Médicis Daughter (46 page)

“I speak not of reputations but of wounds that bleed,” I whisper urgently.

“Madame, I am not bleeding and you are not well. Let me take you to your apartment.”

“No.” I wrench away from him—equally aggravated with him for not understanding and with myself for not precisely knowing what I wish to convey. “I saw blood. Saw it when there was none.”

I brace myself for him to laugh, or to insist once again that I am ill, but he is quiet. Reclaiming my arm, he leads me up to the now deserted balcony. Sitting on the back bench, where he cannot be seen from below, he motions for me to join him. “Where?”

“On the field.” I do not think it necessary to mention the Duchesse de Nemours; I sound mad enough as it is.

He waits a moment. I grow hopeful. “Did you see it too?”

“No. But…” The pause is long. His expression, usually so cavalier, changes as if a mask has been lifted, revealing a man in doubt. “Yesterday night I played at dice late with the Duc d’Anjou, the Seigneur de Bussy d’Amboise, the Marquis de Renel, and the Seigneur de Pilles. It was not a friendly game. After all Pilles and Anjou stared at each other from the opposite sides of the city walls during the siege of Saint-Jean-d’Angely, and Bussy and Renel, while cousins, are involved in a lawsuit. The taunts between players were more insult than jest. Then the Duc de Guise joined us. I was surprised to see him—”

We both know he means that, given the hour, he assumed Guise would be with me.

“—and had no desire to play with him. I rose to leave but your brother said, ‘Come, Cousin, you have taken what the Duc prized most; you must at least give him the opportunity to empty your purse.’ So I sat back down, not wishing to precipitate an argument. Anjou took up the dice and as he shook them I saw, or rather thought I saw, blood trickle from between his fingers.”

I reach out and grasp my cousin’s knee.

“I thought at first he clutched the dice so hard that his nails bit into his flesh, but when he released them, his hand bore no injury and the blood was gone.”

I nod comprehendingly.

“The same thing happened when Guise took his turn. I am not superstitious, but when all had rolled and the winnings—mine—were collected, I broke up the game, taking my gentlemen with me. No jeers by Anjou were sufficient to bring me back to the table.”

He shrugs, and with the gesture the mask slips back on. “Of course, in my rooms I laughed at myself. To be spooked by my own imagination … it is ridiculous.”

“Not ridiculous—wise. My mother once told me that only fools dismiss premonitions.”

“I am not sure I believe in such omens.”

I can see why he wishes to remain a skeptic. Blood cannot be good. But stubbornness in the face of such warnings seems beyond cavalier, it seems reckless. I cannot say this. Lecturing my cousin has never in my memory had the desired effect, and at present I am trying to draw him to me, not drive him away. Indeed, for the moment at least, he is all that is left to me.

“Believe or not, but be on your guard. If for no other reason than because, as you have observed yourself, the fraternity between your gentlemen and my brothers ebbs. The celebrations pertaining to our marriage end tonight. In two days His Majesty is off to Fontainebleau. Where do you go then?”

“
I
?” He looks at me strangely. “
We
follow the King until I am given a commission to march into Flanders.”

I am relieved, for I cannot help feeling there is danger here. Perhaps when the Court travels it will be left behind.

*   *   *

In the evening I begin a list of those I would wish to see appointed to my household. The time for my mother’s
coucher
comes and goes but I do not stir myself, thinking I will not be missed. I am wrong. Henriette and Charlotte arrive in my apartment when they are done with their duties, complaining of my negligence.

Looking up from my work, I smile. “How I wish I could have you as ladies of my household and never be parted from you.”

“What is this nonsense?” Henriette crosses the room and mixes herself some water and wine. “We will not be parted! Does your husband talk of the Navarre?”

“Not to me.” I look at Charlotte.

“Constantly,” she laughs. “He misses it, particularly the mountains.”

“Scenery is all very well, but gazing at mountains cannot compare to observing the machinations of the Court.” Henriette glances over my shoulder at my list. “If the Princesse de Condé is persuaded to be your
dame de honneur,
you will pay a heavy price. Would you have Anjou always hanging about?”

“I know he shows an interest in her, but I assume that is only to vex the Prince.”

“Then you assume wrongly. Your brother is violently in love.”

“Love is contrary to his character.”

“Hm.” The Duchesse narrows her eyes. “It is the season of unexpected things when it comes to
amours,
is that not so, Charlotte?”

My second friend turns crimson.

“Charlotte?”

“She is infatuated with your husband. Let her deny it if she will—I know the signs.”

“I find him pleasant. Is there anything wrong in that?”

“Nothing wrong, but much that is surprising. I will have to stop making jokes at the King of Navarre’s expense.” Henriette gives an exaggerated sigh, as if this will be the greatest of hardships.

“You might have done that for my sake.” I put down my quill and go to pour myself some wine.

“Oh, I am not your mother, Margot. I limit my jests to present company. But now Charlotte will not enjoy them. Perhaps you will not either.”

“Meaning?” I lower myself into a chair and put my glass upon a table. I suspect what is coming—I only wonder that Henriette did not find an earlier opportunity to raise the topic.

“You and Guise barely looked at each other today, and those looks that did pass were sad or strained. You did not dance with the Duc, but three times partnered your husband while the Duc glowered. Can it be the King of Navarre comes between you?”

“Of course not!” I have no intention of sharing the source of the quarrel betwixt Henri and me. “Is that the gossip?”

“The gossip is very wild, and began this morning with a report that Guise was seen playing dice last night when he ought to have been with you.”

“Lovers argue.” I try to sound blasé.

“They do. They even tire of one another. But, Margot, if you are tired of Guise, that will be the most unexpected of all the amorous developments since your wedding day.”

It would be. For that reason, whatever I said last night, I am not ready to be done with Henri. I wonder: Is he ready to be done with me?

The sadness such a thought inspires must show, for Henriette takes a seat beside me. “Come, it will all be forgotten. Whatever the cause of your quarrel, I will warrant its true roots lie in this heat. Who can be civil when they are roasting alive?”

“Perhaps I ought to send him a note.”

“No, indeed! The fault is not yours.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you are my friend and the better of the sexes.” Henriette laughs. “So do not trouble me with the truth of the matter. I find, without evidence, that you are the aggrieved party…”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“There, you see. So the Duc must make amends, or at least he must become so desperate to see you that he forgets you are partly at fault in the quarrel. You will not see him tonight.”

“No.”
But not because I will turn him away.

“Good. And tomorrow we will begin a campaign to bring him to his knees.”

*   *   *

I cannot help but think of the first time I rose early hoping to catch Henri’s eye as he played tennis. That day he played Anjou. Today he partners Charles against my husband and the admiral’s son-in-law. In the opposite gallery Anjou watches with his head in Mother’s lap. The way she plays with his hair reminds me of doing the same with Henri’s. Before the gentlemen began, my husband saluted me—or perhaps he saluted Charlotte, who sits beside me. In either case, I noted a certain stiffening in Henri’s form which suggests he is not inured to the King of Navarre’s attentions to me. Yet, when I catch his eye during a pause, he quickly looks elsewhere.

“If only there were some gentleman handy for you to flirt with,” Henriette says, noticing the avoided glance. She cranes her neck. “Ah, the Seigneur de La Mole arrives. He is a heretic, but a handsome one.” She slides down to make room then hails him. I give her a look. “Why not?” she whispers. “He may only be one of Alençon’s gentlemen, but he is the best dancer at the Court.”

La Mole takes the seat between us, looking overwhelmed by his luck. I smile at him, doubting whether Henri will notice or care.

The Seigneur gazes at me like a child at a pastry tray.

What has Henriette started?

Charles scores. We all applaud appreciatively, applause that is interrupted by a cry. “My King, my King, they have shot the admiral!”

The Seigneur de Pilles runs out onto the court, stopping when he reaches Charles.

“What! What is this you say?” the King demands.

“I come from the Rue de Béthisy. They shot the admiral as he made his way from the Louvre.”

It is the blood! Oh, I knew it meant something!

Courtiers gasp. Protestant spectators jump to their feet. There are mutterings of every sort, including more than a few, plainly audible “Praise Gods.” On the court Charles physically staggers, then throws his racket to the ground.
“Mort de Dieu!”
he screams, looking first at one gallery and then the other. “When shall I have a moment’s peace? When will it stop? Why can you not be contented with peace when I struggle so to give it to you?”

Across from the King, my husband of four days stands, his face pale. His tennis partner, Téligny, looks entirely stricken.

“Is the admiral dead?” Mother’s voice is calm.
Strange.

“No, praise God! By divine intervention he paused to check his shoe, bending just as the ball came. Otherwise I am certain I would bring worse news. But he is badly injured.”

“My poor father!” Charles cries. “Amboise Paré must go at once.”

“You!” The Seigneur de Pilles looks past the King and points an accusatory finger at Guise. “I see your hand is in this.”

The Duc makes no reply, merely staring back with contempt.

“Whoever is to blame, I will find him.” Charles looks at the Duc, then Pilles, and finally at my husband. “I will see justice done.”

I glance in Mother’s direction to assess her reaction. She is gone! So are Anjou and the Baron de Retz, who sat at Her Majesty’s other side. Charles storms from the court calling for his counselors. The moment he is gone a hundred bodies are in motion. Joining the throng seems futile. Instead, I move down and press against the mesh separating me from the court. By force of habit my eyes look first for the Duc. Like Mother, Henri has disappeared. My cousin has not. He stands in conversation with Pilles.

“Husband!” The term is calculated to get his attention, for despite our discussion I have never yet accorded him this appellation publicly. It works. The King of Navarre’s gaze finds me and he moves toward me, his followers trailing.

“Madame.”

“Sad news.”

“Yes, though the root of that sadness lies, I suspect, in different things for different people. There are some, I think, distressed not by the violence against the admiral but by his survival.”

“Is his survival certain?” The question elicits hostile looks from several of my cousin’s men.

“Pilles cannot say: he ran here while Coligny was still being carried to his house.”

“You will go.” It is not a question.

“Directly.”

“Take care in the streets.” Behind my cousin, Pardaillan, who called me spy, sneers. My temper flares. “Smirk if you like, Monsieur!” I glare at him. “But whoever wounded the admiral would doubtless like a shot at my husband as well.”

“She would know,” someone murmurs.

“Come, Margot.” Henriette takes my sleeve. “These idiots have not the wits to tell the difference between enemy and friend, and they have the manners of peasants.” She spits the last word.

She is right: Why waste my time or concern on men who mock me? I turn from the railing.

“Wait.” It is my cousin’s voice. Turning back, I find him close to the mesh curtain, his fingers laced in it as they were the morning after our wedding. “I apologize for my gentlemen; they are overwrought.” He looks for some acknowledgment, but I offer none. I know very well his followers consider my status as a Catholic and a Valois to be insuperable barriers to trust. I will not pretend otherwise. “When we spoke yesterday,” he continues, “you showed great prescience—a prescience that gives your words today increased weight. I will go armed. I will be cautious.”

I nod, uncertain why I care—if I care—about my cousin’s safety. There are worse things than being a widow.

*   *   *

The streets roil with people. I am glad to be on horseback, for a carriage could not pass. In the Rue de Béthisy there is a makeshift wicket guarded by Protestants. An hour ago Charles ordered those Catholics living near the admiral to give up their houses temporarily so Coligny could be better protected. He also forbade citizens to take up arms, but I notice the glint of swords and glimpse a pistol on a bystander as we dismount. Charles is eager to see Coligny, despite reassurance from Amboise Paré that the gentleman will certainly live. Mother pushes to be beside the King. I press forward as well, using my elbows where necessary. Monsieur Paré waits inside. He looks dismayed by the size of our party—as do the dozen Protestant gentlemen guarding the door and the stairway leading to the admiral’s bedchamber.

“Your Majesty.” Paré bows. “I have removed the ball from the admiral’s elbow and also the remains of the little finger shattered by the shot.”

Charles cringes at this reported amputation.

“The gentleman rests but is eager to see his king. May I ask, however, that not everyone go
en haute
?”

“I do not like it,” someone mumbles, “His Majesty alone in a nest of angry hornets.”