Médicis Daughter (24 page)

“Where are we going?” I ask as she pulls me down a narrow set of stairs.

“Into the dusk, where things that ought not to be seen are less likely to be.”

We emerge into what must be the kitchen gardens. I smell rosemary as our skirts brush the plants along the narrow path. Ahead, a figure stands silhouetted against the last sliver of burnished copper glowing upon the horizon.

“I will wait inside,” Charlotte says, stopping.

I need no urging to go on. I cannot see the Duc’s face until I am some yards closer. He does not smile as he did in the courtyard, but his eyes are warm, as is the hand he reaches out to me.

I move in to be kissed but instead he says, “There is a bench against the wall.”

There is indeed, wreathed by dead and withered vines. We sit side by side. Henri collects my other hand and kisses both.

When he raises his head I say, “Since we last met, Sir, you are the talk of the Court. You must be pleased.”

He gestures away his accomplishments as if they were nothing. “You are not married. So I am pleased.”

“I do not know for how much longer. Every letter Her Majesty receives suggests the Portuguese will close with her ambassador.”

My love’s handsome face becomes solemn. As I have so many times these last days I think that I am too young to be married—whatever my contrary thoughts were before. I must have more time for love first, for the love of this man.

Leaning forward, he kisses me tenderly.

“You must keep me informed of the negotiations,” he says as our lips part. “It is not a good thing to be distracted when fighting.”

“I will try.” I am thinking of how quickly I lost track of him once the army disbanded after La Roche-l’Abeille. And of the imposition our improper correspondence places upon Henriette.

Henri, it seems, worries about something different. “I understand. It is a risk for you to write to me. I would be mortified if anyone should become suspicious. Your honor is more important even than my peace of mind.”

“Not to me,” I murmur. “Your peace of mind and your person are dearer to me than my own.”

He kisses me again. That is when I hear it—the snap of something dry underfoot. Henri hears too. Releasing me, his hand goes to his side, where he must have a dagger. He peers into the semidarkness.

Nearer the château I can make out a figure stooping to pluck something from a plant.

Fearful of discovery, I gasp slightly without thinking. The figure straightens and for a moment looks outward into the garden. Henri and I sit perfectly still. I would not draw breath were it not absolutely required. After a minute the person—whoever he is—places what he picked into his mouth and turns back. A crack of light grows into a doorway as he reenters the château.

“This is what I fear,” Henri says quietly. “Whoever that was might have walked forward and, finding us in this compromising setting, spread gossip or worse. Your brother Anjou harbors a grudge against me. He works to damage me in the eyes of others, including the King. He would love to ruin me.”

“Whatever Anjou says ill of you can only raise you in His Majesty’s esteem,” I reply. “But surely it is not so serious betwixt yourself and Anjou? Can a single battle two months past have done such damage?”

“Things between the Duc and me have never been particularly amicable. He likes me very well as an adversary—at tennis, in wrestling, in the competition for glory that so often accompanies war—but I do not believe I should ever have called us friends.”

I shift uncomfortably. I can think of nothing I have observed to belie his statements, and I only wonder that I never reflected on the point before. “To ruin you with your conduct here, Anjou would have to ruin me. He would not do so. He loves me too well.” And, I think, as he loves me, surely he will come to love the Duc better when he sees that I do.

“I love you well too, and therefore I cannot take such a chance. I should like to pay open court to you”—my heart leaps—“but now is not the time. Let the matter with Portugal be settled first.” Then, perhaps sensing how I tense, he says, “Settled to our liking.”

“And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime we will be as careful as mice in a kitchen when the cat is about. Perhaps a diversion. I might court another.”

I shake my head no.

“Think about it, Marguerite. It is the surest way to keep the attention I pay you from being discovered.”

“It is the surest way to make me despise another lady.”

Leaning forward, he whispers in my ear, “Your jealousy excites me.” Pulling me to him once more, he kisses me until I cannot remember where we are. All thoughts are of him. All of my body throbs and aches unbearably.

“God give me strength,” he murmurs as he releases me.

Now it is my turn to whisper. Putting my mouth against his ear, I ask, “If I let you create a diversion, will we be able to continue to snatch moments such as these?”

His breathing seems labored. His hand rises to my breast and squeezes through my gown. “To be alone with you … truly alone … is my greatest temptation and my greatest fear.”

Again I move my mouth to his ear. I feel his entire body stiffen. “Why fear what is such a pleasure. Though I am a maid and ought to fear the unknown, when I am with you I would run where I have never walked. I fear detection only, nothing else.”

His mouth moves to my throat, kissing lower and lower. I have visions of reclining on the bench, of letting him … I do not know what, for in truth I am aggravatingly naïve of the details of such things. But it is as I said to him: I am not afraid. I lean back, pulling on his shoulder, willing him to follow me. I feel him hesitate. “The Duchesse de Nevers’ sister pines for you,” I say. “I have never had any fondness for her. Let her be the object of your feigned pursuit. Send her letters. Kiss her hand.” I pull him toward me again. “Only, for mercy’s sake, kiss me before the fire your last kiss ignited consumes me.”

He hesitates. “I will kiss you,” he says, “so long as I feel sufficient self-control to be certain that I do nothing else.” Then, leaning forward, he presses his mouth to the cleft where my breasts meet above the line of my bodice. I give a soft moan and in response he darts his tongue into that crevice, making my back arch with pleasure. I bury my hands in his hair, clutching it so that he cannot escape me. The Princesse de Porcien is forgotten. All is forgotten save the sensations of my flesh and the faint smells of the garden wafted over us by the late August breeze.

CHAPTER 10

Autumn 1569—Ch
â
teau of Plessis-les-Tours, La Riche, France

“Shut the window.” Mother looks up from her embroidery. I hurry to comply. The warm breezes of summer are flown, as are all the men. I wonder if the nip of fall is in the air where they are. For that matter, I wonder where that is, precisely.

Each day Mother and I wait for two things: word that the war is over with Anjou victorious; and a letter from His Majesty’s ambassador in Portugal declaring me betrothed. We both anticipate the first with genuine impatience. When it comes to the second … I continue to feign enthusiasm, but it taxes me. Two weeks ago Her Majesty had a report blaming an outbreak of the plague in Lisbon for the delay of my betrothal. I found myself thinking—though it was unchristian—that Dom Sébastien might succumb. Since then we have had word the plague recedes, without the King even catching it. Death, it seems, cannot be counted on to extricate me from my situation. I must exert myself to do so.

“Shall I bring you a wrap?” I ask Mother.

“No, I will adjust my chair a little closer to the fire.” Settling in with her work again, she pauses to smile at me. “What a companion you have become.”

“Nothing pleases me more than my closeness with you and my brothers, Madame. Truth be told, I am not eager to leave the bosom of my family to become Queen of Portugal.”

“No girl is eager to leave what she knows for what she does not know,” Mother replies. Then, after a moment of consideration: “I may have been the exception, for though my uncle the Pope was good to me, he was not as a mother or father. Your grandfather François was much more of the latter to me.”

“The King of Portugal delays matters. Might we not do the same? He and I are both young. Surely another year with you, Madame—which would give me the greatest pleasure—would be nothing to the Portuguese?”

This time when she looks at me Mother’s eyes are more searching. “It means so much to you not to be parted from me?”

“It does, Madame. Serving you … I feel it is my life’s work. Serving you, and being always here for Anjou.”

“You miss him as much as I.” She nods understandingly.

“If only the sentence of death pronounced by the Parlement upon Coligny were enough to kill that gentleman!”

“Have faith, daughter. Someone will claim the fifty thousand écus, or your brother will do the deed without expectation of reward and come home to us.”

“The Duc de Guise would surely also kill the gentleman without recompense.”

“True, but we must not hope for that. After all, if His Grace were to have credit for the admiral, your brother would return to us all scowls and curses.”

“However he returns, I wish to be here, Madame,” I say, endeavoring to turn the conversation back to my impending marriage.

“And you shall be. Even if you were married tomorrow by proxy, some months must pass before your journey to Portugal. The gowns alone would take so long.”

“I of course stand ready to do my duty, Madame. I only ask you to consider if I might be dutiful from a lesser distance. If I were given a French husband as my sister Claude was, I could be ever close to you.” There, I’ve said it. The thing I have longed to say but been afraid to.

“Margot!” Mother’s face is not exactly angry, but neither is it pleased. I swallow hard, waiting for a lecture, balancing continued resistance against quick capitulation.

A heavy knock sounds. The door swings wide, though Mother has not yet commanded the knocker to enter. Anjou’s close companion the Seigneur du Guast crosses the threshold, covered in dust. In a single instant my thoughts of the King of Portugal are gone and I doubt my mother could remember his name if pressed. This man comes from the field of battle. He comes with news of my brother … and of Guise.

“Your Majesty, Your Highness. I have ridden from Moncontour. There has been a mighty battle.”

“And?” Mother demands.

“His Majesty’s troops, under the Duc d’Anjou, were victorious. Eight thousand Huguenots surrendered. Coligny flees south but is badly injured, and surely, once cornered, he and those with him must fall.”

“Praise be to God,” I say, crossing myself adamantly.

“Praise be to your brother,” Mother responds. “He is a warrior prince to match any alive. How is my son?”

For the first time I notice that Guast’s face does not entirely reflect the triumph he reports. “Your Majesty”—he licks his upper lip as if he is nervous and my stomach clenches—“the Duc was unhorsed at the height of the battle.”

“Oh, dear God!” Mother’s face blanches and my stomach flips. If something has happened to Henri, how shall either of us bear it? “Is he hurt?”

“Scrapes and bruises only, Your Majesty, I give you my word, and I was with him after the event.”

“You are certain?”

“Quite certain. Be assured, Your Majesty, the Duc is more distressed in spirit by his unhorsing than damaged in body. His personal guard, devoted to him as all who know him must be, fought ferociously to protect him until he could be mounted again and withdraw from the field. His Grace charged me particularly with telling you not to distress yourself on his account, for he holds Your Majesty’s peace of mind too dear to bear the thought of worrying you needlessly.”

I see a muscle in my mother’s cheek move slightly, and her hands on the arms of her chair are rigid. “Seigneur, we appreciate the speed with which you brought this news and the solicitude of your delivery. I pray you will tell the Duc we showed as much bravery in receiving word of his peril as he showed during it.”

“Of course. But Your Majesty will have an opportunity both to show fortitude and examine the Duc for signs of his fall. Even as he pursued Coligny, the Duc bid me beseech Your Majesty, and His Majesty the King, to follow him south and meet him
proche de
Saint-Jean-d’Angély. He means to siege that city and would have the wise counsel and approbation of you both.”

My heart, a minute ago pounding in fear, soars. We will go to Anjou. I will see with my own eyes that my brother is safe. I will soothe and cheer him with a report of all that I have said and done on his behalf while he fought so valiantly.

“Sir, I will take your report to the King. Pray, if you can bear to be apart from your friends in arms so long, rest with us a day. Then I must have you back in your saddle with a message for my son: Tell the Duc that though I must move many and cannot travel with the same speed as you, the Court will soon be in sight of his tents.”

Guast, having bowed to Mother, passes me as he withdraws. As he does, he darts me a look I do not quite understand.

The flurry of packing begins while Mother is still closeted with Charles. A journey of more than forty-five leagues lies ahead, and it will take us three days. I can hardly bear to wait so long to embrace and congratulate the hero of Moncontour, as Anjou is being called.

As I move briskly about, giving instructions, I pray the fine autumn weather will hold. Wet roads could double the time it takes to make our journey. I try not to think of other events that might slow our progress; with the country at war no road is guaranteed to be safe.

Gillone sidles up to me carrying an armload of folded chemises. “Your Highness”—her voice is low—“the Seigneur du Guast is at the door.”

My surprise is complete. I cannot imagine why the Seigneur calls upon me rather than resting after his long ride.

“Make sure to pack my new gown, the one the color of golden autumn leaves,” I instruct as I head for the door. I do not immediately see du Guast, then I realize he is standing to one side of the opening, close to the wall.