“I do not doubt it.” He holds out a hand for mine. “You sang to me.”
He remembers! Suddenly how angry my actions made Mother—a thing that has bothered me continuously—seems less important. “I did.”
“And held me in your arms. Then you were gone. How I wanted you back. I asked Mother but she would not yield. She is angry at you. Why?”
I cannot say Mother is angry because I crawled into his bed. So I offer the easiest answer. “Don Carlos said he would not have me for a bride even if his father wished it. I have failed Mother and failed His Majesty.”
Henri squeezes my hand tight. His face, transformed by rage, looks a good deal more like Mother’s than it does under the influence of other expressions. Still, this rage does not frighten or chasten me: it pleases me, for I know it is directed at those who have slighted me.
“Devil take the Prince of Asturias! Devil take all the Spanish!” he exclaims. “They have offended the two most important ladies of the French court.”
I begin to cry, my tears occasioned not only by his recovery but by the fierce affection he shows me. No one loves me more.
Henri’s face grows gentle. He puts his left hand under my chin, tips it up, and wipes my tears. “Why should you care if you are rejected by a man whose head is full of trephination holes? You are my princess, not his, and I would not have you as far away as Spain however important the crown. Not even to please Mother.”
PART TWO
Amour de Seigneur est ombre de buisson …
(The love of a great man is either momentary or dangerous…)
CHAPTER 4
Late Summer, 1567—Montceaux, France
Henri sweeps into the room. “The Duc d’Alba has reached the Spanish Netherlands,” he declares. There is a collective expression of pleasure from the ladies present. I am pleased too, of course—pleased that the Spanish have not set foot in French territories. Beyond that, I hope that Prince Don Carlos is apoplectic. I heard that he wanted command of the King of Spain’s troops—that he had in fact been promised it—but Alba got it in the end, and the appointment as governor as well. It has been more than two years since I saw the Prince of Asturias, but I have not forgotten his disdain.
Henri pokes me where I stand lost in thought. He wants my attention and he shall have it. He is far more worthy of it than the Spanish prince. He is the center of my world.
“Her Majesty is on her knees giving thanks,” he continues. He is trying so hard to affect a solemn look that I know something pleasant is coming. “After which,” he pauses for effect, “she plans to shoot clay balls.” His smile can no longer be suppressed. “You know what that means.”
Of course I do. “Hunting! We are going hunting!” I dance about as I sing the words and end by throwing my arms around Henri’s neck. The other ladies laugh and clap.
Picking me up, my brother spins me. “For a month at least! I mean to demand a boar for my birthday.” Then, raising a hand to stop the objection he knows is on the tip of my tongue, he adds, “And I mean to demand you be permitted to join us in hunting it.”
“Her Majesty will never allow that.”
Henri’s back stiffens at the challenge. “She will. And she will agree to come herself. Would you deny me my heart’s desire for my natal day?”
“I never can deny you anything.”
“Nor can Mother, and you know it. Besides, we go to Montceaux. That château always softens her heart by putting her in mind of Father. Just this morning she was remarking how much like him I have grown.”
I think of the only portrait I have seen of my father as a young man—the one with him seated on a white horse, by Clouet. My brother has our father’s nose and his mouth. But Henri’s dark eyes and rich, dark hair make him altogether more pleasing to look at. “Duc d’Anjou, you are far more handsome.” The appellation is a private joke. When Henri was invested last year, he became obsessed with being called by his new title—though why “Anjou” sounded so much better to him than “Orléans,” I cannot say. I still poke fun at him for his vanity on the subject.
“Oh, to be thought handsome by the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.” Henri tucks my hand over his arm. “How very politic of you to flatter me, Margot. Now, if Her Majesty says there can be no women at my boar hunt, I must choose some other type of game. For I would not hunt without you for anything.”
* * *
“Is that the Duc de Guise?” I ask Charlotte. We are in the grotto at Montceaux, watching Anjou make quick work of several other gentlemen at a game of paille-maille.
“Where?”
Leaning forward, I point to the end of Monsieur de l’Orme’s fanciful setting, where rocks built to look as if they were molded by nature cease, giving way to flat lawn bathed in strong autumn sunlight. A young man pauses at the entrance, half in light, half in shadow. It seems to me he would be the Duc de Guise’s elder brother if His Grace had one, for he is far taller than the Duc was when last I saw him.
“Oh, goodness! I think it is!”
“Hearing he was back from Austria is not quite the same as seeing, is it, ladies?” Henriette gives one of her wicked smiles. “Regard how my sister looks at him! Her husband had best take care before he is cuckolded again.”
I look for the Princesse de Porcien and find her farther up the court, turned entirely in the direction that I just pointed.
“Shocking!” Charlotte whispers. “She is too old for him.”
“I see,” Henriette responds. “But you are not. Perhaps it is the Baron de Sauve who needs warning. Poor man, in danger of being given a pair of horns when he has not been married half a year.”
Charlotte, who long pined for a husband, was given one this spring—Simon de Fizes, former secretary to the King, and currently a secretary of state. He was not what she expected and she shed many tears thinking, with good reason, the gentleman beneath her. For though he is a baron, Fizes bought his land and title not five years ago from the Bishop of Montpellier and by birth he is a peasant’s son.
“No, indeed,” Charlotte says. “Guise is not for me. Not because I fear the Baron, but I know my duty as a lady of the robes and maid of honor.” My friend folds her hands primly and compresses her mouth into a dour expression—for a moment. Then, ceasing to play act, she smiles deviously. “When I cuckold my husband, it is with gentlemen of Her Majesty’s choosing.”
All three of us collapse into fits of laughter.
When I have enough breath to speak, I say, “Henriette, the Duc deserves better than to be painted in your sister’s Book of Hours hanging from a cross.” The Princesse has the odd habit of having former lovers thus portrayed, and every lady at the Court knows it, even as her husband seems pointedly to ignore the rumor.
“Does he?” Henriette looks at me sharply. “Could it be that you have an interest?”
“Why not?” Glancing back down the court, I observe that the Duc has taken a seat among the King’s gentlemen and Charles turns to greet him. Guise is undeniably more handsome than when he left to fight the Turks, and when he smiles in response to some words of the King’s, his face gains a liveliness that makes it more attractive still. As I am staring—and, yes, I must admit I am—the Duc’s glance shifts and his eyes, unexpectedly, meet mine. My stomach trembles. He tilts his head slightly as if questioning me or perhaps taking my measure. Then a burst of applause breaks our gaze. The match is over. Anjou has won. My companions rise and the face and figure of the Duc are lost in a sea of skirts. By the time I reach my own feet and look again in his direction, he is gone.
I feel a certain disappointment, but it is swept away as Henri leaps the low wall dividing the alley from the gallery to be with me. “Ah, the day’s victor!” I give a small curtsy.
“It takes very little effort to beat that lot,” Henri replies. “Thank heavens, Guise has come. There will be decent tennis at last.”
So Henri noticed the Duc. This should not surprise me: my brother has inherited Mother’s sharp eye
s. “Walk with me.” He holds out a hand expectantly. “I have an idea for how we may bring all eyes to us at tomorrow’s ball and make Mother proud.”
I allow him to draw me through the crowd and across the lawn, toward the garden.
“It came to me last night in a dream,” Anjou says, looking over his shoulder to assure himself we are out of hearing of other courtiers. “We must play Artemis and Apollo.”
“But Henri, my costume is finished. You know I am Terpsichore. What shall the other eight muses do if I abandon them?”
“What care I for the other muses? And what should you? This is a sojourn dedicated to sport. We hunt nearly every day. Why, then, we must be the twins—the best pair of archers among the gods. Did you not tell me just the other morning how you thought you loved a hunt even better than a ball?”
“Yes, but—”
“But nothing. Are we not brother and sister as Artemis and Apollo were? And what brother and sister can be called more devoted to their mother’s honor than we—except, perhaps, that ancient pair? The analogy will please the Queen, and to make sure it is brought to her mind, I’ve written a little verse recounting the tale of Niobe.”
“And whose progeny shall we be threatening to slay?”
“Oh, I have kept it very general—nothing impolitic.” He waves one hand, swatting my question aside as if it were a fly. “I merely wish to make clear that ’twould be the height of foolishness for any house to claim themselves the equals of the Valois.”
I throw up my hands, for I am clearly defeated. The image of my brother and me hand in hand, declaring our devotion to Mother, is too pleasing to be resisted. “If you will manage the golden bows, I will see our tunics trimmed to match.”
“Excellent. You must wear your new golden wig, curled in a Grecian style.”
Ordinarily I would object, for wigs make me hot. But an image of the Duc de Guise’s face stops my tongue. Perhaps a little suffering in the name of beauty is called for. Everyone says fair hair highlights my eyes and suits my pale complexion.
“And you must stop telling me how to dress and run to get your costume. Put it in my room and I will determine what is best to be done.”
With a kiss on my cheek, he is off. Rather than returning at once to the château, I wander farther into the lush garden, eager to soak up the autumn sun. Sitting on a bench with the sound of distant conversations washing over me, I lean back and close my eyes.
A throat clears. If it is Henri back to disturb my peace with more instructions, I will strangle him. I open my eyes. The Duc de Guise stands over me. Goodness, he is tall, and even more handsome in close proximity than he was viewed down the length of the alley. His hair is golden without need of a wig. It waves and curls gently. A faint mustache rests on his smiling lips.
“Your Highness”—he bows—“I have just returned to Court and would present myself.”
“To me?”
“You are the only one here, are you not?” His eyes betray an amusement that borders on insolence.
“Ah, that explains things, then,” I quip. If he can be impertinent, so can I. “When others are absent, a princess of France must do.”
“Not at all. Were the full Court present, I should still seek Your Highness’s attention.” He nods at the bench next to me as if asking permission to sit, than takes the place without waiting for my reply. Very aware of his proximity, I stand.
“And, Your Grace, were the entire Court present such a meeting might be proper, but alone in a secluded corner of a garden … Are these the manners of the Austrian court?” The Duc’s expression shows no trace of embarrassment. Rather, he smiles at my challenge. His smile thrills me. I am flirting, but console myself with the thought that the Baronne de Retz would be proud of me for recognizing the impropriety of my situation. Never mind the amount of effort it takes to think of reputational niceties with the Duc’s eyes upon me. I had best go before I lose my resolve to do so.
I take a step and the Duc is on his feet. Another bow. Utterly perfect. “May I present myself at a more appropriate time?”
“You may.” Oh how I hope the Duc picks a moment when Charlotte and Henriette are with me. His attention, pleasing in itself, would be rendered more agreeable still by the notice of others.
“Until a more auspicious moment, then.” He offers me another smile. “I shall leave you in peace.” He walks away without looking back, which is just as well, for if he did, he would perceive that my eyes follow his figure. Peace, he calls it! Not with my heart pounding so. I run all the way back to my room.
When I burst through the door, my gouvernante is waiting. Beside her is a girl I do not recognize. At the sight of me, panting and flushed, both rise. The Baronne gives a sigh.
“Mademoiselle Marguerite, do you not get exercise enough hunting?” she asks. “Must you run about like a child when left to your own devices? Such is the behavior of the Prince of Navarre, not a princess of France.”
The comparison stings. I’ve seldom thought of my cousin since his mother outwitted mine and took him from Court shortly after the New Year. Jeanne d’Albret told Mother she would show the Prince his patrimony. She had Mother’s blessing for that, but then she rode onward to Poitou and Gascony beyond, without Mother’s leave—or Charles’. Everyone says it is unlikely we will see the Prince of Navarre in France again, unless the peace breaks and he is at the head of an army. This talk vexes Mother. But while I recognize my cousin’s absence is some sort of political loss, I find it entirely positive. I do not miss him and cannot imagine anyone else does. I certainly do not want my behavior compared to his.
“Anjou wishes me to make changes to our costumes and, given the short time before the ball, I was eager to start,” I mumble apologetically.
“Hm.” The Baronne gives me one last stern look, then says, “Here is someone who can assist you.” She gestures to the girl. “Your mother has decided you are old enough to have your own attendant.”
This is startling and pleasing news—a recognition of my maturity, even if the thus-far-silent gray-eyed girl looks very young.
“May I present Gillone de Goyon de Matignon, daughter of Count de Matignon and Thorigny.” The girl curtsys neatly. “A cot has been placed in your wardrobe for the Mademoiselle.” My gouvernante looks about as if determining whether there is other business to attend to. Apparently concluding there is not, she says, “I will leave the two of you to become acquainted.”
I stand looking stupidly at this Gillone. She lowers her eyes under my gaze as I might under Mother’s, stirring empathy in my breast. I’ve been made to feel uncomfortable sufficiently often that I do not wish to make this girl so. Looking about, I spot Henri’s costume in a heap on my bed.
“Gillone,” I say, “please go to my wardrobe and fetch my pale blue robe in the Grecian style.” She curtsys again and departs without a word. While she is gone, I find my sewing and embroidery things and begin to pull the trim from Henri’s costume. Head bent over my work, I start when a skirt comes into my field of vision. Gillone returned so quietly that I did not hear her. When I raise my eyes, she curtsys.
“Goodness, you move as silently as a shadow! It is not necessary to curtsy every time you come into my presence. You will exhaust yourself.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” She nearly curtsys, but catches herself.
Gazing at her standing with my robe over her arm, wondering what to do next, I realize that I am nearly as uncertain. I think of those among my mother’s household who have been with her the longest. These ladies are not merely the women who dress the Queen or sit to embroider with her: they hear her worries and hold her confidences; they are friends. That is what I want.
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Twelve last January.”
So she is older than she looks. Closer to my age, fourteen, than any member of Mother’s household. Closer than either of my dearest friends, for Charlotte is seventeen and Henriette will soon be five-and-twenty.
“I
was younger than you when I joined Her Majesty’s household. The Court can be overwhelming. When I came, the Baronne de Sauve helped me to find my feet. I will help you, and we will be great friends.” I smile broadly and am rewarded by just the slightest upturn at the corners of her mouth. “Now help me with these costumes. The Duc d’Anjou demands they be made over, and I do not like to disappoint my brother.”
* * *
Henri is not disappointed. “Wonderful!” he says, putting his arm about my waist and examining our images in my glass.
“We do not really look like twins, for you are much taller,” I say.
“I am sure Apollo was taller than Artemis. Men are always taller. And we are alike in a more important way. We each set the standard for our sex. We have no equal—not on the dance floor, nor in conversation, nor in looks—save the other.” He puffs up his chest importantly. I feel a great urge to laugh, but know better. Henri’s pride is a serious thing.
“I am pleased that you think me the loveliest woman at Court. Or perhaps you only flatter me to make certain I will continue to make over your costumes at short notice. After all, I see you looking at Mademoiselle de Rieux a great deal these days.”
My brother blushes. “That is a different matter,” he mutters. “Her face cannot compare to yours.”
I might say it is not her face he looks at. But the observation would make me more uncomfortable than it would make him. Renée has been flirting with Henri for as long as I can remember, sometimes less, sometimes more. Presently more. Much more. I have never liked her and I like her less still when she sits upon my brother’s lap or I catch him staring at her bosom.
Henri turns to look at himself from a different angle and the golden bow hung over his shoulder nearly catches me in the eye.
“Careful! If you blind me I will be in no state to perform.” We head to the evening’s festivities, Gillone trailing a few steps behind.
Henri looks over his shoulder twice as we descend the stairs.
“Does my little shadow unnerve you?” I ask.
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