I sit perfectly still—so still that, but for my breathing, I might be made of stone, wondering if Charles will take the weapon. His eyes crackle with animosity, like a fire in a grate. His jaw clenches. I could swear I see his bloodied hand rise slightly, and at that very moment Henri pushes the dagger further forward, saying, “I will go with you if you like. We can make a bit of sport of it.”
“Keep your dagger,” Charles says, his voice so laden with disgust that one would think Anjou had suggested killing the groom, not he. “Use it to gut my enemies. Were the constable not already dying, you could begin with him.” Charles raises both hands to his head, pressing them against his temples. “My mind races and my head aches.” His voice is aggrieved and his body, rigid with anger since he entered, grows slack.
I hate to see him suffer so. I wonder, not for the first time, why God planted these violent rages within what would otherwise be the sweetest of temperaments. “Your Majesty,” I say, “shall I come with you to your room, wrap your hand and bathe your forehead?”
“Yes.” He beckons me and, when I arrive beside him, places one arm heavily across my shoulders, leaning into me so much that I nearly stagger. One would think he had been on the battlefield with the men who fought and had labored there to the point of exhaustion.
Mother gives me a look of praise. “I will send a draught to help you sleep,” she says to Charles.
Slowly we make our way toward the King’s apartment, my brother becoming more torpid with each step. Twice servants seek to relieve me of the burden of the King, each time to be waved off and followed by curses as Charles’ agitation flares. When we reach his antechamber, his valet is likewise dismissed.
“Shall I send for something to eat and drink?” I ask, easing him onto a chair. “Perhaps it would revive you.”
“I do not wish to be revived, only soothed.”
I nod. Moving to his bedchamber, I fill a basin shallowly with water, then add oil scented with lemon balm. Snatching up a clean cloth, I return to find Charles head in hands. Pulling up a stool, I gently take one of those hands. “Sit back,” I urge. “Put up your feet and let me apply a compress.”
He arranges himself slowly, like a very old man, unbuttoning his doublet, putting his boots on the stool, and letting his head fall back as if that very exercise were painful. I tear off a strip of linen, then dip the rest, wring it out, and lay it across his forehead. His eyes close but his face does not relax.
Crouching beside him, I use the strip I tore to bind his hand. Finished, I ask, “Shall I send for your nurse?”
“No, sit with me for a while.”
I shift from crouching to sitting on the floor beside him, basin in my lap.
Gradually his breathing slows. After some minutes, with his eyes still closed, Charles says, “You are an angel.”
“No, Your Majesty, but I hope I am a good sister and a faithful subject.”
“That, then, if you like. You are the only one who never asks for anything in return for kindness—at least, the only one who shares my blood.” He sighs. “Marie is content to take what I give without asking for more. I wish…”
He lets his voice trail off and leaves me wondering what he wishes. That he could marry Marie? That there were fewer people around him whose ambitions made them greedy? I feel compelled to speak up for those closest to him.
“Charles, you are unfair to Mother. She wants what is best for you and for France.”
“Does she?” He sighs again, opening his eyes and examining me curiously. “I suppose so. But there are times I find myself in doubt of it. And as for Anjou, he wishes he were the elder, of that there can be no doubt. And now he will lead my armies.”
“For your glory.”
“And his.”
“As long as he serves both, where is the fault in that? Are not all the best men ambitious?”
“True.” He sits up and drops the compress into my basin. Drops of lemon-scented water fly up, dotting my face. “But so are the worst men, dear sister. I have learned that since the crown came to me. You will learn it too. I pray not too painfully.”
A knock sounds.
“Enter,” Charles calls.
The Duc de Guise crosses the threshold, covered in dirt and sweat.
“We were just speaking of you,” Charles says.
I wonder whether Charles means to imply Guise is one of the best or the worst men?
“Your Majesty, the Prince de Condé shows signs of breaking camp.”
Charles springs to his feet. “After him! Or are you too tired to lead a portion of my army in pursuit?”
“I am never too tired to serve my king and will lead as many or as few as I am given anywhere Your Majesty chooses to send me.”
“Excellent!” Two spots of color mark Charles’ cheekbones. For the second time since his return, he appears on the verge of a frenzy—this time one of enthusiasm, not anger. I wonder if the Duc knows that such a fit of good spirits can be as capricious and dangerous. The King pulls the Duc into a clutching embrace, then releases him with equal violence. “On your way.”
“Which companies shall I take, Your Majesty?”