The shrewd woman narrowed her eyes, but he saw the flicker of fear in them all the same. “Speak plain, Faust.”
He chuckled. “The solution to all your problems stands here before you…my only question is whether or not you have the resolve to ask.”
“You are an alchemist, not—”
“Are you so certain?”
She wavered. “What are you proposing, Faust?”
He let the coils of his darkness edge out from him for a moment. Nothing but wisps of dark smoke that would soften the edges of his black cloak against the light from the window behind him. He let his true nature free but for an instant—just enough to sour the air. Just enough to rob the remainder of the queen’s surety and color from her features.
He grinned, a feral and cruel thing. “That the king…must die.”
* * *
July 1559
Hotel des Tournelles, France
Marguerite huggedLeopold’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder as they sat in the stands on the side of the jousting field. He had already gone the day prior, and while she had been terrified for him, it had all been for naught. He had been victorious, and both he and his opponent had left the match largely unscathed, even if his armor had a few more dents in it than before.
Life had been peaceful and happy in the preceding months. Their wedding was scheduled for August, and she was finding herself more and more excited as the days went on. They had postponed it for several months to allow Leopold’s siblings to arrive. Her father was preparing to purchase a chalet several miles north of the palace as the first part of her dowry and wedding gift to them both.
She was going to have a home. A husband.
“Ducks.”
“Hum?” Leopold looked down at her with an arched eyebrow.
“We are going to raise ducks.” She smiled. “I have decided.”
He chuckled. “As you have.” He leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “I know better than to argue with you. We shall raise ducks.”
Grinning at the notion, she shut her eyes, enjoying the sound of the birds flying overhead and the flap of the tournament banners in the breeze. It was a beautiful day. Warm, but not insufferably hot like the summers were prone to.
“What an odd day, that we are to watch our fathers face each other in a joust.” He let out a quiet hum. “I think my father plans to throw the match. I expect it is bad form to beat the king.”
“Most likely. I love my father, and while he adores his hunting and these tournaments, he is hardly a soldier like yours.”
At the blast of trumpets, announcing the combatants were to take the field, she sat up and paid attention. Her father was wearing blue, the color of his mistress Diane de Poitiers, who sat in the box close to the throne and the queen.
Marguerite may be young, but she was not a child. She understood that her father loved his mistress deeply—and likely more so than the queen herself. But marriage was not about true love. She wound her hand into Leopold’s and held it tight.
Perhaps Catherine and her father had come to an arrangement, much like she and Leopold. She could only hope that the queen understood and encouraged her father’s adoration of his mistress. But if she did not, there was little that she could do. Henri was king, and kings kept mistresses.
They applauded as Henri and Gabriel turned their horses to the line on either side of the fence and readied their lances. With another loud blast of a horn, the two heavily armored men kicked their horses into a full gallop and charged at each other.
Her father had fought in a hundred such tournaments.
He would be fine.
Gabriel moved his lance at the last minute. In one sickening moment, everything changed.
Snap.
The wooden lance shattered against Henri’s chest. Gabriel held it firm, somehow keeping hold of the broken weapon against all odds.
Marguerite stood, her terror instant and total, as the crowd gasped. The horses jogged to a stop. Several squires rushed forward to help the king. But he was slumped over, his armor keeping him upright.