned for him to sit, “I’m afraid we have to consider that your brother is beyond our help. God only knows what would have become of me if you had not bravely intervened, my darling.”

Anjou sighed, and picked at a thread from his doublet as he watched his mother, now quite calm after the vicious episode with the King. “He is a monster maman!” he exclaimed “He cannot carry on in this way.” Catherine held a delicate finger to his lips. “Hush, my son, you must not talk so rashly. Even as his madness comes upon him, he is still the King. He will quieten and then he will be calm again, he will need his mother. He will be full of remorse, and will beg forgiveness.”

Anjou made a dismissing motion with his hand, and stood up to begin pacing again. Catherine talked as he did so. “I have news that this evening has been more successful than we could have hoped.” Her eyes almost lit up at what had been a few hours filled with anxiety and fear. “Now we must check the Guise, it is no time for our valiant murderer to become the hero of the hour. If he is allowed that, then we have merely exchanged one threat for another.” Mother and son sat in companionable silence as they considered such implications.

Despite having shaken off her earlier anxiety, Catherine could not entirely dismiss her fears that a revenge attack could well be planned. It was only when she had been assured that the majority of Huguenots had indeed been virtually wiped out in Paris, that she then sought out Charles to insist that he should now issue a Royal proclamation that all arms must be laid down, and the citizens must return to their homes while the streets of the capital were again brought to order – the killing must stop. She advised Anjou to lie low for a further few hours while she dealt with his older brother.

Charles was now becoming too unpredictable, and would certainly not thank the younger brother he detested for being a witness to his earlier assault against their mother.

She took up her cane, and walked purposefully along the corridor towards the apartments of the King. The palace was still eerily quiet, with only muffled voices from the distance that could be heard along with the now familiar tapping of her walking cane on the hard flooring.

Catherine noticed smears of blood on the walls, where hands had desperately clung on before being dragged to their death; she tried to ignore the groans that she could still hear. Cries that rose from outside assailed her, and she moved quickly on.

Despite the stench of so much slaughter, she felt calmer than she had for many weeks. Nevertheless, there were still some important issues to deal with. She stopped and turned slightly, snapping her fingers. One of her faithful dwarves that followed in attendance, bowed low to her and nodded as she leant down and whispered her instruction to him. He bowed again and left her, running along the corridor.

As she mounted the two steps that led up to the King’s suite, she caught sight of the city from an open window where one of the ornate panes had been broken. She stopped for a moment and looked out over the houses, churches and streets. There was still noise, and she could clearly see men still attacking one another in the streets. Dogs barked and she noticed several carts that appeared to be piled high with corpses as they ambled their way to the Seine, where the cadavers would be thrown into the water. They would travel down to Le Havre and finally out into the English Channel. She carried on, allowing her fingers to flutter around her throat nervously as she entered the apartments of her son.

The King now lay on a couch, while his mistress, Marie was applying a soothing cool compress to his forehead as she whispered soothing words that had almost helped him drift off to sleep. He started as his mother approached. Marie rose and curtsied, before leaving the chamber. The Queen Mother smiled at the girl as she left, before turning to face her son as soon as the door had shut.

Charles looked sheepishly at his mother as she wiped away the thinning hair from his eyes where it had stuck to his perspiring skin. Charles was beginning to calm from all his exertions during the last few hours, and exhaustion was finally setting in. He was of a heavy heart, and his ghost-like pallor had shocked even his mother. Although he could not help but feel some suspicion, as she tended to him maternally as she had always done; the Queen Mother said nothing of his earlier assault against her, indeed acting as though nothing untoward had taken place between them.

Instead, she fussed at the state of his clothes, his white shirt covered in blood, his fine blue doublet torn and missing several of its pearl buttons. Instructions were given to his valets, who were only now beginning to emerge from cupboards, and underneath beds where they had concealed themselves during the last few hours, and soon several of them were scurrying about following her orders

At length the Queen Mother sank onto a chair beside her son, and leant onto her silver handled cane with one of her delicate hands over the other.

“My son,” she said quietly. “It is time to put an end to the violence that has taken grip of all Paris. Your generals have reported to me that we are safe, and they believe the threat of an uprising against ourselves and the leading Catholic nobles has been averted by our orders to rid the city of the traitors.”

Charles felt a wave of emotion coming over him, and he went to sink to his knees at her feet, but she put a hand up to stay him. “No my son, now we are more secure, you must not weep so, your court expects you to lead the way in our celebration of our victory. Yet,” she paused, ensuring they were not being overheard, “there is work still to do, and we must be firm in our resolution.”

Catherine paused as valets arrived with fresh clothes for the King, and while he allowed his servants to undress him and put on clean garments, she rose from her seat, and quickly scrutinised some of the letters that lay scattered on her son’s desk.

How foolish that letters like this should be carelessly left where anyone could see them. She recognised the small mark that she herself wrote onto the documents to indicate that she had already seen them. Nevertheless, this was typical of Charles to almost invite attention to his correspondence. She looked around as his valets put the finishing touches to his fresh outfit, and for some moments, felt strangely sad as she watched him.

Try as she might to ignore the situation, it was becoming apparent to her that something was different between herself and this eldest son. She had been despairing of him for some time; he was now becoming something of a liability to her and his family. Where once she had felt a natural instinct to care and protect him, she now felt pity for the pathetic state he presented. He was clearly sick in mind as well as in body and, moreover, he had failed to keep control of events, allowing his own persona to dominate his behaviour.

A strong King would have been in charge and not allowed the mob to take control as they clearly had done. More worrying was the little or no confidence in the King by the populace. Why else would they dismiss any concern about any Royal retribution for what had taken place that night?

What more could she do for this son who was becoming so detached from reality, and could thwart her plans at any moment? Did she still even love him as a mother should? Was her pity a strong enough replacement for that love? In that moment it came to her that he was becoming a weight that she could no longer bear. Charles, her son was, she realised – no longer of any use to her. The future was surely her dearest darling Henri. For a brief moment she felt a welling of emotion, but she swallowed hard and suppressed the weakness.

Having dismissed his servants, Catherine now seated herself again and spoke seriously to her son. “Charles, as I said, we must be resolute in how we act. What has occurred has been necessary to repel the traitorous Huguenots who plotted a complete destruction of us all; but now they must cease their butchery, there must be no further bloodshed.”

Charles nodded in agreement at her words. He was so tired, exhausted emotionally as well as physically. “What do you advise we do?” he asked wearily.

Catherine had noticed her dwarf standing at the doorway carrying a silver tray – on it an object covered in a black velvet cloth which as instructed, he placed on a nearby table. She had no qualms about the discretion of her closest servants, especially her dwarves. They were her creatures and devoted to their powerful mistress. Once he had carefully put down the tray she instructed him further.

“Go and notify the King of Navarre and the Prince of Condé that they are to attend His Majesty the King at once.” She then sat back and leaning her cane against the chair, she thoughtfully fingered her talisman bracelet, touching each of the different stones design delicately as she considered the forthcoming meeting.

Charles tore his gaze from the covered object and more than once hesitantly opened his mouth to ask about it, but his mother silenced him with a wave of her hand.

“We must deal with this matter of our dear Navarre and his cousin. They are dangerous if we let them have their liberty, and yet to have them in prison, or put to death, would invite rebellion throughout the Kingdom. There are those who would not miss them, but we cannot afford any further bloodshed. Remember, Navarre is wed to Margot, and she will be an adept spy in her husband’s court, I have no doubt. She knows her loyalty to her family is absolute.”

Privately, Catherine was uncertain about Margot’s loyalties, her daughter was certainly mischievous but that must be dealt with later. Firstly, she must force a wedge between Navarre, Condé and their followers, and then do something to check the growing arrogance of the Duke of Guise.

A short time later, the chamber door opened, and the King of Navarre strode in, followed closely by his cousin, the Prince de Condé. Navarre ran his rough hands through his mass of hair before bowing. As usual, his hair was unkempt and his overall appearance was one of a scruffy country youth. While a slight carefree smile was usual on his face, he seemed more anxious now. His small dark eyes glittered as he looked from one to the other. Charles seemed to have aged in just a day, he thought, while the Queen Mother looked composed, but one could never know what this disciple of Machiavelli was thinking behind those pale expressionless features.

Condé bowed stiffly. Unlike his cousin, the Prince was one who wore his concerns on his face, which was plain, but drawn. Neither guest was invited to sit. Even as they stood before the King and his mother, noises outside the chamber indicated that the palace was again returning to some normality, and the usual watch could be heard taking up positions outside the King’s chambers, even though his personal guards had never been far behind him throughout the terrible night. Catherine was pleased to hear the guard, at such a propitious moment.

Navarre was first to speak. “Your Majesties,” he said, “I welcome the chance to speak with you both, since I have until now been held prisoner in my chambers.”

Catherine chuckled “My son, surely a young bridegroom like yourself would not want to be else- where when just married to the sister of your King?”

Navarre inclined his head. “No, messieurs,” the Queen Mother continued, “you are merely held for your own protection. You know of course what has taken place this last night. Your King my son, has uncovered a deadly conspiracy too horrible to contemplate, and we have had to take decisive action.”

Condé interrupted, feeling a brief surge of anger at what the Queen Mother had casually called ‘action.’ “The streets of this capital run red with Huguenot blood,” he stated; “My own followers are cut down, my soldiers butchered in the palace itself. You would slaughter us all. Has the Admiral not been asked about this conspiracy, for I declare I know nothing of it!”

Navarre spoke sternly. “A conspiracy you say? Have its instigators been caught? Were there so many who planned this that all need to pay the price?”

Catherine sighed as though trying to explain a situation to a small child. “A plot was discovered, and the instigators had to be punished, or would you have your King slain in the middle of the night? God knows we also have the interminable feud between the Admiral and the House of Guise, which we are alas powerless to control. There have as a result, been…victims.”

She took up her cane and slowly walked behind both men. Her very movement seemed to make them uneasy, and Condé played with the rings on his fingers nervously. The very word “victims” certainly felt more chilling when spoken by the Queen Mother.

“You see, my sons,” Catherine eventually spoke, “you are, as has already been said, here for your protection. Alas, neither myself, nor the King are able to guarantee your safety. You say that your followers have been struck down. God knows we have tried to shield them from all harm, but their allegiance to you identifies them as merely more Huguenots to add to the other traitorous souls. My concern for you could not be greater than if I was indeed a mother to both of you, but I have to abide by the wishes of the King and our close advisers. The Huguenot cause is lost my sons. Your only hope of salvation, in this world as well as the next, is to agree to accept the mass and embrace the Catholic Church.”

To her annoyance, Condé laughed aloud, a bitter, hollow sound that was completely bereft of joy or amusement. “Never!” he almost shouted, “I believe that you, Madame, have quite lost your wits. I have been brought up another way from you, and my faith determines my life. Whilst I would gladly die for it, I would rather be left to practice my faith freely. If not then I should choose to be slain like the poor souls in the streets yonder, than suffer the fate of abandoning my soul for the sake of my skin.”

Catherine felt a sudden rush of anger, but before she had time to speak, Charles has leapt to his feet and held his dagger up to Condé’s throat, his features distorted with anger. “Then you will die a traitor as have the rest of the Huguenots. You will abandon your faith or you will suffer for it.”

Catherine stood at her son’s side, and calmly placed her hand on his arm gently pushing it downwards; she kept her sharp, gimlet eyes on Condé the whole time until he felt a chill run throughout his body. He could hold her gaze no longer and directed his eyes downwards.

Navarre was acutely aware that he had to think fast. As he stood next to his cousin he knew that there was little choice in this matter. Catherine had surely killed his mother, and she, or indeed the King, would not hesitate to eliminate him and Condé if it suited their plans to do so. He had to get away from Paris and its stench of death. He was sick at heart.

The issue was an important one for his cousin; but changing religion had never seemed such a momentous decision for him. Henri of Navarre had certainly not inherited his mother’s fanatical adherence to the faith. Ironically, his attitude to religion was more like Catherine’s.

He believed in life, and the pleasure he gained from it. No, he had too much to live for. He had his beliefs but he was not sure he would die for them. In any case, he reasoned, the Almighty God would soon see through the ruse, and regret saving this particular soul.

Nevertheless, some show of defiance seemed the right thing to do, and whilst Condé had argued most forcefully against such a catastrophe as becoming Catholic, Navarre was certain they would never leave the Louvre alive unless they did so. At length, his cousin buried his face in his hands in desperation, and Navarre spoke up.

“We must have time to consult with our advisors, Madame. We must find the Admiral and take advice on this issue, we cannot decide here and now. Allow us some time, we beg you.”

Catherine smiled sweetly at him, and walked slowly to the covered object on the silver tray that had been delivered earlier.

“Ah yes, and so we come to the Admiral.” she said with a cold voice, bereft of all emotion. “Your mentor will not however be joining you in council. As you will see, he has already paid the price for his treachery.” At that moment she lifted the velvet cloth and there on the tray was the severed head of Gaspard de Coligny, its skin now thin and grey, his face still covered in blood, now cracking and peeling. His previously full beard had been savagely cut so that little remained. His eyes were cast over and sinking back into his skull and the crude cut of his throat had set the head at an angle. Charles stared as though transfixed, but said nothing.

Catherine did not take her eyes off either of the young men, both of whom she heard audibly gasp at the horror before them. “The result of ambition and treachery, my sons. Look well at it and question whether the beliefs you cling to are worth this.”