How difficult my task is. The very act of writing to the Duc is inappropriate. If my letter should be intercepted, I must at least take care that it does me no further harm. Perforce, then, there is no room in it for the type of sweet words that might act as a balm to the sting I must deliver.
“Your Grace.” The salutation will seem a slap to a man who has heard me whisper his Christian name. I bite back such thoughts and continue. “I fear our friendship, though innocent”—it would be cruelty to share the guilt I feel over our conduct; unnecessary too, since there will be no more—“occasions talk at Court.” My blood heats as I recall the nature of that talk. The balance of the note is brief, but bound to cause as much pain in the reader as it costs me to write it. I sign myself “Duchesse de Valois” and hasten to fold and seal the missive before more tears, like the one that bleeds the letters of my title, can fall upon the page and spoil it. Then I place the letter beneath my pillow. It is difficult to imagine sleeping on such a cruel object. But I am exhausted, and the thought that I will not sleep is barely formed before it is betrayed.
I wake sneezing. My cloak is gone, as are the remnants of my gown. My head aches dully. My limbs feel like lead. But I must rise. I have duties. I do not expect a warm welcome in my mother’s tent, but I will attend her, belying the words my brother has spoken against me by my diligence. Besides, I must give my dreadful note to Henriette. Gillone eyes me questioningly as she dresses me, but whatever thoughts she has or conclusions she drew from the torn and ruined garments she whisked away while I slept, she keeps them to herself.
Mother is in the final stages of her toilette when I reach her tent. Though the other ladies greet me warmly, I receive no acknowledgment from her. It is too late to insist on the honor of holding out her shoes, but as she moves to her dressing table I press forward. It has lately been falling to me to arrange Mother’s hair. Taking up a comb, I find my hand shaking. As a result the comb catches.
“You are clumsy this morning.” Mother’s eyes in the mirror are sharp.
“I am sorry, Your Majesty.”
“Give the comb to someone else before I am pulled apart.”
As I pass the comb, it is I who feels pulled apart. I have come to do my duty, but if I am to be snubbed publically it will be very hard to bear.
As Mother’s hood and veil are fastened in place, Anjou enters.
“Madame”—he brushes past me without a glance—“I see a good night’s sleep has refreshed you.” Anjou’s eyes catch mine in our mother’s glass. “Which is more than I can say for our sister. Such tired eyes, Margot. What disturbed your rest, I wonder?”
“A guilty conscience, perhaps.” Mother’s words as she passes me are low, but even so, I am surely not the only lady who hears them.
“Or perhaps she misses absent friends.” Henri winks obnoxiously. “But we have no time for such trivial worries. Come, I am eager to discuss my siege preparations.”
When they are gone, the other ladies begin to straighten Mother’s things. I move to Henriette’s side.
“You do not look well,” she says.
“As my brother cruelly pointed out.”
“No, not tired: ill. Come, I will walk you to your tent.”
I let her guide me outside, then stop. “I will go and lie down, but need your assistance in a matter far more important than seeing me to bed.” I draw the note from between the front of my bodice and my partlet. “We both know that you have ways of conveying messages that ought not to be sent.”
Henriette laughs. “I should object to being depicted as devious, but I own I delight in it. Give me the letter.” Taking it from me, she turns it over in her hand. “No address, but I know the recipient.” My note disappears into the bodice of her gown. “Is love the cause of all this pallor? I would be very disappointed to hear it. If I have taught you nothing else these years, I hope I have taught you not to make a fool of yourself over a man—even a very handsome one.” She crosses her arms expectantly.
“No. I am not pining for Guise. I am mourning my loss of favor on his account. He is the cause of the rupture with Anjou, and through Anjou with my mother. They think I spy for the Duc.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
She nods, satisfied. “Then consider your letter delivered.”
I find myself wondering if, had my answer been different, I would have been left without a messenger?
CHAPTER 11
Autumn 1569—Saint-Jean-d’Angely, France