Médicis Daughter

by Sophie Perinot

  Leaning forward, he kisses me tenderly.

  “You must keep me informed of the negotiations,” he says as our lips part. “It is not a good thing to be distracted when fighting.”

  “I will try.” I am thinking of how quickly I lost track of him once the army disbanded after La Roche-l’Abeille. And of the imposition our improper correspondence places upon Henriette.

  Henri, it seems, worries about something different. “I understand. It is a risk for you to write to me. I would be mortified if anyone should become suspicious. Your honor is more important even than my peace of mind.”

  “Not to me,” I murmur. “Your peace of mind and your person are dearer to me than my own.”

  He kisses me again. That is when I hear it—the snap of something dry underfoot. Henri hears too. Releasing me, his hand goes to his side, where he must have a dagger. He peers into the semidarkness.

  Nearer the château I can make out a figure stooping to pluck something from a plant.

  Fearful of discovery, I gasp slightly without thinking. The figure straightens and for a moment looks outward into the garden. Henri and I sit perfectly still. I would not draw breath were it not absolutely required. After a minute the person—whoever he is—places what he picked into his mouth and turns back. A crack of light grows into a doorway as he reenters the château.

  “This is what I fear,” Henri says quietly. “Whoever that was might have walked forward and, finding us in this compromising setting, spread gossip or worse. Your brother Anjou harbors a grudge against me. He works to damage me in the eyes of others, including the King. He would love to ruin me.”

  “Whatever Anjou says ill of you can only raise you in His Majesty’s esteem,” I reply. “But surely it is not so serious betwixt yourself and Anjou? Can a single battle two months past have done such damage?”

  “Things between the Duc and me have never been particularly amicable. He likes me very well as an adversary—at tennis, in wrestling, in the competition for glory that so often accompanies war—but I do not believe I should ever have called us friends.”

  I shift uncomfortably. I can think of nothing I have observed to belie his statements, and I only wonder that I never reflected on the point before. “To ruin you with your conduct here, Anjou would have to ruin me. He would not do so. He loves me too well.” And, I think, as he loves me, surely he will come to love the Duc better when he sees that I do.

  “I love you well too, and therefore I cannot take such a chance. I should like to pay open court to you”—my heart leaps—“but now is not the time. Let the matter with Portugal be settled first.” Then, perhaps sensing how I tense, he says, “Settled to our liking.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime we will be as careful as mice in a kitchen when the cat is about. Perhaps a diversion. I might court another.”

  I shake my head no.

  “Think about it, Marguerite. It is the surest way to keep the attention I pay you from being discovered.”

  “It is the surest way to make me despise another lady.”

  Leaning forward, he whispers in my ear, “Your jealousy excites me.” Pulling me to him once more, he kisses me until I cannot remember where we are. All thoughts are of him. All of my body throbs and aches unbearably.

  “God give me strength,” he murmurs as he releases me.

  Now it is my turn to whisper. Putting my mouth against his ear, I ask, “If I let you create a diversion, will we be able to continue to snatch moments such as these?”

  His breathing seems labored. His hand rises to my breast and squeezes through my gown. “To be alone with you … truly alone … is my greatest temptation and my greatest fear.”

  Again I move my mouth to his ear. I feel his entire body stiffen. “Why fear what is such a pleasure. Though I am a maid and ought to fear the unknown, when I am with you I would run where I have never walked. I fear detection only, nothing else.”

  His mouth moves to my throat, kissing lower and lower. I have visions of reclining on the bench, of letting him … I do not know what, for in truth I am aggravatingly naïve of the details of such things. But it is as I said to him: I am not afraid. I lean back, pulling on his shoulder, willing him to follow me. I feel him hesitate. “The Duchesse de Nevers’ sister pines for you,” I say. “I have never had any fondness for her. Let her be the object of your feigned pursuit. Send her letters. Kiss her hand.” I pull him toward me again. “Only, for mercy’s sake, kiss me before the fire your last kiss ignited consumes me.”

  He hesitates. “I will kiss you,” he says, “so long as I feel sufficient self-control to be certain that I do nothing else.” Then, leaning forward, he presses his mouth to the cleft where my breasts meet above the line of my bodice. I give a soft moan and in response he darts his tongue into that crevice, making my back arch with pleasure. I bury my hands in his hair, clutching it so that he cannot escape me. The Princesse de Porcien is forgotten. All is forgotten save the sensations of my flesh and the faint smells of the garden wafted over us by the late August breeze.

  CHAPTER 10

  Autumn 1569—Château of Plessis-les-Tours, La Riche, France

  “Shut the window.” Mother looks up from her embroidery. I hurry to comply. The warm breezes of summer are flown, as are all the men. I wonder if the nip of fall is in the air where they are. For that matter, I wonder where that is, precisely.

  Each day Mother and I wait for two things: word that the war is over with Anjou victorious; and a letter from His Majesty’s ambassador in Portugal declaring me betrothed. We both anticipate the first with genuine impatience. When it comes to the second … I continue to feign enthusiasm, but it taxes me. Two weeks ago Her Majesty had a report blaming an outbreak of the plague in Lisbon for the delay of my betrothal. I found myself thinking—though it was unchristian—that Dom Sébastien might succumb. Since then we have had word the plague recedes, without the King even catching it. Death, it seems, cannot be counted on to extricate me from my situation. I must exert myself to do so.

  “Shall I bring you a wrap?” I ask Mother.

  “No, I will adjust my chair a little closer to the fire.” Settling in with her work again, she pauses to smile at me. “What a companion you have become.”

  “Nothing pleases me more than my closeness with you and my brothers, Madame. Truth be told, I am not eager to leave the bosom of my family to become Queen of Portugal.”

  “No girl is eager to leave what she knows for what she does not know,” Mother replies. Then, after a moment of consideration: “I may have been the exception, for though my uncle the Pope was good to me, he was not as a mother or father. Your grandfather François was much more of the latter to me.”

  “The King of Portugal delays matters. Might we not do the same? He and I are both young. Surely another year with you, Madame—which would give me the greatest pleasure—would be nothing to the Portuguese?”

  This time when she looks at me Mother’s eyes are more searching. “It means so much to you not to be parted from me?”

  “It does, Madame. Serving you … I feel it is my life’s work. Serving you, and being always here for Anjou.”

  “You miss him as much as I.” She nods understandingly.

  “If only the sentence of death pronounced by the Parlement upon Coligny were enough to kill that gentleman!”

  “Have faith, daughter. Someone will claim the fifty thousand écus, or your brother will do the deed without expectation of reward and come home to us.”

  “The Duc de Guise would surely also kill the gentleman without recompense.”

  “True, but we must not hope for that. After all, if His Grace were to have credit for the admiral, your brother would return to us all scowls and curses.”

  “However he returns, I wish to be here, Madame,” I say, endeavoring to turn the conversation back to my impending marriage.

  “And you shall be. Even if you were married tomorrow by proxy, some months must pass b
efore your journey to Portugal. The gowns alone would take so long.”

  “I of course stand ready to do my duty, Madame. I only ask you to consider if I might be dutiful from a lesser distance. If I were given a French husband as my sister Claude was, I could be ever close to you.” There, I’ve said it. The thing I have longed to say but been afraid to.

  “Margot!” Mother’s face is not exactly angry, but neither is it pleased. I swallow hard, waiting for a lecture, balancing continued resistance against quick capitulation.

  A heavy knock sounds. The door swings wide, though Mother has not yet commanded the knocker to enter. Anjou’s close companion the Seigneur du Guast crosses the threshold, covered in dust. In a single instant my thoughts of the King of Portugal are gone and I doubt my mother could remember his name if pressed. This man comes from the field of battle. He comes with news of my brother … and of Guise.

  “Your Majesty, Your Highness. I have ridden from Moncontour. There has been a mighty battle.”

  “And?” Mother demands.

  “His Majesty’s troops, under the Duc d’Anjou, were victorious. Eight thousand Huguenots surrendered. Coligny flees south but is badly injured, and surely, once cornered, he and those with him must fall.”

  “Praise be to God,” I say, crossing myself adamantly.

  “Praise be to your brother,” Mother responds. “He is a warrior prince to match any alive. How is my son?”

  For the first time I notice that Guast’s face does not entirely reflect the triumph he reports. “Your Majesty”—he licks his upper lip as if he is nervous and my stomach clenches—“the Duc was unhorsed at the height of the battle.”

  “Oh, dear God!” Mother’s face blanches and my stomach flips. If something has happened to Henri, how shall either of us bear it? “Is he hurt?”

  “Scrapes and bruises only, Your Majesty, I give you my word, and I was with him after the event.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Quite certain. Be assured, Your Majesty, the Duc is more distressed in spirit by his unhorsing than damaged in body. His personal guard, devoted to him as all who know him must be, fought ferociously to protect him until he could be mounted again and withdraw from the field. His Grace charged me particularly with telling you not to distress yourself on his account, for he holds Your Majesty’s peace of mind too dear to bear the thought of worrying you needlessly.”

  I see a muscle in my mother’s cheek move slightly, and her hands on the arms of her chair are rigid. “Seigneur, we appreciate the speed with which you brought this news and the solicitude of your delivery. I pray you will tell the Duc we showed as much bravery in receiving word of his peril as he showed during it.”

  “Of course. But Your Majesty will have an opportunity both to show fortitude and examine the Duc for signs of his fall. Even as he pursued Coligny, the Duc bid me beseech Your Majesty, and His Majesty the King, to follow him south and meet him proche de Saint-Jean-d’Angély. He means to siege that city and would have the wise counsel and approbation of you both.”

  My heart, a minute ago pounding in fear, soars. We will go to Anjou. I will see with my own eyes that my brother is safe. I will soothe and cheer him with a report of all that I have said and done on his behalf while he fought so valiantly.

  “Sir, I will take your report to the King. Pray, if you can bear to be apart from your friends in arms so long, rest with us a day. Then I must have you back in your saddle with a message for my son: Tell the Duc that though I must move many and cannot travel with the same speed as you, the Court will soon be in sight of his tents.”

  Guast, having bowed to Mother, passes me as he withdraws. As he does, he darts me a look I do not quite understand.

  The flurry of packing begins while Mother is still closeted with Charles. A journey of more than forty-five leagues lies ahead, and it will take us three days. I can hardly bear to wait so long to embrace and congratulate the hero of Moncontour, as Anjou is being called.

  As I move briskly about, giving instructions, I pray the fine autumn weather will hold. Wet roads could double the time it takes to make our journey. I try not to think of other events that might slow our progress; with the country at war no road is guaranteed to be safe.

  Gillone sidles up to me carrying an armload of folded chemises. “Your Highness”—her voice is low—“the Seigneur du Guast is at the door.”

  My surprise is complete. I cannot imagine why the Seigneur calls upon me rather than resting after his long ride.

  “Make sure to pack my new gown, the one the color of golden autumn leaves,” I instruct as I head for the door. I do not immediately see du Guast, then I realize he is standing to one side of the opening, close to the wall.

  “Seigneur.” I incline my head.

  “Your Highness.” He does not move.

  “Will you come in, Sir?”

  “No, I thank you.” Looking in either direction he lowers his voice. “I have a message, un message privé, for you from the Duc d’Anjou.”

  My heart flutters. I wonder what my brother would tell me alone? Perhaps some details of his injuries? Or perhaps he tasks me with some action? I reach out a hand expectantly.

  “It is not here”—he taps the pouch at his waist—“but here.” He lays two fingers alongside his temple. “Can you meet me?”

  “Meet you?”

  “Alone.”

  * * *

  I look behind me once more to make certain I was not followed. Confident no one’s eyes are upon me, I press through a slender opening in the row of hedges at the back of the garden. The space between the hedges and the stone wall was left so that gardeners might trim the massive border. It is like a small allée. I discovered it in the month since our arrival. How I wish I had known of it when Guise and I might have walked it together.

  The Seigneur du Guast is waiting. At the sight of me, he moves forward and executes a bow. I notice, with some confusion, that he is dressed like a gallant—as if he were attending a court festivity, not meeting furtively to deliver a message.

  He offers his arm and, not knowing what else to do, I take it. We walk in silence, passing from light into the shadow of the tall wall before us.

  “I have heard,” Guast says, “that after the siege of Poitiers the Duc de Guise came here.”

  “He did.” I am utterly confused. Why is the Seigneur speaking of the Duc? “As one of that city’s chief defenders, he wished to make a report and receive the royal approbation that was his due.”

  “I hear also that the King was not alone in praising him; that all the women of the Court offered him their admiration.”

  “His bravery did him no harm with anyone at Court, including those of the fairer sex.” The thought of how jealous I have been over the other ladies’ praise of the Duc causes my ears to burn.

  “He has your admiration, does he not?”

  I stop walking and drop his arm. “What has this to do with my brother or his message?”

  “You fail to answer my question,” he replies. “Interesting. Yet I do not need an answer. I saw how you smiled at him when we were all gathered here to hear the Duc d’Anjou’s plans. And I saw more as well.”

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “I had an upset stomach the night of your arrival and came out to the garden to find some mint to chew on.”

  I remember the shadowy figure that evening, my gasp, and the long moment he peered toward where the Duc and I sat. Knowing that the figure was Guast makes my mouth dry. I decide that any protest will only make him more certain, so I say nothing.

  “Again silence.” He shakes his head as if this means something. “Would it please you to know my spies say the Duc is mad for you? That no amount of flirting or flattering words from other ladies can divert his attention?”

  It does please me, but I have no intention in confiding in this man. None of this is in the smallest part his business. “Nonsense, Seigneur. All at Court know that His Grace woos the Princesse de Porci
en.”

  Guast actually has the temerity to laugh!

  “Sir,” I say sharply, “I had some difficulty in arranging to meet you and I must return to the château with all possible haste. You are wasting time.”

  “I am, indeed.” He steps forward until his breast touches my own. He runs an index finger along the side of my cheek. “Is this how he touches you?” The smell of his breath, its warmth on my face, makes bile rise in my mouth. I realize with a sudden, horrifying certitude that there is no message.

  I step back but my retreat is stopped by the hedge, and Guast follows. I am trapped between his body, so close that I can feel its heat, and the branches behind me, which press my back through the silk of my gown.

  Leaning in further so I can feel his beard against my face, he says, “You accept the caresses of Guise, do you not? Mine may not be the hands of a Duc, but they know how to give pleasure.” Without warning, his right arm goes around my waist, pulling me to him, and his left hand fondles my breast.

  “Seigneur! You forget yourself,” I gasp.

  “No, indeed, Your Highness, I know who I am—the proud son of an ancient family and a close friend of your brother, Anjou. I would be your close friend as well.” His mouth closes over mine. The thrust of his tongue between my lips feels like a violation. I clench my teeth against its further intrusion and shove with all my might against his chest, twisting and turning in an effort to escape him.

  My mouth breaks free of his. “I will tell my brother you importune me.”

  I expect Guast to release me. Everyone knows Anjou adores me. But instead Guast says, “Better not. I can make trouble for you, Lady—whisper in your brother’s ear what I know of your dalliance with Guise. He has no love for the Duc. Yes, I can hurt you, but I would rather please you.” He pulls me more firmly against him and I can feel his arousal. I am gripped by fear such as I have never known. We are at the very corner of the garden, cut off from view. If I break free of him, can I outrun him? Can I even escape the hedges? If I scream, will anyone hear?