Page 297 of A Column of Fire
Montséry opened the door to reveal King Henri standing on the other side. Now thirty-seven, he had been king for fifteen years. His face was fleshy and sensual, but he exuded calm authority. He looked at Duke Henri and said: ‘So here he is, the man they’re calling the new king of France.’ Then he turned to Montséry and gave a brief but unmistakable nod.
At that moment Pierre realized that catastrophe was about to strike.
With a swift, smooth motion, Montséry drew a long dagger and stabbed the duke.
The sharp blade passed easily through the duke’s thin satin doublet and sank deep into his brawny chest.
Pierre was frozen with shock.
The duke’s mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came, and Pierre realized immediately that the wound must be fatal.
It was not enough for the guards, however, and they now surrounded the duke and stabbed him repeatedly with knives and swords. Blood came from his nose and mouth and everywhere else.
Pierre stared in horrified paralysis for another second. Duke Henri fell, bleeding from multiple wounds.
Pierre looked up at the king, who was watching calmly.
At last Pierre recovered his senses. His master had been murdered and he might well be next. Quietly but quickly he turned away and passed back through the door into the council chamber.
The Privy Councillors around the long table stared at him in silence, and he realized in a flash that they must have known what was going to happen. The ‘urgent’ meeting was a pretext for catching the duke of Guise unawares. It was a conspiracy, and they were all in on it.
They wanted him to say something, for they did not yet know whether the murder had been done. He took advantage of their momentary uncertainty to escape. He crossed the room swiftly, without speaking, and went out. He heard a hubbub break out behind him, cut off by the slamming of the door.
The duke’s bodyguard, Colli, stared at Pierre in puzzlement, but Pierre ignored him and ran down the grand staircase. No one tried to stop him.
He was aghast. His breath came in short gasps and he found he was perspiring despite the cold. The duke was dead, murdered – and it had clearly been done on the orders of the king. Duke Henri had become overconfident. So had Pierre. He had been sure that the weak King Henri would never be so courageous or decisive – and he had been disastrously, fatally wrong.
He was lucky not to have been killed himself. He fought down panic as he hurried through the château. The king and his collaborators had probably planned no farther ahead than the assassination. But now that the duke was dead, they would think about how to consolidate their triumph. First they would want to eliminate the duke’s brothers, Cardinal Louis and the archbishop of Lyon; and then their attention would turn to his principal advisor, Pierre.
But for the next few minutes all would be chaos and confusion, so Pierre had a brief chance to save himself.
Duke Henri’s eldest son, Charles, was now duke of Guise, Pierre realized as he ran along a corridor. The boy was seventeen, old enough to step into his father’s shoes – Henri himself had been only twelve when he became duke. If only Pierre could get out of here, he would do exactly as he had done with Henri: ingratiate himself with the mother, become the indispensable advisor to the youngster, nourish in both the seed of revenge, and one day make the new duke as powerful as the old.
He had suffered setbacks before, and had always returned stronger than ever.
He reached his quarters, breathing hard. His stepson Alain was in the sitting room. ‘Saddle three horses,’ Pierre barked. ‘Pack only money and weapons. We must be gone from here in ten minutes.’
‘Where are we going?’ said Alain.
The stupid boy should have askedwhy, notwhere. ‘I haven’t decided yet, justmove,’ Pierre yelled.
He went into the bedroom. Louise, in her nightclothes, was on her knees at the prie-dieu, saying her prayers with beads. ‘Get dressed fast,’ Pierre said. ‘If you’re not ready I’m going without you.’
She stood up and came to him, her hands still folded as if in prayer. ‘You’re in trouble,’ she said.
‘Of course I’m in trouble, that’s why I’m running away,’ he said impatiently. ‘Put your clothes on.’
Louise opened her hands to reveal a short dagger and slashed Pierre’s face.
‘Christ!’ He yelled in pain, but the shock was worse. He could not have been more surprised if the knife had moved of its own accord. This wasLouise, the terrified mouse, the helpless woman he abused just for fun; and she hadcuthim – not just a scratch, but a deep gash in his cheek that was now bleeding copiously down his chin and neck. ‘You whore, I’ll slit your throat!’ he screeched, and he lunged at her, reaching for the knife.
She stepped back nimbly. ‘You fiend, it’s all over, I’m free now!’ she yelled; then she stabbed him in the neck.
With incredulity he felt the blade penetrate agonizingly into his flesh. What was happening? Why did she think she was free? A weak king had killed the duke and now a weak woman had knifed Pierre. He was bewildered.
But Louise was an incompetent assassin. She did not realize that the first thrust had to be fatal. She had bungled, and now she would die.
Rage directed Pierre’s actions. His right hand went to his wounded throat while his left knocked aside her knife arm. He was hurt but alive, and he was going to kill Louise. He ran at her, crashing into her before she could stab again, and she lost her balance. She fell to the ground and the knife dropped from her hand.
