“What is the price for all this forbearance?”
My husband is not stupid.
“I wish to be free as well.”
“In your affections, you mean.”
“Yes, and I shall expect you to be as blind as I.”
“Even if you embrace my sworn enemy?”
The taunt Which one? rises to my lips but dies, because we both know he means Guise.
“Yes.”
“Then you ask me not only to be blind but foolish.” My cousin shakes his head.
“No. You may well have been foolish not to turn round and ride back to the Navarre when you heard of your mother’s death. But having come to Paris and bound yourself to the House of Valois, it is time to be practical, a quality I believe comes naturally to you. Do you not wish to have one certain friend among the Valois? One dependable ally at the French court?”
“The King embraces me and calls me ‘brother.’”
“The King is as changeable as the wind.”
This time he nods in the affirmative. Yet I sense he is not entirely convinced. He stands, thinking. “If I lose the King’s love,” he says at last, “I shall not be without influence. Coligny has His Majesty’s ear and is my fixed friend. His friendship, being the result of years, is, if you will pardon me for saying so, more worthy of trust than the one you offer. As for allies, I brought them with me—eight hundred of them.”
“Protestant allies at a Catholic court.” I shrug, trying to sound as unconcerned as he. “They see only what my mother permits. There is not one among vos amis who knows the rooms and halls of this palace or the people who pass through them as I do. Not even the admiral.”
“And you would guide me?” He shifts his weight and looks at me intensely.
An easy, meaningless “Yes” dies on my lips. It is my turn to pause and think—to consider how far I am willing to commit myself, knowing that if I say I will be my cousin’s guide, I will not find it easy to renege.
I expect neither love nor happiness from my marriage but I do hope to improve my position by it—to be free from the domineering will of my mother, to have my own household. If anything good is to come from being Queen of Navarre, the King of Navarre must thrive. I regard my cousin, his lavish pale yellow doublet askew where he has misbuttoned it, the shadow of a moustache over his unsmiling mouth, his eyes examining my face with earnest concentration. He is out of place here. He is savvier than the others understand, but he will need guidance. I have little influence with Charles. With Anjou and my mother I have none at all. Perhaps I may have some with my husband by making myself useful from the beginning.
“I promise you my honest opinions and advice, so long as you do not impose yourself upon me.”
“Agreed.” His shoulders relax. It is the first indication I have had that he was nervous. Then, looking down and noticing the poor job he has done fastening his doublet, he begins to unbutton it once more to make it right.
“Leave it. Some disarray in your dress will support the desired illusion.”
My husband laughs lightly. “So your first advice to me concerns how to look as if I have done the very thing that our bargain forbids?”
I laugh in response—not as hard as I did in the litter, but as sincerely. There is no attraction between us, but it seems we can be easy together. And that may be something far more valuable. The apprehension I felt before the King of Navarre’s arrival is whisked away. There is nothing menacing in my husband. How silly it seems that only a short while ago I feared he might take me by force.
CHAPTER 18
August 19, 1572—Paris, France
This time there are no tears when I wake. I feel more rested than I have in weeks. How amazing: the thing I dreaded most has come to pass and, far from being destroyed by it, I feel liberated. I am a queen and a married woman, with all the rights and status those things entail. And I am free, utterly free, to pursue my passion … until and unless my husband removes me to the Navarre or until both my beloved and my husband march off to a war with Spain.
I push these last thoughts from my mind and rise from bed. I will write to Henri bidding him to come to dinner at the Hôtel d’Anjou with a light heart and a good appetite. His hunger for food and for me shall each be fully satiated in the course of the evening.
As I pad across the floor I remark that the room is stiflingly hot, so either I have slept long or this day will be even more oppressive than the last. I throw open the shutters at the nearest window. The sun is at its apex. The day half gone? Good heavens!
Gillone bustles in.
“Why did you not wake me when the Duchesse de Nevers called?” I ask.
“She has not called, Your Majesty.”
“Not called?”
“No one has. The palace was deserted all morning. Everyone rests after your wedding. I heard in the kitchens that even the Queen Mother slept late.”
Taking a seat at my escritoire, I uncover my ink.
“Your husband was up with the dawn, however, and is playing at tennis.”
Having neither asked nor thought about the whereabouts of the King of Navarre, her comment startles me. “In this heat? I cannot imagine who among his companions would be fit to play; they were all drunk last night.”
“As were we,” Gillone replies, clearly meaning the Catholic portion of the Court. “Perhaps it is a peculiarity of the Huguenots, rising early. They have many.” She retreats, doubtless to get my breakfast, and I busy myself with my note.
When the door opens next it is Henriette, not Gillone, who enters carrying my tray.
“Ah, the bride,” she says wryly. “Survived her wedding night, I see. Without incident?”
“Utterly.”
“Well, that would confirm the rumor I heard as soon as I passed the wicket.”
“Rumor?”
“That the King of Navarre was seen leaving the Baronne de Sauve’s chamber this morning, carrying his boots.”
“Poor Charlotte,” I quip. But, rather oddly, I feel less pity than I expected to.
“Indeed”—Henriette gives a vicious smile as she sets down my tray—“she will taste garlic for a week.” She gives an exaggerated shudder and laughs.
“I have a note for the Duc,” I say, holding it out.
“You mean you are sending me back into the hot dusty streets?” She tucks the note away deftly in her décolletage. Taking a berry from my tray she pops it into her mouth. “At least it will be a pleasant errand. I should fear to show myself at the Hôtel de Guise had the King of Navarre been seen leaving your rooms boots in hand.”
I make short work of my breakfast. It is too early to dress for the day’s festivities, but, despite the heat, I have no desire to sit idly about in my chemise. I have Gillone dress me in something simple.
“Let us go and watch the King of Navarre at tennis.” I speak lightly but Gillone’s eyes widen nonetheless. “People will expect it.” It is a weak explanation. I hope that Gillone does not question it. I certainly don’t intend to.
My cousin is playing with the Marquis de Renel against the Comte de La Rochefoucauld and the Seigneur de Pardaillan. He runs full out, handling his racket with vigor. There is no one watching, so he plays for sport, not show. It is an illumination of his character, I think, tucking the fact away. In the shadows of the gallery I enjoy the game. My cousin has an easy, natural athleticism. Scoring the final point, he clasps Renel’s arm and congratulates his opponents on their efforts. Then his eyes stray and find me.
Racket in hand, he makes a bow. “Gentlemen,” he declares, “Her Majesty the Queen of Navarre honors us with her presence.” There is nothing mocking about the statement, but when the unfriendly eyes of his companions fix upon me, I feel awkward.
The remaining gentlemen salute me, then turn back to each other. “Have you had enough?” the King’s partner asks the men across the net. “Or must you be beaten again?”
I rise, hoping to escape my embarrassment. My cousin, who has remained loo
king through the curtain of net that separates us, moves forward and laces his fingers in it. “You are going, Madame? I would be happy to have you cheer me in the next.” His eyes are entirely earnest, as if he senses that his companions made me feel ill at ease and regrets it.
“I fear I must, Your Majesty.” I give a slight curtsy. “Ladies need far longer for their toilette than gentlemen, and all eyes will be on us when we dine cette après-midi.”
“True. But as you, a renowned beauty, need fear no man’s eyes, I must suppose you urge me to greater exertions in my own toilette.” He smiles slightly. “So much wardrobe advice since we were wed.” He is clearly referring to our encounter last night. Why? To remind me of our bargain? Or maybe he merely wishes to re-create the ease we felt.
“I wear silver. You must suit yourself.” It strikes me forcibly that, though we may look like a pair at our nuptial festivities, it will take some time for us to be a pair—even a pair of allies. Giving another curtsy, I turn.
As I make my way down the gallery I hear one of the gentlemen on the court mutter, “Spy.”
My cheeks burn. It is an old charge, so it stings powerfully. My mother condemned me as a spy for the Duc. Perhaps that is whom my husband’s cohorts think I act for now. Or they think me a spy for that same mother who herself labeled me untrustworthy. I am tired of being every person’s pawn, trusted by no one. I resolve to prove myself my cousin’s ally, the more quickly the better.
* * *
I do not see my husband again until he climbs into a litter beside me for the short trip to the Hôtel d’Anjou. Anjou is the host of this dinner and the ball at the Louvre that will follow. I find it both laughable and pleasing that etiquette should force my brother to celebrate my marriage. Laughable because he detests my husband. Pleasing because, given his pride and his elaborate tastes, the events likely cost him a fortune.
Having determined to be on good terms with my cousin, I offer him a smile. “How was the rest of your tennis?”
“Formidable. I won every game.”
“Truly?”
“No”—he smiles broadly—“but I hoped to get away with claiming as much, given you were not watching.”
“No one would ever guess you were a Gascon,” I tease.
“Oh, come. They would know it for certain—if not by my boasting, then certainly by my love of garlic. I hear there is much talk of that in Court, especially among the ladies.”
I blush, thinking of the myriad comments that have in fact been made suggesting an odor of garlic clings to the King of Navarre.
“What a pity we will all be off to Flanders. It will delay my taking you to the Navarre and introducing you to our cuisine.”
“Pray, Sir, do not speak of war with the Spanish tonight, at least not within the hearing of the Queen Mother.” My tone is serious but I keep a smile upon my lips for the spectators who line our way.
“I know Her Majesty is not in favor of the enterprise,” my cousin responds, adding one of his characteristic shrugs. “But it seems to me His Majesty and the admiral have made up their minds to go forward.”
“If they have, that will only make my mother more determined and more dangerous.” My voice is so low that the King of Navarre must lean toward me. “If you all go to Flanders and the errand is to your liking, there will be time enough to talk of it. You may even do some of your Gascon boasting, provided you acquit yourself well. But until then, take my advice and stay out of the debate.”
I can see he considers the point. “My gentlemen say the opposite. They urge me to support the King pointedly so that he will know we are his allies.”
“Are these the same gentlemen who called me ‘spy’?”
“They do not know you.”
“Neither do you, Sir.” I place a hand on his arm to show him that I do not say this in anger. “But I hope to illuminate my character by being true to our agreement and offering the best advice it is in my power to give. I tell you that being Her Majesty’s enemy—or even being imagined to be so—is far more dangerous than being thought by Charles to be lukewarm to his war.
“There are better ways to endear yourself to the King. As the weather cools, the gentlemen will ride to the chase. Like you, the King has a great passion for sport. Show yourself as mad for the hunt as he. Bring down a boar with him, and you will be brothers in a way you are not now. I assure you, such tactics will be far more efficacious than speaking of Spain, and far less hazardous.”
“Are you suggesting your mother is more dangerous than a cornered boar?”
“She is, though it is you and not I who articulates the thought.”
“As you are not a spy, I need have no fear of doing so.” His smile never falters but his eyes are not so sure as his lips.
As we alight at our destination, the King of Navarre hesitates, looking about. We both see Charlotte at the same moment.
“Go on.”
My husband looks me in the eye.
“I meant what I said last evening—everything I said. Can you, Sir, say the same?” I glance in the direction of Guise. The Duc meets my gaze, his eyes hungry.
“Madame, I am a man who keeps his bargains. May I suggest, however, it is in neither of our interests to openly embarrass the other. I pledge to be discreet.”
“As do I.” Watching my husband move to Charlotte’s side and whisper in her ear, his face glowing, I wonder if I should have warned him Charlotte is Mother’s creature. Should I have hinted that Her Majesty may use the Baronne as a weapon? Perhaps, but I am not ready for such a denouncement.
Mother glides to my side. “Do not stare. People will think you are jealous.”
It is the first time we have spoken today, and this is what she chooses to say?
“I am not.”
She draws my arm through hers and we move up the steps. “If you are, you have only yourself to blame. The King of Navarre gave you every opportunity to win his heart and you would not be bothered.”
“Madame, a single night in my husband’s company has not changed me. I continue to be indifferent.”
“That is good. Indifference is power.”
“That smacks of bitterness.”
“Perhaps.” She pauses. “But it certainly reflects experience. I loved your father and it was folly. In the more than twenty-five years we were married, he never cared for me in that way. If I could have been indifferent to him, it would have been to my advantage.”
I suppose I ought to show sympathy, for surely this is a painful admission. But I am not inclined to be kind to Mother at the moment. “Then I am more fortunate than you.”
“Not yet. I have sons, and you have none. I must exhort you, daughter, not to use your friend Charlotte as an excuse for stinting your duty in that regard.”
“I should think, Madame, you would be the last one to cry if the King of Navarre lacked heirs. Another generation of Protestant Bourbons in the south can hardly be to your liking.”
“Perhaps they will be Catholic comme leur mère. Your cousin’s issue will be as much Valois as Bourbon, and that ought to cool religious strife.”
“Yes, because we are such a loving family—never jealous, never scheming to best each other.” I look pointedly at Anjou where he greets his guests. “After seeing how your sons behave, Madame, I would be afraid to have more than one.”
Mother releases me. The look in her eyes is very near to hate. Yet I find I am not afraid. For the first time I feel I may wound the one who has injured me most frequently with relative impunity.
My husband returns to my side and leads me to the table. During the banquet I have only smiles for him, until I notice that my pleasant looks fire the eyes of my Duc with anger. Tricky. I would convince my cousin our alliance is in earnest, but not at the expense of my beloved’s peace of mind.
Wait, love, when the dining is done I will be your partner, not his.
By the time the Court makes its way out for the return to the Louvre, a goodly number of its members are stag
gering. Charles, with one arm around the Comte de La Rochefoucauld and the other around my darling Henri, lectures the two boisterously that they should be friends. Rochefoucauld tries to look gracious. Henri does not. My husband, surrounded by his gentlemen, waves to me before taking a horse, I have no idea whose. A moment later he and two dozen gentlemen, my brothers among them, charge out of the courtyard. This leaves me in sole possession of our litter, an opportunity. Coming up behind Charlotte, I put a hand on her shoulder. “Ride with me.”
The moment the curtains are lowered, I ask, “My darling, how are you?”
“Fine. How else should I be?” Her eyes dart from mine and her cheeks color.
“Come, we agreed that we would not let the King of Navarre come between us. You must feel free to gossip and jest as you have about past conquests.”
“There is nothing to joke about. I find your cousin refreshing. He does not talk too much, and when he does he says what he means.”
I do not know how to respond. A week ago I would surely have made a quip about garlic—the same sort of jibe my cousin brushed off good-naturedly on our ride. Now I cannot. “I am glad you find him less displeasing than you anticipated. Glad that we both do. I will feel less guilty enjoying myself with Guise this evening knowing that I do not leave you in an intolerable situation.”
We hold hands and gossip for the rest of our journey about the strangely ardent glances my brother Anjou gave the Princesse de Condé this afternoon.
At the Louvre, dancing commences at once. I dutifully let Charles lead me to the floor. The King of Navarre partners the Queen Consort. Henri is collected by Henriette. When the dance ends, she smiles at me as if to say Do you dare?
I do. Without hesitation I move in their direction. “Sir, will you be my next partner?”
“Your next and, were it up to me, your only.”
So much has happened since we last stood this close. For more than a day only our eyes have touched, so I feel the first contact between his fingertips and mine with every nerve and sinew. I can tell Henri is equally overwhelmed, for his hand trembles.
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