As my brother’s camp comes into sight through the drizzling rain that has punctuated our journey, she places a hand over mine. “Not long now. We will see your brother sound and whole and will ourselves be so for the first time since the Seigneur brought us word of his fall.”
Oh, Henri, how I long to see you! If I am your champion you are also mine, and I will be safe once I am in your sight. Perhaps I may find a way to get Guast banished from your circle without telling you what he has done.
When the carriage stops, Anjou is there. Charles climbs down. There is an awkward exchange of bows, then His Majesty hastens to the shelter of a tent bearing the royal standard. Henri does not follow. He stands, rain streaming from his hat onto the shoulders of his doublet, waiting for us to descend. As soon as Mother’s feet are on the ground, he pulls her into an embrace.
“My darling”—she pushes him to arm’s length so she can examine him better—“what a relief to see you well. Here we are, the women who love you best in all the world.” She embraces him again, then steps aside to make way for me, and I quite willingly follow her example, throwing myself upon my brother, my tears at seeing him mixing with the rain.
Henri’s arms do not close around me. Instead he turns and offers an arm to Mother. “You should not stand in such weather. How could I bear it if you became ill on my account?” He leads her toward a tent and I follow, lifting my gown, hopping over puddles and wondering why my embrace was not returned.
Inside, Henri takes Mother’s cloak. I try to catch his eye as a servant removes mine, but he is busy pouring Mother wine, waving away a second attendant in order to do the task himself. Anjou’s eyes seem to touch on everything but me. Dismissing the servants, he beckons to Mother. “Come to the brazier.”
Henri rubs Mother’s hands between his own. “I hope you find the arrangement of your tent satisfactory. I supervised it myself tout proche to mine.”
Anjou speaks rapidly. There is high color in his cheeks. He is clearly agitated. That likely explains my being slighted. Like Charles, Henri has a propensity to become fixated on a single thing, worrying it as a dog does a bone. I wonder what he is fretting over. Is he dwelling on some event from his last battle or anticipating his next? Flattery, I think, should revive his spirits and gain his attention.
“We heard much of your magnificent victory,” I say, coming forward to pour myself a glass, since no one has offered me one, “but no one can match your descriptive powers. Tell us: What was it like to see the Swiss shatter the Huguenot Landsknechts?”
Anjou’s eyes meet mine for the first time. They are surprisingly hard. “I have no wish to speak of such things. You must rely on others to tell the tale. There are those who can be satisfied by an incomplete victory, but I cannot.”
“My Alexander”—Mother lifts a hand to his shoulder—“how can you call it incomplete? Prisoners in the thousands, Coligny injured … That is a glorious victory, to be certain.”
“Ah, but, Madame, I had thought to make Coligny ride the ass as I did Condé. A dead man cannot flee south and take the remnants of his armies with him.”
Here, then, is the reason for Henri’s ill humor: Coligny’s escape.
“The admiral has the devil’s own luck.” Mother shakes her head. “But it cannot last forever. You must tell me about this Maurevert you mention in your letters. A man with so few scruples could be useful, provided his aim improves.”
“Madame, I am happy to give you my opinion on that subject, but later…” Anjou looks at me, his lip curling back oddly.
Something is wrong, and it is not merely the escape of Coligny.
“… Some stories are best kept close, and our sister has friends only too eager to know every detail of our actions.”
I am perplexed by his reference to “friends.” But if Henri’s meaning is ambiguous, his hostility is clear. Mother does not miss it—indeed, how could she? “Henri, what goes on here?”
“Here?” he replies. “Nothing. Elsewhere … well, we shall talk of that later. When you are out of your wet things and we are alone.”
A handful of women tumble in, laughing and shaking the rain from their cloaks. Henri kisses Mother’s hand. “I will leave you to the ministrations of your ladies.” As he goes, he throws me a last look—filled with both anger and pain.
Has Guast said something to Anjou, and what precisely? If he claims I have fallen to him, I will defend myself! Surely he is not such a fool. I must find out what is amiss here. But the usual entertainments stand between me and that opportunity. Thankfully our long days of travel have left everyone tired. By the time we share a cold supper, yawns are frequent, and Her Majesty declares her intent to retire early. Good. Henri will surely come to see her once she is tucked into bed. He always does. I will try to have a word with him while he, Mother, and I are closeted cozily together.