Médicis Daughter (4 page)

“Why not go to Béarn, then?”

“Oh, I
am
going, if I have to slip away from the progress to do it. But I don’t think it will come to that.” He lifts his chin and looks me directly in the eye. “My mother will meet His Majesty during his travels, and I will go home with her then.”

He reaches out a hand. “Would you like help down?”

I am not eager to accept his assistance, but jumping would be undignified, so I take his proffered hand and gingerly lower one foot to the floor.

“You are very pretty.” The words are delivered more as a statement than a compliment.

“Thank you,” I reply stiffly.

“I think I will kiss you.”

“You will not!” I drop his hand and take a step backwards.

He shrugs. I swear, if I never see his shoulders rise and fall again, that will suit me very well. “Later, then.”

“What?” I sputter. “I have no intention of
ever
permitting you to kiss me!”

“Not even if you marry me?” He tilts his head to one side and looks down his long, thin nose at me.

“Why would I marry you? You cannot even put your hose on straight.” I point accusingly to his right ankle, where his hose is badly twisted. He does not seem at all discomforted.

“When I was little, His Majesty King Henri told me I was to be your husband.”

I have no idea if he is telling the truth, nor do I care. “My father is dead,” I say matter-of-factly. “And my brother, King Charles, would never make me marry a boy who runs in the grand gallery and would rather play with frogs than dance.” Turning on my heels, I walk away. I hope I have left my cousin mortified, staring at my back. But when I turn at the end of the gallery to see what effect my pronouncement had upon him, the Prince of Navarre is gone.

*   *   *

It is Shrove Tuesday. We will have one final magnificent entertainment before such things give way to the solemnity of Lent. The meadow beside the lagoon looks like an ancient world. Delicate white columns—some standing, others purposefully lying in pieces—are scattered among the tables. It is as if we dine amidst the ruins of Ancient Greece.

Mother has outdone herself and she knows it. I can tell by the way her cheeks color and her eyes shine. “The House of Valois,” she declares, one hand on Henri’s shoulder and the other on mine as we ascend to the King’s table, “arrayed in splendor to remind all that we are the sole authority in France, and His Majesty will tolerate none who seek to undermine him or to undo the peace he has brought to his kingdom.”

Taking my seat, my eyes are drawn to the island at the center of the lagoon where a hundred torches illuminate a slender tower and its surroundings.
“Regardez!”
I say to Henri, clapping my hands. “Look who guards the tower.”

Henri laughs, for the pair are odd. While both are men, and both are dressed in white flowing tunics topped by glowing golden armor, one is enormous, a veritable giant, while the other is Mother’s favorite dwarf. I can hardly wait to discover what story will play out on the well-lit scene.

The House of Guise makes its entrance, the Duc at its head. His uncle the Cardinal of Lorraine walks with one arm draped possessively around the young man’s shoulder. They are followed by the House of Montmorency, doubtless awarded precedence owing to the fact that the constable is charged with managing the royal progress. Finally it is time for the Princes of the Blood—the Bourbons. Louis, Prince de Condé, having bowed graciously to Charles, moves toward the table immediately to my right and nearly abutting our own and takes his seat at its center. A host of others connected to the Bourbons follow, my cousin, the Prince of Navarre, among them. I have not spoken to him since our encounter in the gallery, and that is just as well. Every glimpse of him since has reminded me of the moment he impudently threatened to kiss me. I pray he will not be seated near, but he is pushed down the table to be at my side.

I intend to ignore him, an effort that should be assisted by the fact that the riser supporting the Bourbon table is lower than the royal dais.

“Hello,” he says, looking up at me.

I angle my body toward my brother as if I have not heard.

Despite the distance between us, I feel a tug on my sleeve. I cannot afford to be entirely rude while on display, and so, turning with an icy smile, I say, “Good evening.”

Undaunted, he continues, “Are you performing?”

“My brothers and I have a pastoral later, after the sweets.”

“Poetry.” My cousin articulates the word as if in expectation of torture.

“The work of Monsieur Ronsard,” I reply with some pique, “and very good.”

“Not as good as yesterday’s mock battle I’ll wager.”

“Then I suggest you run and hide after the sweets are served.”

“That,” he says, without the slightest touch of irony, “is an excellent idea. I fear I cannot fit many biscuits in my pockets and I do not wear a purse. So I suppose I had better limit myself to marzipans and candied nuts.” He sighs as if this is a heavy sacrifice.

The thought of my cousin secreting treats on his person and slinking away merely to avoid seeing my brothers and I perform makes me furious. “Cousin, you may do as you like, but in the meantime, pray leave me unmolested.”

“As you wish.” The shrug reminds me of our last meeting. “So long as you do not accuse me of being rude later.” He turns away, and I know by the knot in my stomach that it is I who have been impolite. I hate my cousin. He brings out the absolute worst in me.

As the meal progresses, those with roles in the theatrical slip away. On the island, musicians take their places. I stop eating to watch, surprised that the others around me can attend to their plates and their conversations. There is light inside the tower now. I glimpse the back of a man in a red hood and devil’s horns at one of the windows. So transfixed am I by the actors getting into place, I do not even touch my last course.

Then, at my elbow, Henri says, “Come on! The best spots will be gone.”

Looking around, I am startled to see the others already streaming toward the lagoon’s edge. We join them. As we reach the bank, Charlotte runs up. Snatching my hand, she says, “There is a little rise under that stand of trees. What a view we shall have.” We scamper off with Henri and Saint-Luc following.

Charlotte is right. The petite grove offers an excellent view. We are not the first to discover that. Édouard de Carandas, a handsome young Picard, sits upon the mossy ground, and as we lay claim to spots at the water’s edge, Mademoiselle de Saussauy arrives. Without hesitation she drops down beside Carandas and, gesturing to his lap asks, “Is this place taken?”

The gentleman laughs. “I was saving it for you, Mademoiselle. Will you sit upon it?”

“Perhaps later, for now I will rest my head.” She stretches out with her head upon the gentleman’s padded slopes. Small clusters of ladies arrive arm in arm. I particularly notice the Duchesse de Nevers, but then, I always do. Over these last weeks she has become a subject of fascination for me—always wearing the best gowns and making the boldest statements. I find her thrilling.

Trumpets sound and music begins. The windows of the tower are filled with ladies close pressed by devils with swords and wicked leers. The ladies pantomime terror, holding hands before their faces to shield themselves and trembling exaggeratedly. Mademoiselle de Rieux leans from the uppermost window and, cupping her hands about her mouth, calls for help. The arrangement of things assures that her words cannot be heard, but one of my brother’s dwarves trots out, carrying a placard spelling out the Mademoiselle’s cry.

Liberators appear armored as Trojan warriors, the Marshals of France at their vanguard. The venerable Constable de Montmorency stumbles. My brother laughs and I shush him.

“I cannot help myself,” he rejoinders. “It is ludicrous to see a man of seventy storm a castle—even when it is only made of silk.”

The choreography allows the constable to bring down the dwarf, and then, his honor fulfilled, the elderly gentleman drops back to the rear of the knights.

A bell sounds. Armored devils spill from the tower, some dragging their captives. The Prince de Condé leads them. He is masterful with a sword, and though, given his presence among the demons, he must lose in the end, I cannot help admiring his ferocity.

One by one the devils fall twitching grotesquely under the blades of the Trojan knights. When only a few demons remain, the silken tower bursts into flame, and as fireworks light the sky, the last of the captives run forth to embrace their rescuers.

Next to me Henri cheers loudly. Others join in and everyone applauds. “Come on Saint-Luc, Margot, it is time for the sweets!” My brother sprints off, oblivious to the fact that his friend does not follow.

I have no intention of running like a child. I link my arm through Charlotte’s. Standing, Monsieur de Carandas draws Mademoiselle de Saussauy to her feet. “The Prince de Condé wields a mighty sword,” he says admiringly.

“Ah, but not longer than the one you keep in your scabbard. I could feel it where I lay,” Fleurie replies.

Those standing nearest laugh heartily, as does the gentleman himself. He bows and kisses Mademoiselle’s hand with an elaborate show of gallantry. Mademoiselle de Saussauy is all dimples and good humor in return and the two stroll off arm in arm.

“Fleurie is so beautiful,” Charlotte comments wistfully. “That golden hair … And so
charmant
. If she does not snare a wealthy suitor in the course of our upcoming travels, I shall be surprised. Someone of more substantial rank than Monsieur de Carandas.”

“Oh, but he is very fair of face,” I remark. Under the influence of Mother’s ladies, I have begun to notice such things.

“‘Fair of face’ is a fine consideration for flirting but of little import in marrying,” the Duchesse de Nevers says, stepping between us and placing one arm around each. “Remember, girls, marriage is a matter of politics, finance, and family. Looks are for lovers.” Then, releasing us, she disappears into the deepening darkness.

While we are standing there, looking after her, Saint-Luc approaches. “Ladies,” he says, inclining his head. Charlotte and I look about and then realize he speaks to us. Are we to be the object of flirtation this evening as well? How delightful! If Mademoiselle de Saussauy may practice on a lesser noble from Picardy, why should I not try my skills on Saint-Luc? He is from an ancient and preferred Norman family.

“Seigneur”—I flutter my eyes as Mademoiselle de Saussauy does—“will you escort us?”

“It would be my pleasure.” His voice squeaks a bit as he replies, and I notice there is color in his cheeks as he bows before offering one arm to each of us.

Charlotte squeezes my hand then lets it go. “You two go on.” She scampers off, leaving Saint-Luc to me.

I take his arm and feel … nothing. What I expected to feel I do not know, but surely something, because I have observed the eyes of many a lady widen as she takes a gentleman’s arm.

We walk in silence a short way. In the torchlight I can see Saint-Luc’s Adam’s apple move as he swallows. “I greatly look forward to Your Highness’s performance in the pastoral,” he says at last.

I cannot help but think of my cousin’s scowls at the thought of my recitation. “More than the sugared fruits?” I ask, offering what I hope is a coquettish smile and wishing I had dimples like Mademoiselle de Saussauy.

“Of course! How can sugar hope to compare to the sweetness of your voice?” Saint-Luc is warming up to this game. We are two courtiers trading compliments. I feel very grand and grown-up.

“Would you believe there are some”—I lower my voice to a faux whisper and experiment with raising my eyebrows—“who would prefer a pocket full of nuts?”

“Impossible!” His attempt to sound shocked exceeds the mark a bit, but I appreciate the effort.

We have reached the edge of the dining area. Henri and Charlotte wait, already nibbling on dainties. A glorious table covered with confections of every sort, including a fanciful sugar paste fish decorated with golden scales, stands at the center of a ring of torches.

“I assure you, the Prince of Navarre confessed as much earlier.” I give my head a sad little shake as if I am ages older than my cousin. “He plans to run and hide while I perform.”

“Someone should thrash him.”

“Would you? Would you give him a beating for me?” I press Saint-Luc’s arm with my free hand. I can visualize him dressed in the golden armor of this evening’s entertainment … and my cousin in the horns of one of the devils.

“Who is Saint-Luc going to beat?” Henri asks, sauntering up. He holds out a rolled-up sugared
crespe
so I can take a bite.

“The Prince of Navarre,” Saint-Luc says, “for insulting your sister.”

“Oh-ho, I should like to see that, Saint-Luc. Our cousin may be ill-dressed and ill-spoken, but I believe he is a capital wrestler, thanks to his upbringing, and handy with a sword.”

A nice little group has gathered about us, drinking, listening. I want to say something clever—something capable of evoking laughter.

“Do not let my brother dissuade you”—I turn to Saint-Luc and offer him a kiss on the cheek—“for surely the Prince of Navarre has a short sword compared to the one which hangs in your scabbard.”

My jest has the desired effect. Those around us titter appreciatively.

Suddenly I feel a hand upon my shoulder. It is the Baronne de Retz. She is not laughing. In fact, her face looks very severe. “Come,” she says. Turning, she moves through the crowd. It is necessary for me to walk very quickly to keep up. By the time we enter the palace, I am breathless.

Rounding on me the Baronne says, “Mademoiselle Marguerite, I am shocked to hear you make a jest about a gentleman’s intimate anatomy!”

I am flabbergasted. I did not say anything about Saint-Luc’s person. Only his sword. I am about to say as much, but the Baronne presses onward. “What would Her Majesty think?”

The question stings. Mother has shown me precious little attention since my arrival. I certainly do not wish to garner maternal notice in a negative manner.

“What do you mean?” I stammer. “I only spoke as Her Majesty’s other ladies do. I heard Mademoiselle de Saussauy use that quip this evening. She is a
dame d’honneur
from one of the finest houses in France. How can it be wrong for me to speak as she does?”