As Madame Gondi directed my ladies in dressing me the next morning, I asked her to find a French hood for me. I had been wearing my hair in the fashion of an Italian married woman, up with brooches, but all the French women had shoulder-length hoods—veils actually, affixed to stiff , curved bands of velvet or brocade, worn at midcrown over smoothed-back hair. I had told King François that I was now French, and the hood was a physical reminder of my first loyalty.
In a matter of minutes, Madame Gondi appeared with a white veil attached to a dove grey band. I felt odd wearing it, as if I were wearing a disguise at a masque.
The days at Court fell into a predictable pattern based upon the King’s movements. After rising, the King met with his secretaries and councillors. At ten o’clock, he went to Mass, and at eleven, he ate lunch in his reception hall. He was the sole diner, with nobles, petitioners, and servants standing in solemn attendance. Often, a bishop would read aloud to him from a text of His Majesty’s choosing. Afterward, the King held audiences or heard complaints. In the afternoons, he would emerge for exercise—a ride, a hunt, a walk, a game of tennis.
I shadowed the King that day in the hope of encountering Henri, but he and his older brother were off elsewhere.
By afternoon, the November sky held grey clouds that promised drizzle. Even so, my mood had brightened. My favorite mount, Zeus, a black-maned chestnut gelding, had traveled with me to France. I missed him, and the exercise, terribly. I also hoped that my husband might be among the riders.
But when I arrived at the stables at the appointed hour, Henri was not there. Nor was the Dauphin, nor young Charles, nor any of the gentlemen of the court. With the exception of the grooms—one of whom stood holding the reins of the King’s restless, large black charger—His Majesty was the only man present.
He was quite distracted by the five lovely women who accompanied him, all laughing and chattering like bright, beautiful parrots—save one, who had just stepped onto a small stool set before her waiting mare with the intent of ascending the padded, thronelike perch that was a French ladies’ saddle. Her back was to the others—a fact that tempted the King. He wound his arm around the waist of a different woman standing beside him and pulled her body against his in lascivious fashion, then, with incriminating deftness, slipped his hand inside her bodice and squeezed her breast. She displayed no embarrassment, even when she lifted her gaze and saw me.
“Sire!” she exclaimed, with mock reproval, and coyly slapped his hand. She was dark-haired and stout, with prim lips braced by dimples. “Your Majesty, you are a wicked man!”
“I am,” the King admitted cheerfully, “and only the kiss of a good Christian woman can save me. Marie, my darling, rescue me!”
Eager not to be seen by the woman settling on the saddle, Marie gave him a swift kiss on the lips and glanced pointedly at me.
I curtsied. “Your Majesty,” I said loudly.
Instantly, five pairs of feminine eyes marked my French hood.
“Daughter!” the King exclaimed, smiling, and took my hand. “How fashionable you look, and how French! Welcome to our little band! Ladies, this is my darling daughter Catherine. And these, Catherine, are Madame de Massy, the Duchess de Montpensier, Madame Chabot, and Madame de Canaples.”
I nodded at each of them in turn. Madame de Massy, perhaps eighteen and the most hesitant of the group, had milky blond hair and eyebrows so fine and colorless as to be invisible. Beside her, already mounted, Madame de Montpensier—a handsome woman with a square, masculine jaw—bowed politely in the saddle but could not entirely repress her smirk at my discomfort over finding the King with his hand in a woman’s bodice. Madame Chabot, wife of an admiral, smiled faintly as though bored and beyond it all. Madame de Canaples—Marie, as the King had called her—looked on me with smug, heavy-lidded eyes.
The King gestured at the woman who had been mounting the grey mare when I arrived. “And this is my beloved Anne, also known as the Duchess d’Etampes.” He glanced at her with a foolish, lovesick grin.
All of the women’s glances followed his, looking to Anne for a cue. The Duchess sat upon her little riding throne, her feet on the high footrest, which forced her knees to bend so that her skirts spilled down to cover her legs. Thus situated, she could not reach the reins but folded her gloved hands while a mounted groom came alongside and took the reins for her.
She was a fragile creature, tiny, with large golden brown eyes and rouged lips that were full and astonishingly mobile, curving easily in sly amusement, or twisting in contempt, or pursing in disdain. Her copper hair was crimped into soft, frizzy clouds at her temples and parted severely down the middle; the band of her French hood was of gold filigree fashioned to resemble a tiara. From her chin to the tip of her riding boots, she was swallowed by a high-collared coat of the same cut and fur as the King’s. She accepted his adoration as her due, with no more acknowledgment than a pleased sidewise glance.
When I neared, she turned her head deliberately to take me in, as a cat would prey, then swept her gaze over me: me, in my plain, shapeless cloak and my foolish French hood covering my very Italian hair; me, with my unforgivably olive complexion and bulging eyes.
“Madame de Massy,” I said politely, with a nod. “Madame Chabot. Madame de Montpensier. Madame de Canaples.” I turned to the Duchess and said, simply, “Your Grace.”
The Duchess’s lips tightened into a rosebud of a smile, as though she was struggling to repress a laugh at my thick accent.
“Your Highness,” she said, in a voice deeper than expected from so small a throat. “We are honored to have you ride with us this day.”
It was at that instant that my own horse, Zeus, was led out, snorting an eager greeting. I ran to him and stroked his dark muzzle, whispering of how I had missed him.
“Whatever is that?” the Duchess asked, with a nod at my sidesaddle.
The King more courteously echoed the question.
“My own design, Your Majesty,” I answered, “so that I might mount and ride in modesty and without assistance.” I demonstrated. “I put my left foot in a stirrup, here, and grasp the pommel . . .” With a small bound, I swung myself up onto Zeus and settled into place. The act permitted only the most fleeting glimpse of my calves, which were covered in white stockings. “I put my right leg around the horn, at the pommel. It holds my right knee fast, you see, so that I don’t fall.” I gathered up the reins and waved off the groom who wanted to take them.
“Brilliant!” said the King. “But surely you cannot ride as swift as a man.”
“Sire, I can.”
“Certainly when you ride at such speed, your legs will show,” said Marie de Canaples.
“A pity,” the Duchess said slyly, “to distract the King from such a fair face.”
Marie grinned; her eyeteeth were sharp, like a fox’s.
I flushed at the insult and looked to the King, but he offered no protection. Like the others, he was watching to see how I handled myself.
“Your Majesty,” I said pleasantly. “Shall we ride?”
The King led us south, away from the château and steep hills, toward the broad river.
Our pace was unbearably sedate. The women’s mares were content to be led by the grooms, but the King’s stallion and my gelding were straining at the bit. To ease the tedium, Marie told a story of how one devious young woman, new at Court, had invited her paramour to a great banquet. As her husband dined nearby, her lover crawled beneath the table and, hidden by her voluminous skirts, pleasured her while she ate.
We made our way onto the long wooden bridge across the river, which took several minutes to cross. I looked back over the river, its blue broken here and there by golden sandbanks, to see the houses and church spires and hills behind us, and the great white rectangle of the royal château dominating the city.
The King grew bored; his gaze was on the dense woods waiting on the other side. The instant we made it to the other shore, he broke into a trot. The grooms quickened their p
ace a bit, which caused the women to bounce in their saddles.
“Your Majesty!” the Duchess called after him, with overt irritation. “The doctor didn’t want you to ride at all today—you mustn’t overtax yourself!”
In reply, His Majesty gave a laugh that terminated in a small cough and grinned over his shoulder at me. “Catherine! Let’s see if you can truly keep up with a man!”
I grinned back at him and signaled Zeus with my heel.
I expected the King to lead me on a chase through the open meadow along the riverbanks; instead, he rode at a gallop straight into the thick woods. I drew in a breath and followed—ignoring, as he did, the women’s warnings. I rode headlong into the forest of bare-limbed beech, oak, and fragrant pine. Luckily, the trees were all a century or more old, with branches high enough that I was not immediately knocked from my mount. Even so, I had to lean low to avoid some of them—not an easy feat when one is astride a horse at full gallop.
King François whooped at the realization that I had given chase and urged his stallion to go faster. Reveling in the sting of cold air on my cheeks, I followed him through the thick of the woods—hares and birds scattering before us—until he swerved and broke clear to ride alongside a neatly tilled vineyard. I followed in close pursuit but, in the end, couldn’t catch him; Zeus’s stride was shorter than that of François’s huge charger. Even so, I refused to yield him more distance.
When he circled to retrace his path through the woods, I followed, encouraging Zeus to go as fast as he dared. I ducked at a low-hanging limb of a pine, then looked up to see the King veering sharply: The Duchess and the others had entered the forest and were heading directly toward us.
Immediately after his change in course, the King crouched low as the black charger surged upward over an obstacle.
The trunk of an ancient oak had split and fallen, blocking our way; the bare fingers of its upper limbs had caught on those of a neighboring tree, so that it hung high above the ground.
I saw the obstacle the second after it would have been possible to steer my horse away from the fallen limb and the nearby band of riders. I knew Zeus’s limits, and this pressed them sorely, but the time for decision was past: I had no choice.
The horse’s muscles strained beneath me; the spectators gasped. The fall happened, as falls do, so quickly that I had no time to be frightened. The world whirled as my body collided with Zeus’s lathered flank, the jagged edges of wood, the cold, damp earth.
For an instant I couldn’t breathe, then just as suddenly I was gulping in air.
King François stood over me, his long face made even longer by his gaping mouth. “Good God! Catherine, are you all right?”
The Duchess stood beside him, her mouth open in a tiny circle. The other ladies were still mounted.
My skirts were bunched up about my hips, exposing my petticoat, my stockinged calves, and my knee-length pantaloons of fine Italian lace, part of the exquisite trousseau chosen by Isabella d’Este. I made a sound of disgust as I pushed myself up and quickly rearranged my skirts.
The instant she realized I was unharmed, the Duchess said, in a low voice, “So. You did indeed distract the King from your pretty face. Such comely legs.” A ripple of repressed laughter made its way through the women on horseback behind her; humor glinted in the King’s eye, but he dutifully extinguished it.
I pushed the grooms’ proffered hands away as I got to my feet. Zeus stood nearby, breathing heavily but exhilarated after the fine run, his reins held by the youngest groom.
“I’m fine, Your Majesty,” I said.
I brushed dead leaves and splinters off my cape. The jagged limb, broader than my thigh, had caught my right shoulder, gouging the wool; had I been unprotected by the thick fabric, the branch would have torn open my gown to leave a serious wound. As it was, my shoulder ached from a bad bruise. My French hood had been pulled off completely; the punctured veil fluttered from the offending branch like a flag of surrender. One of the grooms fetched it like a trophy. It was torn, so I told him to hold it.
The King took my hand. “I can’t believe you tried to take that tree. You must be more careful.”
“My horse is a good jumper, Your Majesty,” I said. “Under better circumstances, he could have cleared it.”
A curious look came over him; he cocked his head, and the beginnings of a faint grin showed at one corner of his mouth. “You jump?”
“I do. Or at least I did, before coming here. Have you never seen a woman on horseback take a hedge?”
He gave a small laugh. “I didn’t know it was possible. Of course, my sister has always said that, given the opportunity, women would be better at the hunt than men.” He paused. “Perhaps I will have you accompany me on a hunt sometime.”
“Nothing would please me better, Sire.”
As we left, he rode next to me, and we made our way out of the woods at our original slow amble. The Duchess brooded silently, ignoring Marie’s attempts at conversation. We cleared the forest and made our way onto the open, grassy riverbank. The King led us back toward the bridge, but the Duchess resisted.
“Canter along the shore, Your Majesty,” she said, with feigned cheer, “and let us have a contest to see who can best keep up with you.”
The King turned back in his saddle to look at her. “Anne, don’t be foolish.”
The Duchess turned to the groom holding her mount’s reins and pointed. “Ride faster. There, along the banks.”
The groom looked uncertainly to the King, who gave no signal, then again at the Duchess before leading her horse away from the group at a steady trot.
“Come, Your Majesty!” she called. “Give us chase!”
“Anne,” the King said again, though she was already out of earshot. His expression was slightly pained as he spurred his charger and rode after her.
I would not compete directly with Anne; I followed slowly as the King broke into a canter and easily outpaced her mare. Once he had committed himself, he did so with boyish abandon.
“Faster!” she urged her groom. “Faster!”
The other women took up the cry. The most ridiculous of races commenced, with the Duchess well behind the King and the other women following, bobbing madly on their little thrones. The Duchess was not content with a brisk trot and insisted on more speed until the nervous groom finally broke into a canter. As he did so, she leaned forward to grasp her mare’s white mane.
The result was utterly predictable. I spurred Zeus into a gallop, arriving just as the groom noticed he was leading a riderless mount; the King, caught up in the moment, was still happily cantering away.
I let go a shout, dismounted, and hurried over to the Duchess. She lay on her side, her crimson skirts and petticoat hiked up to reveal thin white legs—and much more. When Madame Gondi had first come to serve as one of my ladies of the chamber, she had remarked on my pantaloons, not just their fine lace and embroidery but the fact that French women did not wear them at all. Now I saw the proof, as the Duchess d’Etampes pushed herself up and, finding that she was entirely exposed, pulled down her skirts. I repressed a smile; her hair was not naturally copper but dull brown like mine.
She was undamaged, with her hood still in place, but would not rise until she was sure that the King had marked her fall. As the others rode up, I offered her my hand.
“So,” I said loudly, “I see that you, too, have decided to distract the King from your pretty face.”
François and his ladies giggled. As Anne rose, her hand in mine, fury sparked in her eye, tempered by approval that my barb had cleanly hit its mark. To ease its sting, I murmured of her bravery and took care, as we rode back over the bridge toward home, to remain well behind the King so that the Duchess could take her place beside him.
For I suspected, even then, that if I fell out of Anne’s favor, I would fall out of the King’s, and lose everything.
Eighteen
That evening the King hosted an intimate family supper, which included h
is children; his sister Marguerite and her daughter, Jeanne; and the Grand Master—the stodgy, grey-haired Anné Montmorency, who was included in almost everything because he was trusted with the keys to the King’s residence. Queen Eléonore came with her most trusted lady-in-waiting—Henri’s tutor, Madame de Poitiers. My husband arrived late and shared a hostile glance with his father before taking his seat between his aunt Marguerite and me. I greeted Henri eagerly; in response, he averted his gaze.
The King began to speak: He had been quite impressed by my courage in attempting a difficult jump, and the grace with which I took my fall. He related the incident with some embellishment and a good deal of humor, describing in comic detail the Duchess’s desperate bouncing upon her saddle and subsequent fall—referring to her simply as “one of the ladies” so as not to embarrass the Queen.
Henri clearly understood which lady had been indicated, however, and while the others laughed at his father’s amusing tale, he frowned.
The King went on to describe my saddle and said that, with the urging of “one of the ladies,” he had ordered the Master of Horses to have several copies of it made “so that the women of the realm might keep pace with their king.”
Queen Eléonore, Madame de Poitiers, and Grand Master Montmorency all smiled with brittle disapproval but dared not appear unenthusiastic. But Henri scowled at the story; something deeply vexed him. I tried to divert him with talk of amusing things, but the more I spoke, the darker his mood grew.
After supper, I found him in the outdoor courtyard, lingering at the foot of the steps leading to our separate apartments, I hoped with the aim of speaking privately to me. After Queen Eléonore and the royal children had made their way past us up different staircases, I confronted him.
“Your Highness,” I said softly, “you seem displeased with me. Have I offended you?”
He was growing so quickly that each day brought fresh changes. He was already taller than the day we had met, and his jaw had grown longer and squarer, making his nose less prominent and his face almost handsome. His hair had been cut quite short, but he had let it grow since our wedding so that it now fell against the neck of his collar. Though his beard was still patchy, he had managed to grow a respectable mustache.
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