It only made it worse that Navarre was completely unaware of the conflict raging inside of Remy. There was no constraint in Navarre’s bluff features as he grinned at Remy. “Damn my eyes, Captain, but you’ve no notion how it gladdens me to have my brave Scourge returned from the grave. So many loyal and trusted friends I lost that terrible night. My poet Rochefoucauld, my good old Admiral Coligny . . .”
Navarre’s smile dimmed as he took a sip of his wine. He lifted his head almost immediately, his face lighting with sudden hope. “But if you survived, is it possible any of the others did? What about those officers who were so frequently in your company? Tavers and—and—”
The king snapped his fingers in effort of memory. “What was his name? That huge burly fellow with the quick wit and ready laugh?”
“Devereaux,” Remy said softly. After a painful beat, he added, “No, Dev—the captain died trying to protect his family.”
“The captain’s young wife and the boy he named after you. They too were destroyed?”
Remy nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
Navarre’s mouth thinned into a hard line. Suddenly he looked far older and wearier than his twenty-three years. Raising his glass to Remy’s, he said, “Let us drink then, to—to the memory of absent friends.”
“Absent friends,” Remy repeated. It was the bitterest draft he had ever swallowed. He took little more than a mouthful before setting his glass down.
Navarre all but drained his cup. For a long moment, he stared pensively at the dregs. But the king had never been the sort of man to surrender to melancholy for long. He rallied, giving Remy a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Delighted as I am to see you again, Captain, it is not wise for us to linger reminiscing about the past. So tell me how I may serve you.”
Remy blinked. “Serve me?”
Navarre strode across the chamber to refill his wineglass, his smile taking on a more cynical edge. “Certainly. When one requests a private audience with a king, it is usually because one wants something. You are the bravest soldier our country has ever known. You have no small claim on me. I would be only too delighted to grant you any reward in my power.”
Remy drew himself up proudly. “I fear you have been here in Paris too long, Sire. You mistake me for one of these fawning courtiers snuffling round Your Highness’s boots for favors.”
Navarre waved his hand in a placating gesture. “Oh, don’t get your hackles up, Captain. It is merely the way of the world, that is all.”
“It is not my way, Sire,” Remy grated. “I seek no rewards. I never have. Only to be of service to you and my country.”
Cradling his wineglass, Navarre sank down on his bed, propping his back against a mound of feather pillows. His lips curled into an expression of self-mockery.
“You may have failed to notice, Captain. But I no longer command an army for you to serve in. If you are seeking a military post, you’d do best to return to seek employ with the duc de Montmorency. He has assumed the leadership of the Huguenot cause.”
Remy could not help frowning slightly at the young man lounging upon the bed. “I am sure the duc de Montmorency is a capable man, Sire. But it is your presence that both the Huguenots and your kingdom require. You must return home, my liege.”
Navarre lowered his eyes as he sipped his wine, his expression becoming more guarded. “To even speak to me of returning to Navarre is dangerous, Captain. My mother-in-law most firmly wishes that I remain with the French court.”
Remy could not choke back his sense of outrage. “Since when does the king of Navarre give way to the wishes of some infernal Italian witch?”
“Since that witch displayed her power in a way neither of us is likely to forget.” Navarre fortified himself with a swallow of wine. “Besides, my captivity is not that bad.”
“Not that bad!” Remy exclaimed.
“The court is not without its diversions. Spending a night in the arms of a beautiful woman can even make the prospect of attending mass in the morning endurable.” Navarre toyed with the rim of his wineglass, avoiding Remy’s eyes. “I suppose you have heard. I am a Catholic now.”
“Yes, I have heard,” Remy replied grimly, remembering his outrage when the tidings had reached him that his king had been forced by the de Medici witch to abandon his faith or else join his subjects in the grave.
A look chased across Navarre’s countenance, part shame, part almost angry defiance. “Frankly, I never could see what difference it makes whether one chooses to worship God while fingering a chain of ave beads or reading from the Book of Common Prayer. Certainly not enough difference to be willing to kill or die over.”
To a certain extent, Remy could not help agreeing with him. But he also could not help remembering all those men and woman to whom it had made a difference, who had willingly sacrificed their lives in the Huguenot cause, dying for the right to worship as they chose. The massacre at Paris had been cruel enough for the people of Navarre to endure. To have their king desert their cause had been the final blow to many.
Remy tried to keep his features impassive, but some of what he was feeling must have shown through because Navarre said, “Knowing that your king is a coward, a contemptible turncoat, I am surprised you are still so eager to serve me.”
“You had no other choice, Sire.”
“You wouldn’t have done it. You would never have surrendered your honor and principles to save your own neck.”
Remy shifted uncomfortably. “It makes no difference what I would have done. I am not a king.”
Navarre swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat, peering glumly into his wineglass. “There are those who think I am not much of one either. There are many, even in Navarre, who now despise me. They compare me to my father, say that I am as weak-willed as he was, instead of being strong and wise like my mother.”
“Then prove them wrong, Sire,” Remy urged. “Escape from here and take your rightful place as the leader of the Huguenot cause.”
“But what if they are right? When I made my choice to convert, I was not thinking that I owed any great duty to my subjects to stay alive. My only thought was that I was young and I wasn’t ready to die. I found life incredibly sweet.”
Some of the darkness lifted from Navarre’s face as he added, “I still do and never more so than at this moment. You see, Captain . . . I have fallen in love.”
Remy heard the king’s words with dread. He had no need to ask with whom. He tried to treat Navarre’s confession lightly, forcing a stiff smile to his lips.
“By the rood, Your Grace, I can scarce remember a time when you were not in love with someone.”
“True enough,” Navarre said with a rueful laugh, levering himself to his feet. “Unlike you, my fierce Scourge, who has never been in love with anyone. I swear I have never known any man so immune to the charms of the fair sex.”
Immune to all but one, Remy reflected bleakly.
“Alas, I fear I am all too weak in that regard.” Navarre gave a mock sigh. “From the age of fourteen, I have been all too keenly aware that women are the most magnificent creatures God ever put on the face of this earth. And Mademoiselle Gabrielle Cheney is unquestionably the loveliest of them all.”
Remy was hard-pressed to remain impassive as Gabrielle’s name fell from the king’s lips. Navarre strolled past him to the windows and peered out into the night, an expression of dreamy sensuality settling over his features.
“Such golden hair as would put the sun to shame. Eyes that remind me of those clear blue streams in our mountains back home. Soft red lips that promise a man every imaginable pleasure. Her skin is as white as new cream and smoother than silk, her breasts so firm and ripe they positively beg to be caressed.”
Remy hitched in his breath sharply. If it had been any other man going on about Gabrielle this way, he would have roared at him to shut his mouth or he would shut it for him. But he could hardly command his king to be silent. All Remy could do was clench his hands into fists
so tight his muscles ached and listen in grim silence.
His lack of response must have irritated Navarre. The king interrupted his catalogue of Gabrielle’s charms to cast Remy an impatient glance. “You have seen the lady for yourself, Captain. Surely even you must have noticed how exquisite she is.”
Remy gritted his teeth. Yes, he had noticed. God help him.
“She is lovely enough, I grant you,” he said stiffly. “But I am sure there must be many beautiful women here at court. And back home in Navarre.”
“Yes, there are, and for a long time I believed Gabrielle no more unique than the rest. There is at times a haughty reserve about her that puts a man at a distance. But of late, she has allowed me to see past that and I keep catching glimpses of a woman who is warm and vulnerable. I gaze into her eyes and see this trace of some secret sorrow that haunts me long after she is gone.”
Navarre broke off with a wry smile. “But of course you would have no idea what I am talking about, Captain.”
That was the problem. Remy did know, all too well.
“The man who finally succeeds in winning Gabrielle’s heart will have himself a treasure indeed,” Navarre murmured. “The lady can be maddeningly elusive. However, beneath that cool exterior of hers burns an inner fire, a passion that a man longs to sample. And I would have done so, but for you, Captain.”
Navarre angled a glance at Remy, part teasing but also containing a flicker of frustration. “Your unexpected return from the dead was a little untimely. I thought that I had finally persuaded her to share my bed tonight.”
So Gabrielle had not already bedded Navarre? It should not have mattered so much to Remy. It was not as though Gabrielle had not had other lovers. But the thought that she had not yet given herself to the king stirred in Remy a savage feeling of exultation he was hard-pressed to hide. He ducked his head.
Mistaking the gesture, Navarre stalked over and jabbed Remy playfully on the arm with his fist.
“Don’t look so downcast, man. I entirely forgive you for disrupting my amours,” the king joked. “There will be plenty of other nights.”
Yes, there would be. Remy’s sense of exultation fled. He clenched his jaw so tight, he was astonished Navarre did not hear his teeth grinding together.
“No matter how intrigued you are by Mademoiselle Cheney, you cannot remain here merely to pursue a woman,” he said. “Not while your country cries out for your leadership. You must escape at the first opportunity and return home. Both your honor and your duty demand it.”
Navarre’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “What if a man’s first duty is to the woman he adores? Kingdoms fall, Captain. Wars are forgotten, noble causes fade to dust. What if in the end all that truly matters about one’s life is how one loved?”
Remy regarded the king uneasily. He had seen Henry in the throes of infatuation before, but never waxing this passionate. Gabrielle did indeed truly have the king in her thrall. No wonder she had been willing to risk having Remy meet with him. Remy felt a rush of anger, against Gabrielle for bewitching the king, against Henry for letting himself be so beguiled. And most of all against himself for this jealousy he could not suppress.
“There is something you are forgetting, Sire. You are a married man. What of your wife?” Even as he spoke, Remy realized how priggish he sounded and hopelessly naÏve. He was not surprised when Navarre laughed in his face.
“Margot? I assure you, Captain, my queen could not care less whose bed I am in as long as it is not hers.”
“And what about Mademoiselle Cheney’s family?”
“What about them? Has she even got one?”
“Yes! She is the daughter of a French chevalier and an heiress known as the Lady of Faire Isle. Her older sister, Ariane, is the Countess de Renard, a woman of surpassing reputation. She would not approve of your plans to make Gabrielle your mistress.”
“It would be a little late for her to voice her concerns about her sister’s virtue now, wouldn’t it?” Navarre said dryly. “Gabrielle has been a courtesan for some time.”
“I am sure that Ariane has been deeply distressed by Gabrielle coming to Paris. She would wish to see her sister abandon this way of life, become respectably settled.”
Navarre shrugged. “Tell the lady not to worry. I will make sure Gabrielle’s future is secure. I intend to get her a husband. Some minor nobleman perhaps, someone to give her his name and title. A man I could trust to understand the unique nature of our arrangement. That Gabrielle would be his wife in name only while she shared my bed. There are many men who would agree to such an arrangement for the sake of my gratitude, the wealth I could bestow upon them.”
Navarre’s eyes glinted slyly at Remy. “Or men who declare themselves to be of such unquestioning devotion to me, they would perform any service I require.”
Remy turned away to conceal his disgust. The king’s mother, Jeanne, had always feared her son being corrupted by what she deemed the appalling morals of the French court. Remy grieved for the memory of his late, good queen. He grieved over the callous, indolent man her son had become.
Most of all he grieved for Gabrielle, picturing the cold and empty future Navarre had sketched out for her. His mistress until such time as what? That Navarre tired of her, that she grew too old? Then she would be left entirely to the care of a husband of such low principles he’d pander his wife to a king, a man of no honor, no pride . . . no love.
Remy had to rein in his outrage, remind himself this was the future Gabrielle desired. He was not here tonight to try to save her, but to rescue his king. Forcing Gabrielle from his thoughts, Remy paced the chamber, attempting to divert Navarre’s mind from the lady and focus on the possibilities of escape.
Although Navarre steepled his fingers beneath his chin and regarded Remy thoughtfully, Remy was not certain if he was even listening.
“Escaping from Paris might be impossible, but the court moves about frequently, does it not? During one of those progresses, surely some opportune moment will be found,” Remy argued. “I vow to you I will make sure there is no risk.”
When Navarre made no response, Remy demanded, “You do want to return home, do you not, Sire?”
“Lord, yes. There are times I look out on these teeming streets and hunger for the crisp air of my mountains. To cease masking my every thought, every emotion. To be truly a king.”
Navarre leaned up against the bedpost, studying Remy through narrowed eyes. “I would give much to see my home again, to escape the Dark Queen’s watchful eyes. I will let you go ahead with the plans for my escape, providing you also arrange one thing.”
“What is that?”
“You must make certain Gabrielle comes with us.”
Remy bit back a sharp oath. Navarre had ever been single-minded when it came to the pursuit of a woman. There was seldom any dissuading him.
“And just how am I supposed to arrange that, Sire?” Remy asked impatiently. “I know little of Mademoiselle Cheney, but it is my understanding that she has no wish to leave Paris. So what would you have me do? Abduct her?”
“No, my good Scourge.” Navarre’s lips curved in a slow smile.
“I want you to marry her.”
Chapter Eleven
The Dark Queen’s antechamber was magnificent, rich tapestries adorning the walls. The fireplace was carved in scenes of Diana the huntress sporting with fauns, deer, and satyrs, the mantel emblazoned with initials, an elaborate letter H entwined with a C.
Gabrielle felt like a hapless fly that had strayed into the lovely silken web of a spider, although Catherine’s greeting of her could not have been more cordial. She dismissed her attendants, forestalling Gabrielle’s curtsy, waving her toward a chair.
“No ceremony, child,” she murmured. Already attired for bed in a dark dressing gown, a white coif framing her graying hair, Catherine could well have been someone’s maiden aunt. At least if that aunt had been a witch with dark, watchful eyes.
Gabrielle supposed that in other
countries it would be deemed an honor to be accorded a private meeting with a queen. But most Frenchmen did not regard an audience with Catherine de Medici in that light. Her own children were said to tremble with fear when ordered into her presence.
Gabrielle was one of the few who had ever been able to answer a summons from the Dark Queen with aplomb . . . until tonight. She calmed herself by reasoning that surely if Catherine had summoned her here because she had found out about Remy’s return and his secret meeting with Navarre, the queen would be furious. Both Gabrielle and Remy would have been arrested by now, wouldn’t they?
Then why had Gabrielle been hauled in for this midnight tête-à-tête? What new game was this to be? Her stomach knotted as Catherine glided toward her, her expression as mellow as the wine she offered. The dark red wine sparkled in the finely cut Venetian crystal.
“Here, my dear. You look as though you could use this.”
Never accept anything to eat or drink from the hands of the Dark Queen. It was almost an unwritten law among other daughters of the earth, a saying that Gabrielle scoffed at. If Catherine had poisoned everyone she was accused of, France would have lost half its population by now. Still, she could not help regarding the wine warily.
Catherine’s dark eyes snapped with amusement. “My dear Gabrielle, it is not poisoned, I assure you. Would you like me to take the first sip?”
“Of course not. If you decided to kill me, I doubt you’d do it here in your own chambers.” Raising the glass to her lips in a display of careless bravado, Gabrielle took a swallow, then added, “After all, it would be a trifle awkward disposing of the body.”
“Not as awkward as you might think,” Catherine said dryly.
Gabrielle, who had just taken another mouthful of the wine, choked.
Catherine patted her on the back. “There, there, child. I was only teasing you.”
Seeking to recover herself, Gabrielle set down the wineglass with a sharp click. Catherine watched her beneath hooded eyes. “Why would you ever imagine I would wish to harm you? You are the daughter of one of my oldest and dearest friends.”