“Can you doubt it? Can you doubt it when I have sung to you, danced with you, hunted beside you, and taken your part in every quarrel since we were reunited at Fontainebleau five years ago? Can you doubt it when I offered God my life in place of yours when you were ill?”
“I do doubt it.” His eyes blaze again, but not with anger. This is something else. He moves close once more. “But you can put my doubts to rest. Swear you will not see Guise alone.”
It is difficult to imagine such a pledge, but not as difficult as it would have been a week ago. My brother merely asks me to give voice to the promise I made on my knees the night of Guast’s assault. Yet my voice is a whisper as I speak. “I swear it.”
Anjou exhales audibly. His left arm encircles my waist. He bends and I expect his customary kiss on the forehead, but his lips do not stop their descent until they meet mine. It is a lover’s kiss. My mind spins and settles upon one thought—Henri’s anger was rooted in jealousy! I am confused both by this fact and by my lack of revulsion at his lips against mine. Here is sin greater than any the Duc and I have committed, yet my heart races as it does in Guise’s embrace. My tongue seeks Anjou’s and my flesh thrills at the touch of his hands.
Then, in an instant, attraction turns to disgust—not at my brother but at myself. I must be the most wanton, lustful woman on God’s earth; a monster so openly licentious that every man around me succumbs to base passion, even my own flesh and blood. Worse still, my passions respond to such sin-soaked caresses. Tearing myself from Anjou’s embrace, I stoop, hands on knees, retch, and vomit.
Henri recoils. Doubtless cognizant for the first time of the evil nature of what we have done. I put up a hand to shield my face so he cannot look at me.
“I see how it is. I disgust you! I repulse you but Guise does not.”
I look up, stunned. This is his concern?
“And to think I believed you when you said you loved me best. You are all artifice, just as Guast said, captivating men for your own cruel purposes. Unwilling to fulfill the promises your lips and your actions make.”
I cannot breathe. Cannot believe what I am hearing. I retch again, but nothing comes up.
Grabbing me roughly, Anjou drags me toward the entrance of his tent. “Well, the Duc can have you, then, and welcome. I want none of you. From this moment your beauty and your pretty words have lost their power over me. Get out!” Opening the tent, he shoves me into the rain. I stumble and fall to the ground, shaking uncontrollably, in the wedge of light shining forth from behind my brother. Then the flap closes, the light is gone—all the light in my world. I am abandoned by Henri, distrusted by my mother. I am wretched, guilty, and alone.
I have no will to move. Will Anjou do me better justice, I wonder, if he emerges in the morning to find me dead on the ground? Resting my head on my knees, I cry. When I run out of tears, I cannot think what to do. Then it comes: confess. I must have forgiveness of my sins, and then I must avoid repeating them. My pledge to distance myself from Guise, given to Anjou, may not restore my brother’s or mother’s trust, but it is worth keeping nonetheless. Putting my hands down into the muck, I struggle to my feet. I will write to my Duc. Tell him that when we are together next, he must not come near. I will not see him alone again, and that thought nearly drives me once more to tears.
The lanterns in my tent burn low. Gillone has fallen asleep, her head thrown back and my nightshift on her lap. Relieved not to have to explain where I was, I move cautiously so as not to wake her. Catching a glimpse of a face in the glass on my makeshift dressing table, I gasp. I turn this way and that, looking for the madwoman who has stolen into my tent before realizing the image is my own. My eyes are wild. Portions of my hair have come undone. Wet hanks hang about my face and cling to my neck. My skin is so pale, I might be mistaken for dead.
Removing my cloak, I let it fall to the rug. I strip off the sodden dress underneath, tearing myself free when I cannot reach the fastenings. I crawl into bed in my damp chemise, clutching my writing box.