Médicis Daughter

by Sophie Perinot

  The idea that she would paint herself as the aggrieved party in this situation is beyond comprehension. I want to attack her, to tear at her as she and my brothers have just torn at me. I take another step, but Anjou catches me easily and restrains me.

  “You will not hurt me,” Mother continues, “and you will not endanger your brother’s reign. This folly stops now. From this moment all communication with the Duc, save the words required by politesse in open court, will cease. Resign yourself to that or risk far more serious punishment than the few blows you have endured here. And know this: you will never be permitted to marry the Duc.” Her tone has a finality to it that sucks the air from my lungs. I look at Charles. The sight of his face—entirely unsympathetic—causes my knees to give way entirely.

  Anjou supports my weight for a moment and then, giving a high, brutal laugh, releases me and lets me fall to the floor. “What about Guise?” he asks. “Blighted ambitions seem too small a price to pay for deflowering our sister. Your Majesty must have a better revenge.”

  “Guise is hunting, is he not?” Charles looks down upon me with pitiless eyes. “I will send Angoulême hunting as well and ask him to bring down more than a stag. He shall strike the Duc and bring the House of Guise down a peg and back to its senses.”

  No, no, no! The voice inside my head screams in terror. If Charles gives such a command, our half brother will obey. His fortunes and his very life depend on the King. He has no friend in Mother, who sees none of her husband in him and too much of the lady who seduced that husband.

  “Excellent.” Anjou laughs. “Shall I take our sister back to her room?”

  “Get her out of my sight,” Charles says, averting his gaze.

  “Let me make her presentable first,” Mother says. “We do not need talk that might further compromise her.”

  Do you not mean talk that would reveal you to be monsters capable of beating your own kin?

  Anjou takes me beneath the arms and draws me to my feet. At the King’s dressing table, Mother brushes my hair and tidies my face. She can do nothing to conceal the tear in my sleeve or stop the bruise rising along my right cheekbone. Looking in the glass at Anjou, who hovers behind us, she says, “Go quickly, before the whole palace is awake.”

  I rise with as much dignity as I can muster. Anjou takes my arm. I try to shake him off but he shows me by a shake of his head that he will have none of it. Swinging the door to the hall open, he pushes me before him. The Baron de Retz stands aside, his face impassive. Whatever he heard, whatever he observes, he will keep my mother’s counsel.

  Anjou pushes me through the door to my apartment, nearly into the arms of the waiting Gillone. Her face reflects the shocking sight I present as clearly as Charles’ mirror did. We are not alone. The Baronne de Retz sits on one of my chairs.

  “How did it come to this?” she asks sadly, shaking her head.

  “It is the province of the young to fall in love. You once said so yourself,” I reply, disentangling myself from Gillone.

  “That is not what I am talking about and you know it.”

  “I have done nothing else,” I snap. I am tired of protesting my innocence.

  The Baronne stares into my eyes as she never bothered to in all the lectures she delivered on appropriate behavior—as if she would see my soul. Perhaps she does, for she says, “I believe you.”

  “Help me, then.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Then you condemn the Duc to death.”

  “Surely that is an exaggeration.”

  “The King is in one of his rages,” I reply. “He means to arrange a hunting accident and none around him have any reason to dissuade him. There must be some way to get word to the Duc so he will be on his guard.”

  “The Duchesse de Nevers.” The Baronne’s tone is resigned. She knows, of course, that much of whatever passed between the Duc and me beyond the eyes of the Court must have been managed with Henriette’s help. She has for some time viewed the Duchesse as her adversary and my corruptor. How I love her for putting aside her personal feelings. I only hope Henriette will do likewise. It has been a month since we argued, and though, on the surface, we appear to be as we were, there remains a reticence between us.

  “They will be watching for the Duchesse at the wicket,” I say. “If my mother has not thought of this precaution, Anjou will have.”

  I send Gillone to the Hôtel de Nevers to tell Her Grace that, if she loves me still, she must put a man in the saddle on his way to where Guise hunts. A man she can trust who will warn my Duc that there is more of danger in the woods than the chance he will be thrown from his horse, and that he would be better returned to Paris and safe behind the gates of his hôtel.

  I watch my shadow go, then sit down and put my head in my hands and cry. If Charles has fixed on my beloved’s death, surviving his hunting excursion is only a first step. Must Henri live always looking over his shoulder for Angoulême? One attempt, even more, may be survived. But where my family is determined to be rid of someone …

  After a few moments of sobbing I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Is the crown of Portugal such a terrible fate?” the Baronne asks softly. “You fell in love with the Duc because he is handsome and brave. We have it on good authority that the King of Portugal is both. Allow yourself to be guided by duty and all will be well.”

  I look up at her, incredulous. How am I to stop loving Henri and begin loving a man I have never met? A man with the red hair of a devil? “If I am forbidden to marry where I love, I would rather not marry at all.”

  “Those are very dangerous words—particularly for the Duc de Guise.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Summer 1570, Paris

  Three days later I hear that Henri has returned to the city. Word comes first from Henriette, who in light of my situation has forgiven all, and who has even refrained from reminding me that she warned it would be so. She mumbles “He is “en ville” as she breezes into Mother’s apartments. And her information is soon confirmed by the gossip of a hundred tongues as well as by the black looks of my brothers.

  In the afternoon, while the King and his gentlemen are playing at tennis, Angoulême arrives. I see him pass the wicket from my seat in an open window. He moves with hesitancy and I delight in that. You failed, I think. I wonder what Charles will say. I must know. Folding my hand of cards, I look across at Charlotte. “I am bored; let us go and see who has beaten whom upon the court.”

  My friend springs up eagerly. Baronne de Retz, who has been at my side nearly every waking moment since the fateful night on which I was beaten, begins to rise as well; then perhaps recollecting that I will be going to the very place Her Majesty is, she settles back with her embroidery.

  As soon as we are out of Mother’s apartment, I take Charlotte’s hand and begin to run. We arrive breathless and giggling, looking like two young women eager to be entertained. Mother, after shaking her head at our frivolity, pays us no mind. Anjou is seated beside her, in the King’s usual place, dripping with perspiration. Charles is playing Bussy d’Amboise. Monsieur de Carandas, the most tennis-mad of the King’s gentlemen, yells advice to each in turn from the sidelines, but most other spectators appear more interested in their private conversations. Henriette waves from the other side of the court, where she is consuming grapes from the outstretched fingers of her latest conquest, Charles d’Entragues, or “le bel Entraguet,” as most of the Court calls him. Though I am sure she expects me to join her, I take a seat near my family.

  “Come to cheer your brother?” Mother asks.

  “Who else should I cheer?”

  “Indeed,” Anjou snipes, “Guise is absent.”

  “Let that be, now, Henri,” Mother says. “Margot knows it is finished.”

  “Not quite, apparently,” he says. “The Duc has returned to Paris, or am I misinformed?”

  Mother gives him a stern look.

  “Hardly surprising, considering that he lives here,” I reply, with a shrug.

&nb
sp; “For the moment.” Anjou gives a wicked smile. “But I suspect him to be keeping company with his father before too long.”

  “Henri!” Mother’s voice has none of its customary fondness. “Enough.”

  I long to snap that the day Anjou tries to put my beloved in a grave will likely be the day my brother finds himself mortally wounded, either at Guise’s hands or at mine.

  Bussy misses a return, giving Charles the victory. Racket over his head, Charles turns to one gallery and then the next to receive the cheers of his courtiers. Charlotte and I rise and shout like the rest. Mother applauds. Anjou alone does not stir himself until, as everyone is returning to their seats, he raises a hand to point down the gallery. “Look who has come to make excuses.”

  Angoulême moves through the young men who roughhouse good-naturedly courtside. They have no reason to be sobered by my half brother’s arrival and so slap him on the back and jostle him, but the sight of Angoulême alters His Majesty’s expression. The light of triumph disappears, replaced by a flush caused by a less pleasant emotion.

  “Who will Your Majesty play next?” Bussy asks.

  “You play in my stead,” the King replies. “Perhaps you will play better against the next opponent than you did against me.”

  Leaving Bussy puzzled, Charles drifts toward Mother. “Out of our place,” he says to Anjou with a wave of his hand. Anjou avoids rising and bowing by slipping from chair to floor and leaning against the leg of Mother’s seat as if to say to Charles, You may have the throne but I will always come between you and our mother.

  Angoulême, having broken free of the knot of noblemen, makes his way toward us.

  “Remember, Your Majesty, your business with the Chevalier is private. I urge you, therefore, to keep your displeasure private as well.” Mother speaks low. She tries to catch my eye to dismiss me, but I am careful not to see her.

  Reaching us, Angoulême makes a bow, clears his throat, and says, “Your Majesty—”

  “Please,” Charles interrupts, holding up a hand, “do not tell us you have brought us back a boar or a stag. You knew the tribute we wanted, and, failing that, nothing will satisfy.”

  “The man has two score eyes and twice as many friends.”

  “And you have too many excuses.”

  “If Your Majesty desires it, I will continue my pursuit.”

  “We do desire it, but if you could not bring down the beast in the forests, why should your luck be better in the streets of Paris? What might pass as an accident where many are shooting will hardly look like one in the Rue du Chaume.”

  Mother puts a warning hand on Charles’ arm, apparently thinking his mention of the street in which the Hôtel de Guise stands too explicit.

  “There are ruffians about everywhere, Your Majesty. A man may be set upon for his purse and lose limb or life instead,” Angoulême says.

  Unwittingly I give a little gasp. Turning in her seat, Mother says, “Baronne de Sauve, would you and the Duchesse de Valois return to my apartment and tell my ladies I will be there soon to dress for dinner.”

  I am loath to go, and have my own lack of self-possession to blame. As we make our way out, I console myself; it is beyond imagining that the details of whatever my half brother plans next would be discussed beside the tennis court. It is enough for the moment to know that Charles’ anger is not spent.

  That is what I tell Henriette later in the afternoon while all the ladies of the Queen’s household are in the gardens of the Tuileries. Henriette and I have retreated to Monsieur Palissy’s grotto. It is an excellent spot for privacy, as the ceramic frogs, snakes, and lizards he fashioned, which I find delightful, repulse most of the ladies. As an extra precaution Charlotte sits outside, prepared to sound a warning before any can overhear us.

  “Leave it to Entragues and me,” Henriette says confidently. “We will keep the Duc one step ahead of the King’s men. I will see Guise this evening.”

  “How I wish I could go with you.”

  “I know. I know too that the Duc would bless me a thousand times over were I able to transport you secretly to the Rue du Chaume. But, alas, such subterfuge lies outside even my considerable powers.” She seems genuinely regretful, though whether at disappointing me or at being forced to admit there are limits to her machinations, I cannot be sure. She begins to leave, then stops short. “Why not?”

  “Why not what?”

  “Help you see your Duc, of course.”

  Rushing forward, I take both her hands in mine. “Do you think it possible? Do not raise my expectations cruelly without hope of fulfillment.”

  “I never raise anything cruelly.” She laughs. “I have planned to meet Entragues at that little house in the Rue Pavée that I have taken expressly for the sort of rendezvous my husband cannot know about. But instead I shall give up my hours of amour so that you can steal one with Guise. I will bring him here.”

  “Here?”

  “The weather is warm. The moon will be nearly full. All the Court will be at the Louvre, and these gardens deserted. You have only to contrive to be here.”

  * * *

  Henriette was right. The moon is very bright, though not so bright as to justify the care with which I dressed. I have not been so fastidious in my toilette since my love left to hunt. Removing my cloak, I lay it on a bench, pinch my cheeks, straighten my necklace, and wait.

  Henriette has arranged for Henri to give a long, low whistle before entering the grotto, and never has my ear been more eager for a sound. When it comes, and before it stops reverberating from the rock around me, I am in Henri’s arms. His lips close over mine. His hands caress my cheeks, where they find moisture. He breaks off our kiss.

  “Are you weeping?” He draws me into the moonlight so he can see me better.

  “Only a little, and nothing compared to the tears I should have shed had Angoulême found the courage to take aim at you in the forest.”

  “Angoulême? Pfft!” Henri wipes my tears with his thumbs. “Pardon me, love, but he has neither the courage nor the aim to make me take him seriously. When I arrived at the Hôtel de Guise, I heard that you took far more punishment at the hands of your brutish brothers than I ever feared from your half brother. It was only with the greatest difficulty that I subdued my urge to ride for the Louvre and make them pay.”

  “You must not even joke about such actions. My brothers are your sworn enemies. Charles wants you dead and you must not give him any opportunity to see his wish fulfilled.”

  “He can hardly have me killed in open court. I would have more respect for him were he—or Anjou—to challenge me openly. In trial by combat I would thrash either soundly, and perhaps in future they would remember that a man who attacks a woman is not man at all.” He pulls me against his breast and strokes my hair. “They have not enough honor between them to equal one true gentleman. But forgive me, I forgot they are your brothers.”

  “There is nothing you could say of Anjou that I have not myself thought. Charles…” I push back from him and seek his eyes. “… I believe Charles left to himself would be a good man and a good king.”

  “Ah, but he is never left to himself.”

  “Oh, Henri.” My tears begin again. “You have fought and bled for Charles. There are none braver or more worthy among his gentlemen. Why can he not let you have my hand as your reward?”

  “Your mother wants to stop my influence. She fears the sway of even healthy friendship upon him. But will you give me up so easily?” His voice is earnest. “Will you consent to marry Dom Sébastien?”

  “To save your life, yes.”

  “It will not come to that, I swear it.” He kisses the side of my neck. The effect of his touch, his scent, is overwhelming. The strong yearnings I felt before he went away—the very urges that, along with a need to lessen gossip, drove him to the cool of the forest lest we fall into sin—surge through me. I know that he feels them as well, for as he moves his mouth to mine his kisses are frantic, the arms that hold me are te
nse and, when my hand strays to the front of his haut-de-chausses, his arousal is clear. I am nearly delirious with desire. I have already been accused of having Henri and he of defiling me. Why should it not be so, then? The offer of myself stands on the tip of the tongue I thrust into his mouth.

  Then I remember the rage on Charles’ face as the cry of “Whore!” rang from his lips. If there is to be even a feeble hope of calming the King’s hatred, I must retain my trump card—the ability to offer myself up to a physician’s examination to prove my virginity.

  I push against Henri. Rather than being confused by my action, he releases me entirely, takes two very deep breaths, then paces away and takes a seat on the low bench. He knows as well as I how close we are to committing an act that can never be undone.

  “We must have a plan,” he says at last. “Just as we would if we sought victory in battle.”

  “You have won so many battles; do you believe we can win this one?”

  “I must believe. To think otherwise is to be defeated at the outset. And the prize”—despite the low light I can see him shake his head—“the value of the prize nearly within my reach is beyond any city I have ever taken.”

  A joy equal to the desire that a moment ago consumed me fills my breast.

  “I am not a patient man, but I know how to besiege a city—how to play a waiting game. The King will cool. He has not the temperament to maintain a heated and active grudge. There is a royal ball just shy of a fortnight from now. I will keep to my hôtel until that occasion and then, as I am called upon to do by my position as Grand Maître de France, present myself with an outward show of deference befitting a loyal subject and dutiful officer.”

  “And I?”

  “You will spend the next two weeks being the most obedient sister and daughter in Christendom. Or appearing so. Reassure the King and your mother that you stand willing to marry the Portuguese as soon as it can be arranged—”

  “But such a marriage, or even a betrothal to Dom Sébastien, puts an end to all our dreams!”

  “And for that reason the marriage must be prevented, but not by you. You must appear blameless when it comes to nothing.”