Médicis Daughter (25 page)

“Seigneur.” I incline my head.

“Your Highness.” He does not move.

“Will you come in, Sir?”

“No, I thank you.” Looking in either direction he lowers his voice. “I have a message,
un message privé,
for you from the Duc d’Anjou.”

My heart flutters. I wonder what my brother would tell me alone? Perhaps some details of his injuries? Or perhaps he tasks me with some action? I reach out a hand expectantly.

“It is not here”—he taps the pouch at his waist—“but here.” He lays two fingers alongside his temple. “Can you meet me?”

“Meet you?”

“Alone.”

*   *   *

I look behind me once more to make certain I was not followed. Confident no one’s eyes are upon me, I press through a slender opening in the row of hedges at the back of the garden. The space between the hedges and the stone wall was left so that gardeners might trim the massive border. It is like a small
allée
. I discovered it in the month since our arrival. How I wish I had known of it when Guise and I might have walked it together.

The Seigneur du Guast is waiting. At the sight of me, he moves forward and executes a bow. I notice, with some confusion, that he is dressed like a gallant—as if he were attending a court festivity, not meeting furtively to deliver a message.

He offers his arm and, not knowing what else to do, I take it. We walk in silence, passing from light into the shadow of the tall wall before us.

“I have heard,” Guast says, “that after the siege of Poitiers the Duc de Guise came here.”

“He did.” I am utterly confused. Why is the Seigneur speaking of the Duc? “As one of that city’s chief defenders, he wished to make a report and receive the royal approbation that was his due.”

“I hear also that the King was not alone in praising him; that all the women of the Court offered him their admiration.”

“His bravery did him no harm with anyone at Court, including those of the fairer sex.” The thought of how jealous I have been over the other ladies’ praise of the Duc causes my ears to burn.

“He has your admiration, does he not?”

I stop walking and drop his arm. “What has this to do with my brother or his message?”

“You fail to answer my question,” he replies. “Interesting. Yet I do not need an answer. I saw how you smiled at him when we were all gathered here to hear the Duc d’Anjou’s plans. And I saw more as well.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“I had an upset stomach the night of your arrival and came out to the garden to find some mint to chew on.”

I remember the shadowy figure that evening, my gasp, and the long moment he peered toward where the Duc and I sat. Knowing that the figure was Guast makes my mouth dry. I decide that any protest will only make him more certain, so I say nothing.

“Again silence.” He shakes his head as if this means something. “Would it please you to know my spies say the Duc is mad for you? That no amount of flirting or flattering words from other ladies can divert his attention?”

It does please me, but I have no intention in confiding in this man. None of this is in the smallest part his business. “Nonsense, Seigneur. All at Court know that His Grace woos the Princesse de Porcien.”

Guast actually has the temerity to laugh!

“Sir,” I say sharply, “I had some difficulty in arranging to meet you and I must return to the château with all possible haste. You are wasting time.”

“I am, indeed.” He steps forward until his breast touches my own. He runs an index finger along the side of my cheek. “Is this how he touches you?” The smell of his breath, its warmth on my face, makes bile rise in my mouth. I realize with a sudden, horrifying certitude that there is no message.

I step back but my retreat is stopped by the hedge, and Guast follows. I am trapped between his body, so close that I can feel its heat, and the branches behind me, which press my back through the silk of my gown.

Leaning in further so I can feel his beard against my face, he says, “You accept the caresses of Guise, do you not? Mine may not be the hands of a Duc, but they know how to give pleasure.” Without warning, his right arm goes around my waist, pulling me to him, and his left hand fondles my breast.

“Seigneur! You forget yourself,” I gasp.

“No, indeed, Your Highness, I know who I am—the proud son of an ancient family and a close friend of your brother, Anjou. I would be your close friend as well.” His mouth closes over mine. The thrust of his tongue between my lips feels like a violation. I clench my teeth against its further intrusion and shove with all my might against his chest, twisting and turning in an effort to escape him.

My mouth breaks free of his. “I will tell my brother you importune me.”

I expect Guast to release me. Everyone knows Anjou adores me. But instead Guast says, “Better not. I can make trouble for you, Lady—whisper in your brother’s ear what I know of your dalliance with Guise. He has no love for the Duc. Yes, I can hurt you, but I would rather please you.” He pulls me more firmly against him and I can feel his arousal. I am gripped by fear such as I have never known. We are at the very corner of the garden, cut off from view. If I break free of him, can I outrun him? Can I even escape the hedges? If I scream, will anyone hear?

“Please, you must let me go.”

“Must I?” His mouth closes over mine again. As I struggle, the branches behind me scrape at me like the claws of angry dogs.

“My mother,” I gasp as he breaks off his violent kiss. “I will tell the Queen of these forced attentions.” Surely, if he does not fear Anjou, he fears Her Majesty. Everyone does.

“And I will tell Her Majesty that you made me willing proffer of your charms. Tell her that you slipped from the château, away from your
gouvernante,
intent on seducing. If it were not so, why come alone to this deserted spot?”

“You told me you had a message from my brother!”

“Did I?”

“You are evil.”

“You drive me to threats.” That hand that was on my breast goes to my hip. It begins to gather my skirts. I can feel my hem rising. “I am a captive of your beauty, just like Guise.”

“Not like His Grace,” I say, frantically trying to arrest the work of his hand with one of my own. “The Duc would never impose himself upon me. He is an honorable man, and I am chaste.”

Guast inhales sharply. “Chaste?”

I realize I have made a terrible mistake. Far from inspiring pity or honorable behavior, my confession appears to have excited Guast further. “Here is an unanticipated pleasure.”

Heedless of the pain, I press farther back into the bushes. “Sir, my chastity is meant for the King of Portugal. If I am found not to be virginal on my wedding night and accuse you—”

“No one will believe I, rather than Guise, took your maidenhead, except the gentleman himself. And I shall enjoy lording that over him. Just as I shall enjoy having what is meant for a king.” His voice is thick with lust. Grabbing me by both shoulders, he swings me away from the bushes. I know instinctively he means to push me to the ground. If he succeeds, I am lost. With all my might I throw my weight toward him, pushing against his breast with the palms of my hands. He is thrown off balance, releasing me as he struggles to remain on his feet. It seems that he will, and then a miracle happens. The Seigneur’s foot, touching a patch of damp and matted autumn leaves, slips and is lost from under him.

As he falls to one knee I turn and run like an animal pursued by the pack toward the gap in the hedge. I am through it, scrambling across the parterre. I dare not look back. Such a glance would steal precious moments.
Holy Mary, mother of God
,
give my feet wings.
And then, oh, second miracle, I am inside the palace. My immediate, urgent need to escape the Seigneur gives way to a need to reach my chamber without attracting attention. For the plain fact is I did slip out unaccompanied, and to be seen returning with my clothing asunder and my face white as ashes could be the start of damaging rumors.

At last I slip into my chamber. I want to weep. Indeed, the first tears of what would be a torrent slip down my cheek. But, turning from fastening the door, I find Gillone looking at me.

“Your Highness, what has happened? Are you crying?” She hurries forward.

“Help me undress.” I seldom use a tone of command but I employ one now, hoping to arrest further questions. I turn so that Gillone can unfasten my bodice.

She gasps. “Your Highness, your dress! It is slit and torn as if by animals.”

“You imagine things, silly girl. I only slipped trying to return from the gardens and fell against a hedge.”

“Slipped?” Gillone does not sound convinced. She removes my overskirt and fingers a gash in the silk.

“Yes. If the dress cannot be discreetly mended, destroy it.” Then, seeing that her look has become even more incredulous, I add, “Her Majesty had little tolerance for spoiled gowns when I was a child. Do you imagine my age would spare me from a tongue-lashing now?”

Dipping her head, Gillone gathers the ruined gown into her arms. “Perhaps you should tell Her Majesty what happened.” We both know she does not mean the story I just told her. She senses that was a lie and urges me to tell another the truth if I will not tell her. Admittedly, she appears to do this out of kindness, but my temper flares.

“Out!” I order.
Tell Mother what?
She would think me both disobedient and a fool for going to meet Guast. And she might think worse. She might think me lascivious. Guast certainly did. I thought my conduct toward the Duc de Guise innocent—or, if not precisely innocent, harmless. What were a few stolen kisses? I see now that they were sin.

Going to my
prie-dieu,
I kneel and allow myself to weep—swept with both relief and guilt.
Oh, Holy Virgin, it is clear to me that I am lust-filled, and that my wicked desires were plain enough that the Seigneur du Guast perceived them. Help me to purge myself of my sinful thoughts and feelings
.
Give me the resolve to keep the Duc at arm’s length and accept only such attentions as might be paid me before a chaperone.

The moments in the garden come rushing back to me. Even as my lips burn and my skin crawls at the thought of Guast’s hands on me, I cannot help concluding that I brought his attentions upon myself when I let the Duc touch me in similar ways. I must, therefore, be forever silent about what has happened, not only because I might not be believed, but because my silence is my penance for past transgressions.

*   *   *

Saint-Jean-d’Angély is on the horizon at last. The past six days have been a misery. The Seigneur du Guast lingered with the Court after our encounter. Though he spoke not one word to me, his insouciance and the bold way he looked at me added to my mortification. His departure should have been a blessed release. But those moments in the garden are never long from my mind. I am having nightmares. I cannot eat.

I’ve ignored Henriette’s pointed questions and Gillone’s looks. Faithful to my self-imposed pledge, I’ve told no one what passed. Praise heaven, Mother attributes my lack of appetite and the circles beneath my eyes to concern over Anjou. After all, she also looks haggard, and Anjou’s unhorsing is the cause.

As my brother’s camp comes into sight through the drizzling rain that has punctuated our journey, she places a hand over mine. “Not long now. We will see your brother sound and whole and will ourselves be so for the first time since the Seigneur brought us word of his fall.”

Oh, Henri, how I long to see you!
If I am your champion you are also mine, and I will be safe once I am in your sight. Perhaps I may find a way to get Guast banished from your circle without telling you what he has done.

When the carriage stops, Anjou is there. Charles climbs down. There is an awkward exchange of bows, then His Majesty hastens to the shelter of a tent bearing the royal standard. Henri does not follow. He stands, rain streaming from his hat onto the shoulders of his doublet, waiting for us to descend. As soon as Mother’s feet are on the ground, he pulls her into an embrace.

“My darling”—she pushes him to arm’s length so she can examine him better—“what a relief to see you well. Here we are, the women who love you best in all the world.” She embraces him again, then steps aside to make way for me, and I quite willingly follow her example, throwing myself upon my brother, my tears at seeing him mixing with the rain.

Henri’s arms do not close around me. Instead he turns and offers an arm to Mother. “You should not stand in such weather. How could I bear it if you became ill on my account?” He leads her toward a tent and I follow, lifting my gown, hopping over puddles and wondering why my embrace was not returned.

Inside, Henri takes Mother’s cloak. I try to catch his eye as a servant removes mine, but he is busy pouring Mother wine, waving away a second attendant in order to do the task himself. Anjou’s eyes seem to touch on everything but me. Dismissing the servants, he beckons to Mother. “Come to the brazier.”

Henri rubs Mother’s hands between his own. “I hope you find the arrangement of your tent satisfactory. I supervised it myself
tout proche
to mine.”

Anjou speaks rapidly. There is high color in his cheeks. He is clearly agitated. That likely explains my being slighted. Like Charles, Henri has a propensity to become fixated on a single thing, worrying it as a dog does a bone. I wonder what he is fretting over. Is he dwelling on some event from his last battle or anticipating his next? Flattery, I think, should revive his spirits and gain his attention.

“We heard much of your magnificent victory,” I say, coming forward to pour myself a glass, since no one has offered me one, “but no one can match your descriptive powers. Tell us: What was it like to see the Swiss shatter the Huguenot Landsknechts?”

Anjou’s eyes meet mine for the first time. They are surprisingly hard. “I have no wish to speak of such things. You must rely on others to tell the tale. There are those who can be satisfied by an incomplete victory, but I cannot.”