“There, you have the King’s word!” Mother crows triumphantly. “Now let us have no more talk of such things. They are not soothing. The admiral needs rest, is that not so, Monsieur Paré?”
I can see that the admiral’s coreligionists are far from satisfied. And those Catholic gentlemen who came with His Majesty are also displeased. I wonder if the admiral, who has lately worked so tirelessly to see Charles’ Protestant and Catholic subjects drawn closer, sees that they are being rent asunder over this attempt on his life, or if he is in too much pain to be aware. I am aware—excruciatingly aware. I have the horrible thought that my hand was likely wasted—that I may soon be the wife of a king who is at war with my brother. I look at my cousin where he stands silently taking everything in. Is he enough of a man to bind Bourbon and Valois together in a way his father could not? Can he take the admiral’s place at my brother’s side if needs be?
“Sir”—Mother stoops over Coligny—“I take my leave. Know that, whatever our disagreements have been, I wish desperately you were not wounded.” Mother straightens and beckons to the courtiers we brought. “Come, we leave the admiral among friends. They will, I am sure, lay down their lives before they allow further harm to come to him.”
Charles lingers as people file from the room, speaking low to Coligny. I move to my cousin’s side, resolutely ignoring how his companion bristles at my approach. “Sir, do you return to the Louvre with us?”
“No, Madame. I will rest here awhile.”
I go to Charles and take his arm. He looks down on the admiral with such sadness that it wrings my heart. “Have faith in me, mon père,” he says softly. “I will give you justice, whomever I must punish to do so.”
Mother, who waits at the foot of the bed, shifts uneasily.
“In the meantime I will send guards to ensure you rest undisturbed.” The King puts his hand over mine where it rests in the crook of his arm. We move through the throngs of somberly clad Protestants and out to our horses. When we are all mounted, Charles turns to Mother. “This wicked deed rose from the enmity between the houses of Chatillon and Guise and the House of Guise shall pay for it,” he exclaims. “I will send for the Duc the moment we reach the Louvre.”
“Apologies, Your Majesty,” Mother says. “His Grace sought permission to leave Paris, fearing some angry Huguenot would take a shot at him before the truth could be known, and I gave it him.”
At last, something to be glad of on this wretched day.
*
By the time I am put to bed, I am exhausted, not because I have done anything very much but from the tension in the Court. Every sort of theory is whispered, from the straightforward and insistent Protestant claim that Henri had the admiral shot, to conspiracies too absurd to be given a second thought—among them that the Huguenots themselves maimed their chief, hoping a wounded admiral would have even more sway with the King. Some of those accusing Guise mention me.
“When asked why the Duc acts at a moment likely to bring the wrath of the King upon him, those who posit Guise’s guilt reply that the admiral’s support of your marriage was the final provocation,” Gillone says as she tucks me beneath the covers.
“Utterly ridiculous!”
“Will the Duc come tonight?”
“He has left the city.” I try to say it lightly, as if I am equally unconcerned by the accusations against him and his lengthening absence from my bed.
A strong knock sounds on my outer door. Who can it be? “Wait,” I call as Gillone turns to go. “Help me into a surcote. Whoever it is, I have no intention of receiving them in bed.” We go through to my antechamber. She opens the door to reveal my cousin, his page at his side and his men at least four deep behind him.
“I am sorry it is so late, wife,” he says, smiling pleasantly. “But I stayed long at the admiral’s.”
I could not be more confused, nor could Gillone. She stands looking helpless as the King of Navarre and his men sweep in without waiting for my leave. My cousin takes my hand, lifts it to his lips, and kisses it audibly. The whole display has the feel of bad farce.
“Gentlemen,” he says, smiling at those around us—not a one of whom smiles back—“I must have a private word with the Queen.” He slips an arm around my waist and, utterly bewildered, I let him walk me to the bedchamber. As he releases me to shut the door, I find my tongue.
“Are you mad? This morning you told me my advice was of value to you, and yet tonight you come to my rooms in full state like a true husband, thereby assuring you will receive no more of it.”
“Restez tranquille,” he says, raising his hands in a gesture of pacification. “I am not here to violate our agreement, but to make the most of it.”