Anjou moves forward, drawing me along. After taking Mother’s hands and kissing each, he turns to Charles and says, “Your Majesty, we have crushed your enemies.”
Charles looks less than enthusiastic.
“I would have brought you Condé’s head, but the whole of that gentleman’s remains are being paraded around Jarnac, tied to the back of an ass while your loyal Catholic subjects cheer.”
“Is it true Condé surrendered before he was killed?” Charles asks.
I had not heard this.
“A nicety.” Henri does not flinch. “I assumed you wanted him dead.”
“I did.” The admission sounds grudging. “But I wonder: If you are captured, will you consider such honorable traditions niceties?”
“I will not be captured.”
The two regard each other with animosity, then Anjou turns back to Mother.
“Are you pleased with me, Madame?”
Tears well in Mother’s eyes. “You know that I am. All of France will be when news of the victory spreads. Your brother is gratified as well, just as he would be by the success of any of his commanders.” She looks meaningfully at Charles. “Anjou rode from the field of battle to offer you his victory. Will you not extend to him your approbation?”
Charles rises. “We are pleased with your victory at Jarnac.”
Anjou bows.
As he is straightening, Charles adds, “But it would have been better still had you not allowed Coligny to escape with a large part of the Huguenot forces.”
This is another fact of which I was unaware.
Anjou attempts to look uncaring, but one corner of his mouth twitches.
“Your brother will pursue Coligny when he leaves us,” Mother says.
Charles tilts his head. “Perhaps I will go after the admiral myself. Now the fighting has begun in earnest, I would not mind some field experience. I had no desire to live in a tent all winter, but spring in the saddle—yes, I believe that would suit.”
Anjou darts a glance at Mother. She offers him a look of warning in return.
Neither is lost upon Charles. He smiles. “I leave you, Madame, to be entertained by our brother’s stories of the fray. I myself will await Marshal Tavannes’ account. He is the more senior military man.”
Anjou’s face is livid. As the door closes behind the King, Mother’s voice is soft. “Calmly, calmly.”
Henri is not soothed. “I would rather die cruelly and be tied to an ass myself than cede my command to my brother,” he says with vehemence.
“There is no question of that,” Mother replies. She closes her eyes. “I wish you and Charles would not provoke each other so. It has been thus since you were but babes.”
I find Mother’s wish odd. Whatever rivalry there is between my beloved brothers, she planted its seeds.
Anjou’s face is all concern. “You are ill and we have tired you.”
“I am not too tired to hear all you have to tell of the battle.”
“Soon.”
I am surprised to hear my brother deferring. There is nothing he loves better than to entertain Mother; nothing he enjoys more than basking in her admiration.
“I am hungry, and dirty,” he says. “You know that I do not like to be dirty.”
Mother smiles without opening her eyes. “Go and make yourself as handsome as you are brave. I will wait.”
“Sleep. When you next open your eyes, I will be beside you.”
Anjou motions for me and together we creep from the room. We are not two steps outside before his temper flares. “Do you see? Do you see how His Majesty treats me?”
“Charles is jealous.” I can understand how Charles feels, so surely Henri should be able to. “The King is not being styled the next Alexander. He will not be the talk of the Court as the gallant commander who led royal troops to a glorious victory.”
“Will I be so celebrated? Or will he see that Tavannes gets the credit?”
“Mother would never allow that.”
“Not if she were in full health…” He pauses and his face falls. “She looked so weak. Are you certain Castelan said we need not worry?”
“I am. I promise you I am with her constantly, trying to do every little thing for her so that she will not exert herself. The last two nights I slept beside her bed.”
“Charles is there a great deal too, is he not? Whispering to her.” His brow furrows.
“Is it not natural he should care for her as you and I do?”
“Natural or not, it gives him opportunity to discredit me. While I am away fighting, he has hour after hour to work against me with Mother.”
“C’est absolument ridicule! You always have Mother’s heart, even if Charles has her ear. Can you believe her devotion to you will be shaken?”
“No, because I will not allow that. Come, I have a proposition that will be of advantage to us both.”
Henri’s apartment is crowded. Men who rode in with him mingle with those who, hearing he has arrived, have come to share his wine and hear his stories. Several embrace him. Released from their arms, Henri puts up his hands. “Gentlemen, my time in Metz is short but not too brief for a mighty revel this evening. In the meantime I would be at Her Majesty’s bedside. Therefore, I must make myself presentable. Out, out.” My brother’s valet de chambre moves forward to help him but Henri says, “You too.”
When we are alone he says, “You do not mind playing the valet, do you? I know you have no experience undressing a man, but it is not hard.” He unbuttons his doublet and removes it. I hold out my hands. It smells of him. A scent as familiar to me as my own, and one I have missed.
“Here is the crux of the matter. Among our siblings, I trust you alone. You are my own Princess, as faithful to me as man can ask woman to be.”
I feel my cheeks warming at his praise, and turn to lay aside the doublet and pour water into his basin that I might hide my blush. Shirtless, he comes forward to use the basin.
“You see how it is?” He offers a blinding smile. “You anticipate me. I can rely on you.” He begins to wash, the muscles in his arms and chest showing with every motion. Battle, it seems, has further developed his fine, sportsman’s figure. “Will you assist me?”
“Only tell me how.”
“Be my eyes, my ears, and my voice. Send me news and seek ever to influence the Queen so that I retain my present fortune.”
I watch him sit down and remove his boots. While his eyes are thus turned, I find the courage to raise an embarrassing point. “I will write to you every day, but as for influencing the Queen, you credit me with a power I do not have. Why should Her Majesty listen to me?”
Looking up, he replies, “She will listen because I will tell her to do so. I will point out that you are no child but a woman grown—a woman of sense and as devoted to me as she is. I will advise her that I hold your opinions in highest esteem and weigh them heavily.”
“Do you?”
“Of course.”
“Oh, Henri…” That he should value me so moves me.
“Will you pledge yourself to be my partisan? Will you make certain that I am in our mother’s thoughts and favor though I be leagues away?”
“It will be my honor to serve you so.”
“Good. And I urge you to set aside your timidity and speak to Mother as you do to me.”
“I will try.”
“You will not find it hard, I assure you, once you apprehend that she will listen graciously. Mother has the ability to make one feel like the very center of the world.”
I doubt I will ever feel her regard to that extent, but do not say so, merely turning while Henri removes his trunk hose and puts on new ones. I fetch him a clean shirt, and as I hand it to him he says, “Such service shall not be without reward.”
“Your regard is enough.”
“But you will have more. As you have promised to safeguard my fortunes, I pledge to raise yours. Be assured that, as you are the person in the world whom I love most, you will al
ways be a partaker of my advancement.”
He begins to button his fresh doublet. I push his hands away playfully. “Be still and let me do that. After all, I am the valet here.”
CHAPTER 9
May 1569—Metz, France
Today I am sixteen—sixteen, beautiful, and happy; utterly, blissfully happy. It is all as Anjou said it would be. Shortly after he rode away in March—gone to chase Coligny—Mother called me to her and said, “Your brother has related the conversation you and he had and how he wishes me to see you through his eyes. By his account you are a woman worthy of his trust and mine. And so you shall be treated. It will be a great comfort for me to converse with you as I would with him while he is away.”
How those words changed my life! All that was shrouded in mystery before—the business of the King’s council, Mother’s hopes for her sons and her fears for them, her dealings with diplomats from every land—is suddenly laid bare before me. I pass hours in Her Majesty’s company, listening and learning.
Generally, I am with Mother from the moment she awakes, but I took special care in dressing today, so by the time I slip into the room, her breakfast tray is being removed.
“Margot!” she says, looking at me with bright eyes. “Come sit beside me. I have been waiting for you.”
Mother’s ladies know of my elevation in importance, so a place is quickly made for me. Reaching beneath her pillow, Her Majesty draws out something small, wound in velvet. “I did not like to give you this until things were certain, but I heard yesterday that Fourquevaux was received with grace by the King of Spain.” She hands me the packet. “Joyeux anniversaire.”
Charlotte and the Baronne de Retz, who sit on either side of me, press in as I begin to unwind the velvet. A small, gold, heavily engraved oval is left in my hand. A necklace? No, the back of a miniature portrait. I turn it over in my palm. A young man gazes out with piercing eyes. He is clad in full armor of the finest sort.
“Il est beau!” Charlotte exclaims.
He is strikingly handsome—or he would be if he did not have hair as red as flame.
Carefully I lean forward to read the inscription: Sebastianus I Lusitanor Rex. “The King of Portugal?”
“Yes.” Mother smiles. “Portugal is not Spain, but it is a crown worth having. And it comes with a handsome groom near your own age.”
Can she mean … She must!
“Madame, I am delighted!”
“Ladies,” she says, “you may congratulate the Duchesse de Valois.”
I rise and the women surrounding me take turns offering embraces.
“And, ladies,” Mother continues, “you may gossip about this match as much as you like. King Philip will find it hard to disavow arrangements that are spoken of widely.”
“Why need the King of Spain be involved?” I ask. “The King of Portugal is a grown man and sovereign in his own right. Surely he can select his own bride.”
Once such a question might have gone unanswered, but no more. “All young monarchs have advisors,” Mother replies. “Dom Sébastien’s uncle, the Spanish king, takes a keen interest in him. So, I understand, do a pair of Theatine monks who Dom Sébastien’s grandfather, King John, charged with his upbringing. But as I have reason to believe that His Holiness Pope Pius will promote the match, I do not believe any of these men will be a serious impediment.”
Fingering the miniature, I look again into Dom Sébastien’s eyes, imagine calling him “husband,” and smile. “Your Majesty thinks of everything,” I say. I wish I might say more—might tell Mother that her care, her efforts to secure my future, constitute a birthday offering that moves me beyond any object she might have gifted me. But in front of so many—never. Leaning in, I kiss her on both cheeks.
Mother is flustered by this display. Perhaps I am her daughter in my reticence as much as in any other way.
“Go along. Go and show off your portrait to the Duchesse de Nevers.”
I do not wait to be urged twice: grabbing Charlotte’s hand, I nearly drag her from the room. Our friend is never an early riser unless called upon by duty, so she is not difficult to locate. She is in her room, though not in her chemise as I thought she would be when—upon hearing our knock—she called out, “A moment.” No, she is fully dressed and sitting, slightly flushed, quite at her ease.
“Ah, this is fortuitous. I have a gift for you!” she says as soon as she sees me.
“And I have news.”
“Gossip or news?”
“Both,” Charlotte teases. “Margot has news that will soon be the great gossip of the Court.”
“Well, then, she must go first.”
“His Majesty negotiates my marriage to the King of Portugal.”
“He does?” The voice is male, and familiar. Without warning, the Duc de Guise steps out of the adjoining cabinet.
“My gift,” Henriette says, as if no other explanation were needed for the sudden appearance of a gentleman I have not seen in more than half a year. I freeze, the miniature portrait of Dom Sébastien clutched in my hand. The Duc is thinner than when I saw him last. And taller, if that is possible. I thought him a man when he held me in his arms at Paris, and perhaps he was, but he is somehow more so now.
“Perhaps, Your Grace, our surprise is not entirely welcome.” The voice is serious. The eyes meet mine only for an instant, then pull away.
“Say something,” Charlotte whispers, nudging me.
“Your Grace”—Is it odd that after so many months I do not use or even think of him by his Christian name?—“please do not mistake astonishment for displeasure. I simply cannot account for seeing you are here when I thought you with His Majesty’s army.”
“I brought a message to the King.”
“It must be a very important dispatch if they send a duc.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Henriette rises and, moving forward, plucks Dom Sébastien’s likeness from me. “He sought the errand.”
I glance back to the Duc. It must be true, for he colors. I feel rather than see Henriette retreating, taking Charlotte with her. My emotions are in a jumble. Last autumn when he left I thought of Guise so often. But lately, I realize, my mind has seldom moved in his direction. Is this because I have had so much to think about as Her Majesty’s confidante? Or is it because I no longer care for him?
His Grace takes a step forward and I catch my breath. No, it is not the latter, for that single step closer has made my heart race.
He looks me straight in the eye. “Perhaps I should have stayed at Cognac.”
“I would rather have you here.”
“Would you?” He takes another step.
“Yes.”
“What need can you have for me if you are to marry the King of Portugal?”
“It is not certain. I only just learned that His Majesty pursues the match.”
“He is eager for you to have a foreign husband.”
“He is eager for me to wed a king,” I reply, vaguely irritated. Charles loves me and wants what is best for me. So does Mother. Why should the Duc make it sound as if they wish to be rid of me?
“I would rather you did not.”
“Henriette told me you did not wish me to marry the King of Spain. How did she know that?”
“I told her.”
“You write to her?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Of course not.” I do not believe I sound convincing.
“You have no reason. It is I who have rivals, not you. I have been gone seven months and already you are offered to two kings.”
I do not wish to speak further about Dom Sébastien or my marriage; the topic is making me increasingly uncomfortable. As is the Duc’s proximity. I wish things were as before he marched away—that he would simply take me in his arms and kiss me. Yet he stands without so much as raising a hand to touch me.
I try to turn the subject. “You have come from Cognac. How goes the siege?”
“You wish to talk of the war?” He smiles w
ryly. “Fine. We will raise the siege. We make no progress, and so will go instead to intercept the Duc de Zweibrücken’s German soldiers before they can reach the main Huguenot force.” He shakes his head. “Satisfied?”
“No.”
“Nor am I. I left the fighting to other men and rode halfway across France so that I could see you”—he pauses—“touch you.”
“Why do you not?” I whisper, but he hears me. His hand rises and caresses my cheek. His skin is rough. I like that.
“Because in the first moments I thought we were strangers again.”
“I do not believe we will ever be strangers, Sir.”
“What, then?”
I do not answer because I do not know.
“I would devote myself entirely to you,” he says. “While I have been away, I have seen many gentlemen do things that will require confession. I did none.”
My heart leaps. “Whatever sins I have confessed during these long months, Sir, the type you allude to are not among them. I may have failed in my duty as a daughter, a sister, and a Christian, but my lips have trespassed with no other.”
He takes me in his arms at last. “If I considered our embraces sin,” he says solemnly, “I would abstain from them even as they are my greatest desire. But I know that my feelings for you are honorable, and that my desire to preserve your reputation unbesmirched is stronger even than my baser longings.” He lowers his lips to mine. The kiss is just as I remembered: utterly, overwhelmingly wonderful. When our lips part, he looks down into my face with eyes that no longer show doubt. “I leave tomorrow.”
“No!” Having been reminded of everything I feel for him, it seems cruel that he will be gone again so soon.
“It is my duty and it presses upon me, for I have not yet sufficiently distinguished myself.”
“Were you not commander of the royal scouts before Jarnac? That battle was won through surprise, doubtless permitted by good scouting.”
He smiles. “It pleases me to hear you argue my valor. Knowing that you follow what I do makes me eager to perform feats worthy of your admiration. Your brother has Condé to his credit, and your mother Andelot. Shall I kill the latter’s brother for you before I see you next?”
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