I went to bed, falling into exhausted sleep. I dreamed.

Blood drips from my ceiling. I lie prostrate in my bed; I can feel my lips straining wide to cry out but I cannot hear my voice. The drips of blood seep from the painted eaves and fall one by one onto my coverlet. Death is here. It surrounds me. I can smell its iron essence, almost taste its salt and bitterness. I flail; I try to inch away but the drops come faster now, faster and faster, turning into a rain, cascading about me, falling into my open eyes, my mouth- "My lady, wake up!" Lucrezia was shaking me, stooped at my bedside.

I struggled upright, drenched in sweat. "Dio Mio, I had the most awful dream."

She peered at me. "You were shouting. You woke us in the other room."

"What time is it?" I muttered and she glanced at the extinguished candle by my bedside, the hours notched into its side. "Almost dawn. Go back to sleep a while longer."

"No. I ... I must get up. I'm due at Vincennes today to see Henri." I arose quickly, the vestiges of my dream clinging to me as she helped me into my robe. She went to stoke the hearth, set a decanter by it to warm the morning wine. "Should I get you something to eat?" she asked and I heard a catch in her voice. "Lucrezia," I asked. "What is it?"

She went still; I turned to see Henri on the threshold. He was thin and pale, clad in an unadorned black doublet, his hair loose about his shoulders.

"It's Hercule," he said in a low voice.

My throat tightened. "But Hercule is in England, wooing Queen Elizabeth."

"No. She refused his marriage suit, so he went to the Low Countries, where he got involved in a Lutheran revolt. He was taken prisoner. Birago paid his ransom. He arrived a few days ago but he ..." Henri's voice faltered. "Maman, you must help him. Dr. Pare says he is dying."

I stood immobile, thinking I must have heard wrong. "Dying?"

"Yes. He suffered a wound on his leg; corruption set in. I made everyone swear not to say anything; I wanted to tell you myself. But you were tired after your travels. You needed to rest."

I reached for my robe. "Take me to him."

Birago was by the bedside with old Pare. They regarded me with sad eyes, their faces drawn with exhaustion. They must have been here all night, watching over my son so I could sleep.

I stepped to the bed. Veins could be traced under Hercule's translucent skin. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. "Maman, you are home."

I set my hand on his brow. "They tell me you're hurt. Let me see, yes?" I spoke gently, feeling the fever blazing off of him. His face spasmed in fear. "Don't let them do it. Don't let them take my leg."

"They won't. I promise." As I spoke Pare eased back the sheet. I had to stop myself from gasping aloud at the sight of the festering wound on his right thigh; the flesh so inflamed it looked about to burst. Vicious red streaks spread like tentacles to his swollen groin.

"I've seen this on the battlefield," Pare said. "Left untended, the corruption enters the blood. He was very sick by the time he got here and I dared not cut. Now-"

I stopped him. "I don't blame you. Go. Fetch me hot water, fresh cloths, and poppy." I swept a pile of garments aside from a nearby stool and sat, taking Hercule's hand. "I'm here," I said. "All will be well, you'll see." I reached out with my other hand to stroke his cheek. Though his unkempt beard was thick and wiry, it could not disguise his alarmingly gaunt face.

"Maman," he said, "I'm so afraid."

Tears blurred my vision. He was flesh of my flesh, last child of my love for my husband. He'd never had a chance; the stigmata of illness had left him helpless in a world that knew only cruelty. And I had failed him. I should have protected him. I should have kept him safe.

"Don't be," I said. "You are safe. I love you. Your brother and your sister Margot love you."

I stayed with him for the next six days, cleansing his wound and dosing him with massive quantities of poppy and rhubarb. He grew so thin, his bones showed under his flesh; I knew nothing could save him, so I made sure he was as free of pain as possible. When he began to breathe shallowly and his leg turned black I clambered into bed and cradled his head against my breast. I sang to him, the nursery rhymes every mother hums to her child; and he melted into me, soothed by my voice, by the constant motion of my hands stroking his hair.

When he finally went limp, my heart broke into a thousand irreparable pieces. I engulfed his lifeless body and wept for him as I never had during his life, for the wretched fate that had stolen away his promise before he'd ever had the chance to fulfill it.

I had lost my son. Henri had lost his heir.

And if Guise had his way, France would lose everything.

I left his corpse to be embalmed and went to see Henri in his apartments. He rose from his chair, searching my face. "Is he ...?"

I nodded; as he moaned and turned away, I said: "We must make plans." My tone was detached, concealing the anguish that threatened to overcome me. More than ever before, I had to remain strong. The danger posed by Henri's lack of a Catholic heir was paramount.

"Plans?" He looked up with undisguised fear. "What plans? What am I supposed to do now?"

I met his gaze. "We invite Navarre to court. He is now your heir presumptive. Though Navarre has told me he'll never convert again, we must persuade him to reason."

He raked a trembling hand through his hair. "Invite him to court? He's a heretic! Guise will never let him be named heir. He'll kill him first."

"Perhaps." I paused. "But Louise is still young, as are you. If you get her with child ..." My voice faded as a burst of frenetic laughter escaped him. Then he went still.

"You don't understand," he whispered. "I've tried. God knows, I've tried. I touch her and touch her ... and I feel nothing. I'm not able to ..." He swallowed, looked at me with stricken eyes. "It's not her fault. It's me ... I cannot be aroused by a woman."

His words crumbled the last remnants of the illusion he had built between us. I did not remonstrate. I did not cajole or encourage him. Like me, he could not feign desire. We were not made that way. I had to accept that there would be no child of his loins.

All we had left was Navarre. He had to save us from Guise.

I reached out and Henri staggered into my arms. He was still my son. He was still our king.

And while he lived, there was still hope.

"Trust in me," I said. "I'll keep you safe. I'll fight for you to my last breath."

THIRTY-SEVEN.

HENRI AND I RODE OUT FROM PARIS TO WELCOME NAVARRE. WE both wore mourning for Hercule, whose body rested in the Abbey of St. Denis. We had delayed his funeral, waiting for an answer to our invitation. Finally, after weeks, Navarre sent word expressing his desire to be with us in our hour of grief. Soon he'd be here; together, we would find a way to contend with Guise.

As the entourage straggled into view, coming over the vale, I peered at it uncertainly. It was pitifully small, even by Navarre's impoverished standards-a mere clutch of horses and carts. Then the group neared and Henri's hands clenched on his reins.

"I see Margot," he said tersely. "Navarre is not with her."

In the Hotel de la Reine my daughter stood in her knee-length chemise, her soiled outer garments discarded at her feet. Her tired women heaved jugs of hot water into a linen-lined tub. I waited, tapping my foot. The women curtsied and left. With a sigh, Margot stepped into the tub.

"God's teeth," I burst out, "where is he? Does he not realize he could be heir of France?"

She splashed the rose-scented water over her voluptuous breasts. To my chagrin, her belly remained flat. "He sends his regrets, but he was obliged to reconsider your offer when his Council raised objection. They don't think it's safe for him here. And in order for him to be made heir, he'd have to abjure his faith again, yes? Such a decision, he says, cannot be made lightly. He wrote you a letter." She motioned to the heap of valises by the bed. "It's in my bag."

Her tapestry bag lay open, revealing perfume vials and cosmetics. I found the folded parchment with Navarre's seal under her enamel hand mirror.

I send Your Grace fond greetings and my regret that I cannot attend the court and His Majesty my cousin in this tragic time. I grieve deeply for the loss of His Highness Hercule, duc d'Alencon; however, matters of state compel me to remain within my realm until my Council deems otherwise. I trust Your Grace has not forgotten our last conversation, in which I gave you a word of caution, for loyal Huguenots in France continue to inform me that a certain lord persists in his assembly of unauthorized power, which can only result in a threat to His Majesty. You will find in me a fellow monarch who fears greatly for my cousin the king's welfare, and one who sincerely hopes Your Grace and His Majesty will see fit to curb this lord's ambitions before it is too late. Until said time, it is unlikely I will gain my Council's leave to travel to France.

"He doesn't trust you," Margot said, her eyes fixed on me. "He thinks Guise will murder him just like Coligny. Nothing I said could convince him otherwise."

"You should have tried harder." I folded the letter, shoved it in my gown pocket.

"Easy for you to say," she retorted. "I'm sick of trying with him! He treats me like chattel. The moment you left, he went back to his wine and his hunting and refused to grant me a single sou for my expenses. I'll not stand for it. I am his wife, his queen."

I regarded her in disgust. "You haven't changed a bit. Your youngest brother is not yet buried and you think only of yourself. If Navarre refused to come, you should have stayed."

She sat upright so fast she sent water sloshing over the sides of the tub. "Don't you dare use Hercule against me!" To my disbelief, tears started in her eyes. "He was the only one who loved me. None of you cared about him; none of you lifted a finger to save him. You let Henri send him off to England and now he is dead. This is your fault. It's always your fault! Before your family, before God and everything else, you put France first and look at where it's gotten us!"

I was stunned into silence by her cruelty, and her uncanny echoing of my own guilt.

"I did everything I could," she went on, emerging from the tub. "I told Navarre you'd make him heir if he came to Paris and heard mass. I begged him in Hercule's memory to put aside our differences and what did he do? He laughed at me. He's always laughing, acting the merry monarch for all it's worth."

Snatching a towel, she wrapped it about herself. "I've had enough of him. I stayed at his miserable court and smiled until my teeth hurt. I endured his ministers' insults and their solemn dirges, played the dutiful wife while he slept with every slut he could find before taking a mistress from among my own women. He's heartless. He sent me to the border without so much as a farewell; his guards didn't accompany me past Provence. They let me ride through France with my few attendants like a widow. He can rot for all I care. I'm never going back to him."

I arched my brow. Grieving or not, here was the Margot I knew-the defiant and foolish woman, heedless of anything that did not touch her own self-interests.

"I think not," I said. "In fact, I suggest you not make yourself too comfortable, for as soon as our official mourning is over, I'm taking you back to him myself."

I didn't wait for her response, turning around to stomp out. I should have known Navarre wouldn't budge from his citadel, that he wouldn't risk becoming our prisoner again or falling prey to Guise. But if he didn't come to me, then I would go to him.

I had a crown to offer, and no matter what the cost, he must convert and accept it.

I ensured Hercule's funeral was lavish in the extreme; Margot sobbed as the coffin was lowered into the vault, but within days she was entertaining guests at my hotel, the candles and laughter burning far into the night, defying her dramatic assertions of grief.

Finally, the end came to our forty days of mourning. Henri and Louise were scheduled to open the court at the Louvre and I went to the hotel to escort Margot to the festivities. I found her in black velvet and a ruff so high and wide it framed her head, her bodice sheared at the shoulders, nearly exposing her bosom. Ropes of pearls hugged her throat; her eyes were lined in kohl, her lips rouged scarlet.

"You look like a harlot," I rebuked. "Cover yourself this instant."

She glowered, grabbed a length of diaphanous shawl. Throwing it about her shoulders, she paraded out to the waiting coach, leaving me to trudge behind.

In the Louvre, beeswax tapers shed golden light over the courtiers. The hall wasn't nearly as crowded as I'd expected; our ongoing penury and the instability of our succession had sent many of the nobles bolting to their estates. But as Margot and I took our places by the dais I glimpsed several Catholic lords, their bearded mouths barely concealing their sneers.

Tension hung in the air, palpable as the smoke rising from the hearths and smell of roast boar being served. As a page ladled meat onto my platter, my stomach lurched and I pushed the plate away. Lifting my gaze to the court, I caught sight of a lone figure standing in the shadows under the pilasters, his scarlet cloak draped across his broad shoulders.

With a start, I found myself staring at Guise.

I'd not seen him since the massacre. Against the red of his cloak, his doublet was a dark velvet skin molded to his muscular torso, his white-blond hair cropped close to his scalp, like a soldier's, his lean face proud. At thirty-five years of age he had fulfilled the dangerous promise of his paternal blood, though he exuded a sensual vitality his father, le Balafre, had lacked. I could understand why my daughter had grieved over him, and as I thought this I glanced at Margot.

She reclined in her chair, a smile on her lips. My heart began to pound. I glanced to the dais, where Henri sat with Louise; in her finery she was pale and remote as a shadow, a rosary dangling from her wrist. My son caught my stare; following my gaze over the sea of courtiers toward the pilasters, he went rigid, all color draining from his face.

I tried to eat, but the meat tasted like raw wood as I felt Guise's eyes bore at me. Margot chattered with a lady at her right, reaching again and again to the decanter to refill her goblet, pretending she didn't know her former lover was in the hall even as her gaze slipped furtively to him. I sensed something between them, an unspoken communion of intrigue. I sat on the edge of my chair as Henri rose to his feet. Hercule's death had endangered the Valois bloodline, which had ruled for nearly two hundred years, and Henri and I had crafted his careful speech.

Clad in his purple mantle and sapphire coronet, he spoke with fluid elegance, his voice echoing into the hall as he declared his sorrow over Hercule and the need to continue to heal the realm of discord.

"And let my foes thus take note," he concluded, and I saw his eyes focus on Guise. "I'll broach no dissension in this trying time. France must come first, above all else. In that spirit"-he gestured to Margot-"I hereby appoint my sister's husband, my cousin and namesake Henri of Navarre, as heir-apparent to the throne, providing he agrees to the terms I shall set and until such time that Her Grace my queen gives birth to a son, God willing."

The court responded with fervent applause. Just as Henri started to sit, Guise stepped forth.

"Your Majesty," he declared, with a ringing command that brought everyone to a halt. "We rejoice in your willingness to put your kingdom first, but I fear France requires a stronger solution than your choice of an heir."

Henri froze. I stood quickly. "My lord duke, we've just announced our-"

"Madame, I am not deaf," he interrupted. He walked purposefully to the dais. When he reached it, he withdrew a parcel from within his cloak. I couldn't take my eyes off his large veined hands, which had stabbed Coligny and thrown him from a second-story window.

Guise brandished the parcel. "I have here pleas from the lord mayors of cities that share a border with Navarre. He raids them with impunity, removing our Catholic officials to replace them with heretics. While we mourn the loss of our dauphin, he's seen to it that every city surrounding his realm answers only to him."

I shot a look at Margot. She returned my stare, her eyes cold as onyx.

Henri did not move, did not speak, his stare on Guise. I saw something come over his face: a hardness that made his jaw clench and drew back his lips to show his teeth.

"Your Majesty," Guise went on, "Navarre plays you for a fool. He will never agree to your terms. When he takes your throne, he intends to unleash heresy upon us all."

When Henri finally spoke, his voice was icy. "You should know better than most how easy it is to falsify evidence where there is none. If this is true, why haven't I heard of it before now?"

"I only received the news myself a few days ago from a trusted source." Guise's measured calm frightened me. Unlike le Balafre, he had learned self-control. "I came at once to warn you, but it is a long ride from my estate in Joinville. However, if you doubt, read them for yourself." He set the bundle on the dais. "You'll see that we can never have peace while Navarre lives. He threatens our faith and the stability of-"

Henri cut him off with a lift of his finger. "You should refrain from saying anything more, lest you go too far. You are fortunate you are not under arrest, given your past deeds."

I saw Guise's jaw edge under his beard. "You think wrong of me. I am your loyal subject, but now is the time for action, not words. We must finish what we started."

"And you," Henri said, "sound more like your father every day. You should tread carefully henceforth. I'll suffer no Guise to rule my kingdom."

In the silence that fell I could hear my own anxious breathing.

"I do not seek to rule France," Guise said softly. "I seek to save her."

Henri flicked his hand. "I will read these letters. Until then, I command you to return to your estates and stay there. I've been patient thus far, but even I have my limits."

Guise turned and exited the hall, the spurs of his boots clanking in the hush. As Henri retrieved the parcel and stalked into a nearby antechamber, I snarled at Margot: "Come with me."

As soon as we entered the antechamber, Henri spun to Margot. "Is it true? Has your husband played me false?"

"How would I know?" She smoothed a crease in her sleeve. "I'm not with him at the moment, am I?"

"Then how did Guise find out about this?" He thrust the parcel at her. "How is it that he knows what I do not?" He paused. His eyes turned to slits. "It was you, wasn't it? You knew Navarre would seize those cities but didn't say a word to us. No, you told your lover instead."

She arched her brow. "Did you think I'd help you, after you let them take Guise from me?"

He stared at her, trembling; for a terrible moment I thought he would strike her. He dropped the parcel at her feet. "Because you are my sister," he said, his voice quivering with rage, "I'll not punish you as you deserve. But you're hereby banished from my court. You're not to stay in Paris another day nor return to Navarre." He looked at me. "See to it."

He walked out. I turned my eyes to Margot. In that instant, I truly felt as though I could hate her. "Did you plot with Guise against us?"

She tapped the parcel with her foot. "Read for yourself; the letters are mine."

"Dear God," I whispered, "why?"

She smiled. "Hercule is dead. I don't care who inherits, so long as we perish."