“I hope it is not more. I hope Her Majesty’s disappointment over the matter is not what felled her.”
“Do not be absurd. Her Majesty is made of stronger stuff. She has laid a husband and a son in the grave. Left with a boy king, she managed to keep him on the throne in a time of war. If the King of Spain has put her in this bed, it is not by his failure to marry you.”
I pray Henriette is right. But I do not feel relieved.
Nor, apparently, do I look it. For Charlotte says, “I know it is selfish of me, but I am glad you do not go to Spain. I would have the three of us together awhile longer.”
“I can tell you someone else who will be cheered by the Spanish king’s decision,” Henriette adds. “The Duc de Guise would rather have you on French soil, and he has made that quite clear.”
“To whom?” I did not see the Duc when we were in Saumur, as he was quartered at Chinon.
Henriette winks. “I will not say. But I trust my source. The Duc does not like the idea of your marrying.”
A sudden movement from the bed keeps me from replying. Mother has half raised herself. Her eyes are open but they do not seem to apprehend us.
Jumping to my feet, I say, “Madame! We thought you left us!”
“I did. I have been to Chateauneuf to see your brother.” She looks about wildly as if searching for something recognizable.
“You are at Metz, Madame. You have been for weeks.”
Rather than calming her, my pronouncement agitates her further. “Foolish girl, I have been with Henri.”
I lay a hand on her shoulder. She burns; I can feel as much through her chemise. “Henriette, find Castelan. Tell him the Queen is awake and feverish.”
Charlotte crosses herself.
Turning my attention back to Mother, I gently ease her onto her pillow. “Rest. When you next wake, Henri will be here.”
A lie but it serves its purpose. Murmuring my brother’s name, she closes her eyes. I wonder, has word been sent to Anjou? Surely it must have been.
Castelan seems to think it a good thing that Mother spoke, no matter how nonsensically. He bleeds her for the fever, which he assures me is neither high nor serious.
As the light fades Mother begins to thrash. Her eyes open, again bright but seemingly unseeing. Touching her, I am sure that her fever worsens. Shouting for a servant, I send again for the physician.
You said she would not die. I long to fling the words at Castelan when he arrives. He does not look sanguine as he did hours ago. Watching him bleed Her Majesty, I have the sudden urge to go out and see if I can find the body of the bird that struck my window. Perhaps, if I cannot, I can believe the creature was only stunned and, having awakened, flew away. But I will not leave Mother, and besides, what chance would I have of finding a black bird in the dark?
“If Your Highness wishes to retire,” Castelan says, “I will watch over Her Majesty.”
I cannot be persuaded to leave. I am roused from a fitful sleep in my chair by Mother’s voice.
“Alexander, my Alexander,” she croons. “I knew it would be so.” The words are perfectly clear but I do not understand them. Opening my eyes, I see a bleary-eyed Castelan standing at Mother’s bed. She is sitting up, looking into the darkness of the room.
“Your Majesty, you have a fever; you must rest,” the physician says.
“Yes, the battle is over. I can rest. But not before I see my Henri—”
I am not certain if she means my father or my brother.
“—see the Prince’s head.”
A great wave of fear rolls over me. Has something happened to Anjou?
Castelan moves to where he has arranged the items of his profession. Quickly he mixes a draught while Mother continues to stare at nothing, a smile on her face.
“This will calm her,” the physician says. Mother is perfectly calm, her expression nearly pacific. But I know what he means—the draught will make her sleep, and that will surely relieve his obvious discomfort. Will it lessen mine? I wish it were so easy. Even after Mother sips the liquid and closes her eyes, I feel frantic. I am sure Mother has seen something. Not in her room but in her mind’s eye. It could be merely a memory. Or it could be a premonition. She is known for them. Is my brother Henri safe? Who has lost a head?
*
“Henri! Oh, Henri!” I know it is unseemly, but I do not care: the instant my brother is off his horse, I throw my arms around him, heedless of the gentlemen who accompany him and of the grooms rushing forward. Standing on my tiptoes, I kiss his cheeks again and again. I have known since yesterday, when Monsieur de Losses arrived, that my brother was safe. But knowing and seeing are two very different things.