The ague. It is a disease of the heat and of the wet, and Bayonne—with its rivers and marshes—is both. Oh, why could it not have been a chill?
I wait for Mother to react. But there is a silence. Deep silence. When Mother’s voice comes at last, it sounds very dry, putting me in mind of how my brother spoke when he demanded my attendance earlier. “How bad the case?”
“Your Majesty knows better than to ask at such an early juncture. I cannot even know the type of ague until we see the pattern of fever. Let us hope the case will be mild.”
“Why?”
“Your Majesty?”
“Why does God test me?”
There is a pause. I pity Castelan: How can he possibly answer such a question? Finally he clears his throat. “Your Majesty, I will employ all my skill. Do not despair. The Prince is strong—”
“I am not a fool, Castelan. My children are fragile—from the twins I lost, to the King with his constant, worrisome respiratory ills.” Strangely, Mother’s voice strengthens as she recites these dire truths. “The only child with a decent constitution is Princess Marguerite.”
I feel a certain pride, though I have done nothing to earn my general good health. Perhaps I take pleasure in the comment because, other than my beauty—another characteristic bestowed by God, not hard work—I am seldom praised for anything.
“You are lucky in that, then.”
Mother gives a sharp laugh. “You call it luck? Sons frail, while a daughter is hale and hearty? I see no luck, only accursed fate. I have laid one son in the grave. I do not have so many that I can afford to bury another. A daughter I could spare. Do all that you can, Castelan, and then do more.”
A lump rises in my throat and I squeeze my eyes even more tightly shut. I wish I were anywhere else, that I had not heard Mother’s words. Wish that I were the one sick, not Henri. But most of all I wish I mattered as much as he did—to Mother, to the kingdom, to anybody.
Six days later we know that Henri has a tertian case. I can hear him calling out in delirium as I sit in his antechamber. Every third day he is gripped by fever. This is his third cycle, and Castelan expected improvement. Instead, the fever is so ferocious that my brother suffered a seizure this morning. I could hear Mother shouting instructions to those who held him so that he would not injure himself. And I felt a fear such as I have not known.
Mother is with Henri nearly continuously. She had some difficulty tearing herself away to discharge her duties in seeing the Spanish off when they went at last. This afternoon it is me Henri calls for. He has said my name so many times, I have lost count. But I must wait for the door to open—for Mother to summon me—and that does not happen.
I can think of no relief for my feelings of fear and helplessness but prayer. I send for my prie-dieu and Book of Hours. Arranging myself near the door to Henri’s bedchamber, I hope that God will pay more attention to my petitions against the background of my brother’s cries. I begin the Litany of the Saints. Looking at the faces of the martyrs, my eyes swim with tears. My blurred glance falls upon Saint Agnes, who resisted all suitors and every temptation. She is the patron of all young women yet chaste; surely she will help me. As I gaze at her lovely face, I become overwhelmed with a single thought—I and I alone can save Henri. Not by prayer but by sacrifice. I must offer something.
Father in Heaven, so many of your blessed Saints laid down their lives for your Church. They are venerated by Christians everywhere and esteemed by you for their acts of sacrifice. Surely it is also noble to die for family. Accept my life in place of my brother’s. The House of Valois needs its three remaining sons. It has daughters to spare—surely you heard Her Majesty say so as clearly as I did.
As these beseeching thoughts fly upward, a great calm settles over me. I turn the pages to the office of Compline. If ever there was an occasion to pray to the Blessed Virgin on behalf of the dying and for all those upon whom the night must soon fall, this is that occasion. I am deep in prayer when the door opens.
“Marguerite.” I look up to see Mother staring at me. Then she nods in approval, as if she understands all. I feel warmed by her silent approbation. Walking forward, she looks down at my open book. “Yes, sleep. I must have some sleep; Castelan insists.” She reaches out as if she might pat me on the shoulder but stops short of doing so.
“If Your Majesty does not require my attendance, I will pray awhile longer.”
“You are very well where you are.”