It had been to Henry that Catherine had looked to secure her dynasty and power in France. By far the favorite of her children, Henry was most like her with his sallow Italian looks and ruthless cunning. But years of dissipation had taken their toll.
Concealing her dismay behind a smile, Catherine extended both hands to him. “My son.”
“Madam,” Henry replied, coldly ignoring her outstretched arms.
Catherine dropped her hands awkwardly back to her side. “I trust I find Your Grace well.”
“Well enough for one whose heart was nearly cut to the quick by an assassin’s blade.”
“Henry!” Catherine’s breath left her in a rush of alarm. “You were attacked? You have been harmed?” She closed in on him, running her hands anxiously over the front of his doublet.
Henry impatiently stilled her roving fingers. “Not me, my beloved friend, D’Epernon.”
“He is dead?”
“No, he managed to defend himself. The blade only pierced his arm.”
“Oh, thank the bon Dieu,” Catherine murmured, but she had to lower her gaze to conceal her disappointment. D’Epernon was one of Henry’s foppish friends, those painted mignons whose presence at court only further blackened her son’s reputation and whose greed was a constant drain upon the royal treasury. D’Epernon’s death would have been no great loss in Catherine’s eyes. Indeed, she would have accounted it a blessing.
But she managed to summon up a commiserating tone. “Poor D’Epernon. It is most unfortunate. Paris has become such a dangerous place, rogues and cutpurses to be found in every quarter.”
“This was not the work of any common thief, but an attack of a skilled assassin.”
The man could not have been all that skilled or he would have succeeded, Catherine was tempted to point out dryly, but she could tell from her son’s flushed features that Henry was in a dangerous mood.
The king prowled the antechamber, his hands clenched into fists. “I have no doubt who sent this assassin. The insidious hand of the duc de Guise is behind this attack on my dear friend.”
“You have proof of that?” Catherine asked.
Henry paused in mid step to glower at her. “No, the villain who attacked mon cher ami escaped, but I will have him hunted down and tortured until he confesses who hired him.
“Not that I require any confession. Who else besides de Guise could be behind such a thing? The bastard is determined to destroy all those I love, to break my spirit, and destroy my sanity. Whittling away at my kingdom, my honor, my reputation.”
Henry’s voice rose higher with every word. He snatched up a piece of parchment from his desk and thrust it under Catherine’s nose.
“Just look at this scurrilous pamphlet they have been circulating in the streets.”
Catherine reared back, her vision blurring as she squinted at the paper, but without the special lenses manufactured for her by her Italian glassmakers, she had no hope of deciphering the words on the page.
Henry snatched it back and read aloud in a voice quivering with rage. “A true account of the military exploits of our dread lord King Henry III of France.”
He opened the pamphlet and spat out the single word engraved on the next page.
“Ríen.”
“Nothing,” Henry all but roared. “They accuse me of accomplishing nothing, my victories at Moncontour and Poitiers long forgotten while all glory and praise go to de Guise.”
“Henry, I have told you so often. Ignore these ridiculous pamphlets. I could shelve an entire library with the nonsense that has been written about me. This is nothing but the work of some foolish—”
“It is the work of that damned de Guise.” The king rent the pamphlet in two, flung it down, grinding the pieces beneath his shoe. “He incites the people of Paris to mock me at every turn. Have you heard what they are calling me? The King of the Island of Hermaphrodites.”
Then you might be wise to burn your gowns and petticoats, Catherine reflected. Once she would have dared voice the thought aloud, but there was a growing violence in her son that rendered her wary. His eyes glittered in a way that reminded her uneasily of her second son.
Catherine had often had to brew potions to calm Charles and hold his mad fits at bay. But it had been a long time since Catherine had visited her secret workshop. Failing eyesight, unsteady hands, and a faulty memory made it dangerous to attempt to concoct anything.
But it scarce mattered. Henry would not have taken anything brewed by Catherine. Her son had grown increasingly suspicious and mistrustful of everyone, most particularly his mother.
All Catherine could do was attempt to reason with him, but when she rested her hand upon his arm, he shook her off, crying. “I know naught how much more of this torment I can bear. Pain turns to rage when one is wounded too often. Let de Guise not try me too far. I would confer all the riches and titles of my kingdom on whoever would rid me of the villain.”
“Oh, hush, my son.” Catherine cast a nervous glance at the guards and servitors within earshot. She longed to clap her hand over Henry’s mouth, but knew he would never stand such an affront to his dignity.
Instead she managed to catch one of his hands between hers. “Do not say such reckless things lest you be taken seriously. Have you forgotten how Henry II of England set into motion the murder of the archbishop Thomas Becket with one careless remark? All he succeeded in doing was making a martyr of his enemy.”
“At least that Henry rid himself of an overmighty subject.”
“And nearly got himself excommunicated.”
“What do I care for that?” Henry replied sullenly. “I’d forfeit my soul to be rid of de Guise.”
“No, what you will forfeit is your kingdom. Touch one hair on de Guise’s head and all of Paris will rise in rebellion.”
“Then let them.” Henry wrenched free of her grasp. “I would not be having all this trouble with de Guise if you had ever dealt with him as you should have.”
Catherine compressed her lips to suppress a bitter retort as she thought of the swollen joints, the blinding headaches, and the exhaustion she had endured, dragging herself to countless negotiations with the duke and his Catholic League while her son sulked and wallowed in his bed.
“I have done my best to mediate with de Guise,” she said stiffly.
“Mediate. The mother I remember would have done more than mediate.” At least Henry still retained enough sense to lower his voice and lean closer as he whispered. “She would have brewed up something in her secret workroom to take care of Monsieur de Guise. Old age has made a coward of you, Maman.”
“No, it has given me wisdom. Destroy the duke and you will bring about our ruin, Henry. You must be patient.”
“God’s teeth, I am tired of you telling me that. While I bide my time, de Guise will march on Paris one of these days and have me murdered in my bed. I should have him declared a criminal, and march the Swiss Guard into Paris to—”
“Henry.” Catherine groaned. “Are you trying to start a revolution? All the presence of the Guard will do is anger the Parisians and provoke de Guise into doing something rash.”
“Then let him be provoked.”
“The man has grown powerful. He has far more dangerous allies than the people of Paris.”
“I am aware of that, madam. The villain has been working with the King of Spain, forming alliances behind my back as though de Guise represented France, not me. Proclaiming himself Defender of the True Faith. That ought to be me.”
Henry thumped his chest, angry tears starting to fill his eyes. “I am a good and pious Catholic and yet I am obliged to sign defensive treaties with that heretic queen in England.”
“That is merely pragmatic policy my son. Elizabeth is a good ally necessary to preserve the balance of power.”
Henry shook his head, his shoulders sagging. “I am just so weary of all of it, Maman. Sometimes I fear we are lost whatever I do.”
“Don’t say that, mon ange.” Catheri
ne reached up to cup his face between her hands. “As long as you remain king of France, there is still hope. But we must keep faith, especially with each other.”
Henry shied away from her. “Why? When you do nothing but cause me more trouble.”
“Me? I have done nothing.”
“Not you directly, perhaps. But that pirate of yours has been stirring up mischief.”
When Catherine gaped at him, a sly look stole into Henry’s eyes. “I still have my spies about, Maman. You didn’t think I knew about the tame jungle cat you were wont to entertain at the Hôtel de la Reine? Your precious Alexander?”
“Xavier,” Catherine corrected in an unsteady voice. “What—what has he done?”
“According to the Spanish ambassador, he has been interfering with Spanish shipping again. He laid waste to a merchant vessel off the coast of Florida.”
“When?”
“Sometime last winter or early this spring.”
Catherine was obliged to turn away to conceal the depth of her dismay. So Xavier had never voyaged to Faire Isle as he had pledged to do. He had taken her purse and sailed back to the Spanish Main, no doubt sharing a good laugh with his crew at the foolish old woman he had tricked out of her coin.
She should have expected little better, but the tidings struck her hard. She pressed her hand to her chest as though she had received a blow. She drew in a long breath until dismay wore off, slowly replaced with the ice of anger.
Because she was not some foolish old woman. While she lived and breathed she was still Catherine de Medici, the Dark Queen whose mere name was enough to make grown men tremble.
She faced her son to find Henry taking malicious amusement in her discomfiture. “It is a little late in your life, Maman, for you to be seeking your amusements with a handsome rogue. I shall be sorry to deprive you of your favorite, but I fear I may be obliged to put a price on this Xavier’s head.”
“Do so,” Catherine said grimly. “Arrest the villain and drag him back to Paris. I will deal with him myself.”
Chapter Ten
THE MORNING SUN FILTERED THROUGH THE COTTAGE window, warm and gentle against Jane’s face as she tiptoed about the room. Stirring the broth that bubbled on the hearth, she took care not to splash her gown. She had dressed with more care than usual this morning, her best black gown a little worn, but still quite serviceable, adorned with a fresh collar and cuffs.
As she bundled her hair into a tidy chignon, Jane nearly caught herself humming an air. The face reflected back to her in the glass by the washbasin was a little pale from lack of sleep. She had snatched no more than a few hours last night.
Yet her eyes were brighter than they had been for a long time, a hint of pink blooming in her cheeks that had not been there before. Perhaps it was owing to the sea air. Or far more likely because she had awakened with a sense of purpose this morning, something important to fill her day, the care of the man sprawled on the bed.
Xavier had scarce stirred since having his arm set yesterday, but Ariane assured Jane it was no cause for alarm, merely the result of exhaustion and Ariane’s powerful sleeping draught. The healing slumber would do him good providing he did not take a fever.
Jane crept to the bedside to test his brow for perhaps the hundredth time, relieved to find his skin cool to the touch. She tugged the coverlet higher over his bared chest and then retreated to the window.
Kneeling down, she drew forth her ave beads and commenced her morning meditations. Her prayers often took a sorrowful direction, remembering all those she had lost, her dear old nurse Sarah, her parents, her brother Ned. Today her heart lifted in a hymn of gratitude, thanking God for sparing the life of a man she scarce knew.
She reflected that it was odd she should already feel a sense of kinship with this stranger. Perhaps it was because she knew what it was like to be a castaway flung up on the mystic, oft disconcerting shores of Faire Isle.
“Uhhh!” A groan sounded from the bed behind her.
Jane twisted around to see that her patient had at last started awake. A terrified expression on his face, Xavier clawed at the bedclothes.
Jane scrambled up, sensing the cause for his alarm. She raced to his side, resting her hand on his shoulder.
“No, pray, monsieur. Everything is all right. Your arm is still there. Look.”
Jane shoved the coverlet down to his waist so that Xavier could see his right arm splinted between the two slats of wood, the white bandage tied to the wound area.
He stopped thrashing, his breath leaving him in a long rush.
“I changed your dressing myself and there is no sign of infection. Ariane says you are doing well and your arm should mend nicely as long as you remain quiet and give it time …” Jane trailed off, uncertain if Xavier was even listening to her.
His gaze darted about the room as though seeking to regain his bearings. He sagged back against the pillow, flinging his left arm over his eyes. He went so still, Jane thought he might have drifted back to sleep.
But when she began to arrange the coverlet modestly back over his chest, he shifted his arm, peering up at her. She rapidly discovered it was one thing to care for a stranger when he was oblivious, quite another when he was awake and subjecting her to such a fixed regard. Her hands fluttered, coming to rest behind her back.
“Good morrow,” she stammered.
“Is it?” he asked, his voice a hoarse croak.
She hastened to fetch him something to drink. When he regarded the cup in her hands with deep suspicion, she said, “It is only wine, I promise you.”
Raising his head, she coaxed him to take a few sips. He was cautious at first, and then took a long greedy swallow. He spoke more clearly when he demanded, “How long have I been asleep?”
“Since yesterday afternoon.”
“Damnation.”
“How are you feeling?”
Xavier shifted his shoulders and winced. “Like I was flung from the deck of a ship and dashed up against the rocks.”
“Good.” She added hastily, “Not that you were washed overboard, but that you remember. Ariane was afraid the blow to your head might addle your wits. Do you recall who I am?”
“Jane … the Englishwoman.”
“That’s right,” Jane said, feeling absurdly pleased that he remembered her name. “And you know where you are?”
“Well, Jane, I would reckon that I am tucked up in your bed.”
“Not mine. This is Madame Partierre’s cottage, her bed.”
“What a pity” The wine had revived the man enough that a hint of a wicked smile played about his lips.
Jane stalked away from the bed to place the empty cup on the table in an effort to recover her composure. But before she could do so, he disconcerted her further, by leaning on his left elbow in an effort to sit up.
“Oh, stop. What are you doing?”
Xavier gritted his teeth at the pain the effort must have cost him. “Grateful as I am for Madame Partierre’s hospitality, I fear I must—”
He froze, peeking beneath the coverlet. He lifted his head, staring accusingly at Jane.
“Hellfire and damnation, woman. Where are my breeches?”
“I didn’t take them.” Jane was annoyed to feel the heat rise into her cheeks. “It was Ariane—”
“My sister undressed me?”
“No, but she requested Madame Partierre and Madame Bevans to do so. I removed your boots while—”
“While half the island stripped me naked,” Xavier cut in, looking more outraged by the moment.
“It is very difficult to undress an inert man, monsieur. Ariane only wished you to be made more comfortable.”
“The devil she did. It is far more likely she thought she could keep me captive this way. Obviously my half sister does not know me very well.”
“About as well as you know her. The Lady only wishes you to remain quiet, give that arm she labored so hard to save a chance to mend.”
“Be sure and thank her
for that when next you see her.” Xavier struggled to sit upright. “In the meantime, be good enough to fetch my boots and breeches. Also a shirt or jerkin if you can find one. There’s a good wench.”
“No.”
“No?” Xavier paused in his struggles to arch one brow at her.
“You are not going anywhere.”
“Loath as I am to quarrel with you, my lady, I beg to differ. If you will not fetch me my clothes, I will find them myself or march out of this cottage stark naked. So you had best prepare to avert your maidenly eyes.”
“I have been married and widowed twice, so my eyes are no longer maidenly. You have nothing concealed beneath that coverlet I have not seen before.”
“Good, because on the count of ten, I am getting up, Jane.”
Jane folded her arms across her bosom and positioned herself in front of the doorway.
“One … two …”
Jane blinked and gasped, caught unprepared as Xavier tossed the blanket aside and swung his legs over the side of the bed. No doubt he would have been the sort of boy who cheated at nursery games as well.
Despite her boast of having been wed twice, both of her husbands had been modest men and she had never been treated to such a brazen display of masculine flesh. She had to fight the urge to avert her gaze.
Instead she stared hard at Xavier, hoping to shame him into retreat. But the man clearly had no shame, perhaps because he had nothing to be ashamed of.
His calves and thighs were as lean and well-honed as his flat stomach and broad chest. The male member that nestled between his legs was in resting position, but Jane imagined it capable of rising to an impressive length.
He struggled to his feet, only to sway dangerously. He would have fallen flat on his face if Jane had not rushed forward to catch him. She staggered beneath his weight, but managed to thrust him backward.
As he fell onto the bed, he took Jane with him. She landed on top of him with a force that caused Xavier to cry out in pain and curse.
“See what you made me do,” Jane said as she struggled to scramble free. “I have likely injured your arm.”
Twilight of a Queen Page 12
