Médicis Daughter

by Sophie Perinot

  My dear Henri is charged with escorting our sister into Bayonne. He rides beside her, springing from his horse to help her down from her stunning jeweled saddle. When they are side by side, it is easy to see they are brother and sister. Elisabeth’s skin is pale, her cheeks are a delicate pink, and her eyes are dark. She is lovely. Everyone says so and I thrill at the thought that I have been told that I am better looking than she. I wonder if the Spanish prince will see this at once? I know my vanity is a sin, but can it really be wrong to wish my future husband to find me beautiful?

  Henri leads Elisabeth forward, followed by a pair of gentlemen. The first is old. The second must be Don Carlos. He is tall, just as I was told. I wish I could say he was handsome, which I was also promised, but there is something out of harmony in his face. His chin juts forward oddly. Yes, that must be it. It is not so bad, really. His nose is good and he has shapely calves; I can see them quite clearly as he makes his bow. I try to catch his eye, but he shows no interest in me, and little interest in Mother or my brothers. Mostly, his eyes are on Elisabeth.

  Mother offers Don Carlos a smile but seems more interested in the second gentleman, the one announced as the Duc d’Alba. She holds out a hand for him to kiss. “Your Grace, we are pleased to see you. We know in what high esteem our son, His Majesty King Philip, holds you.” Her voice is pleasant, but every French courtier knows she is not pleased at all that Alba stands before her instead of Philip, and unless the Duc is an idiot he knows it as well.

  “Your Majesty,” he replies in clipped tones, “it was my honor to be entrusted with the Queen of Spain’s safety, and it is my pleasure to reunite you with a beloved daughter.” He calls forward the new Spanish ambassador for introduction and I transfer my attention back to Don Carlos. His clothing, I cannot help but notice, while certainly not mean, is nowhere near as fine as that of my brothers. There is an air of shabbiness about it that puts me in mind of my cousin the Prince of Navarre—my cousin who, like the rest of his coreligionists, is absent at the King of Spain’s insistence. Periodically, Don Carlos’ head seems to jerk ever so slightly. I wonder if he is tired and having difficulty staying awake.

  Mother has a lavish Collation planned, the first of many entertainments costing hundreds of thousands of écus, all intended to impress upon the Spanish that France is as great a power as Spain. Because it is a fast day, all the courses that are not sweet will be fish—each rarer than the last. I am seated beside the Prince of Asturias.

  “How was Your Highness’s journey?” I start with the simplest of questions as the first dish—lamprey with white ginger and cinnamon—is brought. I am utterly ignored. The Prince simply attacks the food before him. It is as if he has not eaten in a fortnight! I am transfixed and horrified. All the more so in the next course when he slurps the broth accompanying his eels so loudly that persons seated at the tables below look up.

  In a desperate attempt to make him stop, and to please Mother, who keeps casting me pointed looks, I try again. “Your Highness enjoys eel, I see.”

  This time he raises his head and I expect an answer. Instead I get a belch. Then, without looking at me, he says, “Obviously.” A moment later he rises and disappears. He returns as the next course is brought. There is a fleck of something that looks like vomit in the fur at the front of his short cape.

  Servants set down salmon from the Bidasoa river cooked with orange slices.

  “I suppose Your Highness has seen oranges on the tree in Spain, but I had not before we visited Provence where these were picked.”

  He looks at me from the corner of his eye, then takes a bite of fruit and fish together. He starts, clearly surprised. “They are sweet like those the Portuguese traders bring.” He takes another bite. “You say these were grown in France?” He appears incredulous, an expression that makes his large lower lip jut out even further.

  “Yes, I saw them in fields on the Mediterranean.” Glad that I have finally managed to start a conversation, I am willing to overlook his sour expression. “Her Majesty was so delighted that she bought property near Hyères so that she may have her own park full of orange trees.”

  “Such money would better be spent crushing heretics.”

  “We do not need to crush anyone. France has peace.”

  “Ha!” His laugh is loud and sharp. “Do not let the Duke of Alba hear you say that. His motto is Deo patrum Nostrorum and he is here to press the Tridentine decrees upon the King of France and La Serpente.”

  “Who?”

  He curls his upper lip back but says nothing.

  He must mean my mother. A white-hot anger burns inside me, an anger hardly compatible with making myself agreeable. I am well content to let the rest of the meal pass without speaking to the Prince. I keep my gaze elsewhere as well, not so much to punish him as to avoid observing his manner of eating. As the remnants of an exquisite sugar porpoise are carried away, Mother catches my eye. She narrows her lips sternly. I know what she is saying, though she does not speak. I wish I were as skilled at conveying my thoughts by looks. I would ask her what I am to do when the Prince is boorish and unwilling to make polite conversation.

  It is time for dancing. The King will open it with our honored sister. As Charles leads Elisabeth to the floor, the Prince of Asturias mumbles something under his breath. I seize upon the chance to begin again. “What was that, Your Highness?”

  He stares at the dancing couple and I fear my latest effort will pass unheeded. Then he turns his eyes fully upon me and I am almost sorry. They hold enormous anger though, excepting his own behavior, nothing untoward has happened this evening. “She was supposed to marry me.”

  “Who, Your Highness?” I ask, keeping my tone light and behaving as if there were nothing indelicate about his mention of former possible brides.

  “Your sister. I wanted her. So, of course, he took her. That is my father’s way. All the best things must be his, even what has already been promised to me.” His voice rises. I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Surely he must know the impropriety of such statements. Imagine if the Duc d’Alba or my mother were to overhear such talk. I hold my breath, willing him back into the silence I was so eager to breach. But he continues. “She is just my age. Perfect for me. Yet she sat at his minion Alba’s elbow this evening, while I am left talking to a little girl. And his decrepit flesh touches her in the middle of the night while I lie awake alone.”

  His hands twitch slightly in his lap as he falls silent.

  “I am not a little girl,” I snap. “I am only a year younger than Elisabeth was when she married.” Don Carlos’ eyes widen. “And as for His Majesty the King of Spain, unless I have been misinformed, he is a man in his prime.”

  Don Carlos grunts, then shifts in his seat so his back is toward me. He clearly has no intention of asking me to dance, so when Henri comes to claim me, I feel no guilt in leaving.

  “Henri,” I say, counting on our proximity and the cover of the music to allow me to speak frankly, “I think there is something wrong with the Prince of Asturias.”

  “You mean other than his table manners?” My brother laughs. “How he ate. Good Lord! I felt sorry for you, truly I did. Food was flying everywhere. It seemed a thing certain that your lovely gown would be spoiled.”

  He laughs again. I fear I will find no consolation with him in his present mood. Where can I seek it, then? I would not breathe a word of my concern to Mother. I may fear there is something odd about the Prince, but I fear Mother’s displeasure more and she has made her desire very clear. She wants Don Carlos for a son. Besides, I tell myself, as I twirl in my somber black gown, Mother would not solicit his hand for me if there was truly something wrong with him.

  * * *

  “I cannot understand it!” Mother is frantic and she frightens me. We are alone in her apartment. It is Saint John’s Eve. It has been more than a week since the Spanish arrived, and things are not proceeding in the manner Mother envisioned. It seems Alba came with a list of complaints as to how Mo
ther and Charles rule France, and a list of demands—chief among them the repeal of the Edict of Amboise and all-out war to eliminate heretics. King Philip does not appear to care how that is done, by conversion or by death.

  “Cosimo Ruggieri saw a crown in your stars,” Mother says, pacing. I know that she has a great faith in her elderly astrologer. “But the Duc cannot be persuaded to discuss the match. He would rather complain about His Majesty’s dining with the Turkish ambassador! And your sister—your sister says she sounded Don Carlos on the subject of your wit and beauty and he declared that he has hardly noticed you.”

  “Hardly noticed me,” I stammer, “but I say something to him whenever we are in company. He even danced with me at the masquerade.” My memories of that event are not pleasant. Don Carlos is no better dancer than he is company. He clutched my arm so tightly in the lifts that he left a bruise. The only time he smiled was when I cried out as he trod on my foot. I entertain a growing certainty that there is something very wrong with the Prince. At the feux d’allegresse on the evening of Charles’ investiture into the Order of the Golden Fleece, I thought I saw him trying to urge one of the King’s young spaniels into the fire. At this point, no one can be oblivious to his erratic behavior. Elisabeth clearly is not—I have seen her intervene to soothe him. Yet Mother mentions none of this, and her desire that I should marry him is unchanged.

  “You will have to do better,” she admonishes. “The Prince is the key. If he desires you, Alba will be forced to discuss the subject.”

  “Desires me? He told me I am ‘a little girl.’”

  “Show him differently. Flirt with him. Your beauty is the envy of my ladies. Use it. Today’s entertainment will offer you opportunity to be apart with the Prince. I will keep the Duc d’Alba occupied on the barge.” She stops walking and looks at me intently. “And I will instruct the Baronne de Retz not to chaperone you too closely. Perhaps when the Whale makes his appearance, you might grab Don Carlos’ arm in your fright.”

  I shiver slightly. Am I to behave as Mademoiselle de Rieux and the others after all? And if so, I hope that Mother will at least tell the Baronne in advance so I am not chastised afterwards.

  “Go and get dressed.”

  Charlotte and Henriette are waiting to ready me for the festivities. I need their advice, but I am less than delighted by Charlotte’s first response to my entreaty.

  “I do not envy you the task of bewitching Don Carlos,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  The image of the Prince hunched over his food, with some of it running down his chin, overwhelms me.

  “It is hopeless,” I groan.

  “Not so,” Henriette admonishes. “He is a man, and men are, for the most part, subject to seduction.”

  I am fastened into the most elaborate of my new gowns. No black for this occasion. It is silver and scarlet, detailed with countless pearls.

  I have, I flatter myself, become rather good at the art of flirting over the past two years. Yet none of my tricks have worked to pique the interest of Don Carlos. Something more will be needed. “What must I do?” I ask as Henriette applies color to my cheek.

  “Touch him,” she replies without hesitation. “Take his arm. Let your hand brush his if he puts it on the table.”

  “Better still, let your knee brush his beneath the table,” Charlotte adds.

  I cannot imagine doing such a thing—at least, not with the Prince.

  “And flatter him,” Henriette continues. “I know what you are thinking: ‘What is there to flatter?’”

  “He is truly horrible,” I say.

  “Ma pauvre chérie, so he is.” Henriette shakes her head. “How fortunate for you, then, that you must only arouse his desire, not satisfy it. Indeed”—she drapes a necklace of enormous pearls about my neck and fastens it—“remember that where marriage is sought, to surrender too much is to lose the game. Do not allow him to do more than kiss you.”

  Charlotte, who is arranging my hair, makes a face which I can see reflected in the glass.

  “You sound like Baronne de Retz.” I try to laugh, but the seriousness of my situation and the weight of the loathing I have begun to feel for the Prince defeat the attempt. “I would rather never be married than kiss Don Carlos.”

  “No, you would not.” Henriette’s voice is firm and practical. “But from the sound of things, there will be no match.”

  “Her Majesty will be furious, but if it is so, then why must I embarrass myself over the Prince?”

  “Because you are likely right: Her Majesty will be furious, and you do not want her fury directed at you.”

  * * *

  I find Don Carlos as the barge slips its moorings and sets sail for the Isle of Aiguemeau. He is seated near one end. Not surprisingly, he is alone. I force myself to sit on the same bench. He does not acknowledge me.

  “Your Highness, I believe we can expect to be serenaded by sea gods on our journey.”

  “More French poetry and preening. Do you never tire of showing off?”

  “That is unfair, Sir; all that is done is done to honor and entertain Her Majesty the Queen of Spain, yourself, and your countrymen.” Then, realizing that being peevish will hardly achieve the desired ends, I struggle to subdue my indignation and fold my hands, which were fluttering like angry moths, in my lap. “If you do not like poetry, what do you like?”

  “To be left alone.” The response is openly hostile. “You seem to appear wherever I am.”

  And yet, you told Elisabeth you hardly notice me. Dear God what a mortifying task this is. “I am trying, Sir, to be a good and attentive hostess.”

  For the first time since we began speaking, he turns fully to face me. His expression suggests he is about to say something caustic, and then, in an instant, his eyes change. “You look like your sister in this light.”

  Fine. If I must trade upon that, I will. “In the Court of France, I am often said to be very like her.” Do I imagine it, or does he move ever so slightly closer? He is about to speak, when a small boat draws alongside and a musician begins to sing. Don Carlos winces. Without a word he jumps up and strides off, passing my cousin the Prince of Navarre as he goes. Before I can rise, that Prince settles into Don Carlos’ place.

  “I had a dog like that once,” he says matter-of-factly, inclining his head in the direction that the Spanish prince went.

  “What?”

  “He got hurt in a hunt. He was struck by a glancing blow, but he did not die. At first I was so glad—he was one of my favorites—but later I was sorry.”

  “Sorry he did not die?” Comparing the Prince of Asturias to a dog is the sort of wholly inappropriate thing my cousin would do, but he is the first one to come close to discussing Don Carlos’ oddity, so I remain where I sit without chastising him.

  “Yes. I could never trust him after that. He did bad things. Worried the other dogs. Snapped without warning. His eyes were never the same after the accident, and I should have known from that that he was not the same dog. They had to put him down. I cried, but afterwards I was relieved.” He pauses for a minute, thinking. “That is a major difference between people and dogs. I do not know what precisely you do when you look in a man’s eyes and see he has changed … see he is not right.”

  Finally, someone has said it out loud, or nearly—Don Carlos is not right. The fact that it should be my cousin leaves me with mixed feelings. Mostly I am relieved, but my duty to my mother rises up behind that relief, so I say, “The Prince of Asturias is an important personage and will be King of Spain one day.”

  My cousin shrugs. “Will that make him well? I do not think so.” He stands up. “I am going to the front so I do not miss the Whale. Have you heard? He will spout wine.”

  I have heard. I am eager to see. More than that, I ought to pursue Don Carlos so that I can clutch his arm at the right moment. Yet, when my cousin offers his hand, I decline. He shrugs again. “Your mother has made a bad choice. I think your father made a better one.” And then he winks
—he winks—before walking away. The nerve! If there is anyone I would less like to have as my groom than Don Carlos of Spain, it is the Prince of Navarre.

  I creep along the other side of the barge and arrive near the prow in time to see the Whale. Though Don Carlos is plainly visible, I take a place next to my brother Henri, leaning upon the rail. While the beast is being attacked by courtiers playing the part of fishermen, Henri covers one of my hands with his. “That gown is marvelous,” he whispers. “Not even a bevy of golden shepherdesses will be able to eclipse you.”

  The shepherdesses Henri alluded to greet us as we land, dancing gaily, each according to the portion of France she represents. On my brother’s arm I sweep into a meadow such as I have never seen—a perfect oval framed by massive trees and punctuated with niches containing tables sufficiently large to seat a dozen courtiers each. Everything is decorated lavishly, particularly the dais where Charles, Elisabeth, and Mother will sit. If the feast is as splendid as the decorations, we will rise from the tables groaning. Or everyone but me will.

  I am, of course, seated alongside Don Carlos, a situation which destroys my appetite. Even after so many meals, I have not become oblivious to the way he displays the contents of his mouth when chewing. I cannot look in his direction. And though I think of Charlotte’s admonition about letting my knee touch his, I cannot do so, particularly because my brother Henri sits just to my other side. I should be ashamed for him to see me do such a thing.

  By the time the last course is cleared, dusk is lengthening into darkness. Musicians enter, led by dozens of men costumed as satyrs. A hundred torches blaze at the large grotto meant to provide a stage. The light glints off the jewels studding the satyrs’ horns and off their bare chests, which have been oiled. Looking at Don Carlos sitting perfectly still, the light reflecting from his eyes, I can clearly see that whatever he said about showing off earlier, he is impressed.