“Alba told me of your mother’s ambitions.” I suddenly feel his hand upon my leg. I have succeeded, I think, though his touch gives me no pleasure. Then, with little delicacy, he forcibly pushes my leg away from his. “Perhaps Her Majesty has not informed you,” he continues, “but the Duke told that lady that my father has no interest in a French bride for me. And as for myself, I would not have you if the King of Spain begged me.” He removes his hand from my leg and leans back in his chair. As I gaze at him with horror, a giant drop of water lands upon his cheek. For one insane, confused moment I think someone has spit upon him—perhaps because I wish it were so—but then I know it is raining, for lightning splits the sky and drops fall everywhere. I jump to my feet, as do all around save the Prince. As I run past him, buffeted by sudden strong gusts of wind, trying to escape both my mortification and the storm, Don Carlos throws back his head and laughs.
I race for the bank where the barges are moored. Somewhere in my flight a hand touches mine. Charlotte has found me. Together we clamber onto the first boat. It is not the royal barge, but I do not care. I want to be back in Bayonne and I want to get there safely out of the company of Don Carlos.
The water is rough. A great many of the ladies cry out in fear. Some weep. I am not sorry for it. Under such circumstances, who will suspect that my tears are the result not of terror but of humiliation? Don Carlos was not to my liking and may well be as damaged as the Prince of Navarre’s dog, but his assertion that he would not have me even to please his father is deeply wounding. And I am not only hurt, I am afraid. I have but one chief duty to Charles and Mother, and that is to marry where they would have me do so. I have failed in that duty. There may be a rapprochement between Spain and France, but I will not assist in it.
*
Henri is ill. A chill, he insists, nothing more. When Mother fusses, he calls her “nervous” and jokes to me that he will be well again once the Spanish leave and he no longer has to look at Don Carlos. He does not know precisely what happened between that Prince and I on the Isle of Aiguemeau, but he senses Don Carlos insulted me, and takes every opportunity to repay the favor. Unmoved by Henri’s assurances, Her Majesty orders him to bed.
“Do not fuss,” I say, pulling up a chair as he sits propped against pillows, looking restless. “I will help you pass the hours.”
More than my great fondness for Henri drives me to his bedside. I have found myself unequal to telling Mother what Don Carlos said to me three nights ago. But if I cannot make myself confess, I am equally unable to continue the charade with the Prince—to beg for attention where I am so clearly an object of ridicule. So I seek to avoid Don Carlos until the Spanish depart in less than a week.
“Shall we play at cards?” I ask my brother.
Henri is a fierce card player, so I know that something is wrong when he begins to make silly errors—errors that allow me to win. Then my winning vexes him, so I begin to try to lose on purpose. To manage this without seeming to do so is not an easy thing. My brother lays down a particularly ill-chosen card and I resign myself to taking this particular hand. Strangely, he does not seem to mind, or even to be focusing on the game.
Rising, I place a hand upon his forehead. It is far too hot for my liking. Bestowing a kiss where my hand just lay so as not to worry him, I go in search of Mother. She does not even thank me, merely dashes off, calling for Castelan as she goes.
Unwilling to disturb Mother and her physician, I allow myself to be drawn into the afternoon’s entertainments by Charlotte and Henriette. Yet my thoughts often go in the direction of my brother. When Mother does not appear to dress for dinner, I excuse myself. I arrive at Henri’s apartment to find the antechamber empty. Have his friends, who always seem to linger, been sent away? This cannot be a good sign. Behind the bedroom door there is a murmur of voices. I press my ear to the wood.
“He has been bled three times but the fever still rises.” Mother’s voice is agitated.
“Yes, but it is very early, Your Majesty. This may be nothing more than a bad chill as His Highness insists.” I recognize the voice of Castelan.
“‘May’ is not a comforting word.”
No. It is not. Picking up my skirts I run to the chapel. I am a good deal calmer once I kneel before the blessed virgin. Her pacific expression puts me in mind of the phrase Deo adjuvante non timendum—With God’s help, nothing need be feared. I will pray for Henri, and surely Mother will have the rest of her ladies and her collection of priests doing so before night falls. I stay on my knees until I can no longer feel my feet. Returning to Henri’s apartment, I crack the bedroom door and find Castelan sitting beside my brother.
“Your Highness,” he says, “you ought not to be here. There may be contagion.”
“But I want her.” Henri’s voice is dry but still powerful.
I ignore the physician. “You want me, and here I am,” I say, pulling a chair back to his bedside and drawing his hand into mine. Castelan shakes his head but says nothing more. Henri is bled and then dozes. I think of leaving, but I cannot seem to withdraw my hand from his, so tightly does he clutch me as he slumbers. I shift to make myself as comfortable as possible.
“No!”
The word jolts me from an uncomfortable nap. I open my eyes. The room is in semidarkness. Mother is at the other side of the bed with Castelan. Wishing to stay and listen, I close my eyes again.
“Your Majesty,”—Castelan’s deep voice sounds solemn—“the fever is dangerously high and see how he sweats and shakes. I suspect the ague.”