“Oh, really? I will admit I do not see how!”
“It seems to me that on a day such as this—when Catholics in the streets cursed me and rattled their swords, and when my own gentlemen have said things about your family too unkind to repeat—all at Court need a reminder that I am bound to the King in a special manner: that we are man and wife. Hence my very public procession to your apartment.”
“You were seen coming?”
“By as many as I could manage.”
I am so angry that I can do nothing but sputter.
My cousin moves closer. “Madame, truly, I believe this ruse is in both our interests. Do you wish the peace broken?”
His words echo my thoughts of the afternoon: my fears that our marriage will be rendered irrelevant by events. It may be a bad union, but it exists and the only thing I can think of that would make it worse is for it to be made immaterial to the King and to my mother.
“No,” I concede. “But I did not anticipate you would need to break my peace in such a manner to preserve the larger one.”
“I apologize for doing so.”
“Having come in such great state, you have doubtless given the desired reminder. Take your gentlemen and leave me to my sleep.”
He does not move other than to shift his weight from one foot to the other. “I wonder if you would honor your pledge of friendship by letting me bide the night.”
“Here?”
“In the next room with my gentlemen would suffice. We are used to sleeping rough in the mountains of Navarre and can easily stretch out on the floor. When I leave in the morning, none will be able to say that the wounding of the admiral at the behest of a man rumored to be your lover has driven a wedge between us.”
He has me, damn him. “I have overheard whisperings that the Duc was driven to act by our marriage.”
He nods. “Perhaps he was.”
I ignore the remark, because I do not think my cousin means to offend—merely to consider the point.
“So you must stay,” I answer matter-of-factly. “But I would have the action stem the gossip not only of Catholic courtiers but of your Protestant gentlemen as well. They have no love for me and no trust either. If you lie with them in the next room, they will know our marriage is a fiction and believe you yourself share their distrust.”
His eyes widen.
“So you must sleep here, within the curtains of my bed.”
“It can hardly be necessary to subject you to the intrusion.”
“It is very necessary. I saw the way your gentlemen looked at me this morning when word came of Coligny’s wounding. They think me capable of harming you—”
“No, Madame!”
“Yes!” When he does not reply, I consider the matter settled. “Turn your back,” I command. He does so with admirable swiftness. Removing my surcote, I cast it onto a chair and get quickly beneath the bedcovers. “Now take off your things and climb in beside me.”
He laughs.
“What is so funny?”
“You ordering me into your bed, when not a week ago you made it painfully clear I am not wanted there.” I avert my eyes, imagining what Gillone will think; what Henriette will think when she hears tomorrow; what Henri will think. This last gives me pause. For while I do not care if Gillone thinks me intimate with my husband, and while I will be in a position to tell Henriette the truth, I shall have no opportunity to explain to the Duc. Perhaps, given his shameful treatment of me, he does not deserve an explanation.
The curtains on the opposite side of my bed open and my cousin jumps upon the mattress as if he were a boy of ten. Lying down without a word, the man is asleep so quickly I cannot believe it. Considering the events of the day, I would have expected him to lie awake. I do. Staring into the darkness, I try to see his profile and cannot. Many bells toll, yet I continue to stare in his direction—sleepless, sweltering, and wishing he were someone’s husband other than mine.
CHAPTER 20
August 23, 1572—Paris, France
Charlotte eyes me oddly as I enter Mother’s apartment. She is not the only one. If it were not for the wounding of the admiral, I am certain I would be the center of all gossip today. Then again, were it not for the wounding of the admiral, the King of Navarre should never have passed the night with me.
“What ails everyone?” I ask, taking a seat with my friends. “There is an air of hysteria among Her Majesty’s ladies.”
“It is not limited to them, I assure you,” Henriette says. Then, perhaps seeing some trace of incredulity in my expression, she continues. “You doubt it? Well—”
“There are rumors,” Fleurie interrupts, “rumors that the Protestants will take violent revenge upon the King for the wounding of their chief. That they will rise up and begin the next war in the streets of Paris.”
Henriette gives me an I-told-you-so look.
“Nonsense,” I say. “No one can possibly blame Charles. All know of his devotion to Admiral Coligny.”