Chapter 2

Catherine lay still in his arms, his breath allowing her hair to dance, tickling her neck. She tried to smile and did, for a moment so fleeting it hurt, hurt to realize how vulnerable Henry had made her feel with his announcement of reconciliation. And vulnerability was surely something she did not appreciate. It was useful in others from time to time, but for her this was an unacceptable state of mind. Feeling his strength now was both alluring and intimidating, his arms tender as he held her, yet possessive.

What are you doing, Catherine asked herself and knew the answer would not please her. Her heart had taken command of her mind the moment her husband had asked permission to look at her. It was a well-known fact that the King of France wasn't the type to ask for permission, not from anyone and most definitely not from her, so his request had both stunned and paralyzed her. The intensity of his emotions dancing in his eyes, the sincerity of his kiss… Catherine took in a sharp breath. How was it possible that his love was suffocating her now that he had admitted to caring for her so deeply? Or was her own heart tightening the noose around her neck?

As Henry mumbled her name in his slumber and pulled her closer, Catherine remembered how often he had come to her in times of trouble to lie with her and calm his mind. How he had rarely asked for her opinion but taken her point of view under advisement only to dismiss it for the advice of someone else. How often he had used her to stitch up his heart from battle, leaving her wounded after he had left her bed again to be with Diane or his latest conquest.

Catherine felt like crying, but that ability had long surpassed her in his presence. Anger had replaced her tears, but now wasn't the time to be angry at Henry. It felt too good being loved by him again, even if that love wouldn't last more than a day.

"What leaves you so restless, my Queen," Henry interrupted her pensiveness with a loving kiss, his hands caressing her hips and belly, arousing her all too easily.

"You," his wife whispered, her face half hidden in her pillow to calm a moan that threatened to escape her throat.

Henry smiled against her neck as his hands insisted on treating her to a dance all of her own. He liked the idea of her thinking about him although she was right there, sharing his bed.

"Please stop," Catherine whimpered, but it was too late. He was already in control and enjoyed every moment of a game he had started playing with her once in a distant past only to perfect with someone else.

"Let me see your face," the King whispered as her arousal progressed, his voice tender and hoarse.

"Henry, please," the Queen arched her back, then pressed herself against his form at full length, unable to stop her body from responding to his expert hands.

Turning her around to finally look into her eyes, Henry halted his hands, uncertain of what to make of her gaze. Her face was blushed, her eyes full of passion and sadness. What's going on, he asked without saying a word and Catherine answered by seeking his embrace. "Please, just hold me," her lips vibrated softly against his skin and the King complied uneasily.

"What is this," he asked after a while, her breathing slowed, her face finally relaxed.

"I don't know, Henry. You tell me," his wife responded truthfully. "A few hours ago you wanted me dead and now you're trying to please me every minute you are awake. I don't understand."

"I am in love with you," the King argued, his own eyes betraying him: he was confused himself.

"So you've said," Catherine whispered, the silence that followed almost choking her.

"You still don't trust me," Henry finally erupted, his voice quiet but hurt.

"What do you expect," his wife resisted to shout back. The warmth of his arms felt too good to let go of just yet. "We've been married so long and you only just now revealed your feelings to me on the dawn of my beheading."

"I admit that was unfortunate timing," the King swallowed the urge to chide her. After all, she was the only woman he had ever known who had the upper hand with him in a fight.

His understatement upset Catherine but made her chuckle just the same. This was the man she loved: unflinching, jocular and ruggedly charming. She despised herself for being so unable to withstand his allure. It wasn't flattery, nor power that drew her to him, after all, when they had married no one had expected Henry to be the King of France. Had they known, they would surely not have taken her into consideration, as his wife and future Queen. But here she was, Catherine de Medici, the rich orphan from Florence whose resilience had rescued the Valois blood line and secured France a strong bond with the Vatican, at least for a while.

"I'm glad to hear you laugh, my Queen," Henry smiled at his wife without curling his mouth. Instead, his eyes sought hers and made her drown. How was she supposed to cope with this weakness for him so deeply nestled in her heart, surpassed only by the love for their beautiful children? "What is going on inside your head," the King tried to probe her gently but only pushed her further away. "Why don't you trust me," he finally added, frustration written all over his face.

"I can't," Catherine whispered, her hair caressing his skin as she tried to hide away from his gaze. "Don't you understand?"

"No," Henry shook his head. "Explain yourself," he demanded, his hand tender as he forced her to look up at him again. But what he saw in her eyes did not please him. She was afraid. No matter how hard she was trying to hide it from him, he could see it shining through, her alertness and hesitation. Beyond the love he finally saw, beyond her passion for him and her frowardness, she feared she could still lose her life at his whim.

"Let me hold you for a while, my Queen," the King finally said, her motives clearer to him now although still nebulous. She wanted to feel safe. So he lay with her in his arms, unable to find the slumber she finally found herself. Not for an hour or two but for the night. Her breathing slow and steady, her skin warm against his. King Henry sighed. How he had missed this, the intimacy only Catherine had ever given him, never Diane, those moments beyond mere play and passion.

When had it stopped, he wondered. When had she stopped allowing him to come to her bed despite his dedication to the other woman in his life. When had she stopped fighting for his affection? When had she stopped being his wife?

Henry closed his eyes, then suddenly gasped, his chest heavy, his breathing delayed. Henriette and Emone. Catherine had been so elated about the news of her pregnancy with them. A set of twins, she had sensed it right from the start. He had rarely seen his wife as happy as in those months before their difficult delivery which had almost cost her her life. Their sudden death had almost killed her again. He still remembered the sound of her voice howling in pain at the news of their tragic passing and her inability to allow him in. Not that he had tried hard enough to soothe her pain, his own had stung hard enough. But it was then that she had stopped treating him to his conjugal privileges and had closed her bedroom doors to anybody but their children.

Holding her close to him now, Henry had a hard time not to cry out. Cry out to release the pain that was building up inside, all those unfortunate events he knew had shaped their lives and his inability to cope with them. How much of this pain had he blamed on his Queen although so much of it had been caused by himself?

As he allowed his thoughts to wander, memories of Catherine preoccupied his mind. The absence of color on her face when she had still been lying in bed days after giving birth to their twins. The doctor's voice somewhere in the distance, "I don't know if her Majesty will wake again." His heart stopping for a beat: what would he do without his Queen? Six children she had given him, conceived in duty for their country, so it had often seemed. Those newborn babes had been different though, two tokens of love, not from the Queen of France but from his wife.

The King sighed, his memories cutting like daggers now that he finally allowed them in. His promise to Catherine to love her then paired with the misery of seeing her in so much pain. He had felt helpless finding her in bed every day, unconscious even in the first couple of days. "Her Majesty has lost a lot of blood," the doctor had said. "I'm surprised to find her still alive."

Even now, in his memories, Henry's ears were ringing. He couldn't cope with the thought of her leaving him – not then, not now. He was the only one who would decide… The King stopped mid-sentence, the fear in her eyes suddenly made so much sense.

What's going on, King Henry raged against himself. This wasn't like him to be so absorbed in thought. "What are you doing to me, my Queen," he asked her gently, unwilling to stir her awake, then climbed out of bed to get some distance from her and clear his head.