I can see why he wishes to remain a skeptic. Blood cannot be good. But stubbornness in the face of such warnings seems beyond cavalier, it seems reckless. I cannot say this. Lecturing my cousin has never in my memory had the desired effect, and at present I am trying to draw him to me, not drive him away. Indeed, for the moment at least, he is all that is left to me.
“Believe or not, but be on your guard. If for no other reason than because, as you have observed yourself, the fraternity between your gentlemen and my brothers ebbs. The celebrations pertaining to our marriage end tonight. In two days His Majesty is off to Fontainebleau. Where do you go then?”
“I?” He looks at me strangely. “We follow the King until I am given a commission to march into Flanders.”
I am relieved, for I cannot help feeling there is danger here. Perhaps when the Court travels it will be left behind.
*
In the evening I begin a list of those I would wish to see appointed to my household. The time for my mother’s coucher comes and goes but I do not stir myself, thinking I will not be missed. I am wrong. Henriette and Charlotte arrive in my apartment when they are done with their duties, complaining of my negligence.
Looking up from my work, I smile. “How I wish I could have you as ladies of my household and never be parted from you.”
“What is this nonsense?” Henriette crosses the room and mixes herself some water and wine. “We will not be parted! Does your husband talk of the Navarre?”
“Not to me.” I look at Charlotte.
“Constantly,” she laughs. “He misses it, particularly the mountains.”
“Scenery is all very well, but gazing at mountains cannot compare to observing the machinations of the Court.” Henriette glances over my shoulder at my list. “If the Princesse de Condé is persuaded to be your dame de honneur, you will pay a heavy price. Would you have Anjou always hanging about?”
“I know he shows an interest in her, but I assume that is only to vex the Prince.”
“Then you assume wrongly. Your brother is violently in love.”
“Love is contrary to his character.”
“Hm.” The Duchesse narrows her eyes. “It is the season of unexpected things when it comes to amours, is that not so, Charlotte?”
My second friend turns crimson.
“Charlotte?”
“She is infatuated with your husband. Let her deny it if she will—I know the signs.”
“I find him pleasant. Is there anything wrong in that?”
“Nothing wrong, but much that is surprising. I will have to stop making jokes at the King of Navarre’s expense.” Henriette gives an exaggerated sigh, as if this will be the greatest of hardships.
“You might have done that for my sake.” I put down my quill and go to pour myself some wine.
“Oh, I am not your mother, Margot. I limit my jests to present company. But now Charlotte will not enjoy them. Perhaps you will not either.”
“Meaning?” I lower myself into a chair and put my glass upon a table. I suspect what is coming—I only wonder that Henriette did not find an earlier opportunity to raise the topic.
“You and Guise barely looked at each other today, and those looks that did pass were sad or strained. You did not dance with the Duc, but three times partnered your husband while the Duc glowered. Can it be the King of Navarre comes between you?”
“Of course not!” I have no intention of sharing the source of the quarrel betwixt Henri and me. “Is that the gossip?”
“The gossip is very wild, and began this morning with a report that Guise was seen playing dice last night when he ought to have been with you.”
“Lovers argue.” I try to sound blasé.
“They do. They even tire of one another. But, Margot, if you are tired of Guise, that will be the most unexpected of all the amorous developments since your wedding day.”
It would be. For that reason, whatever I said last night, I am not ready to be done with Henri. I wonder: Is he ready to be done with me?
The sadness such a thought inspires must show, for Henriette takes a seat beside me. “Come, it will all be forgotten. Whatever the cause of your quarrel, I will warrant its true roots lie in this heat. Who can be civil when they are roasting alive?”
“Perhaps I ought to send him a note.”
“No, indeed! The fault is not yours.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you are my friend and the better of the sexes.” Henriette laughs. “So do not trouble me with the truth of the matter. I find, without evidence, that you are the aggrieved party…”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“There, you see. So the Duc must make amends, or at least he must become so desperate to see you that he forgets you are partly at fault in the quarrel. You will not see him tonight.”
“No.” But not because I will turn him away.
“Good. And tomorrow we will begin a campaign to bring him to his knees.”