“Your argument might have more force if she went to see him openly. That she did not suggests she will deliver more than polite well wishes. I have reason to believe she will confront him with his part in spreading rumors you will marry his nephew.”
What a horrible thought. That I cannot dismiss it makes me furious. “You have reason? You mean you have spies!”
“Everyone has spies—everyone who can. You have been grateful for the information I gathered in the past. When you do not like the message, will you condemn the messenger? You are your mother’s daughter. Fine: Be blind, then. Be deaf. Neither choice makes it more likely you will be happy.” Henriette pauses and takes several deep breaths. “As I love you, I had better leave before more harsh words make rapprochement between us difficult.”
When she is gone, I sit down and have a good cry. In the half year since my rupture with Anjou, Henriette and Charlotte, always dear to me, have become yet more important. Mother remains distant. More than this, she shows a level of distrust absent from her manner before I gained her favor. Then I was merely overlooked. Now I am observed most warily. And this has complicated things. For though Henri and I foreswore all unchaperoned contact at Angers, when winter broke, so did our resolve. It was surprisingly easy to ignore my conscience—nearly as easy as it is to discount the reproachful lectures the Baronne de Retz favors me with daily. It is harder to disregard Henriette’s words. I know she loves me and she is among the most astute courtiers. Still, I must believe she is in error and that Henri’s hopes are not without reason. To do otherwise would break my heart. For no man but he can ever make me happy. I simply must be his wife. And while he is away, I simply must be able to exchange a line or two with him.
Wiping my eyes, I turn my thoughts in a practical direction. Who among Mother’s ladies might correspond with the Duc? I remember that the Comtesse de Mirandole is a friend to Henri’s mother. She is of an age where she might write to anyone without being suspected of something immoral. She will do nothing to oblige me for my own sake, nor can I say we are friends and therefore that I can trust her as I do Henriette. But if I can bribe her to act for me, then I can, I believe, count on her self-interest to keep her from betraying me. She would certainly be sent from Court if we are caught. And the risk of being banished even if she goes to Mother with my proposition rather than acting upon it is high. Mother is happy to have tales of her children, but she will protect even the less favored of us from the repetition of such gossip to others.
Going to my wardrobe, I open the box containing my jewelry. It is nothing compared to what Mother possesses. But I am a royal princess, and so I have some pieces with stones of value. My eyes light upon a ring Anjou gave me. A token of our former amitié, it means nothing to me. Concealing it, I leave my room in search of the Comtesse—in search of a new accomplice.
*
“Your Highness.” The voice that awakens me is urgent. A single taper reveals Gillone’s pale face. “Her Majesty sends for you.”
I struggle to a sitting position. The sheer difficulty with which I opened my eyes suggests that I have not slumbered a full night. “What hour is it?”
“Cinq heures et quart.”
The apprehension coloring Gillone’s voice fills my breast. Something is wrong; there can be no other explanation for my being roused at such an hour. Has something happened to Charles? “Quick,” I admonish. “I must dress.” Under such circumstances I have no patience for all the accoutrements of proper attire. When I join the Baron de Retz, who waits to escort me, I do not even wear a farthingale.
I am ushered to the apartment of the King. Charles, Mother, and Anjou stand in a little knot. I am relieved to see them all, for this means no one is dead—at least, no one at Paris. I say a silent prayer that neither Claude nor her children at Nancy have been taken from us. Unlike myself, both Mother and Anjou are perfectly dressed. Charles on the other hand wears only his nightshirt. As he turns to face me, the King’s eyes are wild either with fever or anger.
“Charles.” I move forward. “What news?” My hands touch his for a moment before he pulls away. His are cool. Not fever, then.
“News?” He laughs. “What disturbs our rest this night may be news to us, but I am quite sure it is not so to you.” A muscle in his check twitches.
I am being called to account. I tremble, not because I know myself guilty of anything, but because reason and my brother’s temper are quite often strangers.
“Show her.” Charles spits the words.
“Do you know what I have here?” Mother holds up a single sheet of vellum and my mouth becomes dry. I do know—a letter of the Comtesse de Mirandole, doubtless the very one to which, only two nights ago, I lovingly added lines to Henri. Perhaps I ought to feign ignorance, but my mother surely recognizes my handwriting.