Médicis Daughter (39 page)

We walk on in silence. What a dreadful exercise. I can feel the sweat running down the center of my back. I can hear the lilting tones of the others conversing at a distance while I am stuck with my cousin. To our right lies the grotto. I cannot help glancing in that direction and remembering more pleasant times and more desirable companionship.

“Just what we need,” my cousin says, “some shade.” His eyes apparently followed mine. How I wish I could have my glance back again. Turning down the side path, he draws me across the threshold and drops my arm. I close my eyes for a moment and think of the last time I was here with Henri, of disrobing before him in the moonlight.

My cousin’s voice shatters my revelry. “Marvelous!” I open my eyes to find him running his hand over one of the ceramic lizards. Next he squats down to examine a frog. He is quite as enthusiastic as a child. I am glad no one is near enough to see him.

“You always did like frogs,” I say, meaning to mock him.

“I do still,” he replies, equally oblivious to my tone and to his utter lack of courtly
sang-froid
. “This little fellow is
tout
à
fait
perfect. I can nearly hear him sing.” And then, unbelievably, he makes a frog call. The low, throaty noise echoes off the walls. What, I wonder, might some stray courtier think we are doing?

“Your Majesty, we should rejoin the others. It is not appropriate for us to be in such a secluded spot alone.”

Standing up he says, “You cannot honestly fear I will take liberties, particularly after your little speech yesterday. Or perhaps you think your hand irresistible?”

“I do not. And in fact I do not believe you felt any pressing urge to kiss it at dinner, save as a message.”

He smiles. Then, offering his arm, draws me back into the sunlight. Raising a hand to shield my eyes, I look about; I have had enough of being alone with the King of Navarre. Seeing Charles beside a fountain, I say, “Let us join His Majesty. After all, you accepted my hand to be brought closer to the King, did you not?”

Mother eyes us as we approach. “My son,” she says, holding out a hand to the King of Navarre. “I hope you will not begrudge me the early use of that pleasant appellation. Bring Marguerite and come and sit beside me that we may be a cozy family.”

As if my family has ever been anything of the kind.

“I know you are missing your mother,” Her Majesty continues. “Perhaps I may in some part ameliorate her loss by my affections to you.”

I remember my cousin’s words shortly after he entered the Louvre: he knows what Her Majesty is, and the fact that she does not know him so well—that she thinks she can fool him—gives him an advantage. This is not displeasing. I do believe, though it is a close matter and I could well do without either, I may prefer the rule of my cousin to the rule of my mother.

“Madame,” my cousin replies, “my mother’s letters did not do you justice.”

I must disguise a laugh as a cough.

Charles leans forward to look at our cousin. “When we go to war with Spain, you must have a command.” I am surprised Charles is willing to raise intervention in the Low Countries on such an outing. It is a sign of which way his loyalties are leaning in the struggle between Her Majesty and the admiral—at least at the moment.

Mother’s face darkens. “We are not going to war with Spain.”

“Are we not? Why, the admiral and I were just speaking of it last evening.”

As if summoned by the words, Coligny emerges from a side path and strides toward us.

Charles rises and embraces him.
“Mon père
.
”

I can hear Mother’s teeth grind.

“Your Majesty”—the older man’s face is grave—“Don Frederic of Toledo has routed the Seigneur de Genlis and his troops at Quiévrain. Not two hundred Frenchmen survived.”

“Ha!” Her Majesty’s exclamation draws both men’s eyes. “Yet you insist, Admiral, that French troops of Protestants and Catholics combined are ready to face the Spanish.”

Coligny ignores her. “Genlis ought to have waited for the Prince of Orange and his men. But now he has acted, what will Your Majesty do?”

Mother snaps her fingers. The ladies, including the Queen Consort, rise and scatter. I do not move, content for the first time to remain beside my cousin. Mother narrows her eyes and asks, “Why should His Majesty do anything?”

“Genlis had our blessing,” Charles replies.

“He did not.” Mother is emphatic. “You would never be foolish enough to condone an attack by any of your subjects on Spanish troops within their own territory.”

Charles looks exasperated. “Was Louis of Nassau foolish? His invasion succeeded and everyone upon my council, yourself included, took delight in that.”

“Being pleased by someone else’s victory and being involved in a military campaign are two different things.” Mother is so angry that she visibly shakes. “I say again: you did not condone the actions of Genlis. And you will state so, publicly.”

“If the Seigneur has been taken, there may be a letter in his possession which will give the lie to such an assertion.”

Mother glares at the admiral. If I were he, I would be prodigiously glad to be armed. Looking back at Charles, she says, “Then lie. Your subjects disobeyed your orders by marching into Flanders. You wish for peace between France and her Catholic ally Spain.”

Charles’ shoulders droop. Coligny knows this signals capitulation. Bowing to the King he says, “I will return to the Louvre and see what can be done to secure the release of prisoners.”

“Fine,” Mother says, “so long as you do not expect to ransom them with royal moneys. You Protestants are not without resources: Let
them
be expended.”

Charles stands as the admiral departs, but Mother puts a restraining hand on his arm. She is not finished with him—not while there is still a question as to who has the most influence with the King. It is a question I see in the eyes of those surrounding us. “My son,” Mother says, “you wring my heart with your foolishness.”

“It was only five thousand men, and I did not finance them.”

“Not that imprudence—the greater one. You rely too much on one not worthy of your trust.”

She does not say the name. She does not need to.

“It is an impossible thing for a mother to see her child in danger and not act. I have devoted my life to preserving and promoting my sons. I have sacrificed much to that exercise, expending my own funds in the crown’s defense, going without sleep, traveling in all weathers to be with Your Majesty or your armies. Yet you prefer to lean upon one who formerly opposed you.” She shakes her head slowly. “It is too much. I must beg leave to withdraw from Court.”

“You would leave me?” Charles is all agitation. “Where would you go?”

“To Italy. Am I not always called ‘that Italian’ by those who demonize me?” She draws a kerchief from her sleeve for effect. And His Majesty is affected.

“Whosoever calls you that within my hearing shall have his tongue cut out. There is no question of you being displaced, in my heart or at my council table. And there can be no question of you quitting France.”

Mother is not pacified—or at least pretends otherwise.

“As I am Your Majesty’s humble subject, I will obey and remain within the kingdom’s borders, but I leave for Montceaux today.” She sweeps off.

Charles tries to display a look of indifference. “Women!” He laughs but the sound is high-pitched and nervous. “Let us go and admire the roses.”

The King of Navarre offers me an arm. Before we join those trailing His Majesty, my cousin looks in the direction of Mother’s retreat. “I do not believe any letters could do Her Majesty justice,” he says. “She must be seen to be fully understood.”

*   *   *

“A woman is not safe in the streets.” Henriette breezes into my antechamber where Charlotte and I are ensconced
tête-à-tête
for the morning. When Mother traveled to Montceaux we were left behind. I use my freedom to avoid my cousin, whose awkward attempts at playacted wooing are as tiresome as they are useless, and to do as I like with my friends.

“Surely it is too early for the pickpockets and cutpurses to have arrived for my wedding,” I say.

“Those I would know how to deal with,” Henriette replies. “Alas, the avenues are thick with Protestants swaggering about, armed and unwilling to suffer the slightest inconvenience or insult.” She puts her hand on the hilt of an imaginary sword and struts across the room before collapsing into a chair and accepting the glass from Gillone. “It is a horrible spectacle.”

“Too bad Charles did not take some of them with him when he ran after Her Majesty.” My brother rode out this morning, able to maintain his feigned nonchalance over Mother’s absence for only a single day. The admiral must be bereft. He thought, I suppose, he had liberated the King. What a fool.

“That would have been
very
good of His Majesty, particularly if he had taken the King of Navarre,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“You read my mind.”

“I will read it further.” Henriette winks. “You may be sorry that gentleman was left behind, but you are delighted that Guise remains in Paris.”

“He does?”
I did not know this, and “delighted” is an understatement.

“I do.” Henri saunters in. He has never been in my apartments in daylight before, never entered them openly by the main door. There is something thrilling about the bold nature of it—thrilling and arousing.

Charlotte makes room beside me.

“Her Grace is quite right”—Henri scowls where I expect him to smile—“the heretics are unbearable. The people of Paris will not tolerate it. If the Protestants continue in such a manner, some of them will be run out of town before the month is out.”

“Do not think of the month being out,” I chastise him.
Do not think of my wedding being past.
“Do not think of the Protestants with their odd ways and odd smells. Think only of me.” I pat my knee. Henri smiles and stretches out on the settle, laying his head in my lap.

Looking into my face, he says, “Yes, let us be happy.”

“How is little Henri?” I ask, twirling his hair about my fingers. Oddly, while I hate Henri’s wife, I cannot help taking an interest in his children. Perhaps because he delights in them so. His second son is just over a month old and has a rash, thanks to the insufferable heat.

“Improving.”

“He would be better still if you would send him out of this sweltering city,” Henriette remarks. “And
you
would be better if you sent his mother with him.”

I take pride in the fact that although the Duchesse de Guise is Henriette’s own sister, my friend’s first loyalty is to me.

“Perhaps after the wedding,” Henri replies.

For an instant I think he means
my
wedding and I am stung by his casual tone.

“My wife can hardly absent herself from her youngest sister’s nuptials,” he continues, making it clear that he speaks of the upcoming marriage of Marie de Clèves.

“I too will be traipsing out to Blandy to witness that heretical marriage rite,” Henriette replies. “Poor Marie, only days away from becoming the Princesse de Condé. But perhaps I ought not to pity her: marrying Protestants is the fashion this season.”

“It is a fashion I do not care for.” Henri’s voice is thick with disgust.

“Yet another matter, Duc, on which we disagree.” The familiar and unwelcome voice startles me. My cousin stands in my doorway. How I wish, despite the stifling heat, it had not been left open!

Snatching my fingers from the Duc’s hair, I feel acutely embarrassed. Apparently Henri does not, for he leaves his head in my lap, merely turning it so he can see my cousin better.

“Do we agree on anything?” he asks quietly.

“I believe we agree that my soon-to-be wife is the loveliest of women.” The King of Navarre smiles; then meeting my eyes, he says as if nothing were amiss, “I am going to play tennis and wondered if you wished to watch, but it is clear you are occupied.”

My face burns. I find I do not know where to put the hand that played in the Duc’s curls. “I can come if you like.”
Why did I say that?

“No, no,” my cousin replies, with a magnanimous wave of his hand. “You will have ample occasions to watch me beat my gentlemen at sport while your present form of entertainment is coming to an end.” Then he is gone.

I sit stunned, but Henriette throws back her head and laughs. “My goodness, that was exciting. I would not have thought the King of Navarre capable of such self-possession, such detachment! Whatever else we think of him, we must applaud that.”

Henri sits up, looking at Henriette with disbelief. “He is a coward. He ought to have challenged me.”

“Yes, that would have been politic.” Henriette looks nearly as disbelieving as Henri.

“Defense of one’s honor is not a matter for prudence.”

“That is a definite and unequivocal philosophy, but not one likely to lead to a long life or increased offices.”

“What about you?” Henri turns to me. “Do you find something to admire in the King of Navarre’s display?”

“Indeed not. I have yet to find anything admirable in the gentleman.” I say this because I would not side with Henriette against my Duc, but it is not entirely true. If I were honest, I would have to admit to being impressed by my cousin’s ability to make us all look foolish in a situation where he might have been expected to do so. He showed an admirable control of his temper.
Unless the sight of the Duc and myself in such an intimate position simply did not raise his ire …
The thought both unsettles and nettles me. I want to banish it. Want things to return to the easy way they were before my cousin entered. But the mood is spoiled. This, I realize, is my fate. The King of Navarre will be every day more and more present in my life, in my apartments, in my thoughts. He, or the specter of him, will intrude unexpectedly, making conversations awkward and matters between Henri and me uneasy.

“What shall we do now?” Charlotte asks, trying to break the tension.

“Pray the papal dispensation fails to arrive,” Henri says grimly. “Because if it comes, I will be pledged to kill two heretics instead of one.”