This concession—which would have made me happy as late as the day before yesterday—fails to satisfy. How surprising. How infuriating.
“I will grant you this: it is a ‘little matter’ now,” I say. “You no longer need anyone to spy on the King of Navarre. You, my brothers, and Her Majesty have made certain he is a lonely, friendless prisoner. Who can he conspire with now when all his gentlemen lie dead—some in pieces? You think to be magnanimous, but you have missed the mark. You offer nothing of value.”
“I offer you my love,” he says quietly. “Something I did believe you held dear, as I treasured yours.”
He is right, of course. I valued his love. I lived for it. Even at this moment, when I am confused, angry, hurt, and terrified for my future and the future of France, I find it difficult to imagine a life without our mutual affection. Our love, having gone on so long and survived such hardships, seems part of the warp and weft of me. I close my eyes for a moment to see my own thoughts more clearly.
Henri’s voice again cuts through my silence.
“Are we really finished, then? Separated by a victory for the Church you hold as dear as I do and by a man whom you do not love?”
Opening my eyes again, seeing Henri before me, I find that, despite his great sins of late—and they are mortal, to be sure—I am not ready to foreclose the possibility that he will be my own again, and I his. He may repent. God may forgive him. So why not I? But I do not feel that forgiveness in my breast at this moment.
“Peace, Henri,” I say.
His eyes soften at my use of his Christian name.
I lay a hand on his arm. It feels strange to do so, strange but not unpleasant. “Mayhap things between us will be restored, but at present too much happens that is larger than both of us. We are in the grip of history. You and my brothers think to mold it. I have no such pretentions. But I believe all of us, myself included, will be molded by it. I charge you, as I have loved you, to reflect upon that. Who you will be when these dark days come to a close—who I will be—I cannot foresee. I hope I will be a woman you can love. I hope you will be a man I can embrace once more without reservation.”
“And in the meantime?” he asks.
“In the meantime, take your leave and do as you feel you must. God go with you.”
“God and a kiss?”
I hesitate. A great part of me wants to lean forward and taste his familiar lips. I wonder if doing so would make all that has been ugly between us disappear. Then I remember where we are. These rooms are filled with my cousin’s things. The King of Navarre trusts me. Not as wife, perhaps, but as friend. I do not think his trust would long survive should he see me kiss his mortal enemy. He is not here, of course, and would never hear of any such kiss, but knowing how it would make him feel makes the kiss wrong.
“God and my good wishes,” I reply. Then I move past him quickly. I do not want to see Henri’s disappointment or acknowledge my own.
CHAPTER 22
August 31, 1572—Paris, France
On the one-week anniversary of what is being called the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, the royal council grants my cousin his life. I stand beside him to hear them pronounce it. I am with him everywhere now. The massacre bound us in a way that our childhood and our marriage utterly failed to. As we leave the council chamber, the King of Navarre turns to me.
“Madame, I owe you my life twice over.”
“That is not the case, Sir. You overestimate my influence with the council. I have none. I promised I would go with you and I did. But it is you who spoke eloquently on your own behalf.”
“All my words would have availed me nothing were I not your husband. That title alone saved me—not ‘King of Navarre’ or ‘First Prince of the Blood.’”
“Nonsense. The Prince de Condé was also granted his life. I tell you, the mania for killing has exhausted itself, at least in Paris.” I am not so certain as I try to sound, and both of us are keenly aware that the carnage so lately halted here has spread to Meaux, Troyes, La Charité—so many cities.
“Perhaps,” my cousin says. “There were several present whose eyes looked murderous. Did you notice the expression on Anjou’s face? And he was not the only duc unhappy with the council’s decision.”