Médicis Daughter

by Sophie Perinot

  “And if he does? Do you think a little flattery is sufficient to make me forget my duty to you?”

  “Ah, but it is more than flattery, is it not? You have fallen in love with the Duc.” He gives my chin a vicious squeeze, then releases it.

  “No.” I raise fingers to my face where it aches from his touch.

  “No? Come, Margot, your blush tells the truth that your lips will not.”

  “If I admire the Duc, so do half the women of the Court,” I reply defiantly. “Where is the betrayal in that?”

  “You are not the other women of the Court. You are as far above them as I am above Guise. How can you debase yourself with him?”

  “I do not debase myself! The Duc is not”—I struggle to make myself say the word, to contradict directly what I am sure my brother has heard from Guast—“not my lover. I do not take lovers. You cannot say the same.”

  “My mistresses have meant nothing to me. But Guise means something to you.” Anjou leans in until his lips brush my ear. His breath makes me quiver. “Does he mean more to you than I do? Will you torture me by embracing my enemy?”

  I take a step back. “The Duc is not your enemy. He serves the King under your command.”

  “He serves himself, and ignores my commands whenever it suits him. Or have you forgotten La Roche-l’Abeille?” My brother’s face is fierce. Despite months and intervening battles, the embarrassment of that occasion clearly remains a fresh wound.

  “I have not, but surely everyone else has. It is time you do too. Your many victories since are spoken of throughout France.”

  Anjou does not appear placated. I cannot understand why he fails to see any affection I have apportioned to Guise leaves plenty for him. “The Duc is an ambitious man,” I continue. “It would be unusual if he did not husband his own interests. But I have promised to safeguard yours and you can trust me to do so because I love you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Can you doubt it? Can you doubt it when I have sung to you, danced with you, hunted beside you, and taken your part in every quarrel since we were reunited at Fontainebleau five years ago? Can you doubt it when I offered God my life in place of yours when you were ill?”

  “I do doubt it.” His eyes blaze again, but not with anger. This is something else. He moves close once more. “But you can put my doubts to rest. Swear you will not see Guise alone.”

  It is difficult to imagine such a pledge, but not as difficult as it would have been a week ago. My brother merely asks me to give voice to the promise I made on my knees the night of Guast’s assault. Yet my voice is a whisper as I speak. “I swear it.”

  Anjou exhales audibly. His left arm encircles my waist. He bends and I expect his customary kiss on the forehead, but his lips do not stop their descent until they meet mine. It is a lover’s kiss. My mind spins and settles upon one thought—Henri’s anger was rooted in jealousy! I am confused both by this fact and by my lack of revulsion at his lips against mine. Here is sin greater than any the Duc and I have committed, yet my heart races as it does in Guise’s embrace. My tongue seeks Anjou’s and my flesh thrills at the touch of his hands.

  Then, in an instant, attraction turns to disgust—not at my brother but at myself. I must be the most wanton, lustful woman on God’s earth; a monster so openly licentious that every man around me succumbs to base passion, even my own flesh and blood. Worse still, my passions respond to such sin-soaked caresses. Tearing myself from Anjou’s embrace, I stoop, hands on knees, retch, and vomit.

  Henri recoils. Doubtless cognizant for the first time of the evil nature of what we have done. I put up a hand to shield my face so he cannot look at me.

  “I see how it is. I disgust you! I repulse you but Guise does not.”

  I look up, stunned. This is his concern?

  “And to think I believed you when you said you loved me best. You are all artifice, just as Guast said, captivating men for your own cruel purposes. Unwilling to fulfill the promises your lips and your actions make.”

  I cannot breathe. Cannot believe what I am hearing. I retch again, but nothing comes up.

  Grabbing me roughly, Anjou drags me toward the entrance of his tent. “Well, the Duc can have you, then, and welcome. I want none of you. From this moment your beauty and your pretty words have lost their power over me. Get out!” Opening the tent, he shoves me into the rain. I stumble and fall to the ground, shaking uncontrollably, in the wedge of light shining forth from behind my brother. Then the flap closes, the light is gone—all the light in my world. I am abandoned by Henri, distrusted by my mother. I am wretched, guilty, and alone.

  I have no will to move. Will Anjou do me better justice, I wonder, if he emerges in the morning to find me dead on the ground? Resting my head on my knees, I cry. When I run out of tears, I cannot think what to do. Then it comes: confess. I must have forgiveness of my sins, and then I must avoid repeating them. My pledge to distance myself from Guise, given to Anjou, may not restore my brother’s or mother’s trust, but it is worth keeping nonetheless. Putting my hands down into the muck, I struggle to my feet. I will write to my Duc. Tell him that when we are together next, he must not come near. I will not see him alone again, and that thought nearly drives me once more to tears.

  The lanterns in my tent burn low. Gillone has fallen asleep, her head thrown back and my nightshift on her lap. Relieved not to have to explain where I was, I move cautiously so as not to wake her. Catching a glimpse of a face in the glass on my makeshift dressing table, I gasp. I turn this way and that, looking for the madwoman who has stolen into my tent before realizing the image is my own. My eyes are wild. Portions of my hair have come undone. Wet hanks hang about my face and cling to my neck. My skin is so pale, I might be mistaken for dead.

  Removing my cloak, I let it fall to the rug. I strip off the sodden dress underneath, tearing myself free when I cannot reach the fastenings. I crawl into bed in my damp chemise, clutching my writing box.

  How difficult my task is. The very act of writing to the Duc is inappropriate. If my letter should be intercepted, I must at least take care that it does me no further harm. Perforce, then, there is no room in it for the type of sweet words that might act as a balm to the sting I must deliver.

  “Your Grace.” The salutation will seem a slap to a man who has heard me whisper his Christian name. I bite back such thoughts and continue. “I fear our friendship, though innocent”—it would be cruelty to share the guilt I feel over our conduct; unnecessary too, since there will be no more—“occasions talk at Court.” My blood heats as I recall the nature of that talk. The balance of the note is brief, but bound to cause as much pain in the reader as it costs me to write it. I sign myself “Duchesse de Valois” and hasten to fold and seal the missive before more tears, like the one that bleeds the letters of my title, can fall upon the page and spoil it. Then I place the letter beneath my pillow. It is difficult to imagine sleeping on such a cruel object. But I am exhausted, and the thought that I will not sleep is barely formed before it is betrayed.

  I wake sneezing. My cloak is gone, as are the remnants of my gown. My head aches dully. My limbs feel like lead. But I must rise. I have duties. I do not expect a warm welcome in my mother’s tent, but I will attend her, belying the words my brother has spoken against me by my diligence. Besides, I must give my dreadful note to Henriette. Gillone eyes me questioningly as she dresses me, but whatever thoughts she has or conclusions she drew from the torn and ruined garments she whisked away while I slept, she keeps them to herself.

  Mother is in the final stages of her toilette when I reach her tent. Though the other ladies greet me warmly, I receive no acknowledgment from her. It is too late to insist on the honor of holding out her shoes, but as she moves to her dressing table I press forward. It has lately been falling to me to arrange Mother’s hair. Taking up a comb, I find my hand shaking. As a result the comb catches.

  “You are clumsy this morning.” Mother’s eyes in the mirror are sharp.

&n
bsp; “I am sorry, Your Majesty.”

  “Give the comb to someone else before I am pulled apart.”

  As I pass the comb, it is I who feels pulled apart. I have come to do my duty, but if I am to be snubbed publically it will be very hard to bear.

  As Mother’s hood and veil are fastened in place, Anjou enters.

  “Madame”—he brushes past me without a glance—“I see a good night’s sleep has refreshed you.” Anjou’s eyes catch mine in our mother’s glass. “Which is more than I can say for our sister. Such tired eyes, Margot. What disturbed your rest, I wonder?”

  “A guilty conscience, perhaps.” Mother’s words as she passes me are low, but even so, I am surely not the only lady who hears them.

  “Or perhaps she misses absent friends.” Henri winks obnoxiously. “But we have no time for such trivial worries. Come, I am eager to discuss my siege preparations.”

  When they are gone, the other ladies begin to straighten Mother’s things. I move to Henriette’s side.

  “You do not look well,” she says.

  “As my brother cruelly pointed out.”

  “No, not tired: ill. Come, I will walk you to your tent.”

  I let her guide me outside, then stop. “I will go and lie down, but need your assistance in a matter far more important than seeing me to bed.” I draw the note from between the front of my bodice and my partlet. “We both know that you have ways of conveying messages that ought not to be sent.”

  Henriette laughs. “I should object to being depicted as devious, but I own I delight in it. Give me the letter.” Taking it from me, she turns it over in her hand. “No address, but I know the recipient.” My note disappears into the bodice of her gown. “Is love the cause of all this pallor? I would be very disappointed to hear it. If I have taught you nothing else these years, I hope I have taught you not to make a fool of yourself over a man—even a very handsome one.” She crosses her arms expectantly.

  “No. I am not pining for Guise. I am mourning my loss of favor on his account. He is the cause of the rupture with Anjou, and through Anjou with my mother. They think I spy for the Duc.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  She nods, satisfied. “Then consider your letter delivered.”

  I find myself wondering if, had my answer been different, I would have been left without a messenger?

  CHAPTER 11

  Autumn 1569—Saint-Jean-d’Angely, France

  I own that I expected my mother to send for me. Each of the three mornings since she snubbed me, I’ve dressed and waited for my absence to be remarked upon. Waited for a summons. But my mother, it would seem, is quite contented to go about her business without me. I’ve taken my meals alone, pleading indisposition, but even this raises no alarm in Mother. I am in fact ill—listless and feverish by turns—and have little appetite. Gillone entreated me to let her go for the physician yesterday, but I would have none of it. As the third afternoon of my self-imposed exile wanes, I change my mind. The flashes of heat I have been suffering give way to a constant fire beneath my skin and a pain such as I have never known in my head. I send for Castelan. Gillone returns with Henriette instead.

  My friend’s eyes are full of concern. “She burns! Listen,” Henriette crouches beside me, “a fever most terrible has taken hold of the camp. It began with a half a dozen gentlemen and now there must be fifty lying with parched lips, covered with purple sores.” She turns to Gillone. “Have you seen such sores upon her?”

  “No, Your Grace.”

  “There is a mercy, then. We must get her to bed.”

  Hands are upon me but I cannot imagine that they will be able to lift me. I am as heavy as one of my brother’s iron cannon. Yet, despite my conviction, I am raised. I open my eyes and the room spins. I try to walk, but fear I am of little help as Henriette and Gillone bear me the short distance to my bed.

  “I am going to the Queen,” Henriette says.

  Gillone reaches out a hand and catches Her Grace’s sleeve. “Are they dying?” she whispers.

  “Yes.”

  I let my eyes fall shut. So while I have been hiding, Death crept into the camp. Is he coming for me? I want to ask but my tongue is too dry and cleaves to the roof of my mouth. Gillone, murmuring a string of unintelligible words, places a cloth on my head. It is like ice! I struggle to push it away. “Can you not see I am freezing?” I say testily through chattering teeth. I close my eyes and, when the cloth returns, have not the strength to resist it.

  Time no longer exists. I fade in and out of consciousness, uncertain of much of what I see or hear in those moments when my ears and eyes are open. Of only one thing am I absolutely certain: Mother is here. It is night. It is day. It is something that I do not recognize as either. Yet Mother remains. Once I think I hear her singing to me in Italian. Is it a dream—all of it save the fire that burns me and the aches in my joints and head? If it is, I would not wake, for in my feverish delusions I have proof Mother cares.

  My eyes open. Something is different. The pain is gone. Things around me are no longer shadows that fade in and out of focus. I can quite clearly see a lamp burning on a table near the foot of my bed. Mother dozes in a chair next to it. I find I have the power to turn my head, and discover Charlotte sitting beside my bed. I lift a hand and beckon her—a mighty feat. She comes and, lifting my hand to her lips, bursts into tears.

  “Why do you weep?” My voice sounds loud in the silence and strange as well—cracked, as if I were aged.

  “Because two days ago none thought to see you open your eyes again.”

  A dry cough on my part causes her to drop my hand and offer water. I drink deep, letting the liquid soothe my parched throat, then ask, “How long have I been ill?”

  “More than a fortnight, and each day worse than the last. Her Majesty has been quite desperate. She would not leave you even to see Castelan when he called for her as he lay dying.”

  “Castelan is dead?”

  “Chappelain too. Ambroise Paré rode from Paris lest the King be left without a physician. Scores of others succumbed—from foot soldiers to gentlemen we have dined and danced with…” Her words trail off into a small sob.

  So our Lord has, in His wisdom, left me to live while gathering others to Him. “Has Anjou—”

  I mean to ask if my brother has been here, crying and begging my forgiveness, but Charlotte interposes peremptorily. “Be assured, both your brothers were untouched by this pestilence.”

  Mother shifts and opens her eyes. Seeing Charlotte sitting upon my bed, she springs to her feet.

  “Is she gone?”

  “Where should I go when you have cared for me so tenderly?” I say.

  Relief sweeps across Her Majesty’s usually inscrutable features. “God be praised,” she says, coming to lay a hand on my forehead. Then, as if embarrassed by her unguarded behavior: “I ought to have known it would be so—whatever the doctors said—for I did not see you in your grave.”

  Mother gestures for her chair and Charlotte draws it up. Sitting down, Her Majesty momentarily rests her hand upon mine. “You gave us many hours of worry. His Majesty and Anjou asked after you until I could no longer bear to answer their inquiries. They would both have been at your bedside had prudence not made me forbid it. I am sure you will see them in the morning. Think of what a balm that will be.”

  * * *

  Anjou lies at the foot of my bed, gazing at me as if I were the sun in the sky. Seeing me reach for a book on the table beside me, he says, “Will reading not tire you? Shall I read aloud to you?” Without waiting for a reply, he leaps up, snatches the book from me, and resumes his position.

  Mother, who sits nearby embroidering, gives him a doting smile. Her Majesty is delighted with Anjou’s devotion to me as I make my slow recovery. My brother begins to declaim dramatically. I try to ignore the faces he makes at me when Mother’s head is bent over her work, and try to lose myself in his words. I am not entirely successful. Beneath my covers my h
ands clench. After perhaps a quarter of an hour Mother says, “The light is fading: it is time for me to dress to sup with the King. Will you come with me, my son?”

  “I will follow. I can still see well enough to entertain my sister a little longer.”

  Mother places a hand on Anjou’s shoulder and stoops to kiss the top of his head. “Do not strain your eyes. Good night, daughter.”

  The ruse continues only briefly once the tent flap has closed. Tossing the book onto the bed, Anjou says, “Finish it yourself if you are inclined. Or do you have more interesting reading? Come, Margot, do you hide Guise’s letters under your mattress?” He slides a hand beneath the ticking, heedless of how he jostles me.

  I do not bother to deny such correspondence. “Do you not have a city to siege?” I ask bitingly.

  “Oh, things go well enough. I can spare some time for you.”

  “I do not desire your company.”

  “True. But I desire to make certain you do not tell poisonous falsehoods to our mother.”

  His attendance is not what keeps me from speaking out against him. Saying unfavorable things about Anjou can only rebound to my detriment. I learned that when I called him a liar and received a slap for it. I have been reminded of it throughout my recovery as I see Mother praise him for his false attentions to me. But I will not be the one to enlighten Anjou, even if by showing him the truth I might be rid of him. His fear of being degraded in Mother’s eyes is the only weapon I have in the war begun between us.

  “I will bide my time,” I say. “One day the city will fall and battle will take you elsewhere. In your absence Mother will see by my virtuous conduct that her fears of me are misplaced. She is too clever to be fooled by your lies for long.”

  “Not lies!” Anjou looms over me. “I only wish they were lies,” he says bitterly. He draws a deep breath and something in his eyes changes. “Prove to me they are. Tell me that you love me and I will rebuild what I have destroyed.”