Charles rises, acknowledging Mother’s entrance. Those we pass bow. All eyes are upon the Queen until they aren’t. The disturbance—a murmur: “C’est de Guise.” Heads snap round. Eyes, not the least among them those of His Majesty, look down the length of the room. At such a moment I need not fear attracting attention by looking as well.
Henri is immediately distinguishable thanks to his height. He is dressed magnificently and makes his way by confident, unhurried steps toward the King. Charles moves in the Duc’s direction with Mother behind. Guise has been absent from Court long enough, and his absence given so many explanations—all of them whispered and few of them true—that those present naturally close in upon the spot where my brother and my beloved must meet. When they are nearly upon each other, Henri stops, bows deeply, and says, “Your Majesty.”
Charles’ hand moves to his sword. I take a step forward, but Henriette grabs my arm. “What is your business?” Charles’ voice is shrill.
“I have come to serve my king as I have in the past, in fulfillment of my office and my inclination.” Henri bows again.
“Did you serve us in the past? Or did you serve yourself?”
“Your Majesty, I protest that I have served you faithfully, often in arms and with no thought either for my aggrandizement or my life.”
A voice behind me says, “Poor Guise, I think he must be telling the truth. For if he cared for his life, he would not have come tonight.” It is Anjou. Hatred surges through me. Were I not necessarily transfixed by what passes between Charles and Henri, I would fall upon Anjou, scratching and biting like an animal until removed by force, heedless of the spectacle I was creating.
“You serve at our pleasure, do you not?” Charles asks bitingly. “Well, you have misapprehended our pleasure if you believe we looked for you tonight, or that you are welcome.” Henri stands steady and proud before the King. Yet I who love him perceive a slight flexing of the muscles along his jaw. Charles takes a step forward, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. “We forswear your service, Sir, and caution you to keep yourself out of our eye and the reach of our sword.”
The crowd, which was all this time silent, begins to buzz like a nest of angry bees. The slight could not be more public nor the warning more clear. A tinge of color rises on Henri’s cheekbones. He bows again with perfect correctness. When he straightens, his eyes meet mine for a single instant. I see worry in them. Then he turns and makes his way through the crowd toward the door.
“As you love him and trust me,” Henriette whispers, “do not follow.” She slips from my side as the courtiers surrounding us come to life. Some surge to the King. Others turn to their neighbors. A number follow the Duc. What was a buzz becomes a cacophony. The sound and the movement overwhelm me—or is it my raw fear? Charlotte slides to the place Henriette vacated and slips an arm about my waist.
“Come,” Mother says commandingly, “this is a ball. Your Majesty”—she must touch Charles’ arm—“will you open the dancing with your sister?”
Me? How can I dance when I do not trust myself to stand should Charlotte’s arm be withdrawn?
“Disappointed, Margot?” Anjou asks, stepping beside me. “Madame,” he says to Mother, “I believe our sister thought to have another partner.”
The Queen throws him a look that would cause any save her favorite to quake. “Margot.” Charlotte releases me and I, quite miraculously, stay on my feet and give my hand to Charles. Courtiers part. The musicians strike up the first chords of a new piece. “Smile.” This last admonition is hissed at us both as Her Majesty backs away. There is nothing for me to smile about, but at the sight of Anjou’s sneering face I do. To be crushed is one thing. To let my brother see that I am crushed is another. As the King and I complete our second pattern, others join the dance. Charles asks quietly, “Did you summon him here ce soir?”
“I? I wish he had not come.” The words are true and, apparently, Charles can read their veracity in my tone.
“I take no pleasure in paining you,” he says. I believe him. In this he is entirely unlike Anjou. “But I cannot permit Guise’s grasping insolence. As Mother said, it is over, Margot. And make no mistake”—the momentary regret in his voice vanishes—“I will see the Duc dead before I will let him into this family.”
“I have given him up, Charles, I swear it!”
“You will have to do better than that. You will have to prove it.”
How does one prove such a thing?
Looking across the formation of dancers, I see the Princesse de Porcien and I know with dreadful certainty. With certainty comes despair. I might cease to breathe, sink to the floor and turn to dust, did not my pride demand I get through this dance, and did not one vital, horrible task remain to me.
When the music stops, I look for Charlotte. She knows without my saying anything that the room, full of swirling bodies and laughter, is no place for me. Taking my hand, she leads me toward the door. We are a few feet from making our escape when the Baronne de Retz appears. I do not wait for her question.