Médicis Daughter (19 page)

“As for my past choice, yours bests her easily. As to my future choice, I will be so bold as to say I have faith she will eclipse Louise de La Béraudière.”

“You intrigue me.”

“I hope so.” He offers me what is left in his glass and I finish it.

“When do you leave?”

“Before the week is out.”

So few days. So few moments left with Henri.
It is delicious to think of the Duc by his Christian name, but even better to whisper that name to him.

My brother looks at me closely. “It pleases me to see your face fall at the mention of my departure. Mother will come part of the way; perhaps you can travel with her.”

“Oh, I hope so.” Closing my eyes, I can see Anjou at the head of His Majesty’s army, beautifully armored and mounted, a royal banner waving at his one side and the Duc de Guise, handsome in his battle dress, at the other.

*   *   *

“Please, Henriette,” I whisper. “It has been three days, and they leave tomorrow.”

My friend looks in Mother’s direction before replying. “I may not be the Baronne de Retz, Margot, but nor am I foolhardy. Better no meeting than a meeting discovered.” She takes another stitch. We are hemming a few last shirts for the departing gentlemen, she for her husband and I for my brother. “I am no friend to you if you are compromised.”

Finished with her shirt, Henriette folds it neatly and picks up another. Charlotte lets out a mild oath as her thread breaks. “Perhaps the gentlemen will not be long absent.”

“Oh, dear God, I hope they are.” Henriette pulls a face. “The Duc de Nevers is the best husband when he is the furthest removed.”

Charlotte laughs. “Paris is not large enough for the both of you?”

“Generally, yes, but I fear the Duc ‘fortifies’ himself for an absence of some months. Very tedious, particularly as Bussy will be leaving as well.”

“Je comprends,”
Charlotte replies, threading her needle. “The Baronne de Sauve is in a most attentive mood as well. Fortunately, I have been able to allude to some business of the Queen’s and thus keep myself out of my house and out of his way. But tonight I suppose I must give him a proper send-off.”

“Oh, you are a good wife,” Henriette laughs. “And a good liar too! You have no royally sanctioned
amour
at present.”

I have wanted a husband for years. Listening to my friends, I begin to wonder why. But surely where a lady has a husband who suits her heart as well as he suits the interests of her family, she does not view him as a burden.

“Henriette,” I say, “if you are with me, you cannot be with the Duc de Nevers.”

“Nicely played. But what excuse could I have for being at the Louvre this evening? Every family dines at home to bid farewell to sons, husbands, and brothers. A certain someone will be with his mother. She has come from Annecy to see him off.”

“And to remind him to kill Coligny,” Charlotte adds.

Exasperated, I rise, taking Anjou’s finished shirts. Mother looks up as I place them beside her. If my friends are not sorry to see their husbands go, it is clear that Mother will miss her son.

“Can I not go with you to see off Anjou?”

“Marguerite, we have discussed this. It is not a pleasure trip. I go to make certain the King’s orders and Anjou’s commands are obeyed as the army heads to Estampes.”

Everyone seems determined to thwart me. Scooping up the entire pile of shirts, I say, “I will take these to Anjou.” Mother nods. I am in no very good mood as I make my way toward my brother’s apartment. Then I hear voices and one in particular—the Duc is nearby! Sure enough, I open the next door to find Charles, Guise, and several other gentlemen laughing and talking as they walk toward me.

“Sister!” Charles says jocundly. “Does Her Majesty have you carrying laundry about now?”

“They are shirts for Anjou. He is packing.” Guise looks at me and my cheeks grow warm. I hope the gentlemen will think I am embarrassed by Charles’ jest.

“Nonsense, his
valet de chambre
is packing. Find a servant to take those shirts and come with us to the armory. I will show these gentlemen how I wield a hammer.”

“Ought you to exert yourself so?” Charles still looks drawn from his bout of illness this past summer. Mother has been planning special menus for him and seeking to curtail his exercise, even his hunting—a restriction Charles has not accepted gracefully.

His Majesty smiles indulgently. “Here, gentlemen, you see true sisterly devotion. If only my brother’s concern for my health were as genuine.”

I am glad Mother is not here to hear him speak so of Anjou, but his words can hardly surprise his companions, all of whom know there is increasing rivalry between Her Majesty’s sons.

“If you would rather, sister, we can go see the new stallion that has arrived for me. He was bred at Her Majesty’s farm.”

“I will meet you in the stables, after I have found someone to deliver the shirts.”

The Duc speaks up, “Your Majesty, shall I accompany the Duchesse de Valois?”

Clever, clever man.

“Yes, do.” Charles nods.

I move past the gentlemen. The Duc falls in behind me. When the next chamber is empty, I half hope Henri will stop me and take me into his arms. But of course that would be the height of imprudence. Instead he moves to walk beside me.

“I am glad of this chance to see you privately,” he says. “I came to the Louvre hoping for such a moment.”

“I am thankful you did. I feared we would have no opportunity to make our farewells.” I do not like the feel of that last word on my tongue: there is a possible finality in it which evaded me in the past. Quite unexpectedly I begin to cry.

“Marguerite, don’t.” He puts a hand on my arm and we both stop. “Do not send me off with tears but with smiles—they are luckier.”

“You will not need luck,” I say. “I know you will acquit yourself bravely, and I will wait for news of your gallant deeds, and thrill to them. But I will wait even more eagerly for your return and, though I know you will enjoy being in battle, will pray daily that the fighting is swiftly concluded.”

“I should not have thought so even a week ago,” he replies, “but I too will be glad if the prosecution of this war can be counted in weeks rather than months. So long as I have victories to enhance my reputation, and Coligny’s death to my credit, I will be very happy to be back at Court.” He lowers his voice. “Back in your arms.”

The attraction between us is nearly suffocating. I curse the daylight and the very public nature of where we stand. How can a château so large have so few private corners?

“I wish you could be in my arms now, that I could send you from here with a kiss to remember me by.”

“Can you imagine I will forget you?” He seems genuinely distressed. “Your image will rise before me every time I draw my sword. I fight for my King, for my Church, and for you.”

“That is august company, Sir, and I am honored by it. If you will fight for me, then you must have something of mine to carry, as you would colors into a tournament.” I have been clutching Anjou’s shirts against myself, a poor substitute for clasping the Duc. There is one I took particular care with, painstakingly embroidering the neck and wrists with blackwork. Pulling it from the pile, I hold it out.

As he reaches for it, the door closest to us opens. A serving girl with a ewer bustles in, humming. In my surprise, I drop all the shirts.

“Your Highness, I am so sorry.” The girl looks for somewhere to set down her pitcher so she may collect what I have dropped.

“Never mind,” I say, “I will get them. But hold a moment.”

I stoop and Guise crouches beside me, helping to collect the fallen shirts and taking the one I meant for him in the process.

“Here”—I hold the linen out—“fold these and deliver them to the Duc d’Anjou with my compliments.”

The servant takes them with a curtsy. As the door closes behind her, the Duc throws back his head and laughs.

“What is so funny?” I ask.

“We are. If we are going to be this nervous, we might as well risk a kiss. Stolen ones are the sweetest.” He leans in. The kiss is brief, but the Duc is right: its urgency and the fear of being discovered make it intensely exciting. “Now,” he says with a smile, “I am ready for battle.”

CHAPTER 8

October 20, 1568—Paris, France

“Your Majesty”—the Baronne de Retz enters at a run—“the King is on his way with the Cardinals of Lorraine and Bourbon. Their expressions are grim.”

Mother rises.

“A battle?” I murmur to Henriette.
A loss?
My mind immediately goes to the two who matter most to me among the hundreds in His Majesty’s army. My heart pounds.

“Impossible,” my friend murmurs back. “Her Majesty is barely returned from seeing the troops out of Orléans. They cannot have reached the Protestants. The sides must come face-to-face to fight.”

I wonder then what the news can be? Charles enters. “Grim,” the Baronne said. “Grim” may describe the faces of the two cardinals, but the word scarce suffices for my brother’s looks. He is stricken.

“Madame”—he stops before Mother, taking her hands—“I would rather anyone else could have brought this news, yet I could not allow them to do so, for it is such as must be related by blood.”

Mother blanches.

“Our sister Elisabeth is dead in childbirth.”

A collective gasp rises up from the assembled ladies.

“No,” Mother insists, “she cannot be. She is not halfway through her time.”

“That may be so, but her time has run out.” Charles begins to weep, lifting Mother’s hands and pressing his mouth against them.

Mother looks past him, to the Cardinal of Lorraine.

“Your Majesty,” he says. “Word comes from Spain that the Queen was taken to childbed far too early and died shortly after the infant daughter she labored to bring forth.”

“Not Elisabeth! Not Elisabeth!” Mother cries in anguish. She and Charles collapse into each other’s arms, both wracked by sobs.

I am frightened—more frightened than sad. I barely knew Elisabeth, but I know Mother. She is all stone and strength. To see her in such a state is overwhelming and terrifying. Apparently, not only to myself. Around me, ladies begin to weep. This general falling apart attracts Mother’s attention. Her head rises from Charles’ breast. Taking a step back, she wipes the tears from her face with a nearly vicious firmness.

“Ladies”—she claps her hands—“this behavior is not seemly.” I wonder if she means merely ours, or if she is embarrassed by her own collapse.

“Your Eminences, I rely upon you to plan a Mass honoring the Queen of Spain. I am sure that will give all in the Court a measure of comfort.”

She touches Charles’ arm. “Come, my son, we will seek God’s comfort now, in my chapel.” Leading the King as if he were a child, she retreats. At the door she looks back and says quietly, “Let none disturb us.”

Charles reemerges before long. He says nothing, but acknowledges me by stopping to kiss the top of my head. The Queen remains in her chapel. Slowly the sun moves through the sky, sweeping the scene outside the windows with warm autumn light, yet I feel cold. Mother and Elisabeth may have parted at Bayonne on less-than-perfect terms, but in the intervening three years that unpleasant meeting with the Spanish seemed to be forgotten between them. Watching a little bird pulling the seeds from a pod on the windowsill, I think of Mother’s last letter to my sister—gone no more than two days; of how Her Majesty worked on it, consulting with her physician and several cooks, trying to compose the best diet for Elisabeth, who was strangely large for her stage of pregnancy. This mark of caring made me envious. Now I feel guilty over my petty jealousy.

At last, when I begin to wonder if we will all sit through the dinner hour, the door opens. Mother steps into the room looking so composed that, had I not witnessed it, I would never guess at her earlier distress.

“Margot,” she says, “come with me.”

I follow as she moves briskly. By the time we arrive at our destination—His Majesty’s council chamber—I am out of breath. Without knocking, Mother walks in. Men all around the table rise. Charles alone remains seated, his face melancholy, his eyes swollen.

“Gentlemen”—Mother strides to where the King sits and puts a hand on his shoulder—“the house of Valois has suffered a loss. A personal tragedy, must not, however, be allowed to become a political one. The death of the Queen of Spain may, if we let it, impact our war against the Protestants—a holy war I have sworn to prosecute with vigor. I here declare that I will not let it.”

The men are utterly attentive. Mother looks about, meeting every eye.

“Make no mistake,” she continues, “the Protestant chiefs have heard of the death of my daughter, or soon will.” There is murmuring: clearly more than one man present has considered this point. “Doubtless they whisper that her death will loosen the ties between France and Spain. Such talk represents their wishes, not fact. Philip of Spain is bound to us by a shared devotion to the Holy Church in Rome.”

“Your Majesty,” René de Birague says, “the Spanish king thinks himself the better Catholic. His contempt for our efforts to suppress the heretics has been plain. If he has been so outspoken when ostensibly muted by ties of kinship, his language will doubtless be more strident absent such ties.”

Heads nod, including Mother’s. The Superintendent of Finances has always been a favorite.

“Indeed,” Mother says. “We must find a reason for Philip to be no worse a critic of French policy than he is. I have an idea on that score. Philip must marry again. That is certain. His only son is dead three months. If he loved one Valois princess, he ought to be eager for another. I wish the King of Spain’s fourth wife to be the Duchesse de Valois.”

I am not sure that I understood properly until every eye in the room turns to me.

“The Princess Marguerite is as pretty as her sister,” Mother continues, gesturing to me as if I were merchandise in a market stall. “She is young and her health has always been good, so she can be expected to bear sons.”

Mother means to send me to Spain to take Elisabeth’s place!
Heads nod and men smile. I ought to feel the same pleasure I see on the councilors’ faces. I have often lamented my status as the longest unmarried of Mother’s daughters. But at the moment I can only think of two things: the face of the Duc de Guise, and the fact that I will be expected to kiss a man who begot children with my sister. Now that I know what kissing entails, the thought of tasting lips my sister has held between her own turns my stomach.