They loved you only because you were not your brother Charles, I could have said. And they cheered him when he was first crowned too, because he was not your brother Francis, and Francis, because he was not your father, the last Henri. That is what people do. Those who now say they love Guise do so mainly because he is not you. Say what you will about the people of Paris, their capacity for optimism seems bottomless, despite all the lessons of history. Or perhaps it is just an insatiable desire for novelty.
‘How does your royal mother, anyway?’ I asked, hoping to rouse him from self-pity.
‘Oh God,’ he said, with feeling. ‘Still convinced she wears the crown, of course. If she’s not haring around the country on some diplomatic mission of her own devising, she’s leaning over my throne dictating policies in my ear. I fear I shall never escape her shadow. But she refuses to die.’ He broke off, looking shocked at himself. ‘God forgive me. You know what I mean. She’s wracked with gout, but she won’t even give up hunting, and she still has more stamina for la chasse than any of the men who ride out with her. Sometimes I think I should have sent her to a convent long ago.’
‘I cannot picture the Queen Mother retiring without a fight. She lives for political intrigue.’ You’d have lost your throne years ago without her leaning over it, I thought.
‘True. And she’s far better suited to it than I am,’ he said, with rare candour. ‘She positively thrives on it. Her chief advantage to me is that the Duke of Guise is terrified of her.’ He broke into a sudden grin. ‘In her presence he’s like a boy caught stealing sweetmeats. So I have to keep her around – she’s the only one who can negotiate with him. Why can’t I have that effect on my enemies, Bruno?’ The plaintive note had crept back.
If it had been a serious question, I might have replied: because you possess neither your mother’s iron will nor her formidable grasp of statesmanship. If Catherine de Medici had been born a man, she would rule all of Europe by now. Instead she has had to make do with ruling France these past twenty-six years from behind the throne of her incompetent sons.
‘Few things strike fear into a man’s heart like an Italian mother, sire,’ I said, instead, but he did not smile.
‘All I ever wanted was to bring accord between my subjects, whatever their church, so there would never be another massacre like Saint Bartholomew’s night.’ He wrung his hands, fully immersed in his own tragedy. ‘Now look at us. Three Henris, tearing France apart between us. And my greatest sorrow is that all this strife has parted me from you. I can count the number of true friends I have on the fingers of one hand, and you are among them. Embrace me, Bruno. Mind Claudette.’
He held his arms out to me; gingerly, leaning across the dog, I accepted his embrace. A gust of perfume made my eyes water: ambergris and cedar wood. You learned quickly to take much of what Henri said with a heavy dose of scepticism, but there was no doubting his sincerity at the moment he said it. And it was true that we had been friends – in so far as one can be friends with a king. He may have been weak and self-indulgent, but Henri of Valois was a great deal more intelligent and intellectually curious than his subjects supposed. If there was truth in the rumours about him and his mignons, I could not testify to it; he had always treated me with courtesy, and often with the deference of a pupil to his teacher. All that was over, unless I could find a way to have this excommunication lifted, and with Paul dead, my hopes were not high.
I felt him pat my shoulder, just as a wet tongue rasped across my jaw. I jumped back, staring at the King, my hand to my face.
‘Claudette, you are a naughty girl. You are,’ he chided the dog, with a mischievous glint, the tears all vanished. ‘Well, I am for my bed. Or someone’s bed, anyway.’ He flashed me a wink, followed by an ostentatious yawn; at the edge of my vision I saw the guards stirring. Was that it, then? Had I been dragged here in the middle of the night so that he could unburden himself of this half-hearted self-justification and wake feeling he had dealt with the problem of Bruno? Beyond the wavering circle of torchlight, the guards hovered at the end of the terrace, uncertain whether to approach, dark shapes in a thicker darkness. Henri pulled his robe closer around himself and the dog, flicked a hand in the direction of the soldiers and moved a couple of paces towards the stairs. ‘These gentlemen will see you home,’ he said, without looking back at me. ‘They belong to my personal bodyguard. Forty-five strong men and true, every one of them scrupulously chosen from the provinces to ensure he has no affiliations in Paris except to me. Simple, loyal and boasting a good sword arm. And I pay them handsomely for their loyalty, don’t I, boys?’
The soldiers glanced up and mumbled something before dropping their eyes again to the ground.
‘They’ll take good care of you. Well, thank
