Henri breaks my grip. In the next moment he has hold of my arms—both of them—and he is shaking me. I have never been frightened of him before, but I am now.
“You spy for him, but you would not spy for me! You really are the Queen of Navarre! God weeps for you, Madame. I do not intend to.” I expect him to release me, but instead he pulls me closer and kisses me roughly. I wriggle in his grasp, trying to break free. And at last he thrusts me away, doing so with such violence that I stumble, striking the wall and barely managing to remain standing. He stalks off without a backwards glance, leaving me cradling my arm.
“I do not want your tears!” I shout after him. “And you will not have mine!” It is a lie. I begin to cry as soon as he is out of sight, pounding on Charles’ door as I do. When it cracks open and my brother looks out, his eyes are wild. He does not admit me. Nor does he say a word. He merely shuts the door in my face.
There is only one place left for me to go. And, damn them all, they have driven me there. Wiping my eyes, I turn in the direction of the King of Navarre’s rooms, praying he is returned.
He is back, and not alone. When Armagnac opens the door, my husband’s antechamber is full.
“Look who is here.” The Prince de Condé accompanies his words with an undisguised sneer. Far across the room my husband looks up.
“Madame.” The greeting is polite but not warm.
“We are busy,” someone murmurs. “Go away.” The looks I am given are filled with hatred.
“Sir”—I have to raise my voice, as many of my cousin’s fellows are talking—“a moment.”
“I am sorry for your reception,” he says when we are alone in his bedchamber. “Tempers run high. It is rumored the King will let Guise escape. And there is continued talk your family was involved. It is even said Anjou’s purse paid the shooter.”
I have no time to discuss theories. “Guise may well escape,” I say, “but you would do better to plan your own than worry about him. That is why I have come. I too hear rumors; the latest is that if your coreligionists do not temper their calls for justice, and if they continue to show themselves armed in the streets, inciting the ordinary people, there will be arrests.”
“His Majesty would not dare! Arrest the guests at his sister’s wedding—men he invited to the city—when they have done nothing more than deplore a cowardly attempt to assassinate one of His Majesty’s true servants? ’Twould be an ignoble act, and an unwise one.”
“Is that a threat?”
My cousin looks startled. “No.”
“Well, it sounds like one. Can you not perceive that? So much of what you and your fellows do is being seen as threatening, whatever your intentions. You need to urge restraint upon your gentlemen. No more demands upon the King. Keep off the streets, or at least do not go about so obviously armed.”
“Cower?” He looks at me with disgust. “You urge us to cower? No, Madame, we will not. In fact, we will send a delegation to His Majesty tomorrow morning, a delegation I will be a member of, to accuse Guise formally.”
“Cousin, you must not. Is Guise’s head more valuable to you than your own freedom and safety?”
“Is that what the Duc bid you say? He would like it very well if we did not pursue this.”
“Argh!” I throw both my hands into the air. “I cannot help you. Why do I try? Listen to me: If you go to Charles tomorrow, be prepared to fly afterwards. And if you do not do so successfully, do not expect me to visit you in the dungeons of Vincennes.”
I assume he will bristle. Instead he gives me the most cavalier of smiles—almost a smirk. This is far more maddening, for it tells me that he thinks he knows better. Fine! I am finished trying to help him, just as I am finished trying to help Henri. These men are fools and must survive—or not—by their own wits. Mine are wasted on them.
*
I arrive at Her Majesty’s apartment to offer a dutiful evening of attendance, and find Mother relaxed as I have not seen her since word came that the admiral had been shot. She embroiders quietly, her hand steady, her smile beatific. Unnerving.
Claude, seated tout près to Her Majesty, pats the cushion beside her. I seat myself.
“How is the King this evening, Madame?” I ask.
“He was well when I left him.”
Well? Under such circumstances? The implausibility of her answer raises my suspicions even further.
“I am glad to hear it.” Two can dissemble.
Henriette moves to join Claude and me. When she sits down, she angles herself so that her back is to Mother, partially blocking that lady’s view of me. “The prév?t des marchands have been here,” she says quietly.
There is nothing inherently odd about Charles meeting with the authorities charged with securing Paris, but under the circumstances the news seems significant, as do the looks given me by my sister and my friend.
“Duchesse, would you go to my wool stores and get me another ball of this blue?” The request is pretext. A servant might be sent for the wool. It is clear Mother does not want Henriette speaking to me.