“I am just wondering if she ever speaks. My gentlemen are far livelier.”
“If by ‘lively’ you mean drunken, I concede as much.” Henri’s boon companions are some of the wildest young men. I wonder if the Duc de Guise will join them now that he is back.
The ballroom is full when we arrive. Henri likes it so. Whenever possible, we enter en retard so as to be seen by as many people as possible. Mother smiles at our approach.
“My dear ones,” she says, holding out her arms.
“Can you guess who we are?” Henri asks. “I will give you a hint. By our costumes we make you Leto.”
As my brother predicted, Mother is touched.
“I thought you were to be one of the muses.” Charles, who sits beside Her Majesty, has apparently been listening.
“I’ve found a substitute to play Terpsichore,” I reply. “Can you blame me for not wanting to be compared side by side with your Erato?”
The King smiles. His mistress, Marie Touchet, is dressed as Erato. She stands with a hand upon the arm of his throne. “I thank you for the compliment,” she says, “and for sparing me a comparison which I could not hope to win.”
Letting go of Henri’s arm, I embrace the woman who has held the King’s affections for nearly two years—ever since he first laid eyes on her at Blois during our return from the Grand Tour. “I love your golden curls!” she says.
“I will have some made for you,” I declare enthusiastically. I like Marie. She may be only a petty noble, but her love for Charles is so obviously driven by her heart and not her self-interest.
“How very sweet, but pray do not trouble yourself, as I do not have your complexion and should look unnatural in them. I will leave it to you to be charmingly blond.” Then, looking over my shoulder, Marie lowers her voice. “You appear to have charmed someone already … someone with fair hair of his own.”
Turning, I see the Duc de Guise standing between his uncles, the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duc d’Aumale. His eyes are definitely upon me. When he sees I perceive as much, he nods slightly, apparently not embarrassed to be found out. Will he present himself? I have no time to ponder the question, for Henri lays a hand on my arm. He clears his throat and raises his hand. A trumpeter I had not noticed before steps forward and sounds. Trust Henri to think of such a detail when he wishes to perform!
My brother begins to speak, “Seven arrows did Apollo use, and so many his sister, to honor the mother beloved of both…”
I hold forth my bow and draw back its string on cue, letting fly an imaginary arrow. Henri continues to recite and many pairs of eyes are upon me. Doubtless those witnessing my performance are thinking of Artemis. I know, however, that at the moment I would be Cupid. I have no desire to kill, not even to avenge an insult to Mother; I desire to captivate. I make certain to catch Guise’s eye, but I am careful not to let my glance linger as I continue to pantomime. I have observed Her Majesty’s ladies sufficiently to know that if one would entice, it is best to be arch.
When Anjou finishes, the assembled company applauds. Mother embraces us each, then retains Henri’s hand to offer him words of praise. I take the opportunity to wander in the direction of my friends, keeping my back purposefully to Guise. Do his eyes follow me?
“So this is the reason you abandoned us,” Henriette says. She is dressed as Thalia with her comic mask tucked under one arm, while Charlotte plays her counterpart Melpomene. “Not that we blame you,” she adds, “but to offer Mademoiselle du Lude your role!”
“Was that meant to amuse us?” Charlotte asks. “Surely, you will cede that while the Mademoiselle has talents, dancing is not among them.”
Fleurie de Saussauy covers her mouth in mock horror at Charlotte’s remark, and the four of us laugh merrily. I feel a touch upon my sleeve and know from Charlotte’s widened eyes who it must be. I turn.
“Your Highness, I am lately returned to Court and would take this opportunity to present myself.” His expression is appropriately earnest, his bow perfect, but when he straightens an impish smile dances across his lips. “I trust this approach is more satisfactory than my last.”
“Not entirely, Sir. You were going on well, but alas, you could not resist being flippant. By your last comment, you leave my friends with the impression that you have accosted me in some inappropriate way.”
“An interesting impression,” Henriette says.
“And now the Duchesse leaves me in an awkward position,” the Duc replies. “For if I protest there was nothing interesting in our last meeting, I insult you in a backhanded manner. But if I say anything else, I fear compromising conclusions may be drawn.”
“Oh, I hope they may,” Henriette says. She, Charlotte, and Fleurie exchange looks.
“I must disappoint, Your Grace,” Guise replies. “I happened upon the Duchesse of Valois in the gardens yesterday. Being a lady of the highest breeding and well schooled in propriety, she took herself off before anything sufficiently scandalous to divert you could occur.”
“And what, Sir, would have happened had I remained?” I make my tone teasing, but my curiosity is real.
“Ah”—the Duc pulls a solemn face—“we will never know. Perhaps, however, if you will do me the honor, we may discover what will result of our dancing together. The music has started.”
“So it has.” Henri’s voice behind me makes me jump. I turn to find him standing with Charles and Marie.
“Guise.” Charles pulls the Duc into an embrace. Anjou’s acknowledgment is less enthusiastic.
Turning his attention to me, Anjou says, “Come, let us dance.”
I want to say that I have promised the dance to the Duc, but it is not the truth. Besides, I am used to complying with Henri’s wishes. I lay my hand on my brother’s arm. Looking at Guise, he says, “Tennis tomorrow, before the hawking party sets out?”
“If I win, I dance first with the Duchesse de Valois tomorrow.”
Henri shrugs. “I am always eager to take a wager I cannot lose. And when I win you must forgo dancing with my sister entirely demain soir.”
I follow Henri to the floor. As we leave the others, I hear Fleurie say, “I will be your partner, Duc, I have the same hair as Her Highness and mine is real.”
How vexing.
“Shall I come and cheer you at tennis?” I ask Henri as we execute a turn.
“If you are not too tired. I want Guise to admire the prize that slips through his fingers.”
I want Guise to admire me as well.
As our dance ends Henri says, “Here comes the Duc. Shall I let him dance with you?” My heart beats faster. It never occurred to me that Anjou would monopolize me, though in truth he often does. Mademoiselle de Rieux moves past, throwing my brother a look that could light a taper. He colors. “I believe I will. Give him a taste of what shall be out of his reach tomorrow.” Kissing my hand, he hurries after the Mademoiselle. Oddly, this does not vex me.
“Your Highness,” Guise says, arriving beside me, “will you allow me to partner you?”
The dance is slower than the last, well suited to conversation. For the first pass, however, Guise merely looks at me. I am frequently told that I am beautiful. I hope the Duc finds me so. I am not intimidated by his stare. I meet his eyes with confidence, daring him to say what he is thinking.
Finally, as the second pass begins, he says, “Why do you wear that wig?”
This is not the compliment I expected. “Why do you wear that doublet? We both of us follow the fashion.”
“Your own hair suits you better.”
“You are very free with your opinions.”
“I am,” he replies. “Strong opinions make a strong man, as do strong convictions.”
“That may be,” I say indignantly, “but they are unlikely to make one popular when so candidly expressed.”
He laughs. “Who is being forthright now? But you are right of course: there are many ways to say the same thing. I will try again.” He puts on a mild, courtly smile.
“Your Highness looks exceptionally well this evening, but I would be so bold as to say that a wig cannot improve upon the hair God gave you, which is quite perfect.”
My irritation vanishes, replaced by a stomach full of butterflies. To think that Fleurie hoped to beguile him with her honeyed tresses. I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile. As we turn and come together I ask, “How do you find the Court after your time in Austria?”
I expect a standard stream of praise. Instead Guise says, “Blessedly free of heretics.”
Confronted again with the Duc’s candor, I do not know where to look. I myself was chastised by Mother for comments expressing pleasure when Coligny and his confreres declined to come hunting. “Ah,” I say, trying to sound clever, “they are not heretics when we are at peace. They are our Protestant brothers.”
“They are always heretics,” Guise responds quietly. “And I believe you know as much, for your jest is halfhearted.”
“Indeed, Sir”—I lower my own voice—“I am not sorry they are absent.” It feels thrilling to confess this fact, for which I was so lately punished. I hold my breath to see what he will say.
“I am glad to hear it.” The earnest pleasure on his face makes him extraordinarily handsome. But it is more than his looks that quicken my pulse—there is something exciting about speaking on serious subjects rather than exchanging quips. So much of what passes for conversation at Court is merely cleverness and show, and when there are serious matters to be discussed, I am not wanted. I long to sound him on other topics, but our dance is over, and he leads me back to my friends.
“What a pretty pair you made,” Charlotte gushes. “Half the women in the room—or at least those below the age of thirty—watched with jealous eyes.”
“Including my sister,” Henriette adds. “I think you should make a play for the Duc and then what a marvelous time we will have for the rest of the month!”
“‘We’?”
“Yes, we. You practicing your allurements and we, your dear friends, urging you on. With Guise as a conquest, your reputation will be assured. Women twice your age will imitate your style of dress and manners if you bring the handsome Duc to heel.”
An enticing prospect. More appealing still is the possibility that, while causing the Duc to fall in love with me, I might fall in love myself. I have never been, and I consider that a great scandal, given my age.
“She blushes,” Charlotte remarks triumphantly. “She will play.”
“It is not a game,” I reply hotly.
“Of course it is.” Henriette clucks her tongue. “The most pleasant game imaginable.”
* * *
I arrive early for my brother’s match, expecting little competition for the Duc de Guise’s notice. Despite the hour, however, the galleries are crowded. The Duchesse de Nevers uses her most commanding look and I my rank to displace some of Anjou’s gentlemen and claim seats worth having. Unfortunately, we have Mademoiselle de Rieux for a neighbor.
“Come to urge the Duc d’Anjou to victory?” she asks.
“Of course. Why else would I bestir myself so early?”
“I cannot imagine,” she replies in a tone that suggests she can.
Henri and Guise arrive at the same moment, my brother at the center of a little knot of his gentlemen. Henri yawns openly, but I cannot tell if he is merely feigning boredom or if his sleep was deficient to the task at hand. Guise looks fully rested and entirely relaxed.
My brother salutes the gallery, then takes his racket from his newest favorite, Louis de Bérenger, the Seigneur du Guast. Guise takes his place for the first serve without glancing my direction.
Both men are marvelously athletic, so from the first the game is strenuous and engages the spectators fully. There is little of the ordinary gossip in the galleries to compete with the cries and grunts of the players or the satisfying thwack of rackets meeting a ball with force. My brother moves with his usual grace, but he is matched in elegance by his opponent—something that rarely happens. I watch the Duc extend his extraordinarily long arm and bring his racket forward in a smooth perfect arc. The neck of his shirt is open and a fine sheen of perspiration makes his collarbone shine like silk. Crouching to await Anjou’s next, his calves appear carved of stone.
Leaning toward Henriette, I whisper, “I could sit and watch the Duc play at tennis the whole day.”
“You and half the women of the Court. Observe: even la belle Rouhet—who might, by having married only slightly earlier than is currently fashionable, be the Duc’s mother—sighs and leans forward now that he has begun to sweat, hoping to catch the scent of him.”
The scent of him. What a thrilling and disturbing thought.
Anjou wins the first set and crows over it. Guise takes the second, a victory he greets with no more than the flicker of a smile. Both men are thoroughly damp now. Hair sticks to foreheads; shirts cling to chests and arms, allowing me to notice the musculature of both. Guast brings Anjou water. A glass is poured for the Duc as well.
“Thank you,” Guise says, draining it in a single long swallow.
“Ce n’est rien.” Anjou shrugs magnanimously. “I will not have you blame thirst when I defeat you in the next.” Henri looks in my direction and winks. Renée giggles. The Duc’s gaze follows my brother’s and meets mine. My heart pounds and my breath quickens.
The final game is fiercest of all. Guise wins, but Henri loudly claims the ball was out. All his gentlemen agree. A good number of spectators take issue and heated shouting begins. The Duc remains silent.
“It seems we must replay the point,” my brother says.
The Duc glances in my direction for an instant. “Your Highness, I am tired. I cede the point and the match.”
Henri’s face goes slack and then becomes angry. “Come,” he urges, “you can surely manage a short time more.”
The Duc looks him straight in the eye. “I am sorry, I cannot. The victory is yours.” He bows and begins to leave the court.
Henri takes a step to follow, his face livid. Guast catches him by the arm. “Come, there are better ways to celebrate victory than chasing after a man who cannot be bothered to properly finish a game.”
“You are right. Let him go, the poor sport.”
Does my brother not realize that he is the one who appears less than sportsmanlike? Or am I the only one who sees what the Duc has done: he refused to replay the point because to do so would be to admit his fair shot foul. He knew he had won the game and knowing was enough. He needed no further recognition. Or perhaps he did … perhaps he wanted mine and said as much with his last look.
Anjou’s friends crowd round him. He accepts their approbation and then heads toward the rail. He will expect my congratulations and I am prepared to give them, even if they feel hollow. Rising to embrace him, I am stunned when he quickly releases me and turns to Mademoiselle de Rieux.
She seems to make a point of breathing deeply before speaking. “You must be exhausted.”
“Indeed, not,” Henri replies. “I am barely winded.”
Renée leans across the rail and puts her lips beside Anjou’s ear. “I can remedy that.”
I wonder if I misheard, but the laughter and leering looks of my brother’s companions suggest not.
Anjou gives a nod and swaggers off, trailed by his friends. Before they reach the door, Mademoiselle de Rieux makes a hasty exit.
“Well, it seems Renée has succeeded at last,” Charlotte says.
“I do not understand,” I say. But I am afraid I do.
“Come, you are not a little girl,” Henriette chides. “Men your brother’s age have mistresses, and Renée has wanted to be a royal mistress since the moment your brother’s voice broke. What do you think His Majesty does with Mademoiselle Touchet?”
“But Charles loves Marie!” The comparison between Marie, all modesty and reserve, and Mademoiselle de Rieux angers me.
“It appears he does,” Henriette concedes. “What difference does that make?”
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“A very great difference to the lady,” Charlotte says.
“I think not,” Henriette says. “In the end, both will be displaced, and will be left with whatever wealth and titles they manage to accrue during their tenure. If those be generous, the quality of their memories will be secondary. If those be deficient, then all past whispered words of affection will provide little consolation.”
“I cannot believe Henri would choose a lady of such little refinement,” I say, sticking out my chin.
“Do not believe it, then.” Henriette shrugs. “Whatever you choose to credit, do not let it spoil your mood.”
But my mood is spoiled. I break from my friends and head in the direction of my brother’s apartment, telling myself I will speak to him about the hunt, but knowing that I truly go in hopes of proving Henriette in error. I am accustomed to being received in Anjou’s rooms at all times. When I sweep into his antechamber, I breathe a sigh of relief. It is filled, as always, with a collection of gentlemen playing at dice, joking and drinking. Spotting Saint-Luc, I ask, “Where is Anjou?”
The others laugh, but Saint-Luc looks mortified. Leaping to his feet he says, “Resting.”
This remark brings another burst of laughter.
“I wish I were resting as he is,” Saint-Mégrin says.
“With His Grace?” one of the others asks, earning himself a cuff on the ears.
I feel my face burn. Saint-Luc offers an arm. “Come, I will walk you back to Her Majesty’s apartment,” he says.
I know he means to be kind, but the thought of him walking beside me and seeing my embarrassment mortifies me. “Thank you, no,” I say, fleeing. Just outside, I lean my back against the wall and cover my face with my hands. I cannot tell which I am more, embarrassed or angry. One thing is certain: my desire to have the Duc de Guise’s attention is made stronger. If my brother thinks he can have Renée on one arm and me on the other, he is much mistaken!
* * *
The time to hunt arrives. As soon as I am in the saddle, I begin to look for Guise. The courtyard is crowded and every figure seems to be in motion. Mother, beside me with her favorite bird on her arm, is eager to begin. Falconry is a great passion, and when we go hawking, she sheds many years and many cares. As the gates open I spot the Duc, but I lose sight of him as we stream out. I see him next as we pause, and the men handling the dogs fan out across a meadow under direction of the Grand Fauconnier. The Duc sits with Charles, the tawny color of his doublet complementing his hair.
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