My sadness over separation from François cannot dampen my excitement for long. The trees give way to a more cultivated landscape. I spot a magnificent lagoon with an island in its center, then a portion of a château of white stone piped with delicate rose brick. It is long where Amboise was tall. I feel the wheels touch stone and my excitement surges. I am not alone: curtains on both sides of our conveyance are pushed open despite the rush of frigid air. The Baronne smooths her gown and then, reaching across, pinches both my cheeks.
We pass through a magnificent gate, stopping in an oval courtyard ringed by a delicate colonnade. Everywhere my grandfather’s salamander greets us—carved in stone or worked in gold. Liveried figures and lackeys of all sorts swarm toward our coaches. Among the moving bodies and jumble of faces, I spy one I have been longing to see.
Without waiting for assistance, I reach out and fling the coach door wide. “Henri!” I hear Madame’s gasp—a mingling of fear and disapproval—as I spring down, but I do not care. I haven’t seen my thirteen-year-old brother in nearly two years. “You’ve grown so tall!”
“You have forgotten to say dignified.” He takes my hand and makes a show of bowing over it. Then, pinching my arm, he turns and runs. I pursue as he weaves through the crowd in the courtyard and darts into the château.
Henri has the advantage. Not just because he is older and taller, but because he knows Fontainebleau. I pass through several rooms heedless of my surroundings, intent solely on closing the gap between myself and my brother. Then, suddenly, I am in a vast space. Winter light spills through enormous windows, causing the parquet floor to shine like ice, and swimming in this glossy surface I see my father’s emblem. I stop and look upward, searching for the source of the illusion. There, among elaborately carved panels of wood touched with blue paint and gilt, I spy my father’s device. Now that I have stopped, Henri stops as well.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“The salle des fêtes, you goose.”
Ignoring the jibe, I turn slowly, admiring the room. Just behind my brother, frescos show hunting scenes like those I imagined this morning, only the figures are clothed in the ancient garb of myth rather than the grandiose fashions of the Court. I want to dance here. It is a ballroom after all. Without another thought, I begin an almain. As I rise to balance on the ball of one foot for the fourth time, Henri joins me. Humming beneath his breath, he catches up my hands and begins to lead me in a circle. I realize that we are no longer alone. A small dark figure stands just inside the door by which we entered. Mother! I pause, arresting Henri’s motion, but not before he steps on my foot.
“Why do you stop?” Mother’s voice is clear despite the considerable distance. “Come, let me see how you manage a gaillarde.”
My brother does not hesitate. “We will do the eleven-step pattern,” he whispers, and then begins to hum the more rapid music the dance demands. My brother is a natural athlete. And I, I am the stag, prancing and full of high spirits. As we execute the cadence and come to rest, Mother applauds.
“Henri my heart, you put gentlemen twice your age to shame! So elegant! It is pleasant to see you partnered by one whose looks and grace match your own. We must have a ballet featuring you both, now that Margot has come.” Mother walks forward as she speaks, stopping just before us.
“As part of the Shrove Tuesday festivities?” my brother asks eagerly.
Mother smiles indulgently, offering her hand. “Ambition too,” she says, stroking Henri’s hair with her free hand as he bends over her other. “You are God’s most perfect gift.” Then, turning in my direction, her eyes harden and her lips compress. “Your gouvernante was at a loss to explain your whereabouts when I arrived in the Cour Ovale.”
I feel myself blushing.
“It is my fault.” Henri’s voice surprises me. “I was waiting for Margot and whisked her away.”
Mother’s expression softens. Putting an arm around my shoulders, she says, “The King waits to receive you.”
I imagined meeting Charles in his apartments—a gathering of family. So I am awed when a door opens to reveal His Majesty seated on a dais with dozens of courtiers in attendance.
A woman and a young man stand before him. I can see neither of their faces. Charles looks away from them at the sound of our entrance. He has become a man! A slight mustache darkens his lip. His face is not as handsome as Henri’s, but it is kind. Does the King smile at the sight of me? If so, the smile is fleeting. Standing beside me, Mother gives a sharp nod and Charles’ eyes return to the pair before him.
Taking advantage of his attention, the lady, who is exquisitely dressed, says, “Your Majesty, I appeal to your sense of justice. Surely a woman deprived of her husband by an assassin’s hand is entitled to pursue his killer.”
“Duchesse de Guise, Jean de Poltrot was put to death a year ago. Is that not justice?”
Charles’ voice has deepened. If it is Anne d’Este who petitions, then the sandy-haired young man at her side must be her son Henri, Duc de Guise.
“Your Majesty, Poltrot may have struck the blow, but he was merely an instrument.”
Mother sweeps forward. “Your Grace knows,” she says, brushing past the Dowager Duchesse and ascending the dais to stand at Charles’ side, “how dear justice and your persons are to His Majesty. But you must also know, Duchesse, how dear to His Majesty, indeed to all who care for France, is the present tenuous peace. It is not a year old. Would Your Grace kill it in its infancy with this lawsuit against Gaspard de Coligny?”
Mother’s eyes are piercing. They seek an answer while making quite clear that only one answer will do. “His Majesty does not dismiss your suit, he merely suspends it,” she presses.
“Three years is a very long time to wait for justice.” The Duc speaks, drawing himself up. He is very tall for a young man Charles’ age.
Mother offers him a smile—the patronizing type adults give children. But she does not answer him. Instead she speaks to the dowager. “Your son’s feelings honor his fallen father, but also reveal his youth. You and I, Duchesse, have lived long enough to know how very short a time three years are when properly reckoned.”
The Duchesse curtsys. “Your Majesties, we will be patient, since that is the King’s will.” She touches her son on his shoulder and he bows, then the two make their way down the aisle. I see a mingling of confusion and impatience in the Duc’s eyes as he glances sideways at his mother. He is quite as handsome as he is tall.
My observations are arrested by the voice of a household officer. “Her Highness the Duchesse de Valois,” he announces.
I look at Madame and she nods. Down the aisle I go to a general murmuring while the others of my party, announced in the same officious tone, follow. Stopping at the foot of the dais, I am aware that all eyes are upon me. I stand as straight as I can before executing my curtsy.
“Sister,” Charles says, “we are pleased to have you at our Court. You will be a great ornament to it, we are certain, for we have received good report of your wit and of your dancing.”
I am surprised. I supposed my education beneath Charles’ notice. And if Mother is the source of Charles’ information, then I am astounded to hear him praise me. There have certainly been very few words of approbation in the letters she sends Madame—or at least in those portions read out to me. Why, I wonder, if she is willing to speak well of me to my brother, can Mother not spare a word of encouragement for me? I have worked so hard this past year—applying myself to every lesson, whether with the tutor she sent for me or with my dancing master.
Turning to Her Majesty, Charles says, “Madame, the collection of beauties in your household is already the envy of every court in Europe, and here is another lovely addition.”
I am to be a member of my Mother’s household!
“As Your Majesty’s grandfather King Francis was wont to say, ‘A court without beautiful women is springtime without roses,’” Mother replies, smiling.
* * *
&nb
sp; Late in the afternoon I get my first glimpse of the roses. Dressed in the sort of finery seldom required at Amboise, I am shepherded to Mother’s apartment by the Baronne de Retz, who came with me from Amboise. The door of Her Majesty’s antechamber opens to reveal at least two dozen young women. The colors of their fine silks, velvets, and brocades set against the room’s brightly painted walls dazzle my eyes, and the smell of perfumes—both sweet and spicy—fills my nose. The entire scene is fantastical and made even more so by the arresting spectacle of a bright green bird flying above the gathered ladies.
“Here is the little princess!” The woman who exclaims over my arrival gives a small curtsy. Smiling, she reaches out her hand. I offer mine. “She is like a doll,” she says, spinning me around. The other ladies laugh and clap in admiration.
“Something is missing.” This new speaker has hair so blond, it looks like spun gold. She also has the tiniest waist I have ever seen. I simply cannot take my eyes from it. Stepping forward, she takes my chin and tips my face first this way and then that. “A little rouge, I think.”
There is a ripple through the assembled ladies and someone hands a small pot to the woman before me. Opening it, she dips her finger then touches it, now covered with a vermillion substance, to my lips. “Parfaite!” she declares. “She will break many hearts.”
The Baronne de Retz clears her throat softly. “Mademoiselle de Saussauy, Princess Marguerite is too young to think of such things.”
The pretty blonde laughs. “One is never too young to think of such things.”
I like Mademoiselle de Saussauy.
“Where is Charlotte?” the Baronne asks.
A girl with chestnut hair and carefully arched eyebrows comes forward. “Your Highness, may I present Mademoiselle Beaune Semblançay. She is the young lady nearest to your own age among the present company. Perhaps you would like to become better acquainted?”
The Mademoiselle holds out her hand. “Come,” she says, “let us go where we can see the dresses better as everyone enters.”
“This is not everyone?” I ask, amazed.
“No indeed, not by half,” my companion replies. “Her Majesty has four score ladies, from the best and oldest houses.”
My companion threads herself expertly through the crowd until we reach a spot that she adjudges satisfactory. As the door swings open to admit two ladies arm in arm, Charlotte screens her mouth with one hand and says, “The shorter is the Princesse de Porcien, the taller her sister the Duchesse de Nevers.”
I can see the resemblance. Both have luxurious hair with tones of auburn. Both have milk-white skin. The Duchesse, however, has the better features, for the Princesse has a childish roundness to her cheeks.
“How old is the Princesse?”
“Fifteen.” I detect envy in my companion’s tone.
Wanting to make my new friend happy, I whisper, “You are far prettier than she.”
Charlotte kisses me on the cheek. But her pleasure is short-lived and the look of jealousy creeps back into her dark eyes. “Ah, but the Princesse has been married already three years. I will be fourteen this year and have no husband.”
For a moment I no longer see the door or the ladies who enter. I am lost in thought. At Amboise my companions did not speak of men. But here the topic seems to be on the tip of every tongue, from Mademoiselle de Saussauy, who said it was never too early to think of charming them, to the girl beside me, who worries because she does not have one.
“Her Majesty the Queen.”
The pronouncement brings me back to my surroundings.
I do not immediately see Mother, but I do see a splotch of black against the colorful garb of the ladies-in-waiting. Working my way toward these somberly clad figures, I find Mother with the green bird perched upon her shoulder.
I wait to be recognized, but her eyes pass over me.
“We must not keep His Majesty waiting,” she declares, clapping her hands and putting her feathered companion back in flight.
The room is so full of movement, talking, and laughter that it seems impossible anyone but those of us closest could hear. Yet the effect of Mother’s declaration is immediate. The ladies part, allowing Her Majesty to precede them, then follow in her wake.
Charlotte takes my arm. “Hurry, before the best places are taken.”
The best places are those with the best view of the King and the powerful men assembled about him. My brother Henri is already seated tout proche to Charles. He gestures to Charlotte and me, and we move to join him. A young man beside him rises at our approach. “François d’Espinay de Saint-Luc,” Henri says, inclining his head casually in the youth’s direction. Then, changing the tilt, he says, “My sister.” Saint-Luc bows.
“Do not even think of asking her to dance,” Henri continues, patting the seat beside him and forcing Saint-Luc to move down one by the gesture. “Now she is come, I finally have an adequate partner and I will not suffer to share her.”
I blush.
I may sit beside him, but as the meal progresses I notice that another lady’s eyes are constantly upon Henri. She has dark, curly hair and her dress is cut very low. “Who is that?” I ask Charlotte.
“Renée de Rieux.”
“Is she one of us?”
“She is one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor,” Charlotte sniffs diffidently. “But she is very wild and ambitious. Take care: she will use anything you tell her to her advantage.”
I look back at the girl. Not far from her, the tall woman who spun me round earlier sits with her hand possessively on the sleeve of a man clad entirely in black.
Again I consult my knowledgeable friend. “Who is that gentleman, and whom does he mourn?”
Charlotte laughs. “He does not mourn. Why should he, when his Protestants have peace with the crown? That is the Prince de Condé. He and many of his sect favor dour dress, though why they think such drab colors are pleasing to almighty God, I cannot say.”
I am stunned. This man with striking blue eyes and a well-groomed sandy-colored beard, who exudes an aura of importance, is the bugbear of my nursery? Good heavens. For most of my childhood I have known him as an enemy of the crown, yet here he is at Court dining and laughing as if there were nothing extraordinary in that. And perhaps there isn’t. Perhaps this is peace. It seems I must reorder my thinking.
The Prince leans over and says something that makes the tall lady color.
“However severe his dress, the Prince seems to please that lady,” I say.
“The Baronne de Limeuil? Indeed.” My friend laughs.
The Prince reaches out a finger and runs it along the Baronne’s cheek. A gentleman near to me scowls at the gesture.
“Poor Florimont.” Charlotte rolls her eyes and tilts her head in the direction of the scowler. “He makes a fool of himself. He cannot accept being replaced by Condé. He doubtless reasons he is better looking than the Prince. And so he is. But with his patron the old Duc de Guise dead, the Queen has less need to know his mind than to know what passes through the Prince’s. So the Baronne is in the proper bed, for the moment.”
Perhaps I do not understand. It sounds as if Charlotte implies the Baronne has been both men’s mistress. My face must show my dismay, for Charlotte, lowering her voice and pressing her mouth almost to my ear, says, “Do you think Her Majesty collects the most beautiful women in France solely to amuse herself? Some in her household serve her in ways that are less conventional than helping her to dress and guarding her against ennui.”
Then, as if there were nothing shocking in her statement, Charlotte takes a drink of wine and speaks across me to another of Mother’s ladies.
The balance of the evening passes in a blur. By the time I return to my chamber, I am utterly exhausted, thoroughly overwhelmed, and tremendously excited! There is so much of everything here—so much food, wine, dancing, music, and intrigue.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I do not know which hurts more, my feet, my stomach, or my head. Yet, even as
I rub my arches, I cannot wait for the sun to rise again, heralding a new day of discovery and adventure.
“Tomorrow,” I tell my pillow, extinguishing my light and pulling shut the curtains of my bed, “after attending Mother and Mass, I mean to begin exploring this grand château.”
* * *
I expected my grandfather’s great gallery to be beautiful. I did not expect to have the breath sucked from my body by its majesty. It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, unlike anything I have imagined—a vast, glorious eyeful with late morning sun spilling through its elegant windows. The carved wood of the wainscoting and ceiling is so elaborate, it makes the salle des fêtes, which held me spellbound yesterday, seem nothing at all. Frescoes framed in stucco and full of figures in classical dress cover the upper portion of the walls. A magnificent elephant wears my grandfather’s regal F and a scattering of salamanders. Did King Francis own such a beast? How I wish I could have seen it!
Moving along, mouth open in wonder, I experience a growing awareness that many of the people and even the animals in the paintings are behaving unusually. A woman leans from a white horse, caressing an enormous swan. There is something about the look on her face that makes me uncomfortable in the same way that I was last evening when Mademoiselle de Rieux took a gentleman’s hand and laid it in her lap.
Turning from this disturbing image, I cross the gallery but find little relief for my agitated feelings on the opposite wall. A pair of putti touch each other … in a very naughty place. Further along, I am confronted by a collection of men and animals contorted in face and form. How innocent the putti suddenly seem. I feel I ought not to see such things without knowing exactly what I am seeing. Yet I am fascinated. Glancing about, to reassure myself I am alone, I climb onto a bench beneath the fresco to have a better look. A door at the west end of the gallery opens and I freeze, hoping to remain unnoticed.
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