I try to tell myself it was a trick of the light or an effect of the heat. I slept precious little last night after Henri left, so of course I am subject to being overcome by the unrelenting weather. But a terrible presentiment has hold of me, driving out these rational explanations. I harken back to the tale Mother told me as a girl, of foreseeing my father’s mortal wounding. Could I be doing the same? Will the mock combat below end in death? Whose? I watch the King of Navarre attentively as his men press forward and are driven back. Then, in panic, I think that I play sentinel for the wrong soldier. After all, it was Henri’s mother whose hand bled. I turn my attention to my Duc. If something should happen to him—if he should be injured or worse while we are at odds! I am all apprehension, and absolutely nothing untoward happens. Nothing. The Amazons are victorious. Combat ends. Those surrounding me applaud. I try to join them and find I have clutched the railing so fiercely, my fingers are numb.
Rising with the other royal ladies, I toss flowers to the victors. I ought to feel relieved. I do not. I scramble from the balcony. I must see Henri. At the bottom of the stairs I spot Charles and his Amazons, but Henri is not with them. The decorative fabric that cascades from the balcony moves slightly, close to where His Majesty stands. There is no breeze. Pushing the drapery aside, I peek inside. In the shade, Henri accepts a bow from a man I have never seen—a man with a narrow face and a dark beard.
“You ought not to have come here.” I hear Henri’s words clearly as I slip fully into the space beneath the balcony. Seeing me, Henri pushes the man through the curtains behind him. “Madame,” he says, “you gave your word last night you would never betray me to Navarre. If that word is good in the light of day, say nothing of what you have observed.” Before I can reply, he disappears through the parting of the curtains that the sharp-faced man used.
Bursting into the daylight, intent on going after him, I find myself only a few feet from the King of Navarre. He raises his eyebrows but does not ask why I was concealed. Perhaps he saw Henri exit and thinks we met to exchange whispered words. I do not care what he thinks. I need to warn him, though I do not know of what.
“Sir, I am most earnestly glad to see you and would be grateful for your arm.”
He offers it at once.
“Madame, your hand is cold as ice despite the heat. And”—he looks at me more closely—“you shake. What has happened?”
“I feared … I feared someone would be injured in the tournament.”
My cousin looks confused. “My pride, perhaps. This is the second ‘battle’ I have been called upon to lose in two days.”
“I speak not of reputations but of wounds that bleed,” I whisper urgently.
“Madame, I am not bleeding and you are not well. Let me take you to your apartment.”
“No.” I wrench away from him—equally aggravated with him for not understanding and with myself for not precisely knowing what I wish to convey. “I saw blood. Saw it when there was none.”
I brace myself for him to laugh, or to insist once again that I am ill, but he is quiet. Reclaiming my arm, he leads me up to the now deserted balcony. Sitting on the back bench, where he cannot be seen from below, he motions for me to join him. “Where?”
“On the field.” I do not think it necessary to mention the Duchesse de Nemours; I sound mad enough as it is.
He waits a moment. I grow hopeful. “Did you see it too?”
“No. But…” The pause is long. His expression, usually so cavalier, changes as if a mask has been lifted, revealing a man in doubt. “Yesterday night I played at dice late with the Duc d’Anjou, the Seigneur de Bussy d’Amboise, the Marquis de Renel, and the Seigneur de Pilles. It was not a friendly game. After all Pilles and Anjou stared at each other from the opposite sides of the city walls during the siege of Saint-Jean-d’Angely, and Bussy and Renel, while cousins, are involved in a lawsuit. The taunts between players were more insult than jest. Then the Duc de Guise joined us. I was surprised to see him—”
We both know he means that, given the hour, he assumed Guise would be with me.
“—and had no desire to play with him. I rose to leave but your brother said, ‘Come, Cousin, you have taken what the Duc prized most; you must at least give him the opportunity to empty your purse.’ So I sat back down, not wishing to precipitate an argument. Anjou took up the dice and as he shook them I saw, or rather thought I saw, blood trickle from between his fingers.”
I reach out and grasp my cousin’s knee.
“I thought at first he clutched the dice so hard that his nails bit into his flesh, but when he released them, his hand bore no injury and the blood was gone.”
I nod comprehendingly.
“The same thing happened when Guise took his turn. I am not superstitious, but when all had rolled and the winnings—mine—were collected, I broke up the game, taking my gentlemen with me. No jeers by Anjou were sufficient to bring me back to the table.”
He shrugs, and with the gesture the mask slips back on. “Of course, in my rooms I laughed at myself. To be spooked by my own imagination … it is ridiculous.”
“Not ridiculous—wise. My mother once told me that only fools dismiss premonitions.”
“I am not sure I believe in such omens.”