Médicis Daughter

by Sophie Perinot

  “Your Grace—”

  “Henri.”

  “Your Grace, it has been brought to my attention most forcefully that our…” I pause. Our what? What word can I use? “Affair” suggests more than we have done. “Dalliance” trivializes our encounters and they were anything but trivial to me. “… that our amour has led me to transgress, to behave in a manner unbefitting a princess of France.” I look at my lap. “I must ameliorate my ways before I embarrass His Majesty.”

  “I am an embarrassment?”

  Glancing up, I find his eyes as full of pain as they were in the courtyard last evening. How I wish I could stop hurting him. “No,” I say. “You are a gentleman of honor and well-earned reputation; I am not embarrassed of my admiration for you. But it has led me into sin.”

  “A kiss is a sin?”

  “Not one.”

  “How many, then? How many does it take to make a sin?”

  “Sir, we have surely exchanged enough kisses to cross the threshold wherever it lies. And not all kisses are equal.” I feel myself blushing.

  “I consider myself a devout man, and yet I do not believe anything we have done is sin,” he replies earnestly. “Not the embraces we have exchanged nor the professions of love.” Taking a hand from his knee, he runs it through his hair.

  “Others think our flirtation less innocent.” I lower my voice. “They mistake me for another sort of dame de la cour.”

  “Who? Who thinks such things of you?” He springs to his feet. “I will call them out and run them through!”

  His fierce, protective tone, the angry tilt of his jaw—I believe I have never loved the Duc more. I ache inside.

  “I cannot say.” I drop my head. For a moment nothing happens. Then the Duc sits down. I feel his fingers upon my chin, drawing it upward until we are eye to eye once more.

  “Such gossip is poison, but you must not let it fell you. You know that you are not such a one. I know it.”

  I wish I felt the confidence he so obviously does on the point. But Anjou’s words blaming me for his attraction—and Guast’s wolfish glances—are not so easily dismissed.

  “There is more. The Duc d’Anjou believes I spy for you.”

  “He is a fool!”

  He is far worse.

  “Is this why you distance yourself from me—to silence unjust gossip?”

  I nod. He smiles. I am stunned.

  “What can there be to smile about?”

  “I thought you had ceased to love me.” He takes my hand. I know that I ought to retrieve it, but his touch, unlike that of the other men who have lately sought my hand and more, comforts.

  “I kept telling myself it could not be so, for you cried when you wrote that dreadful letter—”

  “You noticed.”

  “Of course. But the stain was so at odds with the prose, and soon I saw only the latter. Again and again I asked myself why you would demote me by the term ‘friendship’ and call me by my title. The only explanation I could find was terrible—that I had lost your love.”

  “You have not. But can we not love from a greater distance?”

  He draws the hand he holds to his mouth and grazes my knuckles with his lips. “Can I do this from a distance?”

  “No.” I sigh where he perhaps expected me to laugh, and his face falls.

  “I distress you. That is not my intent—ever. If you will not let me fight in defense of your reputation, then I will live in defense of it. What must I do?”

  “I have sworn I will not be alone with you.”

  “Then you will not be: I will renounce the pleasure of unchaperoned moments. And in public not a word, not a look, shall escape me which would raise an eyebrow of the Baronne de Retz—at least, not when there is anyone nearby to hear or see it.”

  At this I do laugh. “And when they are not?”

  “Why, then I shall say I love you and call you Marguerite. And you will smile and whisper, ‘I love you too, Henri.’”

  “I do.”

  “Knowing that will make all our new cautions bearable.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Spring 1570, Paris

  “No, no, no!” Henriette’s voice is strident enough to bring Gillone’s head popping out of the adjoining chamber. I wave my shadow back.

  “How can you be so cruel?”

  Henriette’s expression is hard. “It is you who are cruel—to yourself and to me, a friend who only tries to safeguard you from your own foolishness.”

  “But you have relayed messages between us before. Many times.”

  “I was trying to help you to be discreet, but that is no longer possible. The whole Court talks of your romance with the Duc and speculates on where it will end. I do not need to speculate. I can predict the future as clearly as Her Majesty claims she can—at least in this instance.” She shakes her head. “Your mother will crush this amour, and you will be even further from her favor than you are now.”

  “I do not believe that. Nor does Henri,” I reply defiantly. “Her Majesty grows frustrated by the lack of progress in the Portuguese match—”

  “And you think her current short temper favors you? Unbelievable!” Henriette throws up her hands.

  “We do not! Why do you think Henri has left Court? We know we have engendered a dangerous level of talk, and this is not the time for him to press his suit. But it does not follow that such a time will never come.” My friend’s eyes do not soften. And her expression might, without stretching too far, be called mocking. I am in no mood to be ridiculed. “The House of Lorraine is one of the greatest in France,” I say with all the hauteur I can muster. “Henri may be from a cadet branch, but he is clearly Lorraine’s future. He is a hero of the wars and all France is in love with him.”

  “All except those who matter: Madame Catherine and Anjou.”

  “Neither is king,” I snap. “Charles and I are close. I understand him. I soothe him in his moods. When Anjou rejoins the army, Henri and I will approach the King. As he loves me, he will want me to be happy.”

  “You are seventeen, Margot, not a child. Stop behaving as one! Is His Majesty happy himself?”

  Henriette’s question makes me think of the last hours I passed with Charles. He had another of his headaches and required the ministrations of both myself and Marie. Mother had just delivered a blow to him: Anna of Austria, to whom he was betrothed, had married Philip of Spain by proxy despite my brother’s prior claim. This was, of course, neither Charles’ doing nor his fault, but in her fury Mother made him feel as if it was.

  Henriette moves to fill my silence. “If the King does not have the power to make himself happy, manipulated as he is by Her Majesty, how can you believe him capable of giving you what you want in opposition to the Queen?”

  I will plead with her no more. I will find another way to correspond with Henri. And I will not be cowed. “I have faith in His Majesty,” I reply, lifting my chin. “And faith in the Duc. They will not disappoint me, even if you do.”

  Henriette gives a short laugh. “Will it shake your faith, I wonder, when I ask where Her Majesty is this morning?”

  “I do not know.” It is the truth. Mother is secretive in her comings and goings. She could be with her astrologer or Maître René, who mixes her perfumes and her poisons as well. She could be meeting with foreign envoys privately. Or perhaps she walks to examine the work at her beloved Tuileries with Jean Bullant, who has taken charge of the project. I was merely glad to have this free time to seek a word with Henriette, and gave no thought to why we were at liberty.

  “Her Majesty went to see the Cardinal of Lorraine in his sick bed,” Henriette tells me.

  “So? That is very Christian of her and, if anything, proves that even she cannot ignore the House of Lorraine.”

  “Your argument might have more force if she went to see him openly. That she did not suggests she will deliver more than polite well wishes. I have reason to believe she will confront him with his part in spreading rumors you will marry
his nephew.”

  What a horrible thought. That I cannot dismiss it makes me furious. “You have reason? You mean you have spies!”

  “Everyone has spies—everyone who can. You have been grateful for the information I gathered in the past. When you do not like the message, will you condemn the messenger? You are your mother’s daughter. Fine: Be blind, then. Be deaf. Neither choice makes it more likely you will be happy.” Henriette pauses and takes several deep breaths. “As I love you, I had better leave before more harsh words make rapprochement between us difficult.”

  When she is gone, I sit down and have a good cry. In the half year since my rupture with Anjou, Henriette and Charlotte, always dear to me, have become yet more important. Mother remains distant. More than this, she shows a level of distrust absent from her manner before I gained her favor. Then I was merely overlooked. Now I am observed most warily. And this has complicated things. For though Henri and I foreswore all unchaperoned contact at Angers, when winter broke, so did our resolve. It was surprisingly easy to ignore my conscience—nearly as easy as it is to discount the reproachful lectures the Baronne de Retz favors me with daily. It is harder to disregard Henriette’s words. I know she loves me and she is among the most astute courtiers. Still, I must believe she is in error and that Henri’s hopes are not without reason. To do otherwise would break my heart. For no man but he can ever make me happy. I simply must be his wife. And while he is away, I simply must be able to exchange a line or two with him.

  Wiping my eyes, I turn my thoughts in a practical direction. Who among Mother’s ladies might correspond with the Duc? I remember that the Comtesse de Mirandole is a friend to Henri’s mother. She is of an age where she might write to anyone without being suspected of something immoral. She will do nothing to oblige me for my own sake, nor can I say we are friends and therefore that I can trust her as I do Henriette. But if I can bribe her to act for me, then I can, I believe, count on her self-interest to keep her from betraying me. She would certainly be sent from Court if we are caught. And the risk of being banished even if she goes to Mother with my proposition rather than acting upon it is high. Mother is happy to have tales of her children, but she will protect even the less favored of us from the repetition of such gossip to others.

  Going to my wardrobe, I open the box containing my jewelry. It is nothing compared to what Mother possesses. But I am a royal princess, and so I have some pieces with stones of value. My eyes light upon a ring Anjou gave me. A token of our former amitié, it means nothing to me. Concealing it, I leave my room in search of the Comtesse—in search of a new accomplice.

  * * *

  “Your Highness.” The voice that awakens me is urgent. A single taper reveals Gillone’s pale face. “Her Majesty sends for you.”

  I struggle to a sitting position. The sheer difficulty with which I opened my eyes suggests that I have not slumbered a full night. “What hour is it?”

  “Cinq heures et quart.”

  The apprehension coloring Gillone’s voice fills my breast. Something is wrong; there can be no other explanation for my being roused at such an hour. Has something happened to Charles? “Quick,” I admonish. “I must dress.” Under such circumstances I have no patience for all the accoutrements of proper attire. When I join the Baron de Retz, who waits to escort me, I do not even wear a farthingale.

  I am ushered to the apartment of the King. Charles, Mother, and Anjou stand in a little knot. I am relieved to see them all, for this means no one is dead—at least, no one at Paris. I say a silent prayer that neither Claude nor her children at Nancy have been taken from us. Unlike myself, both Mother and Anjou are perfectly dressed. Charles on the other hand wears only his nightshirt. As he turns to face me, the King’s eyes are wild either with fever or anger.

  “Charles.” I move forward. “What news?” My hands touch his for a moment before he pulls away. His are cool. Not fever, then.

  “News?” He laughs. “What disturbs our rest this night may be news to us, but I am quite sure it is not so to you.” A muscle in his check twitches.

  I am being called to account. I tremble, not because I know myself guilty of anything, but because reason and my brother’s temper are quite often strangers.

  “Show her.” Charles spits the words.

  “Do you know what I have here?” Mother holds up a single sheet of vellum and my mouth becomes dry. I do know—a letter of the Comtesse de Mirandole, doubtless the very one to which, only two nights ago, I lovingly added lines to Henri. Perhaps I ought to feign ignorance, but my mother surely recognizes my handwriting.

  “How did you get that?” I ask. I see Anjou smile and I know—though how precisely he intercepted the letter I cannot say.

  “Let us say”—my mother rests a hand on Anjou’s arm, confirming my suspicion—“that some at Court care more for your reputation than you do yourself.”

  “Madame, surely a few lines are not so serious. I swear I have done nothing worse—nothing to compromise my reputation.”

  Mother’s hand moves so quickly that, before I realize it has left my brother’s arm, I feel her palm strike my face.

  As I raise a hand to my stinging cheek she glances calmly down the page. “‘I long for you by the light of the sun and dream of you by the light of the moon.’” The words I wrote so lovingly are defiled by her cold voice. “‘Come back soon, that we may enjoy such words as cannot be trusted to a letter.’” I spring forward, reaching for the page, but Anjou grabs me and pulls me back sharply, tearing my sleeve as he does. There is nothing I can do but watch as Mother touches the corner of the page to one of the tapers, then drops the sheet to the stone floor. When the page ceases to burn, she calmly grinds the remnants to ash with her foot. Anjou releases me with a shove.

  “Do you realize,” Mother asks, “that, before I bid him hold his tongue, the Cardinal of Lorraine boasted his nephew will have you for a bride? Perhaps the Duc de Guise has had you already.”

  “Whore!” This time it is Charles who slaps me, so hard that I stagger backwards.

  “No! Charles, I swear I have no sin of that type upon my conscience. The Duc’s intentions have been honorable. He does wish to marry me; in this his uncle is not mistaken.” This is not the ideal time to approach my brother with my hopes, but I have no other defense. I reach out to Charles, but he recoils.

  “I have no doubt that the Duc wishes to marry you.” Charles’ voice is filled with venom. “He is wildly ambitious. But what Guise wishes for and what he will get are two different things.”

  “Very different.” Anjou’s voice is menacing.

  “It is not only the Cardinal of Lorraine who speaks of your marriage to Guise.” Charles circles me slowly, coming to a stop behind me. Leaning in, he hisses, “My court hums with talk of it.” I tremble. “But I was willing to believe the rumors arose solely from your beauty and the Duc’s avarice, even when our brother told me things were otherwise.” I feel his hand in the hair hanging down my back and then, in a single, violent, twisting pull, I am drawn back against him. “I thought you an innocent”—he twists harder, until I fear the hank of hair he holds will be ripped from my head—“and you made a fool of me.”

  “Charles, please,” I beg, trying to reach behind and free myself from his torment, “I swear that I have consented to nothing. I have promised nothing. We meant to come to you when Henri returned to Court. To come to you together so that the Duc might ask for my hand.”

  Charles snorts in disgust, but he releases my hair and pushes me away. For a single instant I consider running, but I am like an animal cornered with the King behind me, my mother before me, Anjou to one side, and the door, which I know to be guarded by the Baron de Retz, to the other.

  “Why should I condescend to have the Duc as my brother when I expect to call the King of Portugal by that name?”

  “Because he loves me, and I him.” The moment the words are spoken I wish them unsaid. The mocking looks of Mother and Anjou are painful proof that my con
fession makes me ridiculous in their eyes.

  “Charles, you know what it is to love, even if others do not,” I plead. “You love Marie.”

  “But I do not think to marry her. I must consider my duties as a monarch and you must remember your duty to your monarch.”

  Moving to stand beside the King, Mother says, “Daughter, you do Mademoiselle Touchet ill by comparing her to Guise. She is utterly devoted to Charles. Can you really be foolish enough to believe that you are the Duc’s object?” The curl of her lip is like a knife upon my flesh. “Let me disabuse you of that notion. You may be a fool in love, but the Duc is a practical man, a man of power who hungers for more. When he whispered pretty words to you in the dark, it was a connection with the royal House of Valois he sought.”

  “That and a cozy place for his cock,” Anjou sneers.

  Anjou’s words sicken me. And Mother’s—I do not credit my mother’s assertion. I cannot. Yet it enrages me. And, at the edge of my mind, it occurs to me that some part of the anger I feel is directed at myself and at Henri. Am I a fool? If not for letting Henri speak love to me and loving him in return, then for failing to heed Henriette when she foretold this? And ought not Henri to have kept our hopes to himself instead of filling the mind and the mouth of his uncle with them? The doubts my mother causes make me hate her as I never have before.

  “Why, Madame,” I ask, advancing on her with fury, “can you never believe that I might have value to someone in and of myself? Why can you not conceive that anyone could love me? Is it simply because you yourself do not?”

  “Do not speak nonsense. My children are my life! France is my life. Of course I value you—better than you value yourself—for I know the worth of a woman’s honor.” Mother’s face is fierce. Her hand rises; then, just as I expect her to strike me again, she lets it drop. I watch with fascination as she takes control of her temper, rearranging her face into a look of deliberate calm.

  “You will not hurt me, Marguerite, though you try.”