Médicis Daughter: A Novel of Marguerite de Valois

Grabbing the bell from the table beside my bed, I ring it violently. “Gillone, I need you!” I cry.

Anjou jumps to his feet. The look he gives me is so hate-filled that I wonder if even the arrival of Gillone will keep him from doing me violence. But he exhibits a cold self-command reminiscent of Mother. Touching his lip, he removes his hand and looks at the blood upon it. “Those who draw blood from me always regret it. I meant what I said—I did not wish you dead—but after this, you may yourself wish it.” Casting a glance in my glass, he straightens his doublet, then draws back the flap of my tent to admit Gillone. “Your mistress has suffered a relapse,” Anjou says. “I fear the effects of her illness may be lifelong.”

*

When Saint-Jean-d’Angely capitulates we set out for Angers. I am too weak to ride. Charles gives me his litter, placing me in it himself each morning. Henriette sits beside me as we arrive in Angers. Heedless of the cold and of Henriette’s disapproving look, I open my curtain to see the stout, round towers of the fortresslike chateau. Tonight we will dine and sleep indoors for the first time in a long while, and such simple pleasures will be delightful. “Do you think Ambroise Paré will permit me to bathe?” I ask my friend. I would dearly love to wash away the last traces of my fever—and the lingering feeling of uncleanliness left behind on my flesh by Anjou’s hands.

“Why need Monsieur Paré be consulted? Leave it to me.”

“Then perhaps I can go to the chapel.” I would be clean in spirit as well as in body. Closing my eyes, I imagine kneeling before the splinter of the true cross brought to Angers by Saint Louis, asking God to make my soul new again.

As we draw into the courtyard, my spirits are the highest they have been since that dreadful day when the Seigneur du Guast began my undoing. Charles dismounts and makes his way through the throng toward my litter. I smile at him, but in the next instant less welcome faces come into view—the Duc de Guise and his uncle the Cardinal. Why are they in Angers? My mother’s eyes ask the same question as she stands beside Charles.

I glance past the Queen to the Duc. His face is stricken. He takes a few steps forward and then draws back. Good. I pray that he will keep his distance. To approach me now would confirm everything Anjou has said. Anjou glides to Guise’s side, speaking to him, pulling him forward even as Charles offers an arm to help me from my litter.

“Here is a gentleman particularly desirous to inquire about our sister’s health.” Anjou nearly shoves Henri forward, smiling unctuously.

“Your Majesties.” The Duc bows. “Your Highness.” He inclines his head without meeting my eyes. His obvious pain wrings my heart, but not sufficiently to make me regret wishing him elsewhere.

The Cardinal de Lorraine, on his nephew’s heels, bows as well. “Your Majesties,” he says, “we were in the greatest apprehension when we heard of the illness in the royal camp, and prayed continuously that His Majesty and all dear to him would be spared.”

“We were, praise God, entirely untouched,” Charles replies without appearing to sense anything is amiss. Perhaps Mother has not related to him the rumors brought to her by Anjou.

“Your Majesty,” I say, laying a hand on Charles’ arm, “I am fatigued. May we go in?”

“Of course. Duchesse de Nevers, where is my sister’s cloak? Throw it about her shoulders lest she take a chill.”

Henriette moves in, giving me a pointed look. Having placed the cloak about my shoulders, she takes the Duc’s arm. “Will you help me find my sister, Sir? I am sure you are eager to see her.”

Bless her! As Charles leads me in one direction, Henriette and Guise go in the other. Yet the damage is done. I hear Anjou say to Mother, as they walk behind me, “How singular. Here waiting for her is just the balm Margot needs. I wonder: Did the fair Duchesse summon Guise or did our sister?”

Gillone is in my room. I sit on the edge of the bed and she kneels to remove my shoes. Mother lingers. We both know why.

“You look tired,” she says. “I know we spoke of your dining with the Court, but perhaps it is best I have something sent up.”

I should be disappointed, but instead I am relieved. I do not need to be in company with the Duc. “I appreciate your solicitude, Madame. I am well content to keep to my rooms.” My dream of visiting the chapel fades; any foray outside this room would only provide Anjou with fodder for gossip that I rendezvous with Guise. Even staying shut in may not be enough, my brother may insinuate the Duc waits on me.

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