“Can you imagine I will forget you?” He seems genuinely distressed. “Your image will rise before me every time I draw my sword. I fight for my King, for my Church, and for you.”
“That is august company, Sir, and I am honored by it. If you will fight for me, then you must have something of mine to carry, as you would colors into a tournament.” I have been clutching Anjou’s shirts against myself, a poor substitute for clasping the Duc. There is one I took particular care with, painstakingly embroidering the neck and wrists with blackwork. Pulling it from the pile, I hold it out.
As he reaches for it, the door closest to us opens. A serving girl with a ewer bustles in, humming. In my surprise, I drop all the shirts.
“Your Highness, I am so sorry.” The girl looks for somewhere to set down her pitcher so she may collect what I have dropped.
“Never mind,” I say, “I will get them. But hold a moment.”
I stoop and Guise crouches beside me, helping to collect the fallen shirts and taking the one I meant for him in the process.
“Here”—I hold the linen out—“fold these and deliver them to the Duc d’Anjou with my compliments.”
The servant takes them with a curtsy. As the door closes behind her, the Duc throws back his head and laughs.
“What is so funny?” I ask.
“We are. If we are going to be this nervous, we might as well risk a kiss. Stolen ones are the sweetest.” He leans in. The kiss is brief, but the Duc is right: its urgency and the fear of being discovered make it intensely exciting. “Now,” he says with a smile, “I am ready for battle.”
CHAPTER 8
October 20, 1568—Paris, France
“Your Majesty”—the Baronne de Retz enters at a run—“the King is on his way with the Cardinals of Lorraine and Bourbon. Their expressions are grim.”
Mother rises.
“A battle?” I murmur to Henriette. A loss? My mind immediately goes to the two who matter most to me among the hundreds in His Majesty’s army. My heart pounds.
“Impossible,” my friend murmurs back. “Her Majesty is barely returned from seeing the troops out of Orléans. They cannot have reached the Protestants. The sides must come face-to-face to fight.”
I wonder then what the news can be? Charles enters. “Grim,” the Baronne said. “Grim” may describe the faces of the two cardinals, but the word scarce suffices for my brother’s looks. He is stricken.
“Madame”—he stops before Mother, taking her hands—“I would rather anyone else could have brought this news, yet I could not allow them to do so, for it is such as must be related by blood.”
Mother blanches.
“Our sister Elisabeth is dead in childbirth.”
A collective gasp rises up from the assembled ladies.
“No,” Mother insists, “she cannot be. She is not halfway through her time.”
“That may be so, but her time has run out.” Charles begins to weep, lifting Mother’s hands and pressing his mouth against them.
Mother looks past him, to the Cardinal of Lorraine.
“Your Majesty,” he says. “Word comes from Spain that the Queen was taken to childbed far too early and died shortly after the infant daughter she labored to bring forth.”
“Not Elisabeth! Not Elisabeth!” Mother cries in anguish. She and Charles collapse into each other’s arms, both wracked by sobs.
I am frightened—more frightened than sad. I barely knew Elisabeth, but I know Mother. She is all stone and strength. To see her in such a state is overwhelming and terrifying. Apparently, not only to myself. Around me, ladies begin to weep. This general falling apart attracts Mother’s attention. Her head rises from Charles’ breast. Taking a step back, she wipes the tears from her face with a nearly vicious firmness.
“Ladies”—she claps her hands—“this behavior is not seemly.” I wonder if she means merely ours, or if she is embarrassed by her own collapse.
“Your Eminences, I rely upon you to plan a Mass honoring the Queen of Spain. I am sure that will give all in the Court a measure of comfort.”
She touches Charles’ arm. “Come, my son, we will seek God’s comfort now, in my chapel.” Leading the King as if he were a child, she retreats. At the door she looks back and says quietly, “Let none disturb us.”