Guise is not the only man who committed murder last evening. Without question, such a massacre, however it began, could not have proceeded without the acquiescence of my family. Doubtless Anjou wet his hands in blood driven by petty grievances and ambition more than by any desire to rid France of heresy or safeguard Charles’ reign. And Charles owned that what was done inside the Louvre was done in his name when I confronted him. But Henri is not supposed to be as my brothers are—governed solely by self-interests and whims as given rein or checked by Mother. He is charged, as I love him, with being a man of honor possessed of a conscience, guided by God. Glancing at the Duc, his eyes shut in prayer, my heart aches. I am bitterly disappointed in him for being less than he appeared through my loving eyes.
I realize those around me are moving, filing forward toward the bush. At the front, Charles receives a blessing and stoops to kiss the white blossoms. Courtier after courtier follows suit. My feet will not move. I stand rooted like a bush myself as others pass. Then my hand is drawn through an arm. I know even before I see his profile that my escort is Guise. He does not turn to meet my gaze but very softly says, “If you will not have a care for yourself, I must do it.”
He draws me onward and then, as the bush is reached, steps back so I am in front of him. Just before me, Amboise d’Bussy accepts the blessing, murmurs “Thanks be to God” and kisses the blinding-white flowers. Advancing upon me, the priest makes the sign of the cross, then lifts the branch so I may offer thanks and kiss it in my turn. I have no intention of doing any such thing. Then I think of poor Armagnac sobbing on my shoulder. I have things, even at this horrible moment, I should be grateful for. If they are not the same things commemorated in the others’ prayers, so much the better.
“Deo gratias!” Unlike the others I do not mumble, but say it clearly so all can hear. Deo gratias, I think, for giving me the strength to save La Mole from the archers and Armagnac from my mother. Deo gratias for the life of the King of Navarre. As I kiss the blossoms, I ask for God’s help in keeping my husband alive awhile longer. Then I move back to my horse as quickly as possible. I am done with this place. I wish it were as easy to break with some of the people in it.
*
When I return to my apartment, the King of Navarre is sitting at my table, writing with Armagnac beside him. Both gentlemen have changed into fresh clothing. I give Gillone a questioning look.
“I went to His Majesty’s rooms and collected some of his things.”
“For which I am profoundly grateful.” My cousin looks up. He is a man entirely different than the one I left sitting on the floor of my bedchamber. He has marshaled his composure, and the strength such an act reveals impresses me deeply. “As I am for greater acts of compassion.” His eyes move in Armagnac’s direction.
I look away, still unwilling to take credit for the valet de chambre’s life, as the price I paid for it is so loathsome to me.
“What are you writing?”
“An accounting of those I know to be dead. Perhaps you can assist me.”
I wince.
“Or not.” His voice is gentle. “It is a grim task, but I think it important, for perhaps those not yet dead can be preserved.”
Hope, it seems, is in Navarre’s nature.
“If you think it to be valuable, Sir, I will help. When we have a list, I shall ask the Duchesse de Nevers to examine it. Her knowledge will be greater than either of ours.”
“You could ask the Duc de Guise for his list. He must know how many and who he killed. Or perhaps he killed so many he lost track.” The words are as quiet as his last, but they are angry—the first angry words he has spoken that seem, at least in part, directed at me.
“I could not. I believe it will be a long time before I speak with the Duc again.”
There is a knock. Gillone cracks the door. Her eyes widen. The hand she slips through the crack returns, clasping a note. I know the moment I see the handwriting it is from the same man whose company I have just forsworn. Only three words: “Talk to me.”
“I must go out.” I know my face betrays surprise and perhaps even dread, but certainly there might be many causes for such a reaction. The King of Navarre cannot suspect the Duc waits on the other side of the oak. And this is well, for if he did there might be violence. There has been enough of that.
Slipping into the corridor, I find Henri waiting, his eyes traversing the space from end to end. When they find me I cannot distinguish if they contain surprise or hope. Perhaps both.
“You do not invite me in.” Awareness comes upon him, slowly changing his expression. “He is with you.”
“If you mean my husband, then yes. He has been with me since the King saved him yesterday.”
“The King saved him?”
“Of course! You could not honestly have believed His Majesty would permit the murder of a man linked to him by both blood and marriage.” There is absolutely no reason for me to reveal how uncertain I was upon that very point yesterday.
“I hoped he would. Just as your brother Anjou doubtless prayed Condé would lie among the dead.”
A horrible admission but hardly surprising. Henri hates my cousin not just as a heretic but as the man who holds the place he wanted himself. I have felt the same about the Princesse de Porcien, and, if I am honest, I would, I think, have been glad of my cousin’s death before I wedded him. Would I have cared who killed him or how?
“Is this what you have come to tell me?” I ask.
He looks about again.