Médicis Daughter (12 page)

My irritation vanishes, replaced by a stomach full of butterflies. To think that Fleurie hoped to beguile him with her honeyed tresses. I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile. As we turn and come together I ask, “How do you find the Court after your time in Austria?”

I expect a standard stream of praise. Instead Guise says, “Blessedly free of heretics.”

Confronted again with the Duc’s candor, I do not know where to look. I myself was chastised by Mother for comments expressing pleasure when Coligny and his confreres declined to come hunting. “Ah,” I say, trying to sound clever, “they are not heretics when we are at peace. They are our Protestant brothers.”

“They are
always
heretics,” Guise responds quietly. “And I believe you know as much, for your jest is halfhearted.”

“Indeed, Sir”—I lower my own voice—“I am not sorry they are absent.” It feels thrilling to confess this fact, for which I was so lately punished. I hold my breath to see what he will say.

“I am glad to hear it.” The earnest pleasure on his face makes him extraordinarily handsome. But it is more than his looks that quicken my pulse—there is something exciting about speaking on serious subjects rather than exchanging quips. So much of what passes for conversation at Court is merely cleverness and show, and when there are serious matters to be discussed, I am not wanted. I long to sound him on other topics, but our dance is over, and he leads me back to my friends.

“What a pretty pair you made,” Charlotte gushes. “Half the women in the room—or at least those below the age of thirty—watched with jealous eyes.”

“Including my sister,” Henriette adds. “I think you should make a play for the Duc and then what a marvelous time we will have for the rest of the month!”

“‘We’?”

“Yes, we. You practicing your allurements and we, your dear friends, urging you on. With Guise as a conquest, your reputation will be assured. Women twice your age will imitate your style of dress and manners if you bring the handsome Duc to heel.”

An enticing prospect. More appealing still is the possibility that, while causing the Duc to fall in love with me, I might fall in love myself. I have never been, and I consider that a great scandal, given my age.

“She blushes,” Charlotte remarks triumphantly. “She will play.”

“It is not a game,” I reply hotly.

“Of course it is.” Henriette clucks her tongue. “The most pleasant game imaginable.”

*   *   *

I arrive early for my brother’s match, expecting little competition for the Duc de Guise’s notice. Despite the hour, however, the galleries are crowded. The Duchesse de Nevers uses her most commanding look and I my rank to displace some of Anjou’s gentlemen and claim seats worth having. Unfortunately, we have Mademoiselle de Rieux for a neighbor.

“Come to urge the Duc d’Anjou to victory?” she asks.

“Of course. Why else would I bestir myself so early?”

“I cannot imagine,” she replies in a tone that suggests she can.

Henri and Guise arrive at the same moment, my brother at the center of a little knot of his gentlemen. Henri yawns openly, but I cannot tell if he is merely feigning boredom or if his sleep was deficient to the task at hand. Guise looks fully rested and entirely relaxed.

My brother salutes the gallery, then takes his racket from his newest favorite, Louis de Bérenger, the Seigneur du Guast. Guise takes his place for the first serve without glancing my direction.

Both men are marvelously athletic, so from the first the game is strenuous and engages the spectators fully. There is little of the ordinary gossip in the galleries to compete with the cries and grunts of the players or the satisfying thwack of rackets meeting a ball with force. My brother moves with his usual grace, but he is matched in elegance by his opponent—something that rarely happens. I watch the Duc extend his extraordinarily long arm and bring his racket forward in a smooth perfect arc. The neck of his shirt is open and a fine sheen of perspiration makes his collarbone shine like silk. Crouching to await Anjou’s next, his calves appear carved of stone.

Leaning toward Henriette, I whisper, “I could sit and watch the Duc play at tennis the whole day.”

“You and half the women of the Court. Observe: even
la belle Rouhet
—who might, by having married only slightly earlier than is currently fashionable, be the Duc’s mother—sighs and leans forward now that he has begun to sweat, hoping to catch the scent of him.”

The scent of him.
What a thrilling and disturbing thought.

Anjou wins the first set and crows over it. Guise takes the second, a victory he greets with no more than the flicker of a smile. Both men are thoroughly damp now. Hair sticks to foreheads; shirts cling to chests and arms, allowing me to notice the musculature of both. Guast brings Anjou water. A glass is poured for the Duc as well.

“Thank you,” Guise says, draining it in a single long swallow.

“Ce n’est rien
.
”
Anjou shrugs magnanimously. “I will not have you blame thirst when I defeat you in the next.” Henri looks in my direction and winks. Renée giggles. The Duc’s gaze follows my brother’s and meets mine. My heart pounds and my breath quickens.

The final game is fiercest of all. Guise wins, but Henri loudly claims the ball was out. All his gentlemen agree. A good number of spectators take issue and heated shouting begins. The Duc remains silent.

“It seems we must replay the point,” my brother says.

The Duc glances in my direction for an instant. “Your Highness, I am tired. I cede the point and the match.”

Henri’s face goes slack and then becomes angry. “Come,” he urges, “you can surely manage a short time more.”

The Duc looks him straight in the eye. “I am sorry, I cannot. The victory is yours.” He bows and begins to leave the court.

Henri takes a step to follow, his face livid. Guast catches him by the arm. “Come, there are better ways to celebrate victory than chasing after a man who cannot be bothered to properly finish a game.”

“You are right. Let him go, the poor sport.”

Does my brother not realize that he is the one who appears less than sportsmanlike?
Or am I the only one who sees what the Duc has done: he refused to replay the point because to do so would be to admit his fair shot foul. He knew he had won the game and knowing was enough. He needed no further recognition.
Or perhaps he did … perhaps he wanted mine and said as much with his last look.

Anjou’s friends crowd round him. He accepts their approbation and then heads toward the rail. He will expect my congratulations and I am prepared to give them, even if they feel hollow. Rising to embrace him, I am stunned when he quickly releases me and turns to Mademoiselle de Rieux.

She seems to make a point of breathing deeply before speaking. “You must be exhausted.”

“Indeed, not,” Henri replies. “I am barely winded.”

Renée leans across the rail and puts her lips beside Anjou’s ear. “I can remedy that.”

I wonder if I misheard, but the laughter and leering looks of my brother’s companions suggest not.

Anjou gives a nod and swaggers off, trailed by his friends. Before they reach the door, Mademoiselle de Rieux makes a hasty exit.

“Well, it seems Renée has succeeded at last,” Charlotte says.

“I do not understand,” I say. But I am afraid I do.

“Come, you are not a little girl,” Henriette chides. “Men your brother’s age have mistresses, and Renée has wanted to be a royal mistress since the moment your brother’s voice broke. What do you think His Majesty does with Mademoiselle Touchet?”

“But Charles loves Marie!” The comparison between Marie, all modesty and reserve, and Mademoiselle de Rieux angers me.

“It appears he does,” Henriette concedes. “What difference does that make?”

“A very great difference to the lady,” Charlotte says.

“I think not,” Henriette says. “In the end, both will be displaced, and will be left with whatever wealth and titles they manage to accrue during their tenure. If those be generous, the quality of their memories will be secondary. If those be deficient, then all past whispered words of affection will provide little consolation.”

“I cannot believe Henri would choose a lady of such little refinement,” I say, sticking out my chin.

“Do not believe it, then.” Henriette shrugs. “Whatever you choose to credit, do not let it spoil your mood.”

But my mood
is
spoiled. I break from my friends and head in the direction of my brother’s apartment, telling myself I will speak to him about the hunt, but knowing that I truly go in hopes of proving Henriette in error. I am accustomed to being received in Anjou’s rooms at all times. When I sweep into his antechamber, I breathe a sigh of relief. It is filled, as always, with a collection of gentlemen playing at dice, joking and drinking. Spotting Saint-Luc, I ask, “Where is Anjou?”

The others laugh, but Saint-Luc looks mortified. Leaping to his feet he says, “Resting.”

This remark brings another burst of laughter.

“I wish I were resting as he is,” Saint-Mégrin says.

“With His Grace?” one of the others asks, earning himself a cuff on the ears.

I feel my face burn. Saint-Luc offers an arm. “Come, I will walk you back to Her Majesty’s apartment,” he says.

I know he means to be kind, but the thought of him walking beside me and seeing my embarrassment mortifies me. “Thank you, no,” I say, fleeing. Just outside, I lean my back against the wall and cover my face with my hands. I cannot tell which I am more, embarrassed or angry. One thing is certain: my desire to have the Duc de Guise’s attention is made stronger. If my brother thinks he can have Renée on one arm and me on the other, he is much mistaken!

*   *   *

The time to hunt arrives. As soon as I am in the saddle, I begin to look for Guise. The courtyard is crowded and every figure seems to be in motion. Mother, beside me with her favorite bird on her arm, is eager to begin. Falconry is a great passion, and when we go hawking, she sheds many years and many cares. As the gates open I spot the Duc, but I lose sight of him as we stream out. I see him next as we pause, and the men handling the dogs fan out across a meadow under direction of the
Grand Fauconnier
. The Duc sits with Charles, the tawny color of his doublet complementing his hair.

Courtiers break into groups. Anjou, moving past to join His Majesty, reins in his horse to salute Mother and me. I do not acknowledge the gesture.

“Come,” Mother says. I follow in her wake, moving farther afield. When we stop near a wild tangle of underbrush, Mother unhoods her bird. I follow suit, carefully bending my neck and using my teeth to pull one of the laces. The dark eyes of my bird sweep the field and mine follow. I see the dogs standing at rigid attention, their handlers stroking their backs to keep them calm. The excitement of the women in our party is nearly as difficult to keep in check. We all know that we are but a moment away from heart-pounding sport. The leads come off. The dogs move into the brush. To my right, the first of the game birds is flushed. Mother’s reflexes are quickest, her falcon released only an instant after the bird breaks cover. And suddenly the sky is full of birds—both the pursuing and the pursued. We put our horses in motion, dislodging still more game. All eyes are on the sky. I do not see Mother’s horse stumble, but I hear it hit the ground. Pulling back the reins of my own mount, I am able to stop before I run upon the Queen’s horse—or, worse still, upon the Queen.

Mother, focused on urging her horse to its feet, looks up. “Go on!”

Perhaps I ought to ignore her urging and wait to see that she is all right. But she has been unhorsed many times and, like hers, my blood is up. So I pull my horse hard left and charge off. Before I have gone twenty yards, Mother passes me. We ride, race, and give chase until both horses and riders breathe heavily. More than one rider besides Her Majesty goes down, and the Baron de Sauve gets stuck in brambles after enthusiastically following the dogs in.

We are gathered about the King before moving to another field when the sound of horses is heard. Shading my eyes, I leave off trying to maneuver myself closer to the Duc de Guise. Three members of the royal guard come into view. Riding straight for the Queen, they pull up sharply. The man in the middle leaps from his horse. “An urgent message.”

Mother scans the page. Then, without a word, she hands the note to the Baron de Retz. “Your Majesty,” she says to Charles, “we must return to the château. Ride beside me.” She holds out a hand, beckoning the King as if he were a child standing too near a ledge. The King, by long habit obedient to Mother, does not question. He merely nudges his horse in the direction of the spot that has been made for him.

“You,” she commands the guards, “stay close.” Then with a sharp kick she urges her animal into motion.

Fear clutches my breast and ripples through the surrounding courtiers as we hurry to follow. Bad news has come—who can say of what sort?

Being an excellent rider, I reach the château not far behind the King. Anjou appears to help me down. The vexation I felt at him earlier is forgotten as I take the hand he offers.

“Come,” he says, pushing through dismounted courtiers, dragging me along. We are not five steps behind Charles and Mother as they meet Her Majesty’s secretary on the steps. Mother is speaking.

“Fifteen hundred horsemen did not worry me at Montargis. But when they are only a short ride from here, that is another matter. Who is at their head?”

“Condé,” her secretary replies.

Mother walks on, drawing all the important men with her. “We need soldiers.”

“The closest troops are garrisoned at Château-Thierry,” the constable replies. “Most of them are Swiss—the same men who were sent to the border when Alba marched past to keep the Spanish from straying.”

“Curse Alba,” Mother says. “His maneuvers and his arrest of Coligny’s cousin bring us to this. Are four years of peace to be spoiled by a Spaniard?”

There is an uncomfortable silence, during which I take the opportunity to gauge where we are heading—clearly to His Majesty’s council chamber. When that destination is reached, Henri and I have no chance of entering. My brother must be thinking the same thing, for he grows bold.