Médicis Daughter (27 page)

I have no will to move. Will Anjou do me better justice, I wonder, if he emerges in the morning to find me dead on the ground? Resting my head on my knees, I cry. When I run out of tears, I cannot think what to do. Then it comes: confess. I must have forgiveness of my sins, and then I must avoid repeating them. My pledge to distance myself from Guise, given to Anjou, may not restore my brother’s or mother’s trust, but it is worth keeping nonetheless. Putting my hands down into the muck, I struggle to my feet. I will write to my Duc. Tell him that when we are together next, he must not come near. I will not see him alone again, and that thought nearly drives me once more to tears.

The lanterns in my tent burn low. Gillone has fallen asleep, her head thrown back and my nightshift on her lap. Relieved not to have to explain where I was, I move cautiously so as not to wake her. Catching a glimpse of a face in the glass on my makeshift dressing table, I gasp. I turn this way and that, looking for the madwoman who has stolen into my tent before realizing the image is my own. My eyes are wild. Portions of my hair have come undone. Wet hanks hang about my face and cling to my neck. My skin is so pale, I might be mistaken for dead.

Removing my cloak, I let it fall to the rug. I strip off the sodden dress underneath, tearing myself free when I cannot reach the fastenings. I crawl into bed in my damp chemise, clutching my writing box.

How difficult my task is. The very act of writing to the Duc is inappropriate. If my letter should be intercepted, I must at least take care that it does me no further harm. Perforce, then, there is no room in it for the type of sweet words that might act as a balm to the sting I must deliver.

“Your Grace.” The salutation will seem a slap to a man who has heard me whisper his Christian name. I bite back such thoughts and continue. “I fear our friendship, though innocent”—it would be cruelty to share the guilt I feel over our conduct; unnecessary too, since there will be no more—“occasions talk at Court.” My blood heats as I recall the nature of that talk. The balance of the note is brief, but bound to cause as much pain in the reader as it costs me to write it. I sign myself “Duchesse de Valois” and hasten to fold and seal the missive before more tears, like the one that bleeds the letters of my title, can fall upon the page and spoil it. Then I place the letter beneath my pillow. It is difficult to imagine sleeping on such a cruel object. But I am exhausted, and the thought that I will not sleep is barely formed before it is betrayed.

I wake sneezing. My cloak is gone, as are the remnants of my gown. My head aches dully. My limbs feel like lead. But I must rise. I have duties. I do not expect a warm welcome in my mother’s tent, but I will attend her, belying the words my brother has spoken against me by my diligence. Besides, I must give my dreadful note to Henriette. Gillone eyes me questioningly as she dresses me, but whatever thoughts she has or conclusions she drew from the torn and ruined garments she whisked away while I slept, she keeps them to herself.

Mother is in the final stages of her toilette when I reach her tent. Though the other ladies greet me warmly, I receive no acknowledgment from her. It is too late to insist on the honor of holding out her shoes, but as she moves to her dressing table I press forward. It has lately been falling to me to arrange Mother’s hair. Taking up a comb, I find my hand shaking. As a result the comb catches.

“You are clumsy this morning.” Mother’s eyes in the mirror are sharp.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty.”

“Give the comb to someone else before I am pulled apart.”

As I pass the comb, it is I who feels pulled apart. I have come to do my duty, but if I am to be snubbed publically it will be very hard to bear.

As Mother’s hood and veil are fastened in place, Anjou enters.

“Madame”—he brushes past me without a glance—“I see a good night’s sleep has refreshed you.” Anjou’s eyes catch mine in our mother’s glass. “Which is more than I can say for our sister. Such tired eyes, Margot. What disturbed your rest, I wonder?”

“A guilty conscience, perhaps.” Mother’s words as she passes me are low, but even so, I am surely not the only lady who hears them.

“Or perhaps she misses absent friends.” Henri winks obnoxiously. “But we have no time for such trivial worries. Come, I am eager to discuss my siege preparations.”

When they are gone, the other ladies begin to straighten Mother’s things. I move to Henriette’s side.

“You do not look well,” she says.

“As my brother cruelly pointed out.”

“No, not tired: ill. Come, I will walk you to your tent.”

I let her guide me outside, then stop. “I will go and lie down, but need your assistance in a matter far more important than seeing me to bed.” I draw the note from between the front of my bodice and my partlet. “We both know that you have ways of conveying messages that ought not to be sent.”

Henriette laughs. “I should object to being depicted as devious, but I own I delight in it. Give me the letter.” Taking it from me, she turns it over in her hand. “No address, but I know the recipient.” My note disappears into the bodice of her gown. “Is love the cause of all this pallor? I would be very disappointed to hear it. If I have taught you nothing else these years, I hope I have taught you not to make a fool of yourself over a man—even a very handsome one.” She crosses her arms expectantly.

“No. I am not pining for Guise. I am mourning my loss of favor on his account. He is the cause of the rupture with Anjou, and through Anjou with my mother. They think I spy for the Duc.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

She nods, satisfied. “Then consider your letter delivered.”

I find myself wondering if, had my answer been different, I would have been left without a messenger?

CHAPTER 11

Autumn 1569—Saint-Jean-d’Angely, France

I own that I expected my mother to send for me. Each of the three mornings since she snubbed me, I’ve dressed and waited for my absence to be remarked upon. Waited for a summons. But my mother, it would seem, is quite contented to go about her business without me. I’ve taken my meals alone, pleading indisposition, but even this raises no alarm in Mother. I am in fact ill—listless and feverish by turns—and have little appetite. Gillone entreated me to let her go for the physician yesterday, but I would have none of it. As the third afternoon of my self-imposed exile wanes, I change my mind. The flashes of heat I have been suffering give way to a constant fire beneath my skin and a pain such as I have never known in my head. I send for Castelan. Gillone returns with Henriette instead.

My friend’s eyes are full of concern. “She burns! Listen,” Henriette crouches beside me, “a fever most terrible has taken hold of the camp. It began with a half a dozen gentlemen and now there must be fifty lying with parched lips, covered with purple sores.” She turns to Gillone. “Have you seen such sores upon her?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“There is a mercy, then. We must get her to bed.”

Hands are upon me but I cannot imagine that they will be able to lift me. I am as heavy as one of my brother’s iron cannon. Yet, despite my conviction, I am raised. I open my eyes and the room spins. I try to walk, but fear I am of little help as Henriette and Gillone bear me the short distance to my bed.

“I am going to the Queen,” Henriette says.

Gillone reaches out a hand and catches Her Grace’s sleeve. “Are they dying?” she whispers.

“Yes.”

I let my eyes fall shut.
So while I have been hiding, Death crept into the camp. Is he coming for me?
I want to ask but my tongue is too dry and cleaves to the roof of my mouth. Gillone, murmuring a string of unintelligible words, places a cloth on my head. It is like ice! I struggle to push it away. “Can you not see I am freezing?” I say testily through chattering teeth. I close my eyes and, when the cloth returns, have not the strength to resist it.

Time no longer exists. I fade in and out of consciousness, uncertain of much of what I see or hear in those moments when my ears and eyes are open. Of only one thing am I absolutely certain: Mother is here. It is night. It is day. It is something that I do not recognize as either. Yet Mother remains. Once I think I hear her singing to me in Italian. Is it a dream—all of it save the fire that burns me and the aches in my joints and head? If it is, I would not wake, for in my feverish delusions I have proof Mother cares.

My eyes open. Something is different. The pain is gone. Things around me are no longer shadows that fade in and out of focus. I can quite clearly see a lamp burning on a table near the foot of my bed. Mother dozes in a chair next to it. I find I have the power to turn my head, and discover Charlotte sitting beside my bed. I lift a hand and beckon her—a mighty feat. She comes and, lifting my hand to her lips, bursts into tears.

“Why do you weep?” My voice sounds loud in the silence and strange as well—cracked, as if I were aged.

“Because two days ago none thought to see you open your eyes again.”

A dry cough on my part causes her to drop my hand and offer water. I drink deep, letting the liquid soothe my parched throat, then ask, “How long have I been ill?”

“More than a fortnight, and each day worse than the last. Her Majesty has been quite desperate. She would not leave you even to see Castelan when he called for her as he lay dying.”

“Castelan is dead?”

“Chappelain too. Ambroise Paré rode from Paris lest the King be left without a physician. Scores of others succumbed—from foot soldiers to gentlemen we have dined and danced with…” Her words trail off into a small sob.

So our Lord has, in His wisdom, left me to live while gathering others to Him.
“Has Anjou—”

I mean to ask if my brother has been here, crying and begging my forgiveness, but Charlotte interposes peremptorily. “Be assured,
both
your brothers were untouched by this pestilence.”

Mother shifts and opens her eyes. Seeing Charlotte sitting upon my bed, she springs to her feet.

“Is she gone?”

“Where should I go when you have cared for me so tenderly?” I say.

Relief sweeps across Her Majesty’s usually inscrutable features. “God be praised,” she says, coming to lay a hand on my forehead. Then, as if embarrassed by her unguarded behavior: “I ought to have known it would be so—whatever the doctors said—for I did not see you in your grave.”

Mother gestures for her chair and Charlotte draws it up. Sitting down, Her Majesty momentarily rests her hand upon mine. “You gave us many hours of worry. His Majesty and Anjou asked after you until I could no longer bear to answer their inquiries. They would both have been at your bedside had prudence not made me forbid it. I am sure you will see them in the morning. Think of what a balm that will be.”

*   *   *

Anjou lies at the foot of my bed, gazing at me as if I were the sun in the sky. Seeing me reach for a book on the table beside me, he says, “Will reading not tire you? Shall I read aloud to you?” Without waiting for a reply, he leaps up, snatches the book from me, and resumes his position.

Mother, who sits nearby embroidering, gives him a doting smile. Her Majesty is delighted with Anjou’s devotion to me as I make my slow recovery. My brother begins to declaim dramatically. I try to ignore the faces he makes at me when Mother’s head is bent over her work, and try to lose myself in his words. I am not entirely successful. Beneath my covers my hands clench. After perhaps a quarter of an hour Mother says, “The light is fading: it is time for me to dress to sup with the King. Will you come with me, my son?”

“I will follow. I can still see well enough to entertain my sister a little longer.”

Mother places a hand on Anjou’s shoulder and stoops to kiss the top of his head. “Do not strain your eyes. Good night, daughter.”

The ruse continues only briefly once the tent flap has closed. Tossing the book onto the bed, Anjou says, “Finish it yourself if you are inclined. Or do you have more interesting reading? Come, Margot, do you hide Guise’s letters under your mattress?” He slides a hand beneath the ticking, heedless of how he jostles me.

I do not bother to deny such correspondence. “Do you not have a city to siege?” I ask bitingly.

“Oh, things go well enough. I can spare some time for you.”

“I do not desire your company.”

“True. But I desire to make certain you do not tell poisonous falsehoods to our mother.”

His attendance is not what keeps me from speaking out against him. Saying unfavorable things about Anjou can only rebound to my detriment. I learned that when I called him a liar and received a slap for it. I have been reminded of it throughout my recovery as I see Mother praise him for his false attentions to me. But I will not be the one to enlighten Anjou, even if by showing him the truth I might be rid of him. His fear of being degraded in Mother’s eyes is the only weapon I have in the war begun between us.

“I will bide my time,” I say. “One day the city will fall and battle will take you elsewhere. In your absence Mother will see by my virtuous conduct that her fears of me are misplaced. She is too clever to be fooled by your lies for long.”

“Not lies!” Anjou looms over me. “I only wish they were lies,” he says bitterly. He draws a deep breath and something in his eyes changes. “Prove to me they are. Tell me that you love me and I will rebuild what I have destroyed.”

“Tell you that I love you! When you have defamed me? When you torture me with your teasing and insinuations even as I struggle to regain my health? I thought God spared me because my illness had made you repent of your cruel treatment. I see now that he spared me because he would not give you the satisfaction of my death.”

“I wept when they said you were dying.”

“Mother must have been impressed.”

He raises a hand as if he will strike me, then lets it drop. To my surprise he falls to his knees and tries to take my hand. I quickly snatch it out of his reach.

“I did not want you dead. I only wanted you to be mine and mine alone. Is that a thing so wrong?”

“I was yours—your ally.”