Médicis Daughter (9 page)

“Alba told me of your mother’s ambitions.” I suddenly feel his hand upon my leg. I have succeeded, I think, though his touch gives me no pleasure. Then, with little delicacy, he forcibly pushes my leg away from his. “Perhaps Her Majesty has not informed you,” he continues, “but the Duke told that lady that my father has no interest in a French bride for me. And as for myself, I would not have you if the King of Spain begged me.” He removes his hand from my leg and leans back in his chair. As I gaze at him with horror, a giant drop of water lands upon his cheek. For one insane, confused moment I think someone has spit upon him—perhaps because I wish it were so—but then I know it is raining, for lightning splits the sky and drops fall everywhere. I jump to my feet, as do all around save the Prince. As I run past him, buffeted by sudden strong gusts of wind, trying to escape both my mortification and the storm, Don Carlos throws back his head and laughs.

I race for the bank where the barges are moored. Somewhere in my flight a hand touches mine. Charlotte has found me. Together we clamber onto the first boat. It is not the royal barge, but I do not care. I want to be back in Bayonne and I want to get there safely out of the company of Don Carlos.

The water is rough. A great many of the ladies cry out in fear. Some weep. I am not sorry for it. Under such circumstances, who will suspect that my tears are the result not of terror but of humiliation? Don Carlos was not to my liking and may well be as damaged as the Prince of Navarre’s dog, but his assertion that he would not have me even to please his father is deeply wounding. And I am not only hurt, I am afraid. I have but one chief duty to Charles and Mother, and that is to marry where they would have me do so. I have failed in that duty. There may be a rapprochement between Spain and France, but I will not assist in it.

*   *   *

Henri is ill. A chill, he insists, nothing more. When Mother fusses, he calls her “nervous” and jokes to me that he will be well again once the Spanish leave and he no longer has to look at Don Carlos. He does not know precisely what happened between that Prince and I on the Isle of Aiguemeau, but he senses Don Carlos insulted me, and takes every opportunity to repay the favor. Unmoved by Henri’s assurances, Her Majesty orders him to bed.

“Do not fuss,” I say, pulling up a chair as he sits propped against pillows, looking restless. “I will help you pass the hours.”

More than my great fondness for Henri drives me to his bedside. I have found myself unequal to telling Mother what Don Carlos said to me three nights ago. But if I cannot make myself confess, I am equally unable to continue the charade with the Prince—to beg for attention where I am so clearly an object of ridicule. So I seek to avoid Don Carlos until the Spanish depart in less than a week.

“Shall we play at cards?” I ask my brother.

Henri is a fierce card player, so I know that something is wrong when he begins to make silly errors—errors that allow me to win. Then my winning vexes him, so I begin to try to lose on purpose. To manage this without seeming to do so is not an easy thing. My brother lays down a particularly ill-chosen card and I resign myself to taking this particular hand. Strangely, he does not seem to mind, or even to be focusing on the game.

Rising, I place a hand upon his forehead. It is far too hot for my liking. Bestowing a kiss where my hand just lay so as not to worry him, I go in search of Mother. She does not even thank me, merely dashes off, calling for Castelan as she goes.

Unwilling to disturb Mother and her physician, I allow myself to be drawn into the afternoon’s entertainments by Charlotte and Henriette. Yet my thoughts often go in the direction of my brother. When Mother does not appear to dress for dinner, I excuse myself. I arrive at Henri’s apartment to find the antechamber empty. Have his friends, who always seem to linger, been sent away? This cannot be a good sign. Behind the bedroom door there is a murmur of voices. I press my ear to the wood.

“He has been bled three times but the fever still rises.” Mother’s voice is agitated.

“Yes, but it is very early, Your Majesty. This may be nothing more than a bad chill as His Highness insists.” I recognize the voice of Castelan.

“‘May’ is not a comforting word.”

No. It is not. Picking up my skirts I run to the chapel. I am a good deal calmer once I kneel before the blessed virgin. Her pacific expression puts me in mind of the phrase
Deo adjuvante non timendum
—With God’s help, nothing need be feared. I will pray for Henri, and surely Mother will have the rest of her ladies and her collection of priests doing so before night falls. I stay on my knees until I can no longer feel my feet. Returning to Henri’s apartment, I crack the bedroom door and find Castelan sitting beside my brother.

“Your Highness,” he says, “you ought not to be here. There may be contagion.”

“But I want her.” Henri’s voice is dry but still powerful.

I ignore the physician. “You want me, and here I am,” I say, pulling a chair back to his bedside and drawing his hand into mine. Castelan shakes his head but says nothing more. Henri is bled and then dozes. I think of leaving, but I cannot seem to withdraw my hand from his, so tightly does he clutch me as he slumbers. I shift to make myself as comfortable as possible.

“No!”

The word jolts me from an uncomfortable nap. I open my eyes. The room is in semidarkness. Mother is at the other side of the bed with Castelan. Wishing to stay and listen, I close my eyes again.

“Your Majesty,”—Castelan’s deep voice sounds solemn—“the fever is dangerously high and see how he sweats and shakes. I suspect the ague.”

The ague. It is a disease of the heat and of the wet, and Bayonne—with its rivers and marshes—is both. Oh, why could it not have been a chill?

I wait for Mother to react. But there is a silence. Deep silence. When Mother’s voice comes at last, it sounds very dry, putting me in mind of how my brother spoke when he demanded my attendance earlier. “How bad the case?”

“Your Majesty knows better than to ask at such an early juncture. I cannot even know the type of ague until we see the pattern of fever. Let us hope the case will be mild.”

“Why?”

“Your Majesty?”

“Why does God test me?”

There is a pause. I pity Castelan: How can he possibly answer such a question? Finally he clears his throat. “Your Majesty, I will employ all my skill. Do not despair. The Prince is strong—”

“I am not a fool, Castelan. My children are fragile—from the twins I lost, to the King with his constant, worrisome respiratory ills.” Strangely, Mother’s voice strengthens as she recites these dire truths. “The only child with a decent constitution is Princess Marguerite.”

I feel a certain pride, though I have done nothing to earn my general good health. Perhaps I take pleasure in the comment because, other than my beauty—another characteristic bestowed by God, not hard work—I am seldom praised for anything.

“You are lucky in that, then.”

Mother gives a sharp laugh. “You call it luck? Sons frail, while a daughter is hale and hearty? I see no luck, only accursed fate. I have laid one son in the grave. I do not have so many that I can afford to bury another. A daughter I could spare. Do all that you can, Castelan, and then do more.”

A lump rises in my throat and I squeeze my eyes even more tightly shut. I wish I were anywhere else, that I had not heard Mother’s words. Wish that I were the one sick, not Henri. But most of all I wish I mattered as much as he did—to Mother, to the kingdom, to anybody.

Six days later we know that Henri has a tertian case. I can hear him calling out in delirium as I sit in his antechamber. Every third day he is gripped by fever. This is his third cycle, and Castelan expected improvement. Instead, the fever is so ferocious that my brother suffered a seizure this morning. I could hear Mother shouting instructions to those who held him so that he would not injure himself. And I felt a fear such as I have not known.

Mother is with Henri nearly continuously. She had some difficulty tearing herself away to discharge her duties in seeing the Spanish off when they went at last. This afternoon it is me Henri calls for. He has said my name so many times, I have lost count. But I must wait for the door to open—for Mother to summon me—and that does not happen.

I can think of no relief for my feelings of fear and helplessness but prayer. I send for my
prie-dieu
and Book of Hours. Arranging myself near the door to Henri’s bedchamber, I hope that God will pay more attention to my petitions against the background of my brother’s cries. I begin the Litany of the Saints. Looking at the faces of the martyrs, my eyes swim with tears. My blurred glance falls upon Saint Agnes, who resisted all suitors and every temptation. She is the patron of all young women yet chaste; surely she will help me. As I gaze at her lovely face, I become overwhelmed with a single thought—I and I alone can save Henri. Not by prayer but by sacrifice. I must offer something.

Father in Heaven, so many of your blessed Saints laid down their lives for your Church. They are venerated by Christians everywhere and esteemed by you for their acts of sacrifice. Surely it is also noble to die for family. Accept my life in place of my brother’s. The House of Valois needs its three remaining sons. It has daughters to spare—surely you heard Her Majesty say so as clearly as I did.

As these beseeching thoughts fly upward, a great calm settles over me. I turn the pages to the office of Compline. If ever there was an occasion to pray to the Blessed Virgin on behalf of the dying and for all those upon whom the night must soon fall, this is that occasion. I am deep in prayer when the door opens.

“Marguerite.” I look up to see Mother staring at me. Then she nods in approval, as if she understands all. I feel warmed by her silent approbation. Walking forward, she looks down at my open book. “Yes, sleep. I must have some sleep; Castelan insists.” She reaches out as if she might pat me on the shoulder but stops short of doing so.

“If Your Majesty does not require my attendance, I will pray awhile longer.”

“You are very well where you are.”

Over the days of Henri’s illness, sitting in this antechamber, I have had ample occasion to observe the routine surrounding my brother. Generally, the physician leaves after a last bleeding, placing Henri in the care of the King’s childhood nurse. She is steady but not young. Surely, I think, given enough time and quiet, she must slumber at Henri’s bedside. Castelan leaves, nodding to me where I kneel. My wait begins.

Time passes slowly. My impatience—a failing indeed—keeps me from immersing myself as fully as I ought to in my prayers. I am sad to think that at such a serious moment, when the state of my soul is of the utmost importance, I fail to be as I should. The candles in the room burn down. I can no longer see my Book of Hours. The time has come.

There is relief in rising from my knees, for my legs are stiff. Is that why they tremble? As quietly as I can, I go to the door of Henri’s sick chamber. I ease it open, thanking God that it is noiseless on its hinges. I slip inside. I see it is as I surmised: the nurse sleeps in a chair.

Henri lies with his handsome features composed, his form as still as one dead. Creeping forward, I put out a hand close enough to his mouth that I may feel his breath. When I do, I let out my own breath in relief. Perhaps feeling my hand hovering above him, Henri moves restlessly and then, as if the act of moving hurts, gives a low moan. The nurse shifts, but her eyes remain closed. Turning back the covers, I slip into bed beside my brother. I move close, turning to mold my body around his and laying an arm gently over him, hoping to somehow mystically draw his fever into myself. That same fever must make my arm jarringly cold, for my brother moans again and gives a convulsive shiver.

“Henri,” I whisper, “it is Margot.”

His body relaxes at the sound of my voice, then another fit of shaking takes him. Quietly I begin to hum, my mouth close to the back of his neck. A tune takes shape. It is a lullaby. Can it be as old as our time together at Vincennes? The shaking stops.

The warmth of my brother’s body in my arms—though it is induced by the fever—soothes me. My eyelids grow heavy. I struggle to continue my song. And when I cannot, and realize that sleep is coming, I press my face against the back of my brother’s neck and tell him that I love him and will miss him. My last thought is about heaven. Will it be silent like the grave, or will it be filled with music? I love music.

“What goes on here?”
The voice is close and harsh. I am dragged from warmth and fall onto something hard.

Can I be dead? If so, I must be in purgatory, for it is hard to imagine landing in a heap in heaven.

As I am pulled upward and struggle to get my feet beneath me, I open my eyes. The hand is Mother’s—in fact, she has hands on both my arms. Her face is close and it is livid. The nurse is awake too, standing at the bed with her hand on Henri’s forehead. But she flees at a single imperious gesture from Mother.

Mother gives me a ferocious shake. “Marguerite, what are you doing in your brother’s bed?”

When I hesitate, Mother shakes me again. I am puzzled by the obvious fury in her face.

“I love him so much,” I blurt out. “I asked God to spare him and take my life instead if a life is needed.” My stomach sinks. Have I forfeited my bargain by speaking it out loud? If so, I am a horrible failure.

“Fool!” Mother slaps me, wrenching my neck and sending me staggering back a step. Glaring, she shakes her head in disgust. “Did you really believe Our Lord would barter with you?”

The manner of her asking makes my already stinging cheeks burn. Why, I wonder, should I be ashamed of my good intentions?

Her eyes narrow. I cannot ever remember seeing her so angry—at least, I can never remember seeing her so angry at
me
. “If prayers were that reliably answered, do you think your father would be dead?” The question cracks like lightning. “That your brother, King François, would lie cold in a grave? God did not see fit to grant my prayers. Why, then, should he favor yours?”