“If your men can spare you.”
“They shall be made to, and any who complain of it will feel my anger. But I expect no protests, for all my friends know that you are the center of my world.”
Does Charles snort?
“Margot, come along and undress me.”
“Shall I come too so that you have all your children?” Charles asks. Then, without waiting for a reply: “I thought not. I have a headache, in any event. As Marie is not with us, you can at least leave me Margot to massage my temples.”
“Why does everyone like him better?” Charles asks, flopping into a chair once we are alone.
“They do not.”
“You do.”
“I love all my brothers.” Moving behind him, I place my fingers on his temples. Reaching up, he pushes my hands away.
“Get out.”
“But I thought—”
“What? You thought we were companions and confidantes? So did I. In you I thought I had a true heart and keeper of secrets. But you are Anjou’s creature.”
Moving around in front of him, I crouch down and place my hand on his knee. “Charles, please do not do this.”
He puts a hand over mine. “I cannot blame you. I may be king but it is Anjou who has elevated you. Draw what conclusions you like from that, and then censure me for my anger if you dare.”
“I do not fault you. It is not my place to judge you. You are my king, and a beloved brother. I only remark that letting Anjou nettle you tires you and emboldens him.”
“Could he be more bold?”
I fear the answer is yes. Henri has more confidence than anyone I know. Yet position he does not have. “Audaciousness cannot make him king,” I tell Charles. “You look more powerful when you resist the urge to swipe at him.”
“It is instinct, bred into my bone. The stallion nips at the fly, does he not? Well, though our brother bites me, I will not let him have my crown. You may tell him that … and Mother too.” He lifts his hand from mine. “Go.”
Standing outside my brother’s apartment, I feel sad and tired. Slowly, I walk in the direction of my chamber. I do not notice Charlotte until she says my name.
“There you are! My goodness, you are very stupid this evening, wandering in a daze when you might be using your liberty to better advantage.”
I blink at her.
“Did you not tell me you wanted to see him?”
All my ennui dissipates. “Yes!”
“Come, then. Her Majesty told me you were with the King. She will not be looking for you. In case anyone else should, Gillone will say you have retired.”
“Where are we going?” I ask as she pulls me down a narrow set of stairs.
“Into the dusk, where things that ought not to be seen are less likely to be.”
We emerge into what must be the kitchen gardens. I smell rosemary as our skirts brush the plants along the narrow path. Ahead, a figure stands silhouetted against the last sliver of burnished copper glowing upon the horizon.
“I will wait inside,” Charlotte says, stopping.
I need no urging to go on. I cannot see the Duc’s face until I am some yards closer. He does not smile as he did in the courtyard, but his eyes are warm, as is the hand he reaches out to me.
I move in to be kissed but instead he says, “There is a bench against the wall.”
There is indeed, wreathed by dead and withered vines. We sit side by side. Henri collects my other hand and kisses both.
When he raises his head I say, “Since we last met, Sir, you are the talk of the Court. You must be pleased.”
He gestures away his accomplishments as if they were nothing. “You are not married. So I am pleased.”
“I do not know for how much longer. Every letter Her Majesty receives suggests the Portuguese will close with her ambassador.”
My love’s handsome face becomes solemn. As I have so many times these last days I think that I am too young to be married—whatever my contrary thoughts were before. I must have more time for love first, for the love of this man.
Leaning forward, he kisses me tenderly.
“You must keep me informed of the negotiations,” he says as our lips part. “It is not a good thing to be distracted when fighting.”
“I will try.” I am thinking of how quickly I lost track of him once the army disbanded after La Roche-l’Abeille. And of the imposition our improper correspondence places upon Henriette.
Henri, it seems, worries about something different. “I understand. It is a risk for you to write to me. I would be mortified if anyone should become suspicious. Your honor is more important even than my peace of mind.”
“Not to me,” I murmur. “Your peace of mind and your person are dearer to me than my own.”
He kisses me again. That is when I hear it—the snap of something dry underfoot. Henri hears too. Releasing me, his hand goes to his side, where he must have a dagger. He peers into the semidarkness.