Picking up his foil, Henri gives a few short thrusts, bending his forward knee more with each. “Are you not mightily glad?”
“Prodigiously!” Glad that Don Carlos is not my husband and, yes, glad his troubles of the mind overtake him. I know it is wicked to be cheered by such a thing, but there is a certain delightful vengeance in knowing that the man who sneered at the idea of wedding me has become a prating lunatic. Failing to win the hand of a madman is no failure.
And yet … the slight by the Prince still stings. Don Carlos, mad or not, is betrothed to the Emperor’s daughter and I remain unattached. Even as I know thoughts of war dominate Mother’s hours, and must do, I wish she would turn a modicum of her attention to finding me a husband.
“Why do you sigh?” Anjou asks.
“I do not!” I insist defensively. “Do you ever think of getting married?”
“No,” Anjou replies, his voice oddly flat. “For I will not have my choice, and Mother’s suggestions have been abominable.”
If by his choice my brother means Mademoiselle de Rieux, then I am heartily glad he will be denied it.
He sheathes his blade. “Mother is not the only one to miss the mark. I swear to you, the Duc de Guise mentioned our brother’s widow to me—never mind Mary Stuart has a husband already.”
“When did you see the Duc?”
“At camp when I was last there to review the troops with Charles.” Henri looks at me piercingly.
I fidget, then, taking his arm, say, “Come. I thought you were going to impress me with feats of fighting prowess.”
He bends and kisses the top of my head, and as he does so I can hear him inhaling my perfume—his favorite. Straightening, he says, “I hope to impress you always and in every way.”
“I am sure you shall. And I will relate tales of your gallantry and valor everywhere, as a good sister should.”
*
I cannot sit still! There is a massacre going on and I am missing it.
Montmorency at last offers battle to Condé and his Protestants. The constable has a mighty force: more than fifteen thousand infantry, three thousand cavalry, and eighteen lovely new cannons. The Protestants have not a seventh of that at Saint-Denis. How those heretics must tremble at this moment—at least those not already dispatched to answer before God. How they must cry out as they are run through with pikes or felled by Catholic swords!
Anjou joined the constable last night. Charles rode out this morning to watch from a safe distance. Mother and I are left behind to wait for word of the battle’s glorious result, word that must surely come soon, given that the fighting began hours ago. I bite my nails and pace from window to window, though there is nothing to see. This morning we heard the sounds of His Majesty’s artillery, but no longer. We certainly have no chance of hearing anything else at this distance; yet, in my eagerness I strain my ears. Mother, by contrast, sits at her desk, writing.
“Marguerite!” she says, looking up. “If you cannot be calm, then you must be gone.”
I freeze. The one concession made to me on the occasion of the day’s battle is that I have been permitted to be with Mother in her study, along with the Duchesse d’Uzès, rather than being consigned to the room beyond with the other ladies. And though that larger party would doubtless be full of shared excitement and whispered speculation—all in all, a great deal more entertaining—Mother will have the news first. I make myself sit down beside Mother’s chessboard and slowly set up the pieces, imagining each to be someone I know. Anjou for the Red King, though I suppose by rights that ought to be Charles. The pieces are finely carved with particularly dashing chevaliers. Perhaps that is why I imagine one to be the Duc de Guise. I run my finger along that piece before moving it. Then, turning the board, play the other side.
I am in my third turn as white when the door bursts open. A soldier no older than me crosses the threshold, breathing heavily.
“Your Majesty,” he says, “Constable de Montmorency is felled. He is on his way to Paris, but all concede this effort is made merely so he may die at home.”
Mother does not blanch. Not a muscle moves in her face. “Unfortunate, but what of the battle?”
“The Prince de Condé has the luck of the devil.” The youth crosses himself as if Satan might be summoned by a mention. “He broke our line. ’Twas during his charge that Montmorency was wounded.”
“Condé charged?”
“Before we could.”
“Incroyable! Your brother was right”—Mother turns to me—“the constable was too old for the task set him.” Returning her attention to the soldier, she gives him a sharp look. “I have had your sober news, now give me better.”
I can see fear in the youth’s eyes. Dear God, what if he has no better? At least, I pray he has no worse.
“We nearly had Condé. The Duc d’Anjou was screaming for us to take him. But Condé’s men rescued him.”