Médicis Daughter (11 page)

I take a step and the Duc is on his feet. Another bow. Utterly perfect. “May I present myself at a more appropriate time?”

“You may.” Oh how I hope the Duc picks a moment when Charlotte and Henriette are with me. His attention, pleasing in itself, would be rendered more agreeable still by the notice of others.

“Until a more auspicious moment, then.” He offers me another smile. “I shall leave you in peace.” He walks away without looking back, which is just as well, for if he did, he would perceive that my eyes follow his figure. Peace, he calls it! Not with my heart pounding so. I run all the way back to my room.

When I burst through the door, my
gouvernante
is waiting. Beside her is a girl I do not recognize. At the sight of me, panting and flushed, both rise. The Baronne gives a sigh.

“Mademoiselle Marguerite, do you not get exercise enough hunting?” she asks. “Must you run about like a child when left to your own devices? Such is the behavior of the Prince of Navarre, not a princess of France.”

The comparison stings. I’ve seldom thought of my cousin since his mother outwitted mine and took him from Court shortly after the New Year. Jeanne d’Albret told Mother she would show the Prince his patrimony. She had Mother’s blessing for that, but then she rode onward to Poitou and Gascony beyond, without Mother’s leave—or Charles’. Everyone says it is unlikely we will see the Prince of Navarre in France again, unless the peace breaks and he is at the head of an army. This talk vexes Mother. But while I recognize my cousin’s absence is some sort of political loss, I find it entirely positive. I do not miss him and cannot imagine anyone else does. I certainly do not want my behavior compared to his.

“Anjou wishes me to make changes to our costumes and, given the short time before the ball, I was eager to start,” I mumble apologetically.

“Hm.” The Baronne gives me one last stern look, then says, “Here is someone who can assist you.” She gestures to the girl. “Your mother has decided you are old enough to have your own attendant.”

This is startling and pleasing news—a recognition of my maturity, even if the thus-far-silent gray-eyed girl looks very young.

“May I present Gillone de Goyon de Matignon, daughter of Count de Matignon and Thorigny.” The girl curtsys neatly. “A cot has been placed in your wardrobe for the Mademoiselle.” My
gouvernante
looks about as if determining whether there is other business to attend to. Apparently concluding there is not, she says, “I will leave the two of you to become acquainted.”

I stand looking stupidly at this Gillone. She lowers her eyes under my gaze as I might under Mother’s, stirring empathy in my breast. I’ve been made to feel uncomfortable sufficiently often that I do not wish to make this girl so. Looking about, I spot Henri’s costume in a heap on my bed.

“Gillone,” I say, “please go to my wardrobe and fetch my pale blue robe in the Grecian style.” She curtsys again and departs without a word. While she is gone, I find my sewing and embroidery things and begin to pull the trim from Henri’s costume. Head bent over my work, I start when a skirt comes into my field of vision. Gillone returned so quietly that I did not hear her. When I raise my eyes, she curtsys.

“Goodness, you move as silently as a shadow! It is not necessary to curtsy every time you come into my presence. You will exhaust yourself.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” She nearly curtsys, but catches herself.

Gazing at her standing with my robe over her arm, wondering what to do next, I realize that I am nearly as uncertain. I think of those among my mother’s household who have been with her the longest. These ladies are not merely the women who dress the Queen or sit to embroider with her: they hear her worries and hold her confidences; they are friends. That is what I want.

“How old are you?” I ask.

“Twelve last January.”

So she is older than she looks. Closer to my age, fourteen, than any member of Mother’s household. Closer than either of my dearest friends, for Charlotte is seventeen and Henriette will soon be five-and-twenty.

“I was younger than you when I joined Her Majesty’s household. The Court can be overwhelming. When I came, the Baronne de Sauve helped me to find my feet. I will help you, and we will be great friends.” I smile broadly and am rewarded by just the slightest upturn at the corners of her mouth. “Now help me with these costumes. The Duc d’Anjou demands they be made over, and I do not like to disappoint my brother.”

*   *   *

Henri is not disappointed. “Wonderful!” he says, putting his arm about my waist and examining our images in my glass.

“We do not really look like twins, for you are much taller,” I say.

“I am sure Apollo was taller than Artemis. Men are always taller. And we are alike in a more important way. We each set the standard for our sex. We have no equal—not on the dance floor, nor in conversation, nor in looks—save the other.” He puffs up his chest importantly. I feel a great urge to laugh, but know better. Henri’s pride is a serious thing.

“I am pleased that you think me the loveliest woman at Court. Or perhaps you only flatter me to make certain I will continue to make over your costumes at short notice. After all, I see you looking at Mademoiselle de Rieux a great deal these days.”

My brother blushes. “That is a different matter,” he mutters. “Her face cannot compare to yours.”

I might say it is not her face he looks at. But the observation would make me more uncomfortable than it would make him. Renée has been flirting with Henri for as long as I can remember, sometimes less, sometimes more. Presently more. Much more. I have never liked her and I like her less still when she sits upon my brother’s lap or I catch him staring at her bosom.

Henri turns to look at himself from a different angle and the golden bow hung over his shoulder nearly catches me in the eye.

“Careful! If you blind me I will be in no state to perform.” We head to the evening’s festivities, Gillone trailing a few steps behind.

Henri looks over his shoulder twice as we descend the stairs.

“Does my little shadow unnerve you?” I ask.

“I am just wondering if she ever speaks. My gentlemen are far livelier.”

“If by ‘lively’ you mean drunken, I concede as much.” Henri’s boon companions are some of the wildest young men. I wonder if the Duc de Guise will join them now that he is back.

The ballroom is full when we arrive. Henri likes it so. Whenever possible, we enter
en retard
so as to be seen by as many people as possible. Mother smiles at our approach.

“My dear ones,” she says, holding out her arms.

“Can you guess who we are?” Henri asks. “I will give you a hint. By our costumes we make you Leto.”

As my brother predicted, Mother is touched.

“I thought you were to be one of the muses.” Charles, who sits beside Her Majesty, has apparently been listening.

“I’ve found a substitute to play Terpsichore,” I reply. “Can you blame me for not wanting to be compared side by side with your Erato?”

The King smiles. His mistress, Marie Touchet, is dressed as Erato. She stands with a hand upon the arm of his throne. “I thank you for the compliment,” she says, “and for sparing me a comparison which I could not hope to win.”

Letting go of Henri’s arm, I embrace the woman who has held the King’s affections for nearly two years—ever since he first laid eyes on her at Blois during our return from the Grand Tour. “I love your golden curls!” she says.

“I will have some made for you,” I declare enthusiastically. I like Marie. She may be only a petty noble, but her love for Charles is so obviously driven by her heart and not her self-interest.

“How very sweet, but pray do not trouble yourself, as I do not have your complexion and should look unnatural in them. I will leave it to you to be charmingly blond.” Then, looking over my shoulder, Marie lowers her voice. “You appear to have charmed someone already … someone with fair hair of his own.”

Turning, I see the Duc de Guise standing between his uncles, the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duc d’Aumale. His eyes are definitely upon me. When he sees I perceive as much, he nods slightly, apparently not embarrassed to be found out. Will he present himself? I have no time to ponder the question, for Henri lays a hand on my arm. He clears his throat and raises his hand. A trumpeter I had not noticed before steps forward and sounds. Trust Henri to think of such a detail when he wishes to perform!

My brother begins to speak, “Seven arrows did Apollo use, and so many his sister, to honor the mother beloved of both…”

I hold forth my bow and draw back its string on cue, letting fly an imaginary arrow. Henri continues to recite and many pairs of eyes are upon me. Doubtless those witnessing my performance are thinking of Artemis. I know, however, that at the moment I would be Cupid. I have no desire to kill, not even to avenge an insult to Mother; I desire to captivate. I make certain to catch Guise’s eye, but I am careful not to let my glance linger as I continue to pantomime. I have observed Her Majesty’s ladies sufficiently to know that if one would entice, it is best to be arch.

When Anjou finishes, the assembled company applauds. Mother embraces us each, then retains Henri’s hand to offer him words of praise. I take the opportunity to wander in the direction of my friends, keeping my back purposefully to Guise. Do his eyes follow me?

“So this is the reason you abandoned us,” Henriette says. She is dressed as Thalia with her comic mask tucked under one arm, while Charlotte plays her counterpart Melpomene. “Not that we blame you,” she adds, “but to offer Mademoiselle du Lude your role!”

“Was that meant to amuse us?” Charlotte asks. “Surely, you will cede that while the Mademoiselle has talents, dancing is not among them.”

Fleurie de Saussauy covers her mouth in mock horror at Charlotte’s remark, and the four of us laugh merrily. I feel a touch upon my sleeve and know from Charlotte’s widened eyes who it must be. I turn.

“Your Highness, I am lately returned to Court and would take this opportunity to present myself.” His expression is appropriately earnest, his bow perfect, but when he straightens an impish smile dances across his lips. “I trust this approach is more satisfactory than my last.”

“Not entirely, Sir. You were going on well, but alas, you could not resist being flippant. By your last comment, you leave my friends with the impression that you have accosted me in some inappropriate way.”

“An interesting impression,” Henriette says.

“And now the Duchesse leaves me in an awkward position,” the Duc replies. “For if I protest there was nothing interesting in our last meeting, I insult you in a backhanded manner. But if I say anything else, I fear compromising conclusions may be drawn.”

“Oh, I hope they may,” Henriette says. She, Charlotte, and Fleurie exchange looks.

“I must disappoint, Your Grace,” Guise replies. “I happened upon the Duchesse of Valois in the gardens yesterday. Being a lady of the highest breeding and well schooled in propriety, she took herself off before anything sufficiently scandalous to divert you could occur.”

“And what, Sir, would have happened had I remained?” I make my tone teasing, but my curiosity is real.

“Ah”—the Duc pulls a solemn face—“we will never know. Perhaps, however, if you will do me the honor, we may discover what will result of our dancing together. The music has started.”

“So it has.” Henri’s voice behind me makes me jump. I turn to find him standing with Charles and Marie.

“Guise.” Charles pulls the Duc into an embrace. Anjou’s acknowledgment is less enthusiastic.

Turning his attention to me, Anjou says, “Come, let us dance.”

I want to say that I have promised the dance to the Duc, but it is not the truth. Besides, I am used to complying with Henri’s wishes. I lay my hand on my brother’s arm. Looking at Guise, he says, “Tennis tomorrow, before the hawking party sets out?”

“If I win, I dance first with the Duchesse de Valois tomorrow.”

Henri shrugs. “I am always eager to take a wager I cannot lose. And
when
I win you must forgo dancing with my sister entirely
demain soir
.”

I follow Henri to the floor. As we leave the others, I hear Fleurie say, “I will be your partner, Duc, I have the same hair as Her Highness and mine is real.”

How vexing.

“Shall I come and cheer you at tennis?” I ask Henri as we execute a turn.

“If you are not too tired. I want Guise to admire the prize that slips through his fingers.”

I want Guise to admire me as well.

As our dance ends Henri says, “Here comes the Duc. Shall I let him dance with you?” My heart beats faster. It never occurred to me that Anjou would monopolize me, though in truth he often does. Mademoiselle de Rieux moves past, throwing my brother a look that could light a taper. He colors. “I believe I will. Give him a taste of what shall be out of his reach tomorrow.” Kissing my hand, he hurries after the Mademoiselle. Oddly, this does not vex me.

“Your Highness,” Guise says, arriving beside me, “will you allow me to partner you?”

The dance is slower than the last, well suited to conversation. For the first pass, however, Guise merely looks at me. I am frequently told that I am beautiful. I hope the Duc finds me so. I am not intimidated by his stare. I meet his eyes with confidence, daring him to say what he is thinking.

Finally, as the second pass begins, he says, “Why do you wear that wig?”

This is
not
the compliment I expected. “Why do you wear that doublet? We both of us follow the fashion.”

“Your own hair suits you better.”

“You are very free with your opinions.”

“I am,” he replies. “Strong opinions make a strong man, as do strong convictions.”

“That may be,” I say indignantly, “but they are unlikely to make one popular when so candidly expressed.”

He laughs. “Who is being forthright now? But you are right of course: there are many ways to say the same thing. I will try again.” He puts on a mild, courtly smile. “Your Highness looks exceptionally well this evening, but I would be so bold as to say that a wig cannot improve upon the hair God gave you, which is quite perfect.”