“Surely Charles would not have him executed to satisfy a mob!”
“Who is to say the mob will wait upon the King? In any event, is that a chance you would take?”
Of course not. The three of us run to my apartment, bursting in to find the King of Navarre. Charlotte, apparently quite forgetting my presence, goes directly to him and, slipping her arms around his waist, rests her head upon his breast. “I am so glad you were not with that crowd.”
“Not physically—I do not deem it appropriate to call out my newly minted brother in such a setting—but I am with them in spirit. Both Condé and I gave Pilles our blessing.”
This time I do curse—audibly.
Looking over Charlotte’s head, my cousin says, “Madame, will you grant me a moment?”
“Of course.” I hold the door to my bedchamber open. My cousin kisses Charlotte quickly before joining me. Will he tell me about the horse as Henriette did? If so, it will be an act of magnanimity.
For a moment he just stands looking awkward, much as he did as a boy.
“Sir,” I say, “I suspect we both have pressing business.”
“I can imagine yours,” he says wryly.
So much for magnanimity.
“I do not wish to imagine yours,” I rejoinder. “Having failed to stop Pilles from marching a virtual army here, it is doubtless to sign your name to some incendiary document that will prove a danger to yourself and others.”
He flushes. It is satisfying to know I can provoke him, because as a child I could not. He takes two steps toward the door. Then he stops. “I will not let pettiness prevent me from being a true ally. We need not be friends to be confederates.”
Good thing.
“An alarming report circulates in the Rue de Béthisy. It is said the Duchesse de Nemours called upon Queen Catherine three times in as many weeks—under cover of darkness.”
“Meaning?”
“The horse may belong to de Guise, and the man who rode it may prove to be in the Duc’s employ, but the culpability will be traced higher—much higher.”
“So Protestant rumors are as incroyable as Catholic ones.” I lift my chin indignantly. “Charles adores the admiral. He would never hurt him.”
“I did not say His Majesty. You have other brothers, as well as a mother with every reason to be jealous of Coligny’s influence.”
“I assure you, Sir, jealousy has never made Her Majesty a fool. She is wise enough to know, should she suborn such an act, it would mean the loss of far more than the influence she currently misses.” I pause and find myself breathing fast. The idea that Mother had a role in the wounding of the admiral is not entirely dismissible despite what I insist to my cousin. And that terrifies me.
The King of Navarre steps close. “I take solace in the idea that Madame Catherine, while capable of much that is unpleasant, is generally careful to keep herself above suspicion.” His voice is soft, as if he is sorry he was compelled to tell me what he did. This bewilders me but also lessens my anger.
“Do you dismiss the tale, Sir? Or do you merely presume that if Her Majesty was involved, there will be no evidence of it?”
“Either will do for the present.”
I am stunned. “You would not care if my mother supported the assassination of the admiral?”
“I would care—deeply. But the consequences should such a fact become known … I cannot imagine them, and that uncertainty fills me with apprehension.” He pushes a hand through his hair in a manner not unlike my Henri. “What are your thoughts? You know many of the players in this drama better than I. What do you think His Majesty will do when he hears the rumor—as he surely will before the day is out? What will he do if it is proved?”
What would Charles do if Mother were implicated? I have no ready answer. If Anjou was involved, I certainly believe that Charles would act savagely. But Mother …
“I cannot say, Sir, and the question frightens me as it does you.”
He nods vigorously. “We are both wise enough to be afraid—far wiser than the rumormongers on either side. They speak without thinking.”
It is my turn to nod, for his words express what I felt sitting among Her Majesty’s ladies.
“Madame”—he puts a hand on my shoulder—“neither of us can predict what the King will do. You cannot predict what the Catholics will do, and I cannot foretell the actions of my fellows should the trail of blood lead from the admiral’s house to the Louvre. I wish you to know one thing, however: I will see no harm comes to you.”
It is a strangely gallant thing for him to say, given the situation. It ignites in me both a desire to reassure him and a compulsion to take equal care of his person. These are proprietary feelings—feelings with which I am not comfortable. “Sir, I can take care of myself.” I step out from under his hand. “I am not the one who risks the open streets. Keep your wits about you as you return to the admiral’s bedside.”