“Your Majesty, what is it?” the chancellor asks.
“Some of His Majesty’s subjects insulted the host at the Corpus Christi procession.”
I feel unsteady on my feet and not from the sway of the boat. Mother does not say the word Protestant, but what other sort of subjects could behave in such an abominable manner?
“They refused to remove their hats as it passed. Some heckled and others shoved those accompanying the Blessed Sacrament.”
The Abbé de Brantôme, standing behind Her Majesty, mutters, “Heaven protect us from heretics.”
Amen.
Mother looks past the messenger and my gaze follows hers to where the Queen of Navarre stands.
She offers her hand to the young priest so he may kiss it, then takes Charles’ arm. “Let us not keep your cousin waiting. Where is the Prince of Navarre?” Spotting him, she says, “Come walk between my own son and daughter.” Perceiving a number of incredulous looks, she adds, “Those who did not respect the Eucharist wish to divide France once more, and the King will no more permit such a division than he will allow their abominable behavior to pass uncorrected.”
On shore the greetings between the Queen of Navarre, Charles, and Mother are gracious and formal. I swear I can feel every one of my cousin’s muscles straining where he stands beside me waiting for the pleasantries to be finished. More than once, I catch Jeanne d’Albret’s eyes wandering in his direction while others are speaking. The niceties at an end, Jeanne moves to stand before her son. He bows.
“My son, it has been too long. I have been glad of your letters.”
My cousin looks into her face with eyes that are nakedly eager. I have the feeling that were they in private he would throw his arms about his mother. I wish away the hundreds of souls who must perceive as I do, and not because I am embarrassed by his lack of fashionable detachment—well, not entirely. His pleasure at seeing his mother moves me and I wish he could indulge in his impulse.
“I hope, Madame, you did not mind my spelling errors too much.”
The Queen of Navarre smiles slightly. “We will talk of that later.” Turning to Mother, she says, “Thank you for your attention to the Prince’s studies and for your care of his person.”
“Ce n’était rien. You are family and therefore he is as precious to us as he is to you,” Mother replies without a hint of irony. “We endure this parting only because it is brief, and because we will see the both of you during the ceremonies that mark His Majesty’s time in Mâcon.” Mother watches as Jeanne puts her hand on my cousin’s shoulder; then, just as the Queen of Navarre is about to lead her son away, Mother says, “Apropos such ceremonies, you will join us on Thursday next, I am sure, for an additional event. His Majesty is ordering the Corpus Christi procession repeated. We understand that the original was marred by some unbecoming conduct that I must ask you, by your sway among certain communities, to help ensure is not repeated.”
It is clear that the Queen of Navarre knows what Mother refers to. Her lips compress. The gentlemen accompanying her murmur among themselves.
“Your Majesty knows that our faith will not permit us to walk in such procession,” Jeanne d’Albret replies.
“Ah, but as His Majesty insists respect be shown to your sect, surely you and its other adherents can vouchsafe your Catholic brethren the same by attending.”
“We will attend.”
Mother lays her hand on my cousin Henri’s other shoulder, closing her fingers. The boy is now between the two queens. There is an obvious tension and for one wild moment I nearly expect each to begin tugging upon him.
“Why, then you must sit beside me,” Mother says. “And as he is but a boy and so accustomed to being with his cousins, you must give the Prince of Navarre leave to dress as an angel with my own children.”
The two queens gaze into each other’s eyes. Neither smiles, though the image of my cousin costumed as an angel ought to seem humorous to anyone who knows him.
“I suppose there is no harm in that,” the Queen of Navarre replies at last. “It might do His Majesty’s Catholic subjects good to be reminded that there are Protestants in heaven.”
Heretics in heaven? Never!
“I hope such angels show better respect to their Catholic fellows than those of your sect in Mâcon.” Mother releases my cousin’s shoulder and the Queen of Navarre leads him away.
* * *
My cousin bore being an angel very well. He only stepped on his robe twice and on mine once. I tolerated being trod upon with equanimity because I knew that today we would return to our boat, while he would ride south with his mother. Twice in the course of the procession—which this time met with nothing from the Protestant inhabitants of the city but bowed and uncovered heads—he reminded me in a whisper that he would be back in the Pyrenees before long. It was not to be, however. Instead I stand watching Jeanne d’Albret take leave of her son.
There is pain in the Queen of Navarre’s eyes. But nothing compared to the agony that transfigures my cousin’s entire face.
“Why?” I whisper to the Duchesse de Nevers. “Why does he not go? Why would his mother take gold instead?”
Henri told me this morning that the Prince of Navarre would remain because His Majesty paid for the continued privilege of our cousin’s company.
“She took the gold because she is no fool,” Her Grace replies. “She would not have the boy in any event. Her Majesty made up her mind that his presence with the Court is necessary to the peace.”
“How? He does nothing but race, ride, and wrestle like the rest of the gentlemen his age.”
“Think, Your Highness. Think of the history of your own father. Did he not spend some years as a guest of the King of Spain?”
My cousin throws his arms about his mother, heedless of the snickers of some courtiers. My stomach tightens. My father was held hostage by the Spanish king—as a living guarantee that the French would give him no trouble. I do not believe I will ever like my cousin, but I cannot help feeling sorry for him.
“I should not like to be kept away from my family by politics,” I whisper to the Duchesse. She looks at me oddly.
My cousin’s tutor puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him toward the boat. The Prince of Navarre is not, I am relieved to see, crying. Charles and Mother move onto the deck with light steps, but my cousin, just behind them, trudges. Then he is lost to my view as the rest of the gentlemen and ladies in our party stream aboard.
* * *
The year is changing. Not from one to the next—that would be quite ordinary—but the very essence of what a year is. We are at Roussillon, and Charles has signed an ordinance proclaiming that henceforth each year will begin on the first of January instead of on Holy Saturday after vespers. This is monumental.
Something else monumental has occurred. This morning when I arose from my bed my linen and my shift were soiled. And though I was horribly embarrassed, and blushed throughout the Baronne de Retz’s earnest instructions on the finer points of managing what will henceforth be a monthly event, my delight outweighs my distress. I am, at last, a woman. The words fill my head, but I cannot imagine saying them to anyone—not even Charlotte or the Duchesse de Nevers. The latter has become as close a companion as the former during these travels, and now permits me to call her Henriette. Will my friends know by looking at me? Will Mother? Surely Her Majesty will be told, for this development makes me marriageable. Will she say something to me? Will a prospective groom be mentioned at once?
I examine myself in my glass. Other than my cheeks being a little pink with excitement, I can detect no overt change. Disappointing. Well, at the very least I can make an alteration myself. Sitting at my dressing table, I unfasten my partlet at the front and open it, pushing the fabric back beneath the edges of my kirtle as necessary to achieve the desired effect. That is better.
I often feel as if my life, the real living of it, began when I joined Mother’s household. I remarked as much to Henri the other day
and he laughed. “By that calculation you are an infant too young even to walk,” he said. Perhaps he has been out of the nursery too long to remember its limits. I remember them well—remember when the most exciting thing was the arrival of Mother, or catching a glimpse of some other person of import. Now I see important people every day, and Mother too. Yet, despite being the Duchesse de Valois and sister of the King, I am not an important person myself.
That is what I crave next.
CHAPTER 3
May 1565—Bordeaux, France
Mother’s room is littered with things and with women packing them for tomorrow’s departure. I assume I have been summoned to assist, but at the sight of me she claps her hands. “Ladies,” she says, “the Duchesse de Valois and I have business.”
As the others depart, I contemplate her statement. Business? To my certain knowledge, my mother and I have never had “business.” As she passes me, my sister Claude, who recently arrived to join the royal train, offers me an excited smile.
When we are alone, there is no preamble. “You know we meet the Spanish next month.”
“Indeed, Madame, planning for the event is all anyone speaks of.” I might add: or has spoken of for at least three months. Unfortunately, the anticipated event is not as Mother envisioned it. Mother had been promised the attendance of King Philip, or so she thought. When she was told that the King refused to come—a show of his disapproval for the continuing peace with the Protestants—she went into a rage.
“May Henri and I dance in one of the entertainments?” I ask. “Our Spanish Pavane was much admired in Toulouse.”
“Yes, there will be balls, ballets, and every sort of grand entertainment,” Mother replies. “But, daughter, these are merely the trimmings, not the gown. When you are a queen, pray remember that agreements are more easily made in pleasant surroundings than in austere ones. And it is those agreements that truly matter.”
“Queen?”
“Have you forgotten I promised you a crown?” She lifts her right hand and strokes a bit of hair at my temple.
I remember. Of course I do.
“This meeting with Spain is to be more than a reunion of family,” Mother continues. “Much as I long to embrace your sister, I have other, more diplomatic needs. Or rather, France does. And the Spanish desire something more than to invest Charles with the Order of the Golden Fleece.
“I have summoned you because you are a marriageable young woman. I understand that your courses have come regularly for more than half a year.”
I drop my eyes to the hem of Mother’s gown and blush. Much as I wanted her recognition of this change when it happened—recognition that never came—her frank, offhanded mention of it now mortifies me.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent. His Majesty the King desires closer ties with Spain. Beside ties of blood, ties of marriage are the surest. We will forward a match for you with King Philip’s son, the Prince of Asturias. Then you can wear the Spanish crown when your sister is Dowager.”
Queen of Spain! If my cheeks are pink now, it is with pleasure, not shame. I can hardly wait to tell Charlotte. No wonder Claude smiled at me.
“I, a bride!”
“Ah,” Mother says quickly, “but you must not speak of it openly. Not until it is signed and sealed.” Walking to the alcove of the nearest window, she brushes a pile of folded chemises from the seat as if they were inconsequential. Seating herself, she motions to the place beside her.
When I am settled, she leans in as if we are conspirators.
“I will do all I can to secure this match,” she says, stroking my hand where it rests upon the bench between us. “And I will employ your sister Elisabeth in the business. Her letters and my spies indicate she is highly regarded by her husband and allowed considerable influence. But you must do your part as well.”
I nod, eager to do what I can to please Mother.
“I have sent orders ahead to Bayonne for more than a dozen new gowns for your wardrobe. Every moment you are in company with the Spanish, you must be fashionable, you must be graceful, you must be modest. You have become a young lady of note based upon more than your birthright these last months…”
A compliment from Mother! I feel a rush of pleasure. I have been working hard to mold myself into a true lady of the Court, half Baronne de Retz and half—much to the Baronne’s hinted displeasure—Duchesse de Nevers. How wonderful to think Mother has noticed the results.
“… Display your natural wit, but never to the disadvantage of the Prince or any member of your sister’s retinue. Display your piety at every opportunity, for the Spanish are as fanatical in their devotion to the Church of Rome as Admiral Coligny and his fellows are to their so-called reformed religion.”
“Madame, I will obey you in everything.”
A sharp knock sounds.
Mother takes both my hands and kisses them. “Do your duty to me and to the King and you will be a Spanish princess before the year is out. Now go—that will be your brother Henri.”
“Henri?” I ask, rising. But Mother’s mind has already left me.
My brother bows to me on his way in, but there is no opportunity to tell him my news. I burn to tell him. So, though I have packing of my own to attend to, I wait outside for his business to be finished. Queen of Spain! I turn the title over in my mind. A queen like my mother. And like my sister. True, the crown of Spain must wait for my sister’s husband to die, but to be in line for such a crown is a mighty thing, and I will be Princess of Asturias in the meantime. If I must go to a strange land, it will be good to be part of my sister’s court. I hardly remember her, but family is family.
My thoughts turn to my prospective groom. I long to ask someone what the Prince of Asturias looks like. I wonder if he likes dancing. If he is as spritely of step as Henri? Oh, why did my brother interrupt my time with Mother before I could ask such questions?
Henri emerges, the door falling closed behind him with a tremendous bang. He strides past as if I were invisible. Following, I grab his arm. “I am going to be a Spanish princess,” I say. Only as he turns do I notice his black looks.
“Devil take the Spanish!” He gives a fierce shake to free himself of me.
“Henri, what is the matter?”
“Yours is not the only marriage being discussed. Our brother expects me to marry a woman old enough to be my mother.” He gives a kick to a small bench along the wall and it skitters away like an animal.
“Who?”
“The King of Spain’s widowed sister.” He spits the words out. “She is thirty. Thirty! I told Mother no. Said that the very suggestion shows my happiness means nothing to her.”
“You didn’t.” I am stricken that he would defy Mother when she loves him so dearly and when she has every right to expect his cooperation in the crown’s arrangement of his marriage.
“You do not believe me?” It is he who grabs my arm this time, dragging me back toward the door. “Go in and see for yourself. I left her crying.”
I have absolutely no desire to see Mother in such a state. Wrenching away, I run as hard as I can, not stopping until I gain my room. Charlotte is there. At the sight of her I forget Henri’s bad behavior.
“It is Her Majesty’s desire that I should marry the Prince of Asturias.”
“A royal marriage!” Charlotte shouts. The servants folding and packing my things look up.
“Hush, I am not supposed to speak of it widely.”
“Why not? If it is the Queen’s will, then surely it will happen—”
I must admit I feel the same. My mother’s will is strong, and, in all modesty I believe my personal appearance and attributes make me an attractive prospect as a bride.
“—and then I will be the only one of us without a husband.” Charlotte’s face falls. Henriette married Louis de Gonzague, Prince of Mantua, in March. She is not overly fond of the gentleman. But he is one of Charles’ secretaries of state and he is no graybeard, so, all in all, she declar
es him an unobjectionable husband.
“Not for long, I am sure. No woman as beautiful as you finds herself single at sixteen unless she wills it so,” I reply, hoping this consoles her.
It does. She smiles. “I would still rather have been married before my thirteenth birthday, as it appears you shall be. Promise that I can help carry your mantle at the Mass. Or do you think the ceremony will be in Spain? That would be too cruel. Next to a wedding of my own, I will enjoy yours more than anything.” She hugs me hard.
While she is squeezing the breath out of me, my sister Claude and the Baronne de Retz come in. Both are beaming.
“Here comes another bride to be,” Charlotte exclaims, releasing me. My gouvernante is betrothed to Albert de Gondi, Charles’ former tutor and a man much in favor with both the King and Mother. He has just been made Premier Gentilhomme de la chamber du Roi, but Henriette insists such titles can never erase the fact he was born a Florentine merchant’s son.
“Felicitations!” Claude cries, hugging me. “It seems, of three sisters, two were destined for Spanish climes, and I can hardly regret being left behind when I have my dear Duc de Lorraine.”
“And your pretty baby,” I say, kissing her. The image of my chubby, pink nephew, whose baptism we attended near the start of our journey, fills my mind. How I would like a pretty baby of my own. “Tell me everything about the Prince! Her Majesty told me nothing … not even his name.”
* * *
His name is Don Carlos. He is nearly twenty. They tell me he is tall. They say his father holds him in great esteem and that when he had an accident three years ago and all thought he would die, Philip asked for a miracle and promised to work one for God in return if the boy were spared.
My new gowns have been fitted. Today I wear the first. It is black, because, Mother assures me, that is the Spanish taste. It seems the wrong color for the weather. It is horribly hot. For this reason the Queen of Spain’s entry into Bayonne takes place in the evening. But even though the sun has set, I can feel perspiration beneath my chemise. I sway slightly where I stand with Their Majesties, surrounded by a glittering array of courtiers and a hundred torch bearers. Is my unsteadiness a result of the heat or my nerves? Although we met my sister Elisabeth yesterday—receiving her quietly at Saint Jean de Luz and enjoying a private dinner as if we were any family and not a family in possession of multiple crowns—I have good reason to be apprehensive. Today I will meet my future husband for the first time.
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