“There are birds enough to fill the March sky without that one.”
Fran?ois is right. Why should the death of a bird leave me feeling uneasy?
I begin reading again, but my apprehension lingers. More than lingers: it grows. The door swings open. Charlotte stands on the threshold, her face blanched of color.
“The Queen has collapsed!”
Fran?ois sits up, catching the book with his cheekbone and knocking it from my hands. It lands with a thud very like the black bird made.
Dear God, was that the sound Mother made as well when she collapsed?
Clutching his face, Fran?ois asks, “What happened?”
“I do not know. I do not know,” Charlotte replies in panic. “She was with the King and his advisors. They carried her to her rooms.” My friend’s hands twist in her skirts. “I saw them. The Queen was insensate and hung in their arms as one…” She stops, covering her mouth with both hands.
As we did as children, Fran?ois and I go together. Arriving outside Mother’s apartment at a run, we find a crowd. I push my way through until I am at the door. Marie is there, eyes filled with worry. Embracing me, she says, “Charles and Castelan are with her.”
Turning the handle, I push. The door opens slightly, then comes to rest against the sturdy body of a royal guardsman. He turns prepared to upbraid whoever has tried to make entry. But at the sight of Fran?ois and me, he steps back, allowing us to pass.
Mother’s physician is beside her bed. Charles stands at the foot with several others. The King acknowledges us by look but says nothing. Straightening up, Castelan comes to join him. “It is the strain of the war,” he murmurs. “Her Majesty would not rest after the death of the Queen of Spain, though I more than once urged rest upon her. She would not believe the war could proceed without her. Now nature does for her what she would not do for herself: puts her to bed.”
“I blame the Duke of Florence,” Charles says angrily. “Word came yesterday he was delaying the loan he promised.”
I glance at Mother, her eyes closed, her face white, her stillness a stark contrast to the fury that animated her when I saw her last. And I know I am to blame. Ought I to tell Castelan of this morning? Of how Mother’s anger was disrupted by the sudden swaying? I find I cannot, so instead I say, “I fear, Your Majesty, that the letter from your ambassador in Madrid also upset her.”
The men around me look perplexed. “What letter?” Charles asks.
So Mother kept the news of my rejection to herself.
“Howsoever Her Majesty came to be reduced to such a state”—Charles’ chancellor clearly feels a discussion of diplomatic points can wait—“the question must be asked.” He pauses. We all know what question. It trembles in the air as if it were a living thing. But it seems only he has the courage to speak it aloud, so we wait for him to continue. “Is there reason to fear for Her Majesty’s life?”
“It is too early to say. I will know better when she is again conscious.”
“Is it certain she will regain consciousness?” the chancellor persists.
“Enough!” Charles commands. “Such pessimism has no place at Her Majesty’s bedside. Out!” The gentlemen retreat, leaving only Castelan.
Charles’ moment of regal self-possession fades. He seems to shrink as he creeps along the side of the bed. By the time he kneels beside it, he looks more like a boy of eight than a man of eighteen.
“Mother…” The voice so stern a moment ago is a whisper, choked by tears. “You must not leave me. I cannot rule alone.”
“I could.”
Does Fran?ois really mutter this beneath his breath?
Moving to Castelan’s side, I repeat de Morvilliers’ question, “Will she wake up?”
“I am of the opinion she will. Other than being as one asleep who cannot be roused, I detect no symptom of illness. It is my belief that once her body is fully rested, she will rejoin us.”
“I will be here when she opens her eyes,” I say.
The King looks up. “As will I.”
“No, Charles,” I say gently, “you must manage your kingdom and direct your commanders in the field. That is the duty of a king. Waiting and watching are my duties as a daughter.”
He nods. “As I know you will do your duty with care, I cannot stint in mine.” Rising, he approaches me with eyes burning. “Do not leave her. You are my eyes and ears in her sick chamber.”
Fran?ois brings me my book and my embroidery. I send for Henriette and Charlotte. They are glad to come. After acquainting them with the Queen’s condition, I turn to the subject most on my mind.
“The crown of Spain will not be mine.” I can feel my eyes prick as I say it.
“That is a great shame.” Henriette shakes her head.