“Do not forget me,” he says, “when they send you to Portugal.”
And as painful as the thought of seeing him as someone else’s husband is, this sudden idea of not seeing him at all, of being away from Court, is worse. “Never,” I say, reaching up to touch his cheek. “My heart is yours; it cannot be recalled. It stays with you wherever my hand is given.”
Lowering his mouth, he kisses me. I taste the salt of both our tears. Our kiss is deep but neither springs from nor ignites passion. It is a kiss entirely spiritual, the union of two hearts and souls soon to be torn from each other.
“Come,” Henri says, “let us go out of our own accord before they come back to take you away.”
I understand what he means. Nothing is left under our control but the manner of our parting, so we must not cede that. Wiping my tears with both hands and rising, I ask, “Is this what it is like to ride from a field of battle defeated?”
“Yes,” he replies with a nod of his head. “We cannot, it seems, carry the day, but we can surrender with dignity rather than begging for mercy where we will get none.”
We walk out together, heads held high, hand in hand, but I wonder as we go: Why was there no mercy to be had, either at the hands of our king or our god?
PART THREE
La mort n’a point d’ami …
(Death hath no friends…)
CHAPTER 14
March 1571—Paris, France
“Close the shutters. I do not intend to rise.”
Gillone moves back toward my window but Henriette stops her. My friend comes to the bed where I lean back against the headboard, a look of determination on her face.
“Enough!” She takes me by both shoulders and shakes. “For months you have been listless and fading.”
I know it to be true, but make no reply. This seems to exasperate her further. “You were present in body only at the King’s nuptial celebrations at Mézières. You crept around Blois as a ghost.” Releasing me so that I fall back against my pillows, she puts her hands on her hips. “At last we return to Paris and all the city enjoys the spectacle, save you.”
Shrugging, I close my eyes.
“Today you will rise and dress to dazzle.”
“Why should I?”
“Why should you not?” my friend challenges.
Tears well beneath my closed lids. “You know why.”
“Because the Duc de Guise is married nearly half a year and has lived away from Court that long? Well, in case it has escaped your notice, he returned two days ago for the Queen Consort’s upcoming coronation.” My eyes snap open at Henriette’s unfeeling words, loosing the tears that had gathered.
She shakes her head angrily. “Is the sight of him what prostrates you? Have you not observed that, despite his long looks in your direction, he is a picture of health. You, on the other hand, are a shadow of that princess he fell in love with.”
I push myself further upright. “I am certain Henri expected to find me thus,” I snap, “and sees my condition as a mark of a faithful heart. Why can you not respect it as such?”
“Why should I respect a woman who has given herself over to grief and forsaken all pleasure at an age when there is much joy and pleasure to be had? You behave as if you are a hapless leaf tossed upon the storm-swollen Seine with no power to take matters in hand.”
“Because I have no such power. I am nothing but a point in a treaty, offered to one groom and then another in the manner most likely to bring benefits to the crown. I have accepted that in the past but…” My voice trails off as my mind travels back to the terrible day of my beloved’s nuptials. The wedding felt like a funeral—my own. I survived it, but was so thankful when at last we departed the H?tel de Guise. How could I know that the cruelest twist of the day was yet to come?