Médicis Daughter (21 page)

“It is too early to say. I will know better when she is again conscious.”

“Is it certain she will regain consciousness?” the chancellor persists.

“Enough!” Charles commands. “Such pessimism has no place at Her Majesty’s bedside. Out!” The gentlemen retreat, leaving only Castelan.

Charles’ moment of regal self-possession fades. He seems to shrink as he creeps along the side of the bed. By the time he kneels beside it, he looks more like a boy of eight than a man of eighteen.

“Mother…” The voice so stern a moment ago is a whisper, choked by tears. “You must not leave me. I cannot rule alone.”

“I could.”

Does François really mutter this beneath his breath?

Moving to Castelan’s side, I repeat de Morvilliers’ question, “Will she wake up?”

“I am of the opinion she will. Other than being as one asleep who cannot be roused, I detect no symptom of illness. It is my belief that once her body is fully rested, she will rejoin us.”

“I will be here when she opens her eyes,” I say.

The King looks up. “As will I.”

“No, Charles,” I say gently, “you must manage your kingdom and direct your commanders in the field. That is the duty of a king. Waiting and watching are my duties as a daughter.”

He nods. “As I know you will do your duty with care, I cannot stint in mine.” Rising, he approaches me with eyes burning. “Do not leave her. You are my eyes and ears in her sick chamber.”

François brings me my book and my embroidery. I send for Henriette and Charlotte. They are glad to come. After acquainting them with the Queen’s condition, I turn to the subject most on my mind.

“The crown of Spain will not be mine.” I can feel my eyes prick as I say it.

“That is a great shame.” Henriette shakes her head.

“I hope it is not more. I hope Her Majesty’s disappointment over the matter is not what felled her.”

“Do not be absurd. Her Majesty is made of stronger stuff. She has laid a husband and a son in the grave. Left with a boy king, she managed to keep him on the throne in a time of war. If the King of Spain has put her in this bed, it is not by his failure to marry you.”

I pray Henriette is right. But I do not feel relieved.

Nor, apparently, do I look it. For Charlotte says, “I know it is selfish of me, but I am glad you do not go to Spain. I would have the three of us together awhile longer.”

“I can tell you someone else who will be cheered by the Spanish king’s decision,” Henriette adds. “The Duc de Guise would rather have you on French soil, and he has made that quite clear.”

“To whom?” I did not see the Duc when we were in Saumur, as he was quartered at Chinon.

Henriette winks. “I will not say. But I trust my source. The Duc does not like the idea of your marrying.”

A sudden movement from the bed keeps me from replying. Mother has half raised herself. Her eyes are open but they do not seem to apprehend us.

Jumping to my feet, I say, “Madame! We thought you left us!”

“I did. I have been to Châteauneuf to see your brother.” She looks about wildly as if searching for something recognizable.

“You are at Metz, Madame. You have been for weeks.”

Rather than calming her, my pronouncement agitates her further. “Foolish girl, I have been with Henri.”

I lay a hand on her shoulder. She burns; I can feel as much through her chemise. “Henriette, find Castelan. Tell him the Queen is awake and feverish.”

Charlotte crosses herself.

Turning my attention back to Mother, I gently ease her onto her pillow. “Rest. When you next wake, Henri will be here.”

A lie but it serves its purpose. Murmuring my brother’s name, she closes her eyes. I wonder, has word been sent to Anjou? Surely it must have been.

Castelan seems to think it a good thing that Mother spoke, no matter how nonsensically. He bleeds her for the fever, which he assures me is neither high nor serious.

As the light fades Mother begins to thrash. Her eyes open, again bright but seemingly unseeing. Touching her, I am sure that her fever worsens. Shouting for a servant, I send again for the physician.

You said she would not die.
I long to fling the words at Castelan when he arrives. He does not look sanguine as he did hours ago. Watching him bleed Her Majesty, I have the sudden urge to go out and see if I can find the body of the bird that struck my window. Perhaps, if I cannot, I can believe the creature was only stunned and, having awakened, flew away. But I will not leave Mother, and besides, what chance would I have of finding a black bird in the dark?

“If Your Highness wishes to retire,” Castelan says, “I will watch over Her Majesty.”

I cannot be persuaded to leave. I am roused from a fitful sleep in my chair by Mother’s voice.

“Alexander, my Alexander,” she croons. “I knew it would be so.” The words are perfectly clear but I do not understand them. Opening my eyes, I see a bleary-eyed Castelan standing at Mother’s bed. She is sitting up, looking into the darkness of the room.

“Your Majesty, you have a fever; you must rest,” the physician says.

“Yes, the battle is over. I can rest. But not before I see my Henri—”

I am not certain if she means my father or my brother.

“—see the Prince’s head.”

A great wave of fear rolls over me. Has something happened to Anjou?

Castelan moves to where he has arranged the items of his profession. Quickly he mixes a draught while Mother continues to stare at nothing, a smile on her face.

“This will calm her,” the physician says. Mother is perfectly calm, her expression nearly pacific. But I know what he means—the draught will make her sleep, and that will surely relieve his obvious discomfort. Will it lessen mine? I wish it were so easy. Even after Mother sips the liquid and closes her eyes, I feel frantic. I am sure Mother has seen something. Not in her room but in her mind’s eye. It could be merely a memory. Or it could be a premonition. She is known for them. Is my brother Henri safe? Who has lost a head?

*   *   *

“Henri! Oh, Henri!” I know it is unseemly, but I do not care: the instant my brother is off his horse, I throw my arms around him, heedless of the gentlemen who accompany him and of the grooms rushing forward. Standing on my tiptoes, I kiss his cheeks again and again. I have known since yesterday, when Monsieur de Losses arrived, that my brother was safe. But knowing and seeing are two very different things.

Henri laughs, waving his companions on and picking me up from the ground. “What is this? You like me better when I win battles, eh?”

And Henri did win. Monsieur de Losses brought that news as well—how, at a place called Jarnac, Anjou and Marshal de Tavannes surprised the Huguenots; how the Huguenots were defeated; how Condé was killed. Mother, awakened from a sleep far less troubled than the night before, had no patience for the tale, merely declaring, “Did I not know of this victory yesterday?” But I listened to every word.

“I love you always!” I declare.

“I know, I know.” He embraces me again. “What were those lines Ronsard wrote for you?”

I finger the buttons on the front of his doublet. “‘My sweet affection, my garden-pink and rose, thou canst take all my flock away, and of myself dispose.’” The words, last delivered in performance at the army’s camp, seem entirely different spoken softly looking up into my brother’s face.

There is something odd about the moment, but it passes as Henri releases me and asks, “Where is Mother?”

“Sick. Did Charles not tell you?”

A flash of anger moves across Anjou’s face. “He did not.”

“Perhaps his message did not reach you. You were on the move.”

“Perhaps.” He does not look appeased. “Is she very ill?”

“She had a fever but it is gone. Yet she is very weak. She cannot hold a pen to write—she tried this morning.”

“She tried to write? Then her mind is clear.”

“Yes, and her opinions as strong as ever.”

“Take me to her.”

Charles is beside Mother as we enter. At the sight of Anjou, Her Majesty’s face is transfigured.

“My Alexander!” she cries, extending trembling hands.

They are the same words she said the night of her fever. This is more than coincidence! I believe that she did see the victory as she insisted to Losses last evening.

Anjou moves forward, drawing me along. After taking Mother’s hands and kissing each, he turns to Charles and says, “Your Majesty, we have crushed your enemies.”

Charles looks less than enthusiastic.

“I would have brought you Condé’s head, but the whole of that gentleman’s remains are being paraded around Jarnac, tied to the back of an ass while your loyal Catholic subjects cheer.”

“Is it true Condé surrendered before he was killed?” Charles asks.

I had not heard this.

“A nicety.” Henri does not flinch. “I assumed you wanted him dead.”

“I did.” The admission sounds grudging. “But I wonder: If you are captured, will you consider such honorable traditions niceties?”

“I will not be captured.”

The two regard each other with animosity, then Anjou turns back to Mother.

“Are
you
pleased with me, Madame?”

Tears well in Mother’s eyes. “You know that I am. All of France will be when news of the victory spreads. Your brother is gratified as well, just as he would be by the success of any of his commanders.” She looks meaningfully at Charles. “Anjou rode from the field of battle to offer you his victory. Will you not extend to him your approbation?”

Charles rises. “We are pleased with your victory at Jarnac.”

Anjou bows.

As he is straightening, Charles adds, “But it would have been better still had you not allowed Coligny to escape with a large part of the Huguenot forces.”

This is another fact of which I was unaware.

Anjou attempts to look uncaring, but one corner of his mouth twitches.

“Your brother will pursue Coligny when he leaves us,” Mother says.

Charles tilts his head. “Perhaps I will go after the admiral myself. Now the fighting has begun in earnest, I would not mind some field experience. I had no desire to live in a tent all winter, but spring in the saddle—yes, I believe that would suit.”

Anjou darts a glance at Mother. She offers him a look of warning in return.

Neither is lost upon Charles. He smiles. “I leave you, Madame, to be entertained by our brother’s stories of the fray. I myself will await Marshal Tavannes’ account. He is the more senior military man.”

Anjou’s face is livid. As the door closes behind the King, Mother’s voice is soft. “Calmly, calmly.”

Henri is not soothed. “I would rather die cruelly and be tied to an ass myself than cede my command to my brother,” he says with vehemence.

“There is no question of that,” Mother replies. She closes her eyes. “I wish you and Charles would not provoke each other so. It has been thus since you were but babes.”

I find Mother’s wish odd. Whatever rivalry there is between my beloved brothers, she planted its seeds.

Anjou’s face is all concern. “You are ill and we have tired you.”

“I am not too tired to hear all you have to tell of the battle.”

“Soon.”

I am surprised to hear my brother deferring. There is nothing he loves better than to entertain Mother; nothing he enjoys more than basking in her admiration.

“I am hungry, and dirty,” he says. “You know that I do not like to be dirty.”

Mother smiles without opening her eyes. “Go and make yourself as handsome as you are brave. I will wait.”

“Sleep. When you next open your eyes, I will be beside you.”

Anjou motions for me and together we creep from the room. We are not two steps outside before his temper flares. “Do you see? Do you see how His Majesty treats me?”

“Charles is jealous.” I can understand how Charles feels, so surely Henri should be able to. “The King is not being styled the next Alexander. He will not be the talk of the Court as the gallant commander who led royal troops to a glorious victory.”

“Will I be so celebrated? Or will he see that Tavannes gets the credit?”

“Mother would never allow that.”

“Not if she were in full health…” He pauses and his face falls. “She looked so weak. Are you certain Castelan said we need not worry?”

“I am. I promise you I am with her constantly, trying to do every little thing for her so that she will not exert herself. The last two nights I slept beside her bed.”

“Charles is there a great deal too, is he not? Whispering to her.” His brow furrows.

“Is it not natural he should care for her as you and I do?”

“Natural or not, it gives him opportunity to discredit me. While I am away fighting, he has hour after hour to work against me with Mother.”

“
C’est absolument ridicule!
You always have Mother’s heart, even if Charles has her ear. Can you believe her devotion to you will be shaken?”

“No, because I will not allow that. Come, I have a proposition that will be of advantage to us both.”

Henri’s apartment is crowded. Men who rode in with him mingle with those who, hearing he has arrived, have come to share his wine and hear his stories. Several embrace him. Released from their arms, Henri puts up his hands. “Gentlemen, my time in Metz is short but not too brief for a mighty revel this evening. In the meantime I would be at Her Majesty’s bedside. Therefore, I must make myself presentable. Out, out.” My brother’s
valet de chambre
moves forward to help him but Henri says, “You too.”

When we are alone he says, “You do not mind playing the
valet,
do you? I know you have no experience undressing a man, but it is not hard.” He unbuttons his doublet and removes it. I hold out my hands. It smells of him. A scent as familiar to me as my own, and one I have missed.

“Here is the crux of the matter. Among our siblings, I trust you alone. You are my own Princess, as faithful to me as man can ask woman to be.”

I feel my cheeks warming at his praise, and turn to lay aside the doublet and pour water into his basin that I might hide my blush. Shirtless, he comes forward to use the basin.