“Of course. But the stain was so at odds with the prose, and soon I saw only the latter. Again and again I asked myself why you would demote me by the term ‘friendship’ and call me by my title. The only explanation I could find was terrible—that I had lost your love.”
“You have not. But can we not love from a greater distance?”
He draws the hand he holds to his mouth and grazes my knuckles with his lips. “Can I do this from a distance?”
“No.” I sigh where he perhaps expected me to laugh, and his face falls.
“I distress you. That is not my intent—ever. If you will not let me fight in defense of your reputation, then I will live in defense of it. What must I do?”
“I have sworn I will not be alone with you.”
“Then you will not be: I will renounce the pleasure of unchaperoned moments. And in public not a word, not a look, shall escape me which would raise an eyebrow of the Baronne de Retz—at least, not when there is anyone nearby to hear or see it.”
At this I do laugh. “And when they are not?”
“Why, then I shall say I love you and call you Marguerite. And you will smile and whisper, ‘I love you too, Henri.’”
“I do.”
“Knowing that will make all our new cautions bearable.”
CHAPTER 12
Spring 1570, Paris
“No, no, no!” Henriette’s voice is strident enough to bring Gillone’s head popping out of the adjoining chamber. I wave my shadow back.
“How can you be so cruel?”
Henriette’s expression is hard. “It is you who are cruel—to yourself and to me, a friend who only tries to safeguard you from your own foolishness.”
“But you have relayed messages between us before. Many times.”
“I was trying to help you to be discreet, but that is no longer possible. The whole Court talks of your romance with the Duc and speculates on where it will end. I do not need to speculate. I can predict the future as clearly as Her Majesty claims she can—at least in this instance.” She shakes her head. “Your mother will crush this amour, and you will be even further from her favor than you are now.”
“I do not believe that. Nor does Henri,” I reply defiantly. “Her Majesty grows frustrated by the lack of progress in the Portuguese match—”
“And you think her current short temper favors you? Unbelievable!” Henriette throws up her hands.
“We do not! Why do you think Henri has left Court? We know we have engendered a dangerous level of talk, and this is not the time for him to press his suit. But it does not follow that such a time will never come.” My friend’s eyes do not soften. And her expression might, without stretching too far, be called mocking. I am in no mood to be ridiculed. “The House of Lorraine is one of the greatest in France,” I say with all the hauteur I can muster. “Henri may be from a cadet branch, but he is clearly Lorraine’s future. He is a hero of the wars and all France is in love with him.”
“All except those who matter: Madame Catherine and Anjou.”
“Neither is king,” I snap. “Charles and I are close. I understand him. I soothe him in his moods. When Anjou rejoins the army, Henri and I will approach the King. As he loves me, he will want me to be happy.”
“You are seventeen, Margot, not a child. Stop behaving as one! Is His Majesty happy himself?”
Henriette’s question makes me think of the last hours I passed with Charles. He had another of his headaches and required the ministrations of both myself and Marie. Mother had just delivered a blow to him: Anna of Austria, to whom he was betrothed, had married Philip of Spain by proxy despite my brother’s prior claim. This was, of course, neither Charles’ doing nor his fault, but in her fury Mother made him feel as if it was.
Henriette moves to fill my silence. “If the King does not have the power to make himself happy, manipulated as he is by Her Majesty, how can you believe him capable of giving you what you want in opposition to the Queen?”
I will plead with her no more. I will find another way to correspond with Henri. And I will not be cowed. “I have faith in His Majesty,” I reply, lifting my chin. “And faith in the Duc. They will not disappoint me, even if you do.”
Henriette gives a short laugh. “Will it shake your faith, I wonder, when I ask where Her Majesty is this morning?”
“I do not know.” It is the truth. Mother is secretive in her comings and goings. She could be with her astrologer or Ma?tre René, who mixes her perfumes and her poisons as well. She could be meeting with foreign envoys privately. Or perhaps she walks to examine the work at her beloved Tuileries with Jean Bullant, who has taken charge of the project. I was merely glad to have this free time to seek a word with Henriette, and gave no thought to why we were at liberty.
“Her Majesty went to see the Cardinal of Lorraine in his sick bed,” Henriette tells me.
“So? That is very Christian of her and, if anything, proves that even she cannot ignore the House of Lorraine.”