All the Sweet Tomorrows (74 page)

“There is no time,” replied de Guise, the soldier.

“You have no choice,” Catherine said. “At this very moment Coligny lies wounded, but tomorrow or the next day he will be well enough to come to the King with his personal accusations. Then all is lost for us. It must be tonight! Now! Before Coligny has the opportunity to see Charles again.”

“It is not yet evening,” de Guise mused slowly. “Perhaps if we worked quickly, and spread the word to our people. Once it has begun, all Paris will join in to destroy the Huguenots. Yes, it can be done! When the tocsin sounds at two o’clock tomorrow morning, we will begin. Is that satisfactory, Majesty? Is that time enough?”

“Yes,” was the reply. “It is a good time, for the pious Huguenots will be sleeping in their houses.” She smiled. “All but my good
beau-frère
, who will be celebrating with the rest of the court at the last ball to be given in honor of his marriage to my daughter. Tomorrow Margot and Navarre will go down to Chenonceaux for their honeymoon trip away from all distractions of the court.”

“I still say that Navarre should be killed, too,” de Guise muttered.

“Why? So your adulterous union with my daughter might be made legal—after, of course, the removal of your wife? I think not, de Guise. Be grateful I did not have you removed forcibly these past three afternoons from my daughter’s bed where you have lingered while Henri of Navarre played tennis with Alençon in the courts by the river.”

“Madame!” The Duc de Guise made an attempt at denial, which Catherine waved aside.

“Do not bother to deny the truth, m’sieur. It is of no import in this matter. What is important is that we keep our dear Navarre and Condé amused tonight. I think for Condé it will be Mademoiselle de Grenier.”

“You cannot lure Condé with a woman, Mother! He is newly married himself, and besides, he is an awful prude,” Anjou said.

Catherine laughed. “You underestimate me, my son. Condé’s passion, military strategist that he is, is chess. Mademoiselle de Grenier is the finest chess player at court. She will engage him in a tourney, and keep him thus occupied. As to his wife, I will see that Alençon keeps her amused, for she is quite fond of him in a sisterly way.”

“And Navarre?” the Duc de Guise queried Catherine.

“For Navarre I have a special treat, messieurs. Since the night before his wedding he has been vigorously pursuing the Comte de Cher’s soon-to-be
belle-fille
. She is an Irishwoman named Madame Burke, betrothed to marry the comtesse’s son by her first marriage, a Seigneur de Marisco. The lady has been quite adamant in her refusal of Henri, which, of course, only makes him more ardent.”

“What of the betrothed husband?” Anjou demanded. “Where does he stand in all of this?”

“He is amused,” the Queen Mother said, “and does not consider Navarre a severe threat to his betrothed wife. Were it not for my aid, Navarre would not have a chance with the lady, but I shall give him that chance. The Duchesse de Beuvron was once to marry the Seigneur de Marisco. Now that she is widowed, she would like to regain his favor. I will see that she has a chance to plead her case tonight while you, Anjou, will lead Madame Burke to a secluded place to meet Navarre. She will not, of course, know she is meeting him. She will believe she is to see me, that I wish her to carry a personal message from me to Elizabeth Tudor when she returns to England.”

“What if she plays on Navarre’s sense of honor?” de Guise asked. “What then, madame?”

Catherine de Medici snorted. “Must I outline everything for you? Anjou, my secret study, you know it.”

“The one with the bed in the alcove, Mother?”

“Yes! You will bring Madame Burke there. Drug her, or stun her with a light blow. Yes, perhaps that is better, for a drug might render her useless. Bind her hands, and see she is in a state of dishabille upon the bed. She has beautiful little breasts, and I note that Navarre is fascinated with them. One good look, and his gallantry will dissolve as his lust takes over.” She chuckled richly. “Yes, one can depend upon Navarre’s reactions when a beautiful woman is involved. Wait until after one o’clock before you lure Madame Burke away, Anjou. We want Navarre well occupied when the two o’clock tocsin sounds.”

The final ball that night was a triumph that spilled out from the ballrooms of the Louvre Palace into its neat flower-filled gardens that bordered the River Seine. Except for Henri of Navarre’s unwelcome and persistent attentions, Skye was enjoying her time in Paris immensely. Yet she decided that she preferred the Tudor court to this one. There was too much intrigue in the French court, whose inhabitants were a touch too chic and too wicked to suit her taste.

“I never thought,” she said to Adam, “that I should say I preferred the English and their bluff, honest ways; but compared to the French, they are less complicated.”

He chuckled down at her. “Do you think you damned impossible Irish will ever stop fighting us, sweetheart?”

She looked up at him, her sapphire eyes wide with innocence. “Why, Adam,” she said sweetly. “ ’Tis not the Irish who are fighting the English, ’Tis the English who are fighting the Irish.”

“Not this Englishman,” he murmured, bending low to brush her lips with his.

Skye’s heart began to race wildly. He seemed to be having that effect on her these days. “Devil!” she whispered back at him. “If you don’t stop your provocative behavior I shall certainly cause a scene.”

“Mes enfants,”
Gaby said lightly. “I regret to intrude,” and they broke apart laughing, “but the Queen has requested my son that you give audience to the Duchesse de Beuvron.”

“Never, maman!”
Adam’s brows drew together in a frown.

“Adam, you cannot refuse Queen Catherine. Athenais is one of her favorites. I know that nothing the duchesse says can
change how you feel, nor should it, but as the Queen has personally involved herself, you must give Athenais a fair hearing.”

“Adam,” Skye said softly, “how often have I wanted to refuse Elizabeth Tudor, and both you and Robbie have not let me. What is good for me must also be good for thee. Go and speak with the bitch. I do not mind.”

“I suppose we cannot have Catherine de Medici angry at us, especially should we need her refuge from the Tudors. All right, sweetheart, I’ll go and let Athenais prattle at me for a while, and I promise, maman, not to wring her deceiving little neck!” He stomped away across the ballroom to where the Duchesse of Beuvron waited by Queen Catherine’s side, smiling smugly.

“You are so very good for him, my dear,” Gaby said softly. “I have not really seen my son happy in many years. You are the cause of that happiness, and I shall ever be grateful to you for it.”

“It is not hard to make Adam happy, Gaby. I love him,” she said quietly. “Had he not been so concerned for my welfare, and I not so concerned about everything else, we might have wed long ago. Now I will let nothing stop us.”

“Madame Burke?”

The two women turned, and recognizing the Duc of Anjou, they both curtseyed low. “Your Highness.”

He acknowledged their obeisance, and then said, “Madame Burke, my mother would like to speak with you privately if you will follow me, please.”

“Queen Catherine wishes to see me? Forgive me, M’sieur le Duc, but I do not understand.”

“I believe, madame, that my mother wishes you to carry a personal message back to England when you go; a message to your Queen. They have become quite friendly due to the negotiations between our two families regarding the matter of a marriage between my brother Alençon and Elizabeth Tudor.”

“Go, my dear,” Gaby said. “You are being honored that Queen Catherine would speak to you herself.” Gaby reached out to smooth Skye’s hair and dress in a motherly fashion. “There,
ma belle
, you are quite ready.
Allez! Allez!”

The Duc of Anjou smiled pleasantly and led Skye off. “I must say, madame,” he said as they departed the ballroom, “that your gown is a triumph this evening. That particular shade of mauve pink highlights the creamy clarity of your skin, and I should have never thought to use silver with pink crystal beads for the panel of your underskirt. Your dressmaker is obviously French, and not English.”

“You have found me out, M’sieur le Duc,” Skye replied.

“I must admit to having had this gown made at Archambault by the château’s dressmaker.”

“Did she choose the colors?”

“No, I always choose my own colors and fabrics.”

“You have an eye, madame. Most women, I have found, are willing to be led in the matter of dress, which too often results in their looking ridiculous.”

“Where are we going?” Skye asked Anjou as they seemed to be moving farther and farther away from the ballroom.

“My mother has a private study in a remote part of the palace. It insures that she not be disturbed. There are some who are very much against this proposed marriage between my brother, Alençon, and your Queen. You will therefore understand her desire for privacy, madame.”

“Of course,” Skye murmured, and followed the duc as he moved through one corridor after another. She tried to keep track of where they were going, but she eventually gave it up as hopeless. The duc now led her up two flights of narrow stairs at the top of which was a small paneled door.

Flinging the door open, he stepped back, saying, “Please go in, Madame Burke. My mother will be with you in a few moments.”

“Merci,”
she said politely as she moved past him, and then her brain exploded in a fiery burst of quick pain and the blackness rushed up to claim her.

Skye’s instinct for survival aided her to climb back from the darkness, and she awoke with a small cry to find herself lying upon a curtained and canopied bed. Had she fallen? Had she suffered a fit that caused her head to ache so? Gingerly she attempted to sit up, and in doing so she discovered that her arms were bound behind her at the wrists. For a long moment confusion reigned as she tried to remember where she was. Slowly the memory became clear. The Duc of Anjou had told her that his mother wished to speak privately with her, and she had allowed him to lead her to Queen Catherine’s private study. It was as she had been entering the study that she had … fainted? Why were her arms tied?

Skye now managed to sit up. The alcove in which the bed was situated had a curtain drawn across its entrance. “M’sieur le Duc,” she called. “Are you there, M’sieur d’Anjou?” There was no answer. Only silence greeted her. She still felt too weak to rise from the bed, and Skye looked curiously about the alcove. To her total shock, she saw the bodice and skirt of her ballgown
lying neatly upon a chair. Startled, she glanced down at herself and found that she wore only a single silk petticoat and her silk underblouse. The rest of her undergarments, including her stockings and garters, were with her gown. Beyond the drawn curtain Skye heard the door to the Queen’s study open, and a man’s firm footsteps crossed the floor of the room toward her.

The curtain was whisked aside with a jingling of brass rings, and Henri of Navarre stood there, a huge smile splitting his face as he said in a pleased voice, “Ah,
chérie
, you have come! All evening I have been sick with worry that you would change your mind.”

In that instant Skye knew that she had been led to and prepared for a seduction, but by whom, and why? She was only a visitor to France’s court. She had no part in its intrigues or its politics. Obviously the King of Navarre was not a party, or at least not a knowledgeable party, to the plot. He was being used, as she was.

“M’sieur de Navarre,” she said in what she hoped passed for a calm and reassuring voice, “I do not know what you mean. Can you not see? My hands are bound most securely behind me. I am not here willingly.”

Henri came into the alcove and, seating himself next to her on the bed, said, “But
chérie
, you have answered one of my love notes, suggesting that I meet you here in my
belle-mère’s
secret study during the ball tonight at half after the hour of one o’clock.”

“M’sieur, I am a stranger to the Louvre. How could I have known of this room? Please undo my bonds. I am most uncomfortable. Adam de Marisco and his family will be worrying and wondering where I have gotten to; and even I am not certain how to return to the ballroom. Will you aid me?”

“You did not answer my love note,
chérie?”
Henri of Navarre looked perplexed.

“I did not even receive it,” Skye protested.

“Yet you are here,” he persisted.

“The Duc of Anjou brought me here. He said that the Queen wished to speak privately with me. That she desired me to carry a private message to my own Queen in England.”

Catherine de Medici knew her opponent well. She had predicted that the sight of Skye half dressed would divert Navarre, and in that she had been correct. He barely heard her words, for he was far more interested in her beautiful breasts, which swelled provocatively above the neckline of her silken underblouse, heaving temptingly in her agitation. The beautiful Irishwoman
had inflamed his senses from the moment he had laid eyes on her, and now here she was quite conveniently at his mercy, her lovely body every bit if not more delicious than he had imagined it in his salacious daydreams of her.

“Still, madame,” he said softly, “you are here, and I am here, and how foolish we would be not to avail ourselves of this golden opportunity.” Reaching out, he undid the ribbons that held her underblouse together. The two halves parted easily, and when Henri had pushed them back over her rounded shoulders Skye was effectively bare to her waist. Navarre caught his breath in genuine admiration, for she had the most perfect little breasts he had ever seen.

“M’sieur de Navarre,” she said pleadingly, “I beg of you do not do this thing. I am betrothed to a man I love. How can I go to him if I have been despoiled by another?”

Navarre reached out and reverently caressed the silken flesh of one creamy orb.
“Chérie
, I will wager that having seen these exquisite little fruits you possess, a saint could not be stopped in his intent toward you. Besides, you are not a virgin, madame. My knowledge of you is that you have outlived several husbands. You have no maidenhead to protect.”