Médicis Daughter (38 page)

Casting a sidelong glance at my companion as we move toward the great hall, I read sadness and fatigue in his features. I remember my last interview with Jeanne d’Albret—my promise of kindness. The man has lost his mother. And, unlike me, he was not given the opportunity to pay his respects to her as she lay in state. Nor did he attend her burial, as his reaction to her death was so violent, it delayed his travel, and by the time he reached Vendôme she had been interred.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty, that your honored mother is not here to greet you; that after all her work toward this end, she did not live to see us wed.”

“Are you?” He searches my face. “I suspect you are the only
dame de la cour
to feel so.”

“Sir, I assure you, such is not the case. When the Court went to pay those respects to the Queen of Navarre which her rank and our nearness of blood demanded, I saw tears in the eyes of more than one lady.”

“How can I trust such tears, Madame, when I hear your mother wept?” The words are fierce.

My cousin, it seems, is both shrewd and well informed. Still, he ought to have repaid my effort to be civil with civility, not bitter accusations.

As if recollecting as much, the King of Navarre squares his shoulders and, laying a hand with obvious effort upon my own where it rests at the crook of his arm, says, “You are as pretty as you were as a girl.”

I nearly laugh out loud. “Faint compliment, Sir, allowing that a woman has become no less attractive! If this is how wooing proceeds in the Navarre, I am surprised anyone is ever wed. Then again, you do not need to woo me—I am already won, or perhaps better say bargained for.”

My cousin hands me into my seat, then takes the chair next to mine. “Madame, it was not my intention to insult you, nor shall I be cunningly drawn into agreeing with any statement which makes you sound like chattel. That would reflect well on neither of us.”

I long to snap that it is the truth, no matter how badly it reflects. But if my cousin is prepared to play his part in this pageant, I will not be outplayed by this awkward man.

“Perhaps, Sir, it is politic for us to agree that both of us have improved immensely since last we were in company, and that each of us is delighted by that discovery.”

“If you like.” He shrugs. How could I have forgotten that shrug? My cousin looks past me. Then, without warning, he takes my hand from the table and brings it to his lips. When he lays my hand down once more, he leaves his own atop it. “I am quite delighted to find one thing has altered since we were children,” he says rather more loudly than before.

“What is that?” I try to slide my hand from beneath his but he merely closes his fingers around it, holding it fast.

“Do you remember how, when we were young, you insisted I would never be allowed to kiss you?” He lifts my hand again and draws it upward toward his lips. I tense every muscle in my arm, but my efforts are no match for his strength. All I can do is grit my teeth and watch as he very deliberately turns my hand over and kisses my wrist. He offers me a wide, oddly polished smile—the sort any gallant might offer in paying an elaborate compliment. “Well, it seems that I am to have the pleasure of kissing you after all. What man with eyes would not envy me in this?”

Somewhere to my left there is the sound of breaking glass.

My cousin’s eyes light up and he releases my hand. Nearby, the Duc de Guise’s wine glass lies fallen and shattered against his plate. The hand beside it is clenched into a fist.

So this was my cousin’s business! His first swipe at Henri.

Servants move to clear up the mess. My mother’s voice draws my attention away from the Duc. “Better glasses than heads broken,” she quips to Charles. “Is not peace a wonderful thing?”

Her comments draw a smile from Charles and appreciative laughter from some of those surrounding. I want to slap my cousin despite my promise to his dead mother, but with the eyes of so many upon me I can hardly offer such a naked show of displeasure. Instead I fix the smile of a coquette on my face and, placing my hand on his arm, lean in until my lips nearly brush his ear. I feel him twitch slightly at my proximity. But I am caught off guard as well. There is an unperfumed odor about my cousin—a combination of perspiration and horse—that makes me eager to be at a greater distance. Steeling myself against it, I whisper, “I
promise
you that a hand is the only thing of mine you will ever kiss.” Then, as if I have whispered something very charming, I sit back and give a gay little laugh.

My mother nods in approval. What a fool she is. What fools they all are. And my cousin the greatest fool among them.

For the rest of the meal I do not say another word to the King of Navarre, merely nodding in response to whatever he says. To his credit he is quick to perceive this pattern and turns his attention and conversation in the direction of my sister-in-law: complimenting the Queen Consort on her healthy looks, congratulating her on her upcoming confinement, and expressing earnest wishes that the King should have a healthy son.

The person nearest me on the left is the admiral. Since the peace he has risen so much in status and favor that he never sits far from the King he once fought. Charles adores him. Coligny blathers on about all the good my impending marriage will do for France, and all the excellent attributes of my husband-to-be of which I may be unaware. Truly I am in hell.

Mother, of course, has dancing planned. No performance—there will be time enough for those by the score in the weeks that lie between this day and my wedding—but the first of a string of increasingly elaborate balls culminating in the nuptial celebrations themselves. The King of Navarre and I are to open the dancing. But I have had enough of my mother’s script. The next part I act will be to my own liking.

As we descend from the dais, I make a little stumble and then, with a small cry, let myself collapse off the bottom step, the corner of which catches me in the lower back, causing me to cry out again—this time in genuine painful surprise.
There will be a bruise there later.
My cousin looks down at me. His eyes are not unkind but nor do they seem concerned. He has either guessed my ruse or truly does not care whether I have injured myself. Her Majesty bustles forward.

“Daughter, what is the matter?” Her tone is all concern but her eyes are sharp.

“Nothing serious, Madame,” I declare. Then, trying to sound regretful, “But I fear I have twisted my ankle.”

“You cannot dance.” It is a statement, not a question. She gestures to a knot of ladies nearby to assist me and, before Charlotte and Henriette can even separate themselves from the throng, turns her back, leaving me to sit where I fell. “Your Majesty,” she says to the King of Navarre, “I will be sorry not to see you dance with my daughter on this occasion, but you will have a lifetime to partner the Duchesse de Valois. For this evening I hope you will allow me the pleasure of choosing you a pretty partner to stand in her stead.”

“With your permission.” I do not realize he is addressing me until I feel all eyes upon me where I stand, balanced on one foot, with an arm around each Henriette and Charlotte. My cousin inclines his head deferentially. “If you wish it, I will be quite content to forgo dancing and bear you company.”

Why, I wonder, am I always left feeling vaguely guilty by this man?

“Sir, you must not abridge your evening’s entertainments on my account. I will be very happy to watch you dance with another.” There is no lie in this.

“Duchesse de Nevers,” Mother says, “can you manage the Duchesse de Valois? Good.” Mother takes Charlotte’s hand. “Your Majesty, may I present the Baronne de Sauve. She will stand well in my daughter’s place.”

Charlotte offers her famed shy, intriguing smile. She looks slightly in awe of my cousin—like a deer who might be lured in to eat from one’s hand or, by a single wrong move, sent bounding into the forest. The look is a lovely lie, of course. My friend is not timid. She is not waiting to be beguiled. She is as much the King of Navarre’s as I am—both of us condemned to his use by Mother.

I am nearly forgotten once the music begins. Nearly. Mother glances my way periodically, weighing perhaps both my actions and what may be expected next from me. Henri sees this as he circles the room, unsmiling, and is careful to stay at a distance as he passes me. During one such pass I raise my skirt a bit and wiggle my ankle to make certain he understands my ruse. Even this fails to draw a smile.

Unlike my beloved, the King of Navarre comes more than once to where I sit. On the first occasion he inquires after my ankle. On subsequent ones he introduces me to various gentlemen, each of whom looks vaguely the same in a dark doublet. Each also wears the same polite but distrustful expression, and offers a bow that is correct but betrays no real sense of honor in meeting me.

At last the tedious evening winds to a close. The King of Navarre goes off with his companions and I, on the arm of Henriette and limping noticeably until I am sure we are alone, retreat to my apartment. As we enter my bedchamber, my friend begins at once. “Well, the welcome is over,” she says, motioning for me to turn so that she and Gillone can begin to undress me. “You were very clever, contriving not to dance with the King of Navarre. I was not so fortunate.”

“And what did you think of my groom?”

“His accent is bad and his odor,
Mon Dieu,
it is worse. My poor dear!” Henriette hugs me impulsively. “You are to be married to a mountain goat, but I dare say you will survive and give him a proper goat’s horns. Apropos of which, Guise was pale tonight. And that broken glass! I told him that you will give him every sort of tender reassurance when he comes
ce soir
. But even that seemed insufficient to lighten his mood.”

“I will give him more than you think.”

“Really? You astonish me! I can think of nothing you have not already given him and nothing he has not given you. I am quite envious, in fact, of all the ways you have enjoyed him. Now that Monsieur has been recalled to Portugal, I have nothing better to take between my legs than my husband. Heaven help me.”

“I will give him a promise,” I reply, stepping out of the underskirt and farthingale that ring my feet and waiting patiently until Gillone disappears into my wardrobe to finish my thought. “A promise of fidelity. Do you know what I told my cousin this evening?”

“I cannot imagine.”

“That he will never kiss more than the hand of mine he takes unwillingly.”

Henriette stops gathering up the balance of my garments and stares at me wide-eyed.

“Margot, you cannot mean it. If you despoil this marriage and break the peace, your mother will have you beaten or worse.”

“My mother will know nothing of the matter.”

“You think the King of Navarre will be too embarrassed to admit you have refused him? That he will not demand his rights from the King? I would not for a moment count upon that. And only imagine the embarrassment if Charles or your mother vouchsafe to witness the consummation of your marriage.”

I shudder at the image of my mother, her face a twisted, gloating mask, standing beside my bed while my cousin mounts me. This would be a thing so horrible, I doubt I could survive it. But at the moment the idea of being wife to my cousin even
en privé
feels like to kill me.

If I crumble now, I will be lost.

“I cannot count upon the King of Navarre,” I say, raising my chin high. “But I am a Valois and a Médicis. Surely I can intimidate my provincial cousin: he will never dare lay a finger on me.”

*   *   *

In the morning I find that the King of Navarre is to take me walking at the Tuileries. “But it is so hot!” I say as Mother watches Gillone finish my hair.

“Nonsense! The gardens will be refreshing compared to the rooms of the Louvre. We will be a small party.” She reaches out absently and adjusts a jeweled pin on the right side of my head. “And I will keep the others well back so that you and your cousin may converse privately.”

“Good heavens, Madame, why? I have nothing to say to the King of Navarre.”

“Fine, walk in silence. But do so without incident or, mark me, I will beat you myself.” She smiles as if there is no threat between us. “You look lovely. Come, your cousin is waiting.”

He is indeed, at the gates of the garden, sweating noticeably—though I can hardly criticize him for that, given the oppressive heat.

“Marguerite,” he says, bowing and offering an arm.

I wait until we are a few yards in advance of the others before replying.

“I prefer ‘Your Highness.’”

“That is silly. I will call you Marguerite and you must call me Henri until you can call me ‘husband.’”

I do not know why I failed to foresee this moment, but I realize, with horror, that it is impossible for me to call my cousin by his Christian name. The name Henri is common, but even with a brother called by it, when I say Henri aloud I think always of my beloved Duc.

The King of Navarre stops walking. “Come, I must insist.”

“Sir, you are not in a position to insist on anything. My mother may insist I walk with you, but you have not the same power over me.”

“A fair point.” He shrugs.
Mon Dieu,
I hate that gesture. He begins to move once more, drawing me along. “I am in France and must play the part of guest. It is not a bad role, particularly since, as First Prince of the Blood, none who are not Valois take precedence over me. So I will let you call me as you please—for now. But remember”—he casts a half glance over his shoulder, but the King, with Mother on one arm and the Queen Consort on the other, has turned onto another path, taking his courtiers with him—“once we are married, it will be I and not your mother to whom you owe obedience.”

It is a reprimand but my cousin does not seem entirely comfortable with it: he avoids my eyes, looking instead at the cloudless sky. “We have such hot weather in the Navarre but it is different, perhaps because of mountains. I believe you will find it more tolerable.”

I do not believe I will find anything in the Navarre tolerable.