Over the days of Henri’s illness, sitting in this antechamber, I have had ample occasion to observe the routine surrounding my brother. Generally, the physician leaves after a last bleeding, placing Henri in the care of the King’s childhood nurse. She is steady but not young. Surely, I think, given enough time and quiet, she must slumber at Henri’s bedside. Castelan leaves, nodding to me where I kneel. My wait begins.
Time passes slowly. My impatience—a failing indeed—keeps me from immersing myself as fully as I ought to in my prayers. I am sad to think that at such a serious moment, when the state of my soul is of the utmost importance, I fail to be as I should. The candles in the room burn down. I can no longer see my Book of Hours. The time has come.
There is relief in rising from my knees, for my legs are stiff. Is that why they tremble? As quietly as I can, I go to the door of Henri’s sick chamber. I ease it open, thanking God that it is noiseless on its hinges. I slip inside. I see it is as I surmised: the nurse sleeps in a chair.
Henri lies with his handsome features composed, his form as still as one dead. Creeping forward, I put out a hand close enough to his mouth that I may feel his breath. When I do, I let out my own breath in relief. Perhaps feeling my hand hovering above him, Henri moves restlessly and then, as if the act of moving hurts, gives a low moan. The nurse shifts, but her eyes remain closed. Turning back the covers, I slip into bed beside my brother. I move close, turning to mold my body around his and laying an arm gently over him, hoping to somehow mystically draw his fever into myself. That same fever must make my arm jarringly cold, for my brother moans again and gives a convulsive shiver.
“Henri,” I whisper, “it is Margot.”
His body relaxes at the sound of my voice, then another fit of shaking takes him. Quietly I begin to hum, my mouth close to the back of his neck. A tune takes shape. It is a lullaby. Can it be as old as our time together at Vincennes? The shaking stops.
The warmth of my brother’s body in my arms—though it is induced by the fever—soothes me. My eyelids grow heavy. I struggle to continue my song. And when I cannot, and realize that sleep is coming, I press my face against the back of my brother’s neck and tell him that I love him and will miss him. My last thought is about heaven. Will it be silent like the grave, or will it be filled with music? I love music.
“What goes on here?” The voice is close and harsh. I am dragged from warmth and fall onto something hard.
Can I be dead? If so, I must be in purgatory, for it is hard to imagine landing in a heap in heaven.
As I am pulled upward and struggle to get my feet beneath me, I open my eyes. The hand is Mother’s—in fact, she has hands on both my arms. Her face is close and it is livid. The nurse is awake too, standing at the bed with her hand on Henri’s forehead. But she flees at a single imperious gesture from Mother.
Mother gives me a ferocious shake. “Marguerite, what are you doing in your brother’s bed?”
When I hesitate, Mother shakes me again. I am puzzled by the obvious fury in her face.
“I love him so much,” I blurt out. “I asked God to spare him and take my life instead if a life is needed.” My stomach sinks. Have I forfeited my bargain by speaking it out loud? If so, I am a horrible failure.
“Fool!” Mother slaps me, wrenching my neck and sending me staggering back a step. Glaring, she shakes her head in disgust. “Did you really believe Our Lord would barter with you?”
The manner of her asking makes my already stinging cheeks burn. Why, I wonder, should I be ashamed of my good intentions?
Her eyes narrow. I cannot ever remember seeing her so angry—at least, I can never remember seeing her so angry at me. “If prayers were that reliably answered, do you think your father would be dead?” The question cracks like lightning. “That your brother, King Fran?ois, would lie cold in a grave? God did not see fit to grant my prayers. Why, then, should he favor yours?”
I can think of no answer.
“Faith is a fine thing, Marguerite,” Mother continues in a tone that belies the sentiment, “but you are not a little girl any longer, so you must temper it with reason and common sense. What if someone other than I had found you? What might they think? What might they say and to whom? The Prince of Asturias already will not have you…”
So she knows. The only thing that could make this moment worse is adding my rejection to it. My humiliation is complete.
“Will you render yourself unmarriageable entirely by notorious behavior?”
I do not understand. Perhaps my actions were foolish and my faith is childish, though I do not think it so; but even if I were beyond foolish—even if I were soft in the head—my royal connections must make me someone’s bride. Don Carlos is proof of that. He is mad, but can afford to spurn me and be certain he will find another princess.