“Please, you must let me go.”
“Must I?” His mouth closes over mine again. As I struggle, the branches behind me scrape at me like the claws of angry dogs.
“My mother,” I gasp as he breaks off his violent kiss. “I will tell the Queen of these forced attentions.” Surely, if he does not fear Anjou, he fears Her Majesty. Everyone does.
“And I will tell Her Majesty that you made me willing proffer of your charms. Tell her that you slipped from the château, away from your gouvernante, intent on seducing. If it were not so, why come alone to this deserted spot?”
“You told me you had a message from my brother!”
“Did I?”
“You are evil.”
“You drive me to threats.” That hand that was on my breast goes to my hip. It begins to gather my skirts. I can feel my hem rising. “I am a captive of your beauty, just like Guise.”
“Not like His Grace,” I say, frantically trying to arrest the work of his hand with one of my own. “The Duc would never impose himself upon me. He is an honorable man, and I am chaste.”
Guast inhales sharply. “Chaste?”
I realize I have made a terrible mistake. Far from inspiring pity or honorable behavior, my confession appears to have excited Guast further. “Here is an unanticipated pleasure.”
Heedless of the pain, I press farther back into the bushes. “Sir, my chastity is meant for the King of Portugal. If I am found not to be virginal on my wedding night and accuse you—”
“No one will believe I, rather than Guise, took your maidenhead, except the gentleman himself. And I shall enjoy lording that over him. Just as I shall enjoy having what is meant for a king.” His voice is thick with lust. Grabbing me by both shoulders, he swings me away from the bushes. I know instinctively he means to push me to the ground. If he succeeds, I am lost. With all my might I throw my weight toward him, pushing against his breast with the palms of my hands. He is thrown off balance, releasing me as he struggles to remain on his feet. It seems that he will, and then a miracle happens. The Seigneur’s foot, touching a patch of damp and matted autumn leaves, slips and is lost from under him.
As he falls to one knee I turn and run like an animal pursued by the pack toward the gap in the hedge. I am through it, scrambling across the parterre. I dare not look back. Such a glance would steal precious moments. Holy Mary, mother of God, give my feet wings. And then, oh, second miracle, I am inside the palace. My immediate, urgent need to escape the Seigneur gives way to a need to reach my chamber without attracting attention. For the plain fact is I did slip out unaccompanied, and to be seen returning with my clothing asunder and my face white as ashes could be the start of damaging rumors.
At last I slip into my chamber. I want to weep. Indeed, the first tears of what would be a torrent slip down my cheek. But, turning from fastening the door, I find Gillone looking at me.
“Your Highness, what has happened? Are you crying?” She hurries forward.
“Help me undress.” I seldom use a tone of command but I employ one now, hoping to arrest further questions. I turn so that Gillone can unfasten my bodice.
She gasps. “Your Highness, your dress! It is slit and torn as if by animals.”
“You imagine things, silly girl. I only slipped trying to return from the gardens and fell against a hedge.”
“Slipped?” Gillone does not sound convinced. She removes my overskirt and fingers a gash in the silk.
“Yes. If the dress cannot be discreetly mended, destroy it.” Then, seeing that her look has become even more incredulous, I add, “Her Majesty had little tolerance for spoiled gowns when I was a child. Do you imagine my age would spare me from a tongue-lashing now?”
Dipping her head, Gillone gathers the ruined gown into her arms. “Perhaps you should tell Her Majesty what happened.” We both know she does not mean the story I just told her. She senses that was a lie and urges me to tell another the truth if I will not tell her. Admittedly, she appears to do this out of kindness, but my temper flares.
“Out!” I order. Tell Mother what? She would think me both disobedient and a fool for going to meet Guast. And she might think worse. She might think me lascivious. Guast certainly did. I thought my conduct toward the Duc de Guise innocent—or, if not precisely innocent, harmless. What were a few stolen kisses? I see now that they were sin.
Going to my prie-dieu, I kneel and allow myself to weep—swept with both relief and guilt. Oh, Holy Virgin, it is clear to me that I am lust-filled, and that my wicked desires were plain enough that the Seigneur du Guast perceived them. Help me to purge myself of my sinful thoughts and feelings. Give me the resolve to keep the Duc at arm’s length and accept only such attentions as might be paid me before a chaperone.
The moments in the garden come rushing back to me. Even as my lips burn and my skin crawls at the thought of Guast’s hands on me, I cannot help concluding that I brought his attentions upon myself when I let the Duc touch me in similar ways. I must, therefore, be forever silent about what has happened, not only because I might not be believed, but because my silence is my penance for past transgressions.
* * *
Saint-Jean-d’Angély is on the horizon at last. The past six days have been a misery. The Seigneur du Guast lingered with the Court after our encounter. Though he spoke not one word to me, his insouciance and the bold way he looked at me added to my mortification. His departure should have been a blessed release. But those moments in the garden are never long from my mind. I am having nightmares. I cannot eat.
I’ve ignored Henriette’s pointed questions and Gillone’s looks. Faithful to my self-imposed pledge, I’ve told no one what passed. Praise heaven, Mother attributes my lack of appetite and the circles beneath my eyes to concern over Anjou. After all, she also looks haggard, and Anjou’s unhorsing is the cause.
As my brother’s camp comes into sight through the drizzling rain that has punctuated our journey, she places a hand over mine. “Not long now. We will see your brother sound and whole and will ourselves be so for the first time since the Seigneur brought us word of his fall.”
Oh, Henri, how I long to see you! If I am your champion you are also mine, and I will be safe once I am in your sight. Perhaps I may find a way to get Guast banished from your circle without telling you what he has done.
When the carriage stops, Anjou is there. Charles climbs down. There is an awkward exchange of bows, then His Majesty hastens to the shelter of a tent bearing the royal standard. Henri does not follow. He stands, rain streaming from his hat onto the shoulders of his doublet, waiting for us to descend. As soon as Mother’s feet are on the ground, he pulls her into an embrace.
“My darling”—she pushes him to arm’s length so she can examine him better—“what a relief to see you well. Here we are, the women who love you best in all the world.” She embraces him again, then steps aside to make way for me, and I quite willingly follow her example, throwing myself upon my brother, my tears at seeing him mixing with the rain.
Henri’s arms do not close around me. Instead he turns and offers an arm to Mother. “You should not stand in such weather. How could I bear it if you became ill on my account?” He leads her toward a tent and I follow, lifting my gown, hopping over puddles and wondering why my embrace was not returned.
Inside, Henri takes Mother’s cloak. I try to catch his eye as a servant removes mine, but he is busy pouring Mother wine, waving away a second attendant in order to do the task himself. Anjou’s eyes seem to touch on everything but me. Dismissing the servants, he beckons to Mother. “Come to the brazier.”
Henri rubs Mother’s hands between his own. “I hope you find the arrangement of your tent satisfactory. I supervised it myself tout proche to mine.”
Anjou speaks rapidly. There is high color in his cheeks. He is clearly agitated. That likely explains my being slighted. Like Charles, Henri has a propensity to become fixated on a single thing, worrying it as a dog does a bone. I wonder what he is fret
ting over. Is he dwelling on some event from his last battle or anticipating his next? Flattery, I think, should revive his spirits and gain his attention.
“We heard much of your magnificent victory,” I say, coming forward to pour myself a glass, since no one has offered me one, “but no one can match your descriptive powers. Tell us: What was it like to see the Swiss shatter the Huguenot Landsknechts?”
Anjou’s eyes meet mine for the first time. They are surprisingly hard. “I have no wish to speak of such things. You must rely on others to tell the tale. There are those who can be satisfied by an incomplete victory, but I cannot.”
“My Alexander”—Mother lifts a hand to his shoulder—“how can you call it incomplete? Prisoners in the thousands, Coligny injured … That is a glorious victory, to be certain.”
“Ah, but, Madame, I had thought to make Coligny ride the ass as I did Condé. A dead man cannot flee south and take the remnants of his armies with him.”
Here, then, is the reason for Henri’s ill humor: Coligny’s escape.
“The admiral has the devil’s own luck.” Mother shakes her head. “But it cannot last forever. You must tell me about this Maurevert you mention in your letters. A man with so few scruples could be useful, provided his aim improves.”
“Madame, I am happy to give you my opinion on that subject, but later…” Anjou looks at me, his lip curling back oddly.
Something is wrong, and it is not merely the escape of Coligny.
“… Some stories are best kept close, and our sister has friends only too eager to know every detail of our actions.”
I am perplexed by his reference to “friends.” But if Henri’s meaning is ambiguous, his hostility is clear. Mother does not miss it—indeed, how could she? “Henri, what goes on here?”
“Here?” he replies. “Nothing. Elsewhere … well, we shall talk of that later. When you are out of your wet things and we are alone.”
A handful of women tumble in, laughing and shaking the rain from their cloaks. Henri kisses Mother’s hand. “I will leave you to the ministrations of your ladies.” As he goes, he throws me a last look—filled with both anger and pain.
Has Guast said something to Anjou, and what precisely? If he claims I have fallen to him, I will defend myself! Surely he is not such a fool. I must find out what is amiss here. But the usual entertainments stand between me and that opportunity. Thankfully our long days of travel have left everyone tired. By the time we share a cold supper, yawns are frequent, and Her Majesty declares her intent to retire early. Good. Henri will surely come to see her once she is tucked into bed. He always does. I will try to have a word with him while he, Mother, and I are closeted cozily together.
Charlotte mixes Mother’s wine while the rest of us undress Her Majesty. As Mother slips into a velvet nightgown lined in sarcenet, Anjou enters. The cluster of bodies surrounding Mother parts for him and he kisses her on both cheeks.
“You may go,” she says, dismissing the others. As they pull on their cloaks, I mix glasses of wine for my brother and myself.
Anjou leans in and says something in Mother’s ear.
She hesitates, then says, “Margot, you as well.”
Oh, no. Henriette, at the tail of those departing, glances back. Trying to seem unruffled, I take up my cloak and bustle to join her.
I stop just outside. Henriette and Charlotte do as well. The three of us stand silent in the circle cast by the lantern in Henriette’s hands. Only when the others are out of sight do I speak. “Something is wrong.”
“Nonsense!” Charlotte squeezes my arm. “You know how they are, Her Majesty and the Duc: they have merely been apart too long and each craves the other’s undivided attention.”
Henriette, however, clearly believes me. Raising the lantern so that she can see my face, she asks, “Can the reason you are dismissed be the same that sees you off your food and out of looks?”
“I believe so.” My mind races. I fear more than ever it is Guast. But how can I be entirely certain without speaking of my encounter with that gentleman directly? Because if I am wrong I would not have either Anjou or Mother know of Guast’s attack.
“Come away and tell us all. We will devise what is best to be done,” Henriette urges.
I shake my head no. “Leave me.” Standing in the rain, I resolve to probe the cause of Anjou’s pique first with Mother, who, loving me as she does, will surely tell me. I must wait for my brother to depart.
Henriette shrugs, knowing I can be as stubborn as she. She offers me the lantern. When I make no move to take it, she slips an arm about Charlotte’s waist and the two move away. Charlotte looks back before they disappear, her pale face a mask of concern. I am sorry if I have hurt her. She and Henriette are my dearest friends, but this is a Valois matter.
Left alone in the dark and rain, I cannot say how long I stand, only that it is long enough for my shoes and cloak to be soaked through, long enough for me to feel as if the rain will drown me. Then a shaft of light cuts the darkened ground. My brother, lantern in hand, turns back to the interior of Mother’s tent. “Bon nuit, my beloved.” He hurries off as I stand perfectly still so that he will not see me.
Mother does not look up when I enter. Likely she thinks I am a servant. She sits calmly before her brazier, arms crossed over her chest, lost in thought. I clear my throat.
“Marguerite, what do you do here?” Her use of my full name is telling.
“Madame,”—I hasten forward—“I would speak with you.”
“Speak, then. I am tired. This day has been more trying than expected.” She looks at me as if I ought to know why and my heart skips a beat.
“For myself as well, Madame. Can you tell me why my dearest brother disdains me? Why you break our comfortable habit of spending a few quiet moments together before you retire? I cannot account for the coldness on either of your parts.” Or rather, I will not if I do not have to.
“I well believe that, daughter, for you are young and foolish.”
“Young I may be, but this past month you have praised me many times for my clarity of thought and maturity of action. To my knowledge I have done nothing to alter your opinion.”
Her face softens. “I am willing to believe that what you have done you have done unwittingly—”
This confuses me, for if Henri reports to Her Majesty that I have flirted or worse with Guast, how could such immodest behavior be unwitting?
“—but the plain fact is you have attracted the amorous attentions of the Duc de Guise. Do you deny it?”
For a moment I am relieved. I am accused of Guise, not Guast, and here I may defend myself without mortification. Then a darker thought intrudes: for the second time in less than a fortnight my flirtation with the Duc brings unpleasant consequences.
“The Duc admires me, Madame, but how can that affect your opinion of me?”
“I cannot permit the House of Lorraine to use your ears to hear matters of state. They held sway over your brother King François. They will never have such influence with another Valois king while I draw breath.”
“Madame, I assure you, my ears are my own and my lips know better than to repeat matters important to my king or my kin.”
“Lips forget their restraint where kisses are involved, daughter. When you are older you will know the truth of this. Your brother says you have been flirting with Guise. There is nothing unusual in a girl your age playing at love, but if you will make your lips available to the Duc and others for amorous enjoyments, can you blame me for making certain they have nothing of political significance to whisper?”
“Others”—the word stands out in Mother’s accusation. I am so angry that for a moment I cannot see. My face burns and angry tears sting the corners of my eyes. “Who else does my brother accuse me of?” I know the answer, but the question must still be asked. Oh, Henri, after all my devotion, how can you be so willing to believe and speak ill of me?
“Anjou asserts you tease the Seigneur du Guast and make a
fool of yourself in pursuit of him.”
“I detest the Seigneur and would rather have no lips than kiss him!”
“That is well, but I fear it is at odds with what your brother tells me.”
“My brother has been misled!”
“Why should the Seigneur spread rumors about you?”
Because I spurned his advances. I want to speak the words, to shriek them, but they simply will not come out. The thought of where they might lead stops my tongue. How can I bear to describe my encounter with du Guast to Mother? The mortification would crush me. And if she should not believe me … in that event, I think I would die.
After a moment or two of silence, Mother rises and, putting a hand on my arm, turns me in the direction of the door. “Go to bed, Margot.”
“Madame, I beseech you, have more faith in me. Do not distrust me on Anjou’s word alone.”
“You forget that I trusted you first on his word. If he has withdrawn his confidence, that is sufficient to shake mine.”
“And everything that passed between us is to be forgotten? All the good service I did for him set aside because someone tells him lies about me or he tells them himself?”
Mother slaps me. “Never call your brother a liar.”
I can taste blood, but I stand my ground. “Betrayer, then. Strike me again if you like, I will not take it back. I have offered Anjou nothing but loyalty and he defames me mightily in a manner calculated to cause me injury. I will not forget it.” I lift my chin defiantly, eager to see what Mother will say. Without a word she turns her back. It is worse than the slap.
* * *
“You are getting water on my carpet.” Anjou’s voice is maddeningly calm.
“Is that all you have to say?” Rage and disappointment rise like twin fountains inside me.
“What else should I say?”
“You might tell me why, though I have honored our pledge in every particular since Plessis-les-Tours, you have slandered me to Mother.”
Henri rises with his ordinary fluid grace as if nothing were wrong, and moves forward until he is very close. “You know why. The Duc de Guise. He moons over you. Everyone says so.” He reaches out his right hand and runs the back of it along my jaw in a caress before taking my chin between his thumb and first finger.
Médicis Daughter Page 20