Médicis Daughter

by Sophie Perinot

  “I have heard Dom Sébastien of Portugal renews his suit.”

  Mother’s fingers stop but she holds her tongue, perhaps not wishing to confirm the news.

  “Is it true, Charles?” I ask. “Has the King of Portugal sent word that he will have me?”

  “Yes. In fact, he sent pages of them in his own hand. But those words do not move us. Why should they?”

  Charles is prone to feeling slighted. I pray my understanding of that fact will assist me. “The King of Portugal comes late to a proper appreciation of the glory and advantages that a connection with the royal house of France brings,” I say, shaking my head. “I feel that to be so, as, doubtless, you do. But though his former coldness toward the match deeply offended my dignity, I am willing to look beyond that to factors that might matter more to you and to France.” I bow my head as a sign of submission.

  “You would forgive Dom Sébastien’s insult?” Charles’ voice betrays curiosity. Mother must hear it, for she jumps in.

  “It is not only your sister who was insulted—”

  Charles holds up a hand—a rare occurrence. My hopes rise. If I can be heard, I have some chance, at least.

  “Why?” he asks, looking at me searchingly.

  “Because I care more for the Holy Church than for myself. My marriage to Henri de Bourbon would be an anathema to our faith, Charles. If I marry the King of Portugal, then the great Catholic powers stand together undivided and unsullied.”

  He waves a hand dismissively. “I am more interested in the peace and prosperity of my kingdom.”

  I must tread carefully. I swallow, afraid I will anger him by repeating what I have heard from Henri and Henriette. But he must certainly have heard the same from others, so I press on. “On that score too you should hesitate to wed me to Navarre. The idea is unpopular with your subjects, particularly those in Paris. They see our cousin as an enemy to the crown and part of a sect that has been too liberally treated.”

  “Why should the opinions of common men intimidate His Majesty?” Mother asks. “He knows what is best for them.”

  Charles nods.

  I stand on the edge of failure, but I am not willing to give up. Not when my entire future hangs in the balance. Pragmatic arguments are not moving Charles, but there is another plea I can make: that of a sister. Advancing to my brother’s chair, I kneel. Looking into his eyes, I say, “Charles, as my King, you have every right to rule over me as you do your people. But as a kind and loving brother, will you not consider my desires? I beseech you to give me the King of Portugal for my husband.”

  “Dom Sébastien is not the only one to discover his feelings en retard.” Mother’s tone is sardonic. “In this you make a pretty pair. He did not like you for a wife but is now desperate to have you because Pius the Fifth tells him so. You had no desire to marry him, yet now you beg on your knees to have him. Who, I wonder, has instructed you? Could it be a duc, not a pope?”

  Does Mother truly think Henri counsels me, or does she merely want to convince Charles he does? She has told the King that my marriage to Navarre will help to counterbalance the influence of the House of Lorraine. If Charles sees the hand of Guise in my plea, my fate is sealed.

  “No, Madame! ’Tis my conscience that instructs me. My own and no other’s.”

  Mother gives a dry laugh, as if she doubts I have a conscience. Anger nearly blinds me.

  “Madame, I am a good Catholic! You have every cause to know that. When your other enfants said their prayers in French, I was entirely faithful to the Church of Rome. Nor have I strayed since. How can it surprise you that the thought of being yoked in marriage with a notorious heretic is abhorrent to me?”

  “Margot! Do not speak of your cousin in such a manner,” Mother admonishes.

  “How should I speak of him, then? Was he required to abjure as part of the peace? If he was, I have not heard it.” I know that I am doing myself no good by losing my temper, but I am powerless to stop. “I did not complain when you sought to bind me to a madman. No, I bowed my head and said, ‘As you wish.’ Nor did I object to an old man, one who was already in my imagination as a sister’s husband. The King of Portugal was not to my liking, but at least he—and those who came before—were Catholic gentlemen. It is bad enough that we have to sup and dance with heretics; that they return to the King’s council. I thought the peace an edict of toleration—live and let live—but I see now it is an edict of submission. Not for the Huguenots, but for your children who you will suffer to be corrupted by the Huguenot taint.”

  Mother gives a triumphant smile. “Your sister protests that her words are her own, but she sounds just like that idiot Anne d’Este and her son.

  “Margot, have you learned none of my pragmatism these last half dozen years? Pity. You ought by now to be able to take any situation and turn it in a useful direction. If you do not like the idea of a Protestant husband, then once you have him, make Navarre Catholic. I assure you neither I nor the King will object to that. In fact, it is what we hope for. Now, get up.”

  Ignoring her instruction, I look to Charles. When he will not meet my gaze, I get to my feet, defeated.

  “You have been heard,” Her Majesty says. “Now hear me. The papal delegate requests an audience with you. You will grant it, but I will be watching. Do anything to thwart the match with Navarre, and I will reward the religious fervency you have just exhibited with a cloistered stay in an abbey at the edge of your brother’s kingdom.”

  I bow my head, knowing I could not bear to be locked away where Henri could never find me. I have no choice but to tell the Holy Father’s representative that my faith requires obedience to my king, not just to my god.

  * * *

  There is grace in this place—grace and pain. Pain for my mother and soon, I suspect, for me. The papal representative had barely left my apartment at Blois when it was decided we would come to Chenonceau and Jeanne d’Albret would be redirected to meet us here. A short time ago a rider in royal livery galloped up. Surely the party from Navarre has been spotted. I walk back and forth before the windows in my apartment, looking at the frozen river Cher as I wait for the Prince of Navarre and his mother to arrive. I am dressed extravagantly, and to all eyes appear entirely ready to play my part. Only I know that beneath my gown, over my heart, I have secreted a letter from Henri, a reminder to continue to resist this match.

  The door behind me opens. A summons, no doubt. I do not turn.

  “If you are not the death of me, Jeanne d’Albret will be.”

  Mother!

  “The Queen of Navarre is only a short distance away,” Her Majesty says, motioning me toward her. She ought to be elated, but her face is angry. “She has her daughter with her but not her son.” Her voice bristles. My breast fills with relief. “Come. We will greet the infernal woman with smiles and see if we can discover where she has left the Prince.”

  We descend to assume positions in a carefully arranged tableau in which the widowed Princesse de Condé is prominently placed, as are the other Protestant ladies. Someone shoves a puppy into my arms. It is from one of the King’s litters and has a bow around its little neck. I am to give it to Catherine de Bourbon in a sisterly gesture. Fine, I have no objection to pleasing a thirteen-year-old. The animal wiggles in my arms. I nuzzle its ear.

  Jeanne enters. She is not as pretty as I remember her being when I saw her years ago. And she holds her mouth in a pinched manner, as if she disapproves of everything and everyone. Good. A woman with such an expression will be predisposed not to like me. She and the Princesse of Navarre are surrounded by an impressive entourage. As the group sweeps forward, the Baronne de Retz identifies key noblemen in a whisper. I pay no attention. I see no point in learning their names. I shall doubtless be afforded little contact with them and do not care who they are so long as they go away dissatisfied.

  We exchange the formal greetings etiquette requires. Then, as I hand the squirming puppy to the Princess, Mother says, “Cousin, we hoped also to
welcome your son. Where is the Prince? Not indisposed, I hope?”

  “Have no fear on that score,” Jeanne replies. “He was in excellent health when I heard from him three days ago. I have charged him with managing my kingdom in my absence. Such training is invaluable for a man who will be king.”

  Mother nods understandingly and I nearly laugh out loud. She has no interest in training or allowing my poor brother Charles to rule without her and he is already king.

  The Queen of Navarre turns to me. “The Prince sends his greetings. He looks forward to receiving you at Pau when the little details that must precede your marriage have been resolved.”

  Married in the Navarre? This is no little detail. The wrangling has begun before the horses are unsaddled. “Your Majesty,” I say, “when you write to the Prince, thank him for his salutations and tell him that, although he remains in the south, I have memories from our childhood to rely upon in forming my opinion of him. Perhaps he can likewise recall when last we were together.” There is nothing whatsoever wrong with this little speech from Jeanne d’Albret’s perspective, but Mother’s ladies must see its unflattering meaning plainly. My attitude toward the Prince when we were younger was hardly secret. I do hope that the Prince of Navarre remembers vividly every occasion on which I corrected his behavior, avoided him, or teased him. And most particularly that he remembers my vow never to allow him to kiss me.

  “I wonder, would the Duchesse de Valois escort me to my rooms?” Jeanne asks.

  “We will share that honor,” Mother replies. “It has been too long since we saw each other. I am eager to be reacquainted even as you get to know my daughter better.”

  In other words, Mother has no intention of permitting Jeanne and me to be alone, as neither of us can be relied upon to proceed according to her script. I have the sense the Queen of Navarre is not used to being managed. I might feel sorry for her if my future did not depend on her being thwarted.

  * * *

  “The Queen of Navarre is so frustrated that she becomes ill,” Henriette says. She and I are huddled in one of the chapel confessionals. With the château full of spies for both sides of the negotiations, it seems the only truly safe place to report on such matters. Henriette has one of her own spies kneeling in prayer at the back of the space, near the door.

  “I have noticed her coughing,” I reply.

  “She has night sweats and fever.” Henriette pauses for a moment, listening intently. “Where is Charlotte?”

  We expected the third of our circle to be with us, reporting on what she has learned about Jeanne’s letters since she enterprisingly bribed one of the servants to bring her the Queen of Navarre’s blotter. “Never mind Charlotte,” I say. “What else?”

  “The Queen complains that your mother says one thing in the morning and another in the afternoon.” Henriette shifts slightly, inadvertently stepping on my foot. “And that she is observed everywhere, even in her rooms.”

  “Doubtless she is. Holes and cracks are not just for mice where Mother is concerned. How I wish my cousin would give up. Instead of coming back to Blois with us, she could as easily have headed south to Navarre.”

  “I am sorry to report that, despite the arduous nature of the negotiations, those who give odds on such things still favor resolution.”

  “There are odds given on my future?” Is there no embarrassment I will be spared?

  “Among the gentlemen, yes.”

  In a strange contrast to the two dour queens locked in endless rounds of quibbling, the gentlemen Jeanne brought with her and those in Charles’ suite appear rather easy with each other. His Majesty has found a favorite among them, the Comte de La Rochefoucauld, who despite being much older is always willing to join in entertainments from tennis, to cards, to playacting.

  The curtain parts and Charlotte’s face appears. She is exceedingly pale.

  “You look as if you have seen a ghost.” I expect her to laugh but she looks down at her feet.

  “It is worse: I have been with your mother.”

  “Are we caught?” Henriette asks.

  Charlotte shakes her head. We make way for her. Pushing past Henriette, she sits upon the bench and pulls her feet up on it as well. She looks very sad.

  “Come, you will feel better when you tell us,” Henriette urges.

  “I have been given a frightful task.” Charlotte looks up mournfully.

  “Who?” Henriette asks. “The gray-bearded, unsmiling Baron de Rosny?”

  “Would that it were.” She covers her face and from between her fingers says, “The Queen Mother has asked me to stand ready to seduce the Prince of Navarre should Margot fail to beguile him.”

  Henriette gives a low whistle. I reach out and steady myself on the confessional wall. I ought not to care. I have no desire to sleep with my cousin—ever. But the fact that Mother personally arranges an infidelity for the man she thinks to make my husband galls me. It is savage. Particularly when undertaken by a woman made deeply unhappy by her own husband’s dalliance.

  “Margot, say something.”

  “I hate her.”

  “But not me?”

  “Never you!” I touch Charlotte’s shoulder.

  I exit the confessional first. Rather than returning to my room, I kneel to pray. The silence left in Henriette and Charlotte’s wake is a balm. I drink it in, staring at the crucifix above the altar.

  “I was Catholic as a young woman.”

  I scramble to my feet and turn to face the Queen of Navarre.

  “So I have heard.”

  “In fact, until I was nearly thirty.”

  “But you are not Catholic now, Madame, so I cannot account for your presence in this chapel.”

  “I do not believe that.”

  “You wish to speak to me alone.”

  She smiles slightly. “I have told my Henri you are quick. Do you know what he replied?”

  I do not, nor do I care.

  “He replied that he remembers as much from when you were children; that you were always the brightest of his Valois cousins.”

  “Very flattering.”

  “I have no concerns about your mind, only about your character.”

  “Madame! Have I not shown you every politesse since your arrival? How, then, have I earned such discourteous speech?”

  “I do not mean to be rude, only forthright. In fact, I am surprised to find you as unspoiled as you appear—and told my son so—given the atmosphere of this court. Whatever our religious differences, as you are a woman of sincere faith, you must know the Court of France is rife with sin.”

  My cheeks warm. “If you have such concerns about my upbringing, I wonder that you are still here.”

  “Your past is not my primary interest. There are good reasons for me to consider this match despite it. But the merit in all of them falls short if I do not have some assurance of your future conduct.”

  “If you ask if I can love your son, I tell you plainly, no.”

  “So it is your turn to be forthright.” She nods. “Good. I do not particularly care if you will love Henri. I married Antoine de Bourbon for affection. Such an act can have as many pitfalls as pleasures. What I wish to ask is: Can you obey my son?”

  “Madame, if the Prince of Navarre is made my husband, I will be obedient in all reasonable things.”

  This does not appear to satisfy. Jeanne looks at me intently. “But who shall be the judge between you of what is reasonable? As husband, Henri must lead. Can you let his conscience be yours? Will you follow the religion of your husband?”

  I straighten to my full height and touch the cross I wear round my neck. “Madame, I would not set aside my conscience for your son, nor switch religions, if he stood to inherit the crown of the whole world and not just a kingdom much smaller than the one my own family rules.”

  “Might not your own conscience counsel a change? A church, like a court, can become corrupt. What, then, is the point of clinging to it?”

  “What comes f
rom Our Lord cannot be corrupted by man and is unchangeable. Men may ignore God’s word through sinful action, or trespass it through heresy, but that changes nothing. It remains the only truth.”

  I brace myself for anger. I have come perilously close to calling the Queen of Navarre a heretic to her face. But she merely looks at me for a moment through her cold, unflinching eyes, then nods as if deciding something.

  “It is the way of the young to speak with a certitude they have not earned by experience. I have often cautioned Henri about it. But I encouraged you to be candid, and I am not sorry to know your mind. Will you be sorry, I wonder, to know mine? I believe I have traveled a very long way for naught. You are not the bride for my son, however lovely you are and however advantageously connected.”

  * * *

  “What did you say?” Mother is furious.

  I expected to be called to account for my conversation with the Queen of Navarre earlier. The day it happened, in fact. But clever Jeanne d’Albret waited until she could speak to Charles alone, maneuvering around Mother for a second time.

  “I told Her Majesty I would obey the Prince of Navarre in all corporal matters, but not in matters of faith. Nothing more. And I will swear to that upon any holy thing you like.”

  Mother looks at Charles where he paces before the windows of her study. “And what exactly did the Queen of Navarre say to you?”

  “That there will be no wedding and that, by the affection she bears me, she will not trespass longer on my hospitality to no purpose.”

  “That sounds like her.” Mother moves to where Charles stands. “She is cleverer than I thought.” There is grudging respect in her tone. “But I will not be bested so easily.” She looks out the window. Whatever she finds there I pray it is not inspiration. I have just dispatched a letter to Henri telling him I believe I have escaped the match.

  Mother turns. “We must do something bold, Your Majesty.”

  “What would you suggest, Madame? I will not beg for a husband for Margot. That would be demeaning to us both.”

  If Jeanne has offended Charles’ dignity all will be well.