You wouldn't have minded my Medici blood if the hurt of my betrayal wasn't stinging you right now…

Henry stood in front of his huge bed, surrounded by the dim light of the countless candles - still not daring to even touch the silky sheets: he'd gotten a new hope yesterday, and by today it was gone. However happy and magical the past seemed, it was clearly impossible to go back there. Even if one could create the illusion and lie to himself, the reality would catch, tear apart and leave him broken.

Just yesterday, he was lying in bed, facing the ceiling of his chambers, overwhelmed by the boyish happiness and adult bitterness. He loved his wife, she loved him - what else could he desire? Even after a quarter of century that they'd spent together, they could still feel something. They could still be tender to each other even if no one else could see it. Too bad this realization was so late to come - he doesn't want to do this to Catherine, she's all eager to support this not-wanting of his. He *did not* want. She *was* eager. And now, what has changed?

Henry looked at his bed again - the very bed he so passionately shared with his wife just the other night - and the answer he was so sure of just vanished from his mind. What has changed? Was she guilty of treason or of betraying him? Probably, but he wasn't sure which one hurt him more. Did he even care? Perhaps, yesterday it'd be easy for him to convince himself it didn't matter, but today... Does he feel anything to his wife besides being offended? Yes, with her he turned into that young boy who had the whole world in front of him. Yes, he was angry, but did he hate? Yes, he did, but it wasn't her whom he hated, it was himself - for feeling sorry and for wasting so many years while thinking he had been abandoned. The anger towards his best friend - traitor, traitor, traitor - corrected Henry his own thoughts, made his blood boil. And with this ruthless fever the king of France tried to understand how the hell it had all happened.

He understood, slowly laying onto the bed and breathing in the flowerish smell of the pillows, that he wanted answers. Not the ones that Medici's pride made his wife say. He wanted the truth, and he'd get one. With a quick move he left his fluffy warm blankets, put on a furry coat over his pajamas and left his chambers. Neither he nor his guards who silently followed him as if they were his shadows, had any idea of the destination. But in just several minutes that mystery was solved, and the king found himself quickly climbing the narrow steps of the tower.

"His majesty the king" – sounded the guard's voice in a dark room of Catherine's. With no furniture and only two small candles to light the space it welcomed Henry who froze in the doorway a moment later, terrified.

TBC