This sets Charles back on his heels: he is not accustomed to making such decisions. Indeed, I suspect he has not command of the facts necessary to make such a pronouncement.
Seeing my brother’s confusion, the Duc is quick to withdraw the questions. “Pardon, Your Majesty,” he says. “I ought not to burden my king with questions better left to those under his command. To whom shall I report for orders?”
“Our brother, Anjou. Tomorrow he will be lieutenant general.”
De Guise’s visage registers surprise, but he recovers quickly and executes a smart bow before departing.
He is not gone a moment before Charles looks apprehensive. Scrambling to his escritoire, he pulls out a sheet and writes furiously upon it. “Follow the Duc,” he commands, folding the note sloppily and thrusting it toward me. “Bid him give this to Anjou. I will not have our brother make a fool of me by countermanding what I have said.”
I catch up with Guise when he is but a yard from the door of Anjou’s apartment.
“Your Grace!” I call. He stops and looks back. “His Majesty sends this, by you, for the Duc d’Anjou.”
“Has he changed his mind about my commission already?”
“Sir, I will not gossip about the contents of His Majesty’s correspondence.”
“Fair enough,” he says, taking the note.
“Was the battle horrible?” I ask.
“It is always horrible not to win.”
This, of course, is not what I meant; I wanted details, dying men lying in the mud, thrilling hand-to-hand combat.
“But we will win in the end. We must.” I recall Charles’ quip about having God on our side but not the best men—yet the man I see before me inspires confidence; Anjou inspires confidence.
“Your certitude is encouraging, Your Highness. I will keep your words, and your bright eyes, with me as I ride east.”
My flesh tingles. I long to offer him something more concrete—a token. But that seems too forward. A kiss might also do. For my part it would do very nicely. But how brazen would that be!
He reaches out a hand. “May I?”
I give him my hand and watch with rapt attention as he dips his head over it. His lips are firm and smooth as they press against my knuckles.
“For luck,” he says, straightening. I do not know if my cheeks color, but his do—color that is visible even through the dust of the field—and this surprises me.
“I will pray for you,” I say in a low voice.
“I am honored. That you will think of me is enough.”
When he is out of sight, I bring my hand to my own lips, kissing the spot he kissed as if by doing so I could take his kiss onto my own lips and return it.
CHAPTER 7
September 28, 1568—Paris, France
When Anjou marched from Paris at the head of the King’s army nearly a year ago, I thought word of royal victory would come swiftly. I dreamt of welcoming the Duc de Guise back as a hero and perhaps allowing him to kiss something more than my hand. But, as with the Battle of Saint-Denis, the news that came was not what I expected. La Rochelle fell to the Protestants. My cousin the Prince of Navarre joined Condé, so that two princes led the heretics opposing the crown. I did not see my brother or my handsome Duc for four months. And when, at last, the Edict of Longjumeau ended hostilities and brought them home, they did not come as victors—not in their own eyes and not in the eyes of the people of Paris.
This was most unfair, as I pointed out to Anjou. For Mother said this new peace surrendered nothing to the Protestants that they did not have under the previous one. But my brother was no more persuaded by me than His Majesty’s Catholic subjects were persuaded by broadsheets. Anjou strode around in a foul mood. And in the cities, Protestants began to die—murdered in the streets and even in their own homes. I did not celebrate these deaths, not because I was sorry for them, but because they angered Mother and I believed her when she said they must bring war yet again.
Today war comes, not by Protestant actions, but by ours. This morning Charles signed the Edict of Saint-Maur, revoking the rights of the heretics to worship, and now he walks through the streets of Paris behind the remains of Saint Denis. It is tradition, this procession honoring the Saint, before arms are taken up, and it makes the Court whole again for the first time in months.
I smile from my place behind the King at the sight of Anjou carrying a pole of the baldachin canopy covering the holy relics. He came from his vast camp at Orléans for this purpose. I say a special prayer of thanksgiving to the Saint for his return. And behind him, supporting the rear of the canopy, is the Duc de Guise.
People are out by the thousands along the procession route, enjoying the spectacle. I am waiting for it to be over, waiting for a chance to speak with the Duc at the banquet that will follow. I do not, as it happens, have to wait so long. When we are finished, he appears beside my horse to help me mount.