Médicis Daughter (16 page)

I am sure he does not mean—cannot mean—to disparage our brother. But Anjou’s smile fades.

Charles, having moved into the room, looks down at one of Mother’s dogs curled up by the leg of her worktable, and I have the horrible presentiment he will kick it. Mother must think the same, for she says, “Your Majesty, if you need to kick something, pray limit yourself to furniture. I will not take kindly to violence against my animals.”

“I do not need to kick something. I need to kill something.”

“You did not kill the groom, then?” Mother asks.

“I do not believe so. Perhaps I should go and finish him.”

“Do as you like.” Mother’s reply would horrify many but not me. She knows Charles and so do I—where he is opposed, there he will surely go. If he returns to the courtyard and kills the boy now, it will be in spite of Her Majesty’s response, not because of it. The King remains where he stands and I begin to relax. And then, with a perversity I cannot understand, Anjou draws his dagger and offers it to Charles.

I sit perfectly still—so still that, but for my breathing, I might be made of stone, wondering if Charles will take the weapon. His eyes crackle with animosity, like a fire in a grate. His jaw clenches. I could swear I see his bloodied hand rise slightly, and at that very moment Henri pushes the dagger further forward, saying, “I will go with you if you like. We can make a bit of sport of it.”

“Keep your dagger,” Charles says, his voice so laden with disgust that one would think Anjou had suggested killing the groom, not he. “Use it to gut my enemies. Were the constable not already dying, you could begin with him.” Charles raises both hands to his head, pressing them against his temples. “My mind races and my head aches.” His voice is aggrieved and his body, rigid with anger since he entered, grows slack.

I hate to see him suffer so. I wonder, not for the first time, why God planted these violent rages within what would otherwise be the sweetest of temperaments. “Your Majesty,” I say, “shall I come with you to your room, wrap your hand and bathe your forehead?”

“Yes.” He beckons me and, when I arrive beside him, places one arm heavily across my shoulders, leaning into me so much that I nearly stagger. One would think he had been on the battlefield with the men who fought and had labored there to the point of exhaustion.

Mother gives me a look of praise. “I will send a draught to help you sleep,” she says to Charles.

Slowly we make our way toward the King’s apartment, my brother becoming more torpid with each step. Twice servants seek to relieve me of the burden of the King, each time to be waved off and followed by curses as Charles’ agitation flares. When we reach his antechamber, his valet is likewise dismissed.

“Shall I send for something to eat and drink?” I ask, easing him onto a chair. “Perhaps it would revive you.”

“I do not wish to be revived, only soothed.”

I nod. Moving to his bedchamber, I fill a basin shallowly with water, then add oil scented with lemon balm. Snatching up a clean cloth, I return to find Charles head in hands. Pulling up a stool, I gently take one of those hands. “Sit back,” I urge. “Put up your feet and let me apply a compress.”

He arranges himself slowly, like a very old man, unbuttoning his doublet, putting his boots on the stool, and letting his head fall back as if that very exercise were painful. I tear off a strip of linen, then dip the rest, wring it out, and lay it across his forehead. His eyes close but his face does not relax.

Crouching beside him, I use the strip I tore to bind his hand. Finished, I ask, “Shall I send for your nurse?”

“No, sit with me for a while.”

I shift from crouching to sitting on the floor beside him, basin in my lap.

Gradually his breathing slows. After some minutes, with his eyes still closed, Charles says, “You are an angel.”

“No, Your Majesty, but I hope I am a good sister and a faithful subject.”

“That, then, if you like. You are the only one who never asks for anything in return for kindness—at least, the only one who shares my blood.” He sighs. “Marie is content to take what I give without asking for more. I wish…”

He lets his voice trail off and leaves me wondering what he wishes. That he could marry Marie? That there were fewer people around him whose ambitions made them greedy? I feel compelled to speak up for those closest to him.

“Charles, you are unfair to Mother. She wants what is best for you and for France.”

“Does she?” He sighs again, opening his eyes and examining me curiously. “I suppose so. But there are times I find myself in doubt of it. And as for Anjou, he wishes he were the elder, of that there can be no doubt. And now he will lead my armies.”

“For your glory.”

“And his.”

“As long as he serves both, where is the fault in that? Are not all the best men ambitious?”

“True.” He sits up and drops the compress into my basin. Drops of lemon-scented water fly up, dotting my face. “But so are the worst men, dear sister. I have learned that since the crown came to me. You will learn it too. I pray not too painfully.”

A knock sounds.

“Enter,” Charles calls.

The Duc de Guise crosses the threshold, covered in dirt and sweat.

“We were just speaking of you,” Charles says.

I wonder whether Charles means to imply Guise is one of the best or the worst men?

“Your Majesty, the Prince de Condé shows signs of breaking camp.”

Charles springs to his feet. “After him! Or are you too tired to lead a portion of my army in pursuit?”

“I am never too tired to serve my king and will lead as many or as few as I am given anywhere Your Majesty chooses to send me.”

“Excellent!” Two spots of color mark Charles’ cheekbones. For the second time since his return, he appears on the verge of a frenzy—this time one of enthusiasm, not anger. I wonder if the Duc knows that such a fit of good spirits can be as capricious and dangerous. The King pulls the Duc into a clutching embrace, then releases him with equal violence. “On your way.”

“Which companies shall I take, Your Majesty?”

This sets Charles back on his heels: he is not accustomed to making such decisions. Indeed, I suspect he has not command of the facts necessary to make such a pronouncement.

Seeing my brother’s confusion, the Duc is quick to withdraw the questions. “Pardon, Your Majesty,” he says. “I ought not to burden my king with questions better left to those under his command. To whom shall I report for orders?”

“Our brother, Anjou. Tomorrow he will be lieutenant general.”

De Guise’s visage registers surprise, but he recovers quickly and executes a smart bow before departing.

He is not gone a moment before Charles looks apprehensive. Scrambling to his
escritoire,
he pulls out a sheet and writes furiously upon it. “Follow the Duc,” he commands, folding the note sloppily and thrusting it toward me. “Bid him give this to Anjou. I will not have our brother make a fool of me by countermanding what I have said.”

I catch up with Guise when he is but a yard from the door of Anjou’s apartment.

“Your Grace!” I call. He stops and looks back. “His Majesty sends this, by you, for the Duc d’Anjou.”

“Has he changed his mind about my commission already?”

“Sir, I will not gossip about the contents of His Majesty’s correspondence.”

“Fair enough,” he says, taking the note.

“Was the battle horrible?” I ask.

“It is always horrible not to win.”

This, of course, is not what I meant; I wanted details, dying men lying in the mud, thrilling hand-to-hand combat.

“But we will win in the end. We must.” I recall Charles’ quip about having God on our side but not the best men—yet the man I see before me inspires confidence; Anjou inspires confidence.

“Your certitude is encouraging, Your Highness. I will keep your words, and your bright eyes, with me as I ride east.”

My flesh tingles. I long to offer him something more concrete—a token. But that seems too forward.
A kiss might also do. For my part it would do very nicely.
But how brazen would that be!

He reaches out a hand. “May I?”

I give him my hand and watch with rapt attention as he dips his head over it. His lips are firm and smooth as they press against my knuckles.

“For luck,” he says, straightening. I do not know if my cheeks color, but his do—color that is visible even through the dust of the field—and this surprises me.

“I will pray for you,” I say in a low voice.

“I am honored. That you will think of me is enough.”

When he is out of sight, I bring my hand to my own lips, kissing the spot he kissed as if by doing so I could take his kiss onto my own lips and return it.

CHAPTER 7

September 28, 1568—Paris, France

When Anjou marched from Paris at the head of the King’s army nearly a year ago, I thought word of royal victory would come swiftly. I dreamt of welcoming the Duc de Guise back as a hero and perhaps allowing him to kiss something more than my hand. But, as with the Battle of Saint-Denis, the news that came was not what I expected. La Rochelle fell to the Protestants. My cousin the Prince of Navarre joined Condé, so that two princes led the heretics opposing the crown. I did not see my brother or my handsome Duc for four months. And when, at last, the Edict of Longjumeau ended hostilities and brought them home, they did not come as victors—not in their own eyes and not in the eyes of the people of Paris.

This was most unfair, as I pointed out to Anjou. For Mother said this new peace surrendered nothing to the Protestants that they did not have under the previous one. But my brother was no more persuaded by me than His Majesty’s Catholic subjects were persuaded by broadsheets. Anjou strode around in a foul mood. And in the cities, Protestants began to die—murdered in the streets and even in their own homes. I did not celebrate these deaths, not because I was sorry for them, but because they angered Mother and I believed her when she said they must bring war yet again.

Today war comes, not by Protestant actions, but by ours. This morning Charles signed the Edict of Saint-Maur, revoking the rights of the heretics to worship, and now he walks through the streets of Paris behind the remains of Saint Denis. It is tradition, this procession honoring the Saint, before arms are taken up, and it makes the Court whole again for the first time in months.

I smile from my place behind the King at the sight of Anjou carrying a pole of the baldachin canopy covering the holy relics. He came from his vast camp at Orléans for this purpose. I say a special prayer of thanksgiving to the Saint for his return. And behind him, supporting the rear of the canopy, is the Duc de Guise.

People are out by the thousands along the procession route, enjoying the spectacle. I am waiting for it to be over, waiting for a chance to speak with the Duc at the banquet that will follow. I do not, as it happens, have to wait so long. When we are finished, he appears beside my horse to help me mount.

“Your Grace,” I say, accepting his outstretched hand and wishing my own hand ungloved when it touches his. “I am surprised to see you smiling. When you were last at Court you were all scowls.”

“My spirits were oppressed by that detestable treaty,” he says, leaning a hand upon my horse’s withers and looking up at me, “and by the company I was forced to keep.”

“Condé and Coligny excused themselves from Court before you did, and yet still you were unhappy. Or do you refer to Valois company?”

“Never,” he replies. “To be in the company of my king is an honor.” Moving his hand from my horse to where my foot seeks my stirrup, he takes that foot in his hand and guides it in—failing to release it even as I twitch my skirt to cover my momentarily revealed ankle. “And to be in your company is my greatest delight.”

“How long will you and the other gentlemen be with us?”

“I cannot say, but, regretfully, I doubt it will be long.”

“Regretfully? Come, Duc, do not tell me a falsehood. When you leave, you go to chase the Protestants—an errand that will delight you.”

“True. And yet I do not lie, for every pleasure requires sacrifice. I will have the pleasure of doing battle against the King’s enemies but will sacrifice the happiness of being near Your Highness.”

Does his hand move slightly upward? Yes, it rises to my ankle and I can scarcely attend to anything, so overwhelming is the sensation. For a fleeting moment I imagine what it might feel like for the Duc to press onward, sliding his hand over my calf and coming to rest on my knee. Then the Baronne de Retz arrives and the Duc steps back, taking his hand with him.

“Your Highness,” the Baronne says, “we do not wish to be left behind.” She turns her horse in the direction of Mother and I follow.

In the courtyard of the Louvre, Anjou lifts me down. “The first dance is mine this afternoon,” he says.

“Indeed not. I fear you will have to give it to Mademoiselle de Rieux, for I have already promised mine to the Duc de Guise.”

“Really? I hope Guise is as prompt in pursuing my orders once the fighting starts as he is in pursuing his interests.” He offers an arm. “I am sure you promised him just to vex me, but you need not have: I am done with Renée. My time in Orléans has taught me she is not worth the trouble.”

“Oh, Henri.” Impulsively, I rise on my toes and give him a kiss. “I believe I must shift the Duc to later in the order and dance with you first after all.”

Before he can say another word, I run off. I begin calling for Gillone as I open the door to my rooms. I look over at the garments laid out on my bed for the banquet as Gillone undresses me. They may have met with my approbation before I left for the Basilica, but I am no longer satisfied.

Stepping out of my farthingale, I say, “I have changed my mind about my gown. I want the rose-colored one, my new partlet with the rolled-back collar trimmed in lace, and the silver jeweled pomander the Duchesse de Lorraine gave me.” These selections will surely increase my chances with Guise. The color of the silk will impart a glow to my complexion. And the partlet—well, I have learned from observation that when one seeks to attract the attention of a man as handsome as the Duc, it is wise to draw his eye to more than your rosy cheeks.