Médicis Daughter

by Sophie Perinot

  “I will make you proud, Madame.”

  “You always do. Now go and find some entertainment.”

  Moments later Anjou releases me from my hiding place.

  “Happy?” he asks.

  “Yes. And you must be too. You will command troops in battle.”

  “It is a beginning, but I will hound Mother until I have the prize I seek: command of all the King’s armies.”

  “Can you never be satisfied?” I try to sound exasperated but I am, in reality, pleased. Anjou’s ambition is laudable, and he knows I admire it. Perhaps that is why he stoops and kisses my cheek.

  “I am satisfied when you are with me.”

  “Well, then, how shall we amuse ourselves?”

  “Do you not wish to run off and report to the Duchesse de Nevers and the Baronne de Sauve?”

  I do, very much. But I continue to wage a campaign to keep Henri from Mademoiselle de Rieux. So telling tales of what I’ve heard will wait.

  “If you would rather I ran off—”

  “No, indeed!” Henri smiles again. “Come watch me take exercise with my new small sword.”

  “All right.” I take his arm. Charles presently is much engaged with final details for his royal Académie des Maîtres en faits d’armes. Anjou enthusiastically offers his ideas and support, swept up in the latest craze for sword work, but also trying to curry favor with the King to assist his ambitions.

  We go first to my brother’s rooms. I watch as he strips off his doublet and searches for something more suitable for fencing, wondering, as I admire the muscles in his back, if the Duc de Guise will be among the young men exercising. I have seen very little of the Duc since our return to the Louvre, and I realize wistfully it is highly unlikely he will be playing at arms this afternoon, as his uncles made sure he was quickly sent to the defensive lines lest the constable get all the glory. A fear that now seems very foolish.

  Anjou pulls on a new shirt. As his head emerges he says, “By the way, I have something of interest to tell. In the letter Mother received from Elisabeth yesterday, our sister complains Don Carlos becomes more and more irrational. He has been aggressively paying court to her. Elisabeth does her best to conceal this, and his other signs of madness, from the Prince’s father—out of what Mother calls a ‘misplaced affection for the useless boy’—but fears the King of Spain will soon have her stepson confined for his own good.”

  Picking up his foil, Henri gives a few short thrusts, bending his forward knee more with each. “Are you not mightily glad?”

  “Prodigiously!” Glad that Don Carlos is not my husband and, yes, glad his troubles of the mind overtake him. I know it is wicked to be cheered by such a thing, but there is a certain delightful vengeance in knowing that the man who sneered at the idea of wedding me has become a prating lunatic. Failing to win the hand of a madman is no failure.

  And yet … the slight by the Prince still stings. Don Carlos, mad or not, is betrothed to the Emperor’s daughter and I remain unattached. Even as I know thoughts of war dominate Mother’s hours, and must do, I wish she would turn a modicum of her attention to finding me a husband.

  “Why do you sigh?” Anjou asks.

  “I do not!” I insist defensively. “Do you ever think of getting married?”

  “No,” Anjou replies, his voice oddly flat. “For I will not have my choice, and Mother’s suggestions have been abominable.”

  If by his choice my brother means Mademoiselle de Rieux, then I am heartily glad he will be denied it.

  He sheathes his blade. “Mother is not the only one to miss the mark. I swear to you, the Duc de Guise mentioned our brother’s widow to me—never mind Mary Stuart has a husband already.”

  “When did you see the Duc?”

  “At camp when I was last there to review the troops with Charles.” Henri looks at me piercingly.

  I fidget, then, taking his arm, say, “Come. I thought you were going to impress me with feats of fighting prowess.”

  He bends and kisses the top of my head, and as he does so I can hear him inhaling my perfume—his favorite. Straightening, he says, “I hope to impress you always and in every way.”

  “I am sure you shall. And I will relate tales of your gallantry and valor everywhere, as a good sister should.”

  * * *

  I cannot sit still! There is a massacre going on and I am missing it.

  Montmorency at last offers battle to Condé and his Protestants. The constable has a mighty force: more than fifteen thousand infantry, three thousand cavalry, and eighteen lovely new cannons. The Protestants have not a seventh of that at Saint-Denis. How those heretics must tremble at this moment—at least those not already dispatched to answer before God. How they must cry out as they are run through with pikes or felled by Catholic swords!

  Anjou joined the constable last night. Charles rode out this morning to watch from a safe distance. Mother and I are left behind to wait for word of the battle’s glorious result, word that must surely come soon, given that the fighting began hours ago. I bite my nails and pace from window to window, though there is nothing to see. This morning we heard the sounds of His Majesty’s artillery, but no longer. We certainly have no chance of hearing anything else at this distance; yet, in my eagerness I strain my ears. Mother, by contrast, sits at her desk, writing.

  “Marguerite!” she says, looking up. “If you cannot be calm, then you must be gone.”

  I freeze. The one concession made to me on the occasion of the day’s battle is that I have been permitted to be with Mother in her study, along with the Duchesse d’Uzès, rather than being consigned to the room beyond with the other ladies. And though that larger party would doubtless be full of shared excitement and whispered speculation—all in all, a great deal more entertaining—Mother will have the news first. I make myself sit down beside Mother’s chessboard and slowly set up the pieces, imagining each to be someone I know. Anjou for the Red King, though I suppose by rights that ought to be Charles. The pieces are finely carved with particularly dashing chevaliers. Perhaps that is why I imagine one to be the Duc de Guise. I run my finger along that piece before moving it. Then, turning the board, play the other side.

  I am in my third turn as white when the door bursts open. A soldier no older than me crosses the threshold, breathing heavily.

  “Your Majesty,” he says, “Constable de Montmorency is felled. He is on his way to Paris, but all concede this effort is made merely so he may die at home.”

  Mother does not blanch. Not a muscle moves in her face. “Unfortunate, but what of the battle?”

  “The Prince de Condé has the luck of the devil.” The youth crosses himself as if Satan might be summoned by a mention. “He broke our line. ’Twas during his charge that Montmorency was wounded.”

  “Condé charged?”

  “Before we could.”

  “Incroyable! Your brother was right”—Mother turns to me—“the constable was too old for the task set him.” Returning her attention to the soldier, she gives him a sharp look. “I have had your sober news, now give me better.”

  I can see fear in the youth’s eyes. Dear God, what if he has no better? At least, I pray he has no worse.

  “We nearly had Condé. The Duc d’Anjou was screaming for us to take him. But Condé’s men rescued him.”

  I can imagine my brother’s curses at such a turn of events. Mother draws herself up fully in her chair.

  “But we have broken their momentum,” the messenger adds quickly. “There are not enough of them to carry the day, and surely the next report to Your Majesty will say the Protestants are on the run.”

  “That is the news we want, and woe betide the man who brings me other tidings.”

  I wonder if the soldier is thinking that he would rather die fighting than bring the next dispatch; that would certainly be my thought were I in his boots.

  “With Your Majesty’s leave, I will return to the field.”

  Mother nods curtly. The youth flees
. As the door closes, Her Majesty stands, pacing to the same window that, just a short while ago, she made me leave. “God’s blood!” she says, striking the sill, “was it too much to ask His Majesty’s huge army to destroy twenty-five hundred men? I might kill so many myself, because I have the spleen for it. The constable did not.”

  “Will Your Majesty go to see him?” the Duchesse d’Uzès asks.

  “No. Excuses from a dying man are no more palatable than those from one who will live awhile longer.” Turning, Mother sits back down behind her desk and sighs. “But, as I am a Christian, I will send a note saying I am grieved by his injury and pray he will recover.”

  “Anjou has the spleen for fighting,” I say.

  Mother lays down the pen she has just taken up. I tense, ready to be told my opinion is unwanted. Instead she smiles. “Henri has all my best parts, and I shall see he has the opportunity to use them against the King’s enemies from this moment on.”

  At dusk Anjou arrives, sweaty and angry.

  “Men, animals, time—all lost,” he says after briefly stooping to kiss Mother. “And for what?” Pouring himself a glass of wine, Anjou flops into a chair, heedless of the grime he imparts. “It will horrify you, I am sure, but I must report that our positions at darkness are changed insignificantly from what they were at first light—by a matter of yards, not miles.” Throwing back the entire content of his glass, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I rode into the city with Charles.”

  “Where is the King?” Mother asks.

  “Down in the courtyard, kicking a groom.”

  So Charles has surrendered to his black temper as a result of this reverse. I shudder at the thought of such a mood, which may linger for days and punish many more than the hapless groom.

  “Have you word of the constable’s condition?” Henri asks, kicking some mud off his boot onto the carpet.

  “When he is dead, word will come from the Rue Sante Avoie,” Mother replies with no discernible emotion. “And whatever you think of his conduct today, you will show appropriate respect at his passing. After all, it does no harm for he who comes next to praise he who went before where that predecessor is dead and no threat.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Your brother will be naming you lieutenant general.”

  A broad smile illuminates Henri’s face.

  “And I will give the Duc de Guise a command under my brother.” Charles stands in the doorway. Unlike Anjou’s, his attire is pristine save for the toe of his right boot, where I distinctly detect traces of blood. I see also that the knuckles of his right hand are split and bleeding, though he appears entirely unconscious of the fact. “Guise fought splendidly, something which, sadly, distinguishes him from many. We may have God on our side, but Condé and Coligny have braver men.”

  I am sure he does not mean—cannot mean—to disparage our brother. But Anjou’s smile fades.

  Charles, having moved into the room, looks down at one of Mother’s dogs curled up by the leg of her worktable, and I have the horrible presentiment he will kick it. Mother must think the same, for she says, “Your Majesty, if you need to kick something, pray limit yourself to furniture. I will not take kindly to violence against my animals.”

  “I do not need to kick something. I need to kill something.”

  “You did not kill the groom, then?” Mother asks.

  “I do not believe so. Perhaps I should go and finish him.”

  “Do as you like.” Mother’s reply would horrify many but not me. She knows Charles and so do I—where he is opposed, there he will surely go. If he returns to the courtyard and kills the boy now, it will be in spite of Her Majesty’s response, not because of it. The King remains where he stands and I begin to relax. And then, with a perversity I cannot understand, Anjou draws his dagger and offers it to Charles.

  I sit perfectly still—so still that, but for my breathing, I might be made of stone, wondering if Charles will take the weapon. His eyes crackle with animosity, like a fire in a grate. His jaw clenches. I could swear I see his bloodied hand rise slightly, and at that very moment Henri pushes the dagger further forward, saying, “I will go with you if you like. We can make a bit of sport of it.”

  “Keep your dagger,” Charles says, his voice so laden with disgust that one would think Anjou had suggested killing the groom, not he. “Use it to gut my enemies. Were the constable not already dying, you could begin with him.” Charles raises both hands to his head, pressing them against his temples. “My mind races and my head aches.” His voice is aggrieved and his body, rigid with anger since he entered, grows slack.

  I hate to see him suffer so. I wonder, not for the first time, why God planted these violent rages within what would otherwise be the sweetest of temperaments. “Your Majesty,” I say, “shall I come with you to your room, wrap your hand and bathe your forehead?”

  “Yes.” He beckons me and, when I arrive beside him, places one arm heavily across my shoulders, leaning into me so much that I nearly stagger. One would think he had been on the battlefield with the men who fought and had labored there to the point of exhaustion.

  Mother gives me a look of praise. “I will send a draught to help you sleep,” she says to Charles.

  Slowly we make our way toward the King’s apartment, my brother becoming more torpid with each step. Twice servants seek to relieve me of the burden of the King, each time to be waved off and followed by curses as Charles’ agitation flares. When we reach his antechamber, his valet is likewise dismissed.

  “Shall I send for something to eat and drink?” I ask, easing him onto a chair. “Perhaps it would revive you.”

  “I do not wish to be revived, only soothed.”

  I nod. Moving to his bedchamber, I fill a basin shallowly with water, then add oil scented with lemon balm. Snatching up a clean cloth, I return to find Charles head in hands. Pulling up a stool, I gently take one of those hands. “Sit back,” I urge. “Put up your feet and let me apply a compress.”

  He arranges himself slowly, like a very old man, unbuttoning his doublet, putting his boots on the stool, and letting his head fall back as if that very exercise were painful. I tear off a strip of linen, then dip the rest, wring it out, and lay it across his forehead. His eyes close but his face does not relax.

  Crouching beside him, I use the strip I tore to bind his hand. Finished, I ask, “Shall I send for your nurse?”

  “No, sit with me for a while.”

  I shift from crouching to sitting on the floor beside him, basin in my lap.

  Gradually his breathing slows. After some minutes, with his eyes still closed, Charles says, “You are an angel.”

  “No, Your Majesty, but I hope I am a good sister and a faithful subject.”

  “That, then, if you like. You are the only one who never asks for anything in return for kindness—at least, the only one who shares my blood.” He sighs. “Marie is content to take what I give without asking for more. I wish…”

  He lets his voice trail off and leaves me wondering what he wishes. That he could marry Marie? That there were fewer people around him whose ambitions made them greedy? I feel compelled to speak up for those closest to him.

  “Charles, you are unfair to Mother. She wants what is best for you and for France.”

  “Does she?” He sighs again, opening his eyes and examining me curiously. “I suppose so. But there are times I find myself in doubt of it. And as for Anjou, he wishes he were the elder, of that there can be no doubt. And now he will lead my armies.”

  “For your glory.”

  “And his.”

  “As long as he serves both, where is the fault in that? Are not all the best men ambitious?”

  “True.” He sits up and drops the compress into my basin. Drops of lemon-scented water fly up, dotting my face. “But so are the worst men, dear sister. I have learned that since the crown came to me. You will learn it too. I pray not too painfully.”

  A knock sounds.

  “
Enter,” Charles calls.

  The Duc de Guise crosses the threshold, covered in dirt and sweat.

  “We were just speaking of you,” Charles says.

  I wonder whether Charles means to imply Guise is one of the best or the worst men?

  “Your Majesty, the Prince de Condé shows signs of breaking camp.”

  Charles springs to his feet. “After him! Or are you too tired to lead a portion of my army in pursuit?”

  “I am never too tired to serve my king and will lead as many or as few as I am given anywhere Your Majesty chooses to send me.”

  “Excellent!” Two spots of color mark Charles’ cheekbones. For the second time since his return, he appears on the verge of a frenzy—this time one of enthusiasm, not anger. I wonder if the Duc knows that such a fit of good spirits can be as capricious and dangerous. The King pulls the Duc into a clutching embrace, then releases him with equal violence. “On your way.”

  “Which companies shall I take, Your Majesty?”

  This sets Charles back on his heels: he is not accustomed to making such decisions. Indeed, I suspect he has not command of the facts necessary to make such a pronouncement.

  Seeing my brother’s confusion, the Duc is quick to withdraw the questions. “Pardon, Your Majesty,” he says. “I ought not to burden my king with questions better left to those under his command. To whom shall I report for orders?”

  “Our brother, Anjou. Tomorrow he will be lieutenant general.”

  De Guise’s visage registers surprise, but he recovers quickly and executes a smart bow before departing.

  He is not gone a moment before Charles looks apprehensive. Scrambling to his escritoire, he pulls out a sheet and writes furiously upon it. “Follow the Duc,” he commands, folding the note sloppily and thrusting it toward me. “Bid him give this to Anjou. I will not have our brother make a fool of me by countermanding what I have said.”

  I catch up with Guise when he is but a yard from the door of Anjou’s apartment.

  “Your Grace!” I call. He stops and looks back. “His Majesty sends this, by you, for the Duc d’Anjou.”

  “Has he changed his mind about my commission already?”