I own that I expected my mother to send for me. Each of the three mornings since she snubbed me, I’ve dressed and waited for my absence to be remarked upon. Waited for a summons. But my mother, it would seem, is quite contented to go about her business without me. I’ve taken my meals alone, pleading indisposition, but even this raises no alarm in Mother. I am in fact ill—listless and feverish by turns—and have little appetite. Gillone entreated me to let her go for the physician yesterday, but I would have none of it. As the third afternoon of my self-imposed exile wanes, I change my mind. The flashes of heat I have been suffering give way to a constant fire beneath my skin and a pain such as I have never known in my head. I send for Castelan. Gillone returns with Henriette instead.
My friend’s eyes are full of concern. “She burns! Listen,” Henriette crouches beside me, “a fever most terrible has taken hold of the camp. It began with a half a dozen gentlemen and now there must be fifty lying with parched lips, covered with purple sores.” She turns to Gillone. “Have you seen such sores upon her?”
“No, Your Grace.”
“There is a mercy, then. We must get her to bed.”
Hands are upon me but I cannot imagine that they will be able to lift me. I am as heavy as one of my brother’s iron cannon. Yet, despite my conviction, I am raised. I open my eyes and the room spins. I try to walk, but fear I am of little help as Henriette and Gillone bear me the short distance to my bed.
“I am going to the Queen,” Henriette says.
Gillone reaches out a hand and catches Her Grace’s sleeve. “Are they dying?” she whispers.
“Yes.”
I let my eyes fall shut. So while I have been hiding, Death crept into the camp. Is he coming for me? I want to ask but my tongue is too dry and cleaves to the roof of my mouth. Gillone, murmuring a string of unintelligible words, places a cloth on my head. It is like ice! I struggle to push it away. “Can you not see I am freezing?” I say testily through chattering teeth. I close my eyes and, when the cloth returns, have not the strength to resist it.
Time no longer exists. I fade in and out of consciousness, uncertain of much of what I see or hear in those moments when my ears and eyes are open. Of only one thing am I absolutely certain: Mother is here. It is night. It is day. It is something that I do not recognize as either. Yet Mother remains. Once I think I hear her singing to me in Italian. Is it a dream—all of it save the fire that burns me and the aches in my joints and head? If it is, I would not wake, for in my feverish delusions I have proof Mother cares.
My eyes open. Something is different. The pain is gone. Things around me are no longer shadows that fade in and out of focus. I can quite clearly see a lamp burning on a table near the foot of my bed. Mother dozes in a chair next to it. I find I have the power to turn my head, and discover Charlotte sitting beside my bed. I lift a hand and beckon her—a mighty feat. She comes and, lifting my hand to her lips, bursts into tears.
“Why do you weep?” My voice sounds loud in the silence and strange as well—cracked, as if I were aged.
“Because two days ago none thought to see you open your eyes again.”
A dry cough on my part causes her to drop my hand and offer water. I drink deep, letting the liquid soothe my parched throat, then ask, “How long have I been ill?”
“More than a fortnight, and each day worse than the last. Her Majesty has been quite desperate. She would not leave you even to see Castelan when he called for her as he lay dying.”
“Castelan is dead?”
“Chappelain too. Ambroise Paré rode from Paris lest the King be left without a physician. Scores of others succumbed—from foot soldiers to gentlemen we have dined and danced with…” Her words trail off into a small sob.
So our Lord has, in His wisdom, left me to live while gathering others to Him. “Has Anjou—”
I mean to ask if my brother has been here, crying and begging my forgiveness, but Charlotte interposes peremptorily. “Be assured, both your brothers were untouched by this pestilence.”
Mother shifts and opens her eyes. Seeing Charlotte sitting upon my bed, she springs to her feet.
“Is she gone?”
“Where should I go when you have cared for me so tenderly?” I say.