Médicis Daughter (35 page)

Henri sighs. “When has your mother needed a reason to do as she will? She is too subtle to say, ‘Duc, you may not come to Blois, I forbid it.’ Rather, I will be charged with some matter that takes me elsewhere.” He looks up to see if I will yield, but I allow neither my face nor figure to soften. “Or if she cannot be bothered to find a pretext for keeping me from Blois, I will meet with an accident.”

How different this Henri is from the one who nearly refused to leave me, to leave Paris, to save himself before he married.
I push the thought away. Of course he is different. So am I. Ought I to begrudge my love his caution when we sacrificed so much to make certain of his safety?

“Enough.” He holds his hands out, palms up in resignation. “I must be mad, but I will follow you—whatever others say and whatever the risk.”

His willingness to put me before all else assuages me. “You must not,” I say, rushing back to him. Taking his face in both hands, I tip it upward and kiss his forehead as a mother might kiss a beloved child. “Though I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you again so soon, I will not sacrifice your honor and safety to satisfy my selfish needs.”

“My beautiful, beautiful love,” he says. “I will write to you every day. Unless the receipt of my letters will put you in peril…”

“Not at all. Nothing would please me more than for Jeanne d’Albret to find me reading one—except, perhaps for her to see us as we are now. I want no man but you. And I wish my cousins to know I am yours so that the Prince’s honor will demand he reject me.”

*   *   *

The motion of my horse reminds me of Henri—both the rhythm of the animal and the slight soreness I feel after being several hours in the saddle. My beloved made love to me more times than I could count during my last days in Paris. So often that I am left tender as a virgin after her first encounter. I am riding silently beside the King, thinking of the frenzied hours Henri and I passed last night, when Mother maneuvers her horse into the place at my other side.

She waves my brother on. “I have decided to put your cousin in rooms near to yours,” she says without preamble. “I will place the Queen of Navarre
près
to my own apartment on the pretext that this will permit us to interact without interference from the multitude of royal advisors on each side of this matter. And I will give the rooms adjacent to Jeanne’s to her daughter. Such actions will seem natural while providing you with an opportunity.”

“An opportunity, Madame?” I ask disingenuously. “You have impressed upon me repeatedly that the Queen of Navarre is strict in matters of morals. Surely then you do not wish me to flirt openly with her son.”

“Of course I do, just not when his mother is looking.” She looks me up and down. “Your color is healthier since a certain Duc returned to Court. And even at your worst you are likely the most beautiful woman your cousin has ever seen. My spies tell me Jeanne comes with a long list of conditions. I do not want to waste months wrangling.”

I, of course, wish to waste years.

“Fortunately,” Her Majesty continues, “Jeanne’s son has inherited her strong will. He is not a man to be entirely led by the nose, or so I am told.”

I am surprised at the admiration in her voice. After all, Mother requires malleability in her own sons.

“Dazzle your cousin,” Mother says, “and I think we may dispense with many hours of negotiations.” She lowers her voice. “And remember, while I reward dutiful children, I punish those who defy me—and sometimes their friends as well.”

The sinister underpinnings for Mother’s toleration for my flirtation with Guise are revealed. She desired a way of twisting me to her will, and he—or rather my love for him—will become the rope by which I am led or hung. Whatever I do to scuttle this match once the party from Navarre arrives will have to be done subtly. I cannot sacrifice Henri.

“I will be agreeable.”

“Be more than agreeable. You know what it takes to capture and hold a man. Even as the Princesse de Porcien works to provide her husband a second son and thus herself with twice the security, she remains jealous of you, with good reason.”

I am about to protest, but Mother raises a hand.

“You need not waste either of our time in denials. Provided you wrap your cousin around your finger and lead him to the altar, I do not care how much you upset the Princesse.”

I remember years ago when Baronne de Retz admonished me that my standards of conduct must be above those other ladies who served the Queen. I wonder what my former
gouvernante
would think to hear what Mother asks of me.

“Madame, I will do all that I can to charm the Prince without engaging in conduct that might demean the House of Valois.”

“You were not so fastidious in the past.” Mother snorts in disgust. “If you were, they would not call you ‘Guise’s whore’ in the south. Yes, I have heard it.”

“From Anjou.”

“Does it matter where? Just be advised that if you give credence to the name in front of the Queen of Navarre, the consequences will be unpleasant.” She says the last word as if it were “deadly.” “As for the Prince of Navarre, I shall count on your looks if I do not have your enthusiastic cooperation. And who knows, perhaps your cousin likes a difficult chase. He is an avid hunter. But make no mistake: you are a quarry that cannot escape. When terms are reached, Henri de Bourbon will have you if I have to truss you up and deliver you myself.”

*   *   *

Everyone expected the Queen of Navarre to arrive at Blois in grand state shortly after we did. As days slip by with no sign of her party, Mother becomes increasingly testy. I count the days with mixed feelings. Each is a precious sliver of freedom. Yet, just as pleasant anticipation can increase eventual pleasure, the anticipation here increases my dread.

When we have been at Blois a week, Henriette bustles in as my hair is being dressed. I know by the way she moves that she has something important to tell. Has my cousins’ party been sighted? Does she have news from Paris?

“A representative of the Holy Father arrived this morning,” she proclaims. “And not just any diplomat: the Pope’s nephew, Cardinal Alessandrino.”

Dear God! Can it be the dispensation?
Henri assured me it would be difficult to obtain and I have taken solace in those words, considering the Holy Father the final bulwark against this detestable match. If a dispensation has been secured this quickly.… I can barely breathe. Then it dawns upon me: Henriette is smiling. She would never delight in news abhorrent to me.

“And?” I ask, clutching the edge of my dressing table.

“He brings a letter from the King of Portugal—”

I believe I have stopped breathing entirely.

“—avowing that he is so eager to have you, he will take you without dowry and without delay.”

“Oh, Henriette!” I jump to my feet and pull my friend into an embrace. “I am saved.” Three years ago, when the Portuguese match was first pursued, I would not have celebrated such news. But now, with no hope of marrying my lover and faced with a marriage to a heretic, Dom Sébastien seems an attractive groom indeed.

“Margot, you are too hasty! I fear the Cardinal comes too late. My husband, from whom I had this news, asserts it is so. He says both King and Queen Mother firmly believe Navarre the more desirable husband.”

“An opinion easily held when he will be someone else’s spouse! It is not they but I who must subjugate myself to a heretic. I who must spread my legs for a man who, when last I saw him, smelled and looked always as if he had passed a long summer day in the saddle. How shall I bear such a thing?”

“You can hardly say
that
. But you may choose to say something to sway matters. That is why I bring the news expeditiously.”

“I will go to the King at once.”

When I arrive at Charles’ apartment, I am not surprised that it is Mother who calls “Enter.” Her Majesty, on the other hand, is entirely astonished to see me. “Margot? Your brother and I are engaged in business of state.”

“I have come on a matter of state.”

She looks faintly amused. “The only matter that need occupy you is the order in which you will wear your gowns when we entertain your future husband.”

“I believe, Madame, there is something more serious to be considered.”

Mother narrows her eyes. Her fingers drum on the arm of her chair.

“I have heard Dom Sébastien of Portugal renews his suit.”

Mother’s fingers stop but she holds her tongue, perhaps not wishing to confirm the news.

“Is it true, Charles?” I ask. “Has the King of Portugal sent word that he will have me?”

“Yes. In fact, he sent pages of them in his own hand. But those words do not move us. Why should they?”

Charles is prone to feeling slighted. I pray my understanding of that fact will assist me. “The King of Portugal comes late to a proper appreciation of the glory and advantages that a connection with the royal house of France brings,” I say, shaking my head. “I feel that to be so, as, doubtless, you do. But though his former coldness toward the match deeply offended my dignity, I am willing to look beyond that to factors that might matter more to you and to France.” I bow my head as a sign of submission.

“You would forgive Dom Sébastien’s insult?” Charles’ voice betrays curiosity. Mother must hear it, for she jumps in.

“It is not only your sister who was insulted—”

Charles holds up a hand—a rare occurrence. My hopes rise. If I can be heard, I have some chance, at least.

“Why?” he asks, looking at me searchingly.

“Because I care more for the Holy Church than for myself. My marriage to Henri de Bourbon would be an anathema to our faith, Charles. If I marry the King of Portugal, then the great Catholic powers stand together undivided and unsullied.”

He waves a hand dismissively. “I am more interested in the peace and prosperity of my kingdom.”

I must tread carefully. I swallow, afraid I will anger him by repeating what I have heard from Henri and Henriette. But he must certainly have heard the same from others, so I press on. “On that score too you should hesitate to wed me to Navarre. The idea is unpopular with your subjects, particularly those in Paris. They see our cousin as an enemy to the crown and part of a sect that has been too liberally treated.”

“Why should the opinions of common men intimidate His Majesty?” Mother asks. “He knows what is best for them.”

Charles nods.

I stand on the edge of failure, but I am not willing to give up. Not when my entire future hangs in the balance. Pragmatic arguments are not moving Charles, but there is another plea I can make: that of a sister. Advancing to my brother’s chair, I kneel. Looking into his eyes, I say, “Charles, as my King, you have every right to rule over me as you do your people. But as a kind and loving brother, will you not consider my desires? I beseech you to give me the King of Portugal for my husband.”

“Dom Sébastien is not the only one to discover his feelings
en retard
.” Mother’s tone is sardonic. “In this you make a pretty pair. He did not like you for a wife but is now desperate to have you because Pius the Fifth tells him so. You had no desire to marry him, yet now you beg on your knees to have him. Who, I wonder, has instructed you? Could it be a duc, not a pope?”

Does Mother truly think Henri counsels me, or does she merely want to convince Charles he does? She has told the King that my marriage to Navarre will help to counterbalance the influence of the House of Lorraine. If Charles sees the hand of Guise in my plea, my fate is sealed.

“No, Madame! ’Tis my conscience that instructs me. My own and no other’s.”

Mother gives a dry laugh, as if she doubts I have a conscience. Anger nearly blinds me.

“Madame, I am a good Catholic! You have
every
cause to know that. When your other
enfants
said their prayers in French, I was entirely faithful to the Church of Rome. Nor have I strayed since. How can it surprise you that the thought of being yoked in marriage with a notorious heretic is abhorrent to me?”

“Margot! Do not speak of your cousin in such a manner,” Mother admonishes.

“How should I speak of him, then? Was he required to abjure as part of the peace? If he was, I have not heard it.” I know that I am doing myself no good by losing my temper, but I am powerless to stop. “I did not complain when you sought to bind me to a madman. No, I bowed my head and said, ‘As you wish.’ Nor did I object to an old man, one who was already in my imagination as a sister’s husband. The King of Portugal was not to my liking, but at least he—and those who came before—were Catholic gentlemen. It is bad enough that we have to sup and dance with heretics; that they return to the King’s council. I thought the peace an edict of toleration—live and let live—but I see now it is an edict of submission. Not for the Huguenots, but for your children who you will suffer to be corrupted by the Huguenot taint.”

Mother gives a triumphant smile. “Your sister protests that her words are her own, but she sounds just like that idiot Anne d’Este and her son.

“Margot, have you learned none of my pragmatism these last half dozen years? Pity. You ought by now to be able to take any situation and turn it in a useful direction. If you do not like the idea of a Protestant husband, then once you have him, make Navarre Catholic. I assure you neither I nor the King will object to that. In fact, it is what we hope for. Now, get up.”

Ignoring her instruction, I look to Charles. When he will not meet my gaze, I get to my feet, defeated.

“You have been heard,” Her Majesty says. “Now hear me. The papal delegate requests an audience with you. You will grant it, but I will be watching. Do anything to thwart the match with Navarre, and I will reward the religious fervency you have just exhibited with a cloistered stay in an abbey at the edge of your brother’s kingdom.”

I bow my head, knowing I could not bear to be locked away where Henri could never find me. I have no choice but to tell the Holy Father’s representative that my faith requires obedience to my king, not just to my god.