“I will,” I promise. “I will.”
She slips away, and I square my shoulders for a return to my bedchamber. I have put off this moment since smuggling my cousin from the King’s apartment more than four and twenty hours ago, but it can wait no longer. Whatever my husband’s grief, whatever his state, we must speak sensibly of his future or he may have none.
The King of Navarre sits on the floor, his back against one post of my bed. The sound of the door causes him to draw his dagger. When he sees it is I, he sheathes it again.
“Apologies, Madame.” He tries to give one of his wry smiles, as if he would make a joke out of his alarm.
“Do not apologize for a sensible precaution. I’ve given Gillone a dagger and I have one as well. If I had a pistol I would bring it to you, but alas, I do not.”
“How many could I shoot anyway should Charles change his mind and send the guard?” His shoulders rise to a shrug out of habit. Then more quietly: “But I suppose I could deprive them of the pleasure of assassinating me as they did Coligny. If I am to die I would prefer not to do it with Guise’s boot in my face.”
“Do not speak so.”
“Of the Duc?”
“Of your own death.” I move forward and crouch at his side. I would take his hand but the gesture seems presumptuous. “You have escaped the worst; why should you die now?”
“Why should you assume the worst is over?”
“Because,” I reply, giving voice to my raw thoughts, “to imagine otherwise would be unbearable. If we would not run mad, we must believe this nightmare draws to a close.”
“So many are dead already, I suppose it must.” He puts his face in his hands. Unwilling to disturb him, I remain silent. In a few moments he lifts his head. His face is so close to mine. Closer than it has ever been. His eyes burn. “The Duchesse de Nevers told you all the gentlemen who surrounded the admiral in his most desperate hour have perished. I had forty gentlemen with me when I was dragged before His Majesty. They are all dead. What Protestant noblemen can be left to slaughter? Only I and my cousin Condé. I suppose there is little sport in killing two more when you have slain hundreds.”
“Not sport but politics will determine whether those few of you who yet remain are safe.”
“True.”
“Yesterday Charles granted you your life, but his mind…” I hesitate, thinking of my brother’s mercurial mood swings. Is he mad? If so, is it but the madness of these hours or is it permanent? In either case I cannot bring myself to say he is out of his wits, so I say, “His mind is as changeable as my mother’s mood. You must secure a more official reprieve.”
“The council.” My husband nods.
“Yes, you must go before them and ask them to grant you your life. And”—swallowing hard I lay a hand on his arm—“you must be prepared to pay.”
“Abjuration? My honor for my life? I will be ridiculed in every corner of France. Despised by my fellows for weakness. Laughed at by Catholics as your family parades me around like the latest acquisition for the royal menagerie.”
“But you will laugh last. What better blow can you strike against your enemies at this moment than to survive?”
My cousin’s hand shoots out; his fingers encircle my wrist. “And you would go with me to the council?”
“If you wish.” I use my free hand to push my hair back from my face so that he can see my eyes better and know that I do not lie.
His fingers close more tightly. “Why? Why should you care if I live or die? My enemies are those closest to you—by blood and by affection.”
I shake my head. “I do not know why.” It is the truth. I have no love for this man, and if we are becoming friends, we certainly picked an inopportune time. “Perhaps because I gave you my word—promised to be your ally.” I am not satisfied by this answer and neither is my cousin, for his grasp does not loosen.
“His Majesty told the admiral he loved him, and gave his word as Coligny lay injured that he should have royal protection. Poor La Rochefoucauld played at cards with your brother only hours before his throat was slit, and was embraced as a friend when they parted. This is not a season for trusted allies or promises kept.”
“It is not, Sir. Yet I swear again, my word to you is good.”
We remain, eyes locked, very still. Like animals hiding, driven into the same hole.
“I will play the Catholic,” he says at last. “You may have them bring me a priest. Or better still, as you swear you are my friend, undertake my instruction yourself. I will not have to lie to you. I will only have to memorize. Lying before everyone at once—including God—is lying enough, I think.”