I stop. “I thought we were not speaking of Protestants.”
“We are not. We are speaking of courtiers, of influence, of politics. Topics that are not new to us.”
Henri is right. I have always speculated on the issues of the day with him, and always sought to help him advance in a court where knowledge, favor, and influence are closely linked. Over the years I have told tales of my brothers and mother—though, I would like to believe, never anything that would allow him to damage my kin. It feels different, however, to make him privy to what I have heard from my cousin.
“I hardly saw the King of Navarre this evening. In fact, I believe I am less in company with him than I was before we wed. Not that I am complaining.”
He nods. “Nor I. The less time you pass with that gentleman, the better. Yet you will be called upon to ride, sit, and dance with him, to be in proximity with his gentlemen, and so long as you are I would have you keep your ears and eyes open.”
I stare up at him. “You’re asking me to spy on the King of Navarre—an action I am already accused of by his followers.”
“Why not? He is nothing to you. And the opinion of his gentlemen means still less.” He puts a crooked first finger under my chin, tilting my face upward and lowering his mouth to kiss me. I turn so that his lips merely brush my cheek.
Releasing me, he looks puzzled. “Marguerite?”
“He is not nothing.” My voice is firm. This surprises me, because before this moment I would not have suspected myself equal to a show of loyalty to the King of Navarre under such circumstances. “He is, however, unwilling I was to have him, my husband.”
“What is that but a word?”
A good question. Oddly I do not have to struggle for an answer; it just comes. “Marriage is an honorable estate and I wish to behave honorably by it.”
Henri gives a short laugh. The sound is unpleasant, more like a bark of a dog than the warm laughter we have shared. “Your sudden embrace of decorum astounds me. We decide what is honorable and what is not. Were it otherwise, what we call love would be merely adultery. Yet I do not recall you objecting to my embraces.”
I know Henri’s pride speaks, not his heart, but his words prick me. Why can he not try to see things from my perspective? “I do not ask you to betray your wife’s confidences—”
“What would be the point?” he interrupts derisively. “She has nothing interesting to say, and certainly nothing useful.” Henri takes a few strides away, then turns back, offering a look of complete exasperation. “Marguerite, I must worry constantly about my influence with the King and must work always to maintain the position of my family. Do you forget that two years ago His Majesty threatened to have me killed and on account of the very love which I now find unreliable? Then you would have done anything for me.” Henri’s voice catches for a moment. Has he perceived the widening of my eyes, my shock at the implied manipulation in his words?
“You would have done anything to save me,” he rephrases carefully.
“And were your life in danger, I would still do whatever was necessary to safeguard it.” I approach him slowly, fearful he will turn from me again, but also fearful that his next words—like his last—will disappoint me. “How can you say my love is unreliable?”
When he makes no reply I reach out and touch his sleeve. “The King of Navarre has no claim upon my love, and I deny him the exercise of his rights upon my body. You have both those things. But surely, surely, he is entitled to this much loyalty, entitled to trust that I do not support his rivals in political matters.” I close my hand more tightly, feel the heat of the arm that has held me so many times in a lover’s embrace. I will him to understand me.
“If you do not aid me against Navarre, how can I be sure that you will not betray me to him?” The question feels like a slap.
“I give you my word.”
This must be enough. Yesterday he told me he would never doubt my pledges. I can see the love in Henri’s eyes but it is mingled with anger. I expect the love to triumph. Then he deliberately removes my hand from his arm. “A woman’s word is as fickle as her affections. You swore I would always be everything to you, and yet now you refuse to aid me against a man who, if he could, would oust me from your brother’s favor and my offices. More than this, you ally yourself with a heretic who seeks not only to undermine His Majesty’s good Catholic servants but to destroy the Holy Church upon which all order in France rests.”
My eyes sting. “Love—“
“Do not call me that.”
“Henri, please. I love you and I will be everything to you save a teller of tales on the King of Navarre.”