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She knew it. Knew it the instant he said he would go. Knew it when she touched his face, his skin sweaty and burning under her fingers.
And when Charles avoided her eyes as he let himself be dressed, Brigitte knew that he knew, too.
He would obey his king one last time, and it would cost his life. Finally.
When she heard the guards shouting out his return, however, she felt wild, desperate hope. He was strong. He had lived through so much. And who knew? Maybe it was true. Maybe the king had the power to heal, and surely he would do everything to keep his best friend close?
Because that was what they were, truly. Charles had not answered when she had asked if he had any love left for his king after all he'd done - ordered to be done, rather, and something the king had ordered Charles to do had broken him. He had told her everything about his wives and affairs, everything about the men at court he had, knowingly or unknowingly, put to death. But he would not tell her about Lord Darcy's fate, even though he sometimes cried out his name at night. And seeing the pain in Charles' eyes when she had mentioned the name once, she never asked again.
But still the bond between the king and him was not broken. They knew each other too long, Brigitte came to understand, they were too much part of the other's life to not love each other. Charles had always been his majesty's truest servant. Even if the king treated him like a dog sometimes.
Brigitte shook her head at herself, trying to drive away the thoughts she knew to be treason. She couldn't blame the king for anything, even if…
"De la grâce, mon dieu!" Tears filled her eyes. "Ne me l'enlève pas ! I need him."
But how should god listen to her in this country? Everybody told her different ways to pray, and everyone was convinced that his way was true.
"Je t'implore, mon dieu!" She wiped the tears away as the horses reached the courtyard.
"I beg you. Don't…"
God would show no mercy.
Brigitte felt her heart breaking like her voice when her eyes found Charles, pale as death itself. She ran towards him as he fell from his horse, too weak to hold himself up. Two men seized him just before he hit the ground. Charles' eyes were closed. He was dead. He had returned to her but she would not be able to say goodbye.
The men looked at her, waiting for instructions but Brigitte couldn't speak. Sunk to her knees in front of the fallen duke, she reached out to caress his face.
"Charles… my Charles…"
"My love." The duke slowly opened his eyes. His voice was weaker than her limbs felt as she crawled towards him and placed his head to her lap, crying with both despair and gratefulness. "I am here, Charles."
She caressed his face and kissed his forehead, no longer burning with fever but cold as a corpse.
"I'm not leaving you, so don't leave me!"
She was being unfair, she knew it. But how was she supposed to live without him? She was nothing without him, a rival to the duchess, a stranger to everyone. This country was not her home. Charles was her home.
"Brigitte…" His breathing was unstable, labored, his fingers shaking when he reached for her face, gentle as a butterfly's wings. "Forgive me, my love. But I couldn't…"
She nodded through her tears as she cupped his fingers with hers and pulled them first to her chest, then up to her lips, kissing his fingertips. "I know. He is the king."
"Are you…mad at me?"
She shook her head, smiling naturally this time. After all, he was just a child, just like Henry was. All of them English men were like children, begging to be loved and regarded.
"Non, mon cheri. Je t'aime" she whispered the words into his ear, the words that had seduced her to leave everything behind. Until this moment, she had not once regretted it.
"Je t'aime, c'est tout."
Charles smiled, a faint image of better times, but finally at peace as he closed his eyes forever.
"Je t'aime aussi."