Médicis Daughter (44 page)

“No one would ever guess you were a Gascon,” I tease.

“Oh, come. They would know it for certain—if not by my boasting, then certainly by my love of garlic. I hear there is much talk of that in Court, especially among the ladies.”

I blush, thinking of the myriad comments that have in fact been made suggesting an odor of garlic clings to the King of Navarre.

“What a pity we will all be off to Flanders. It will delay my taking you to the Navarre and introducing you to our cuisine.”

“Pray, Sir, do not speak of war with the Spanish tonight, at least not within the hearing of the Queen Mother.” My tone is serious but I keep a smile upon my lips for the spectators who line our way.

“I know Her Majesty is not in favor of the enterprise,” my cousin responds, adding one of his characteristic shrugs. “But it seems to me His Majesty and the admiral have made up their minds to go forward.”

“If they have, that will only make my mother more determined and more dangerous.” My voice is so low that the King of Navarre must lean toward me. “If you all go to Flanders and the errand is to your liking, there will be time enough to talk of it. You may even do some of your Gascon boasting, provided you acquit yourself well. But until then, take my advice and stay out of the debate.”

I can see he considers the point. “My gentlemen say the opposite. They urge me to support the King pointedly so that he will know we are his allies.”

“Are these the same gentlemen who called me ‘spy’?”

“They do not know you.”

“Neither do you, Sir.” I place a hand on his arm to show him that I do not say this in anger. “But I hope to illuminate my character by being true to our agreement and offering the best advice it is in my power to give. I tell you that being Her Majesty’s enemy—or even being imagined to be so—is far more dangerous than being thought by Charles to be lukewarm to his war.

“There are better ways to endear yourself to the King. As the weather cools, the gentlemen will ride to the chase. Like you, the King has a great passion for sport. Show yourself as mad for the hunt as he. Bring down a boar with him, and you will be brothers in a way you are not now. I assure you, such tactics will be far more efficacious than speaking of Spain, and far less hazardous.”

“Are you suggesting your mother is more dangerous than a cornered boar?”

“She is, though it is you and not I who articulates the thought.”

“As you are not a spy, I need have no fear of doing so.” His smile never falters but his eyes are not so sure as his lips.

As we alight at our destination, the King of Navarre hesitates, looking about. We both see Charlotte at the same moment.

“Go on.”

My husband looks me in the eye.

“I meant what I said last evening—everything I said. Can you, Sir, say the same?” I glance in the direction of Guise. The Duc meets my gaze, his eyes hungry.

“Madame, I am a man who keeps his bargains. May I suggest, however, it is in neither of our interests to openly embarrass the other. I pledge to be discreet.”

“As do I.” Watching my husband move to Charlotte’s side and whisper in her ear, his face glowing, I wonder if I should have warned him Charlotte is Mother’s creature. Should I have hinted that Her Majesty may use the Baronne as a weapon? Perhaps, but I am not ready for such a denouncement.

Mother glides to my side. “Do not stare. People will think you are jealous.”

It is the first time we have spoken today, and
this
is what she chooses to say?

“I am not.”

She draws my arm through hers and we move up the steps. “If you are, you have only yourself to blame. The King of Navarre gave you every opportunity to win his heart and you would not be bothered.”

“Madame, a single night in my husband’s company has not changed me. I continue to be indifferent.”

“That is good. Indifference is power.”

“That smacks of bitterness.”

“Perhaps.” She pauses. “But it certainly reflects experience. I loved your father and it was folly. In the more than twenty-five years we were married, he never cared for me in that way. If I could have been indifferent to him, it would have been to my advantage.”

I suppose I ought to show sympathy, for surely this is a painful admission. But I am not inclined to be kind to Mother at the moment. “Then I am more fortunate than you.”

“Not yet. I have sons, and you have none. I must exhort you, daughter, not to use your friend Charlotte as an excuse for stinting your duty in that regard.”

“I should think, Madame, you would be the last one to cry if the King of Navarre lacked heirs. Another generation of Protestant Bourbons in the south can hardly be to your liking.”

“Perhaps they will be Catholic
comme leur mère
. Your cousin’s issue will be as much Valois as Bourbon, and that ought to cool religious strife.”

“Yes, because we are such a loving family—never jealous, never scheming to best each other.” I look pointedly at Anjou where he greets his guests. “After seeing how your sons behave, Madame, I would be afraid to have more than one.”

Mother releases me. The look in her eyes is very near to hate. Yet I find I am not afraid. For the first time I feel I may wound the one who has injured me most frequently with relative impunity.

My husband returns to my side and leads me to the table. During the banquet I have only smiles for him, until I notice that my pleasant looks fire the eyes of my Duc with anger. Tricky. I would convince my cousin our alliance is in earnest, but not at the expense of my beloved’s peace of mind.

Wait, love, when the dining is done I will be your partner, not his.

By the time the Court makes its way out for the return to the Louvre, a goodly number of its members are staggering. Charles, with one arm around the Comte de La Rochefoucauld and the other around my darling Henri, lectures the two boisterously that they should be friends. Rochefoucauld tries to look gracious. Henri does not. My husband, surrounded by his gentlemen, waves to me before taking a horse, I have no idea whose. A moment later he and two dozen gentlemen, my brothers among them, charge out of the courtyard. This leaves me in sole possession of our litter, an opportunity. Coming up behind Charlotte, I put a hand on her shoulder. “Ride with me.”

The moment the curtains are lowered, I ask, “My darling, how are you?”

“Fine. How else should I be?” Her eyes dart from mine and her cheeks color.

“Come, we agreed that we would not let the King of Navarre come between us. You must feel free to gossip and jest as you have about past conquests.”

“There is nothing to joke about. I find your cousin refreshing. He does not talk too much, and when he does he says what he means.”

I do not know how to respond. A week ago I would surely have made a quip about garlic—the same sort of jibe my cousin brushed off good-naturedly on our ride. Now I cannot. “I am glad you find him less displeasing than you anticipated. Glad that we both do. I will feel less guilty enjoying myself with Guise this evening knowing that I do not leave you in an intolerable situation.”

We hold hands and gossip for the rest of our journey about the strangely ardent glances my brother Anjou gave the Princesse de Condé this afternoon.

At the Louvre, dancing commences at once. I dutifully let Charles lead me to the floor. The King of Navarre partners the Queen Consort. Henri is collected by Henriette. When the dance ends, she smiles at me as if to say
Do you dare?

I do. Without hesitation I move in their direction. “Sir, will you be my next partner?”

“Your next and, were it up to me, your only.”

So much has happened since we last stood this close. For more than a day only our eyes have touched, so I feel the first contact between his fingertips and mine with every nerve and sinew. I can tell Henri is equally overwhelmed, for his hand trembles.

When we come together for the third time he finds his voice. “What will Navarre think to see us dancing?”

“Nothing, I assure you. My husband and I have a happy understanding. We plan to live as so many other successful couples do … blind to each other’s faults.”

“So I am a fault?” He smiles to let me know he is not serious.

“You are certainly a vice, from the perspective of more than my husband.” I tilt my head in the direction of Mother. She is in conversation with the admiral, but her eyes are on us.

“That only heightens your enjoyment of me, does it not?”

“Of course. A wise man once advised me stolen kisses were the sweetest.” I run my tongue across my top lip.

“Then I will steal one now.” Henri draws me from the pattern into one of the room’s great window alcoves. Bussy d’Amboise stands in the shadows with his hands upon one of the Court’s lesser ladies. At the sight of us he makes a hasty retreat, pulling his conquest behind him. While we are screened by the departing couple, Henri pulls me behind one of the draperies standing as substantial as a pillar beside the glittering window.

“You cannot imagine my agony last night,” he murmurs. “I paced until dawn and slept only once I had your note.”

Putting my hands on either side of his face I pull his head down so that his lips meet mine. Wrapped in a world of soft velvet and music, I move my mouth to his ear and whisper fiercely, “I promised you. Why did you not believe me?”

“I will never doubt again.”

His hand rises to my neck and then runs downward to the part of my breast exposed above my gown. His mouth follows the same path. I sigh, wishing the day over, wishing away not only my cousin but the whole of the Court who laugh, drink, and dance so close that their footfall is distinctly audible from where I stand. “Henri, we cannot!”

“No,” he concedes, pulling me against him. “We cannot, but dear heaven how I want to.”

“You are coming tonight?”

“Tonight, and the next night, and the next—every night for the rest of my life.”

Of course I know he speaks hyperbole—he will leave Paris, as he often does; I will doubtless go to the Navarre—but it is what I want to hear, and I have no doubt he wishes it were the truth. I give him a last lingering kiss. “Until later,” I whisper. Then I slip back into the light, wandering with a forced nonchalance toward the Duchesse de Nevers. When I am halfway to my friend, my husband steps out of a clutch of his gentlemen.

“Madame, shall we dance?”

“Can you dance?” I know my smile is mocking, but I cannot help myself.

“I gather that my efforts in that vein last night did not impress you, but you granted me only one chance. You must give me an opportunity to better prove my abilities. Besides,” he says, taking my hand, “it is expected. We do not want people to talk, or at least we wish to control what they say.”

This time my smile is genuine. Casting an eye over him as he leads me to the floor, I am surprised to find nothing out of place. He will never be fashionable, but this evening he is entirely presentable. For the first time I realize that his pearl-gray suit trimmed in silver complements my gown.

My husband’s eyes must read mine, for as he pulls me into position he says, “You have promised me sound advice, Madame. A guide is useless if not heeded. And I must say my
valet de chambre
was delighted by my new interest in fashion. I believe Armagnac is destined to become devoted to you.”

Gazing into my husband’s laughing face, I find myself wishing him well, or at least not wishing him ill, as I did for many months.
We might be happy.
Not in the traditional way that husband and wife sometimes are, but parallel to each other.
We are harnessed together like horses, and like horses we may move the fates to our benefit if we pull together. It is a pleasant speculation.

*   *   *

Another day, another celebration, another ride in a litter with my cousin. “Who are you portraying?” I ask as we sit in a long line in the Rue d’Autriche, waiting for our turn to climb out at the Hôtel du Petit Bourbon.

“A knight.”

“It is a very odd costume. May I assume from it you are not on the winning side?”

“Your brother Anjou planned the allegory. What chance do you think I had of being on the winning side?”

“
Bien faible.
It seems unfair, as you are the bridegroom and all this show ought to honor you.” We move forward slightly. Leaning out, I can see His Majesty and the Queen Consort making their way into the
hôtel
. The sight of Charles reminds me of something. “Sir, have you heard the Duc de Montmorency left Paris this morning? He came to take leave of the King. Charles was not at all pleased and kept asking Montmorency why he could not wait a few days longer and go with the Court to Fontainebleau.” I do not know if this information is important, but as I try to build credibility with my new ally, I have resolved to report whatever comes my way.

“I had heard as much from Coligny.” He stops for a moment, tilts his head, and considers me. I put a hand to my hair, wondering if my tiara is askew.
“Ventre-saint-Gris!”
My cousin’s curse takes me by surprise. “My men insist I should tell you nothing. But how can you counsel me if you do not know what I know? Montmorency urged the admiral to also abandon the city.”

“Odd.” The hair at the nape of my neck prickles. “Did Coligny say why?”

“Montmorency does not like the look of the crowds in the streets. Or the glances some of those closest to His Majesty throw in his cousin’s direction. But the admiral thinks Montmorency an old woman.” The King of Navarre punctuates this sentence with one of his characteristic shrugs. “He will not quit Paris without your brother, at least not until they have addressed certain matters.”

“The war with Spain?”

“You cautioned me not to speak on that subject, Madame.” My cousin brushes off my question. So he wishes to think I am not a spy, but he is not entirely sure.

Our litter draws to a stop for a final time. My cousin holds out a hand. “Oh, I should warn you,” he says as we move up the steps, “I end up in hell during today’s entertainment and there is a very long ballet while I am there, which makes things even worse.”