Médicis Daughter (22 page)

“You see how it is?” He offers a blinding smile. “You anticipate me. I can rely on you.” He begins to wash, the muscles in his arms and chest showing with every motion. Battle, it seems, has further developed his fine, sportsman’s figure. “Will you assist me?”

“Only tell me how.”

“Be my eyes, my ears, and my voice. Send me news and seek ever to influence the Queen so that I retain my present fortune.”

I watch him sit down and remove his boots. While his eyes are thus turned, I find the courage to raise an embarrassing point. “I will write to you every day, but as for influencing the Queen, you credit me with a power I do not have. Why should Her Majesty listen to me?”

Looking up, he replies, “She will listen because I will tell her to do so. I will point out that you are no child but a woman grown—a woman of sense and as devoted to me as she is. I will advise her that I hold your opinions in highest esteem and weigh them heavily.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

“Oh, Henri…” That he should value me so moves me.

“Will you pledge yourself to be my partisan? Will you make certain that I am in our mother’s thoughts and favor though I be leagues away?”

“It will be my honor to serve you so.”

“Good. And I urge you to set aside your timidity and speak to Mother as you do to me.”

“I will try.”

“You will not find it hard, I assure you, once you apprehend that she will listen graciously. Mother has the ability to make one feel like the very center of the world.”

I doubt I will ever feel her regard to that extent, but do not say so, merely turning while Henri removes his trunk hose and puts on new ones. I fetch him a clean shirt, and as I hand it to him he says, “Such service shall not be without reward.”

“Your regard is enough.”

“But you will have more. As you have promised to safeguard my fortunes, I pledge to raise yours. Be assured that, as you are the person in the world whom I love most, you will always be a partaker of my advancement.”

He begins to button his fresh doublet. I push his hands away playfully. “Be still and let me do that. After all, I am the
valet
here.”

CHAPTER 9

May 1569—Metz, France

Today I am sixteen—sixteen, beautiful, and happy; utterly, blissfully happy. It is all as Anjou said it would be. Shortly after he rode away in March—gone to chase Coligny—Mother called me to her and said, “Your brother has related the conversation you and he had and how he wishes me to see you through his eyes. By his account you are a woman worthy of his trust and mine. And so you shall be treated. It will be a great comfort for me to converse with you as I would with him while he is away.”

How those words changed my life! All that was shrouded in mystery before—the business of the King’s council, Mother’s hopes for her sons and her fears for them, her dealings with diplomats from every land—is suddenly laid bare before me. I pass hours in Her Majesty’s company, listening and learning.

Generally, I am with Mother from the moment she awakes, but I took special care in dressing today, so by the time I slip into the room, her breakfast tray is being removed.

“Margot!” she says, looking at me with bright eyes. “Come sit beside me. I have been waiting for you.”

Mother’s ladies know of my elevation in importance, so a place is quickly made for me. Reaching beneath her pillow, Her Majesty draws out something small, wound in velvet. “I did not like to give you this until things were certain, but I heard yesterday that Fourquevaux was received with grace by the King of Spain.” She hands me the packet.
“Joyeux anniversaire.”

Charlotte and the Baronne de Retz, who sit on either side of me, press in as I begin to unwind the velvet. A small, gold, heavily engraved oval is left in my hand. A necklace? No, the back of a miniature portrait. I turn it over in my palm. A young man gazes out with piercing eyes. He is clad in full armor of the finest sort.

“
Il est beau!
” Charlotte exclaims.

He
is
strikingly handsome—or he would be if he did not have hair as red as flame.

Carefully I lean forward to read the inscription:
Sebastianus I Lusitanor Rex
. “The King of Portugal?”

“Yes.” Mother smiles. “Portugal is not Spain, but it is a crown worth having. And it comes with a handsome groom near your own age.”

Can she mean … She must!

“Madame, I am delighted!”

“Ladies,” she says, “you may congratulate the Duchesse de Valois.”

I rise and the women surrounding me take turns offering embraces.

“And, ladies,” Mother continues, “you may gossip about this match as much as you like. King Philip will find it hard to disavow arrangements that are spoken of widely.”

“Why need the King of Spain be involved?” I ask. “The King of Portugal is a grown man and sovereign in his own right. Surely he can select his own bride.”

Once such a question might have gone unanswered, but no more. “All young monarchs have advisors,” Mother replies. “Dom Sébastien’s uncle, the Spanish king, takes a keen interest in him. So, I understand, do a pair of Theatine monks who Dom Sébastien’s grandfather, King John, charged with his upbringing. But as I have reason to believe that His Holiness Pope Pius will promote the match, I do not believe any of these men will be a serious impediment.”

Fingering the miniature, I look again into Dom Sébastien’s eyes, imagine calling him “husband,” and smile. “Your Majesty thinks of everything,” I say. I wish I might say more—might tell Mother that her care, her efforts to secure my future, constitute a birthday offering that moves me beyond any object she might have gifted me. But in front of so many—never. Leaning in, I kiss her on both cheeks.

Mother is flustered by this display. Perhaps I am her daughter in my reticence as much as in any other way.

“Go along. Go and show off your portrait to the Duchesse de Nevers.”

I do not wait to be urged twice: grabbing Charlotte’s hand, I nearly drag her from the room. Our friend is never an early riser unless called upon by duty, so she is not difficult to locate. She is in her room, though not in her chemise as I thought she would be when—upon hearing our knock—she called out, “A moment.” No, she is fully dressed and sitting, slightly flushed, quite at her ease.

“Ah, this is fortuitous. I have a gift for you!” she says as soon as she sees me.

“And I have news.”

“Gossip or news?”

“Both,” Charlotte teases. “Margot has news that will soon be
the
great gossip of the Court.”

“Well, then, she must go first.”

“His Majesty negotiates my marriage to the King of Portugal.”

“He does?” The voice is male, and familiar. Without warning, the Duc de Guise steps out of the adjoining cabinet.

“My gift,” Henriette says, as if no other explanation were needed for the sudden appearance of a gentleman I have not seen in more than half a year. I freeze, the miniature portrait of Dom Sébastien clutched in my hand. The Duc is thinner than when I saw him last. And taller, if that is possible. I thought him a man when he held me in his arms at Paris, and perhaps he was, but he is somehow more so now.

“Perhaps, Your Grace, our surprise is not entirely welcome.” The voice is serious. The eyes meet mine only for an instant, then pull away.

“Say something,” Charlotte whispers, nudging me.

“Your Grace
”—Is it odd that after so many months I do not use or even think of him by his Christian name?—
“please do not mistake astonishment for displeasure. I simply cannot account for seeing you are here when I thought you with His Majesty’s army.”

“I brought a message to the King.”

“It must be a very important dispatch if they send a duc.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Henriette rises and, moving forward, plucks Dom Sébastien’s likeness from me. “He
sought
the errand.”

I glance back to the Duc. It must be true, for he colors. I feel rather than see Henriette retreating, taking Charlotte with her. My emotions are in a jumble. Last autumn when he left I thought of Guise so often. But lately, I realize, my mind has seldom moved in his direction. Is this because I have had so much to think about as Her Majesty’s confidante? Or is it because I no longer care for him?

His Grace takes a step forward and I catch my breath.
No, it is not the latter, for that single step closer has made my heart race.

He looks me straight in the eye. “Perhaps I should have stayed at Cognac.”

“I would rather have you here.”

“Would you?” He takes another step.

“Yes.”

“What need can you have for me if you are to marry the King of Portugal?”

“It is not certain. I only just learned that His Majesty pursues the match.”

“He is eager for you to have a foreign husband.”

“He is eager for me to wed a king,” I reply, vaguely irritated. Charles loves me and wants what is best for me. So does Mother. Why should the Duc make it sound as if they wish to be rid of me?

“I would rather you did not.”

“Henriette told me you did not wish me to marry the King of Spain. How did she know that?”

“I told her.”

“You write to her?”

“Are you jealous?”

“Of course not.” I do not believe I sound convincing.

“You have no reason. It is I who have rivals, not you. I have been gone seven months and already you are offered to two kings.”

I do not wish to speak further about Dom Sébastien or my marriage; the topic is making me increasingly uncomfortable. As is the Duc’s proximity. I wish things were as before he marched away—that he would simply take me in his arms and kiss me. Yet he stands without so much as raising a hand to touch me.

I try to turn the subject. “You have come from Cognac. How goes the siege?”

“You wish to talk of the war?” He smiles wryly. “Fine. We will raise the siege. We make no progress, and so will go instead to intercept the Duc de Zweibrücken’s German soldiers before they can reach the main Huguenot force.” He shakes his head. “Satisfied?”

“No.”

“Nor am I. I left the fighting to other men and rode halfway across France so that I could see you”—he pauses—“touch you.”

“Why do you not?” I whisper, but he hears me. His hand rises and caresses my cheek. His skin is rough. I like that.

“Because in the first moments I thought we were strangers again.”

“I do not believe we will ever be strangers, Sir.”

“What, then?”

I do not answer because I do not know.

“I would devote myself entirely to you,” he says. “While I have been away, I have seen many gentlemen do things that will require confession. I did none.”

My heart leaps. “Whatever sins I have confessed during these long months, Sir, the type you allude to are not among them. I may have failed in my duty as a daughter, a sister, and a Christian, but my lips have trespassed with no other.”

He takes me in his arms at last. “If I considered our embraces sin,” he says solemnly, “I would abstain from them even as they are my greatest desire. But I know that my feelings for you are honorable, and that my desire to preserve your reputation unbesmirched is stronger even than my baser longings.” He lowers his lips to mine. The kiss is just as I remembered: utterly, overwhelmingly wonderful. When our lips part, he looks down into my face with eyes that no longer show doubt. “I leave tomorrow.”

“No!” Having been reminded of everything I feel for him, it seems cruel that he will be gone again so soon.

“It is my duty and it presses upon me, for I have not yet sufficiently distinguished myself.”

“Were you not commander of the royal scouts before Jarnac? That battle was won through surprise, doubtless permitted by good scouting.”

He smiles. “It pleases me to hear you argue my valor. Knowing that you follow what I do makes me eager to perform feats worthy of your admiration. Your brother has Condé to his credit, and your mother Andelot. Shall I kill the latter’s brother for you before I see you next?”

That he would kill for me is thrilling. But Coligny will not be an easy man to slay: he is a seasoned fighter. I want a brave lover but also a living one. “I understand your need to avenge your father. But pray remember that, even as that gentleman looks down upon you from heaven, he would not want you to lose your own life in doing so. So kill but do not be killed.”

“I will do my best. You must make me a promise in return. Try not to be married when next we meet.”

“That is an easy promise to make, for I will see you at dinner.”

“Do not make light, Marguerite.” There is a sudden sharp pleasure in hearing my name from his lips again. “Tell me that I have your heart and that you will not be too eager to give your hand to a foreign prince.”

“You have my heart.”

He kisses me again, gently. “I must go and change. I told the King I would be at his disposal.”

“But I will see you later.”

“Of course. We shall stroll arm and arm, or dance, properly chaperoned, and all will think ‘There goes a handsome pair.’”

“Will I see you again like
this
?” I know the question is immodest, but the feel of his arms about my waist is so good.

“In this very room. I have the Duchesse de Nevers’ word.”

*   *   *

Mother looks up from her desk. The fact that she is strong enough to sit for hours—opening correspondence, replying, receiving advisors and diplomats—seems miraculous. Soon she will be well enough to travel and we will go to see Anjou! Mother and I both long to see him. And I hope that this time I will find the Duc de Guise at the same camp.

“The Portuguese ambassador at Madrid tells Fourquevaux he only awaits instructions from Lisbon to conclude your match.”

“Oh, I am so pleased.” I work to match my expression to the sentiment, even if the contents of my heart are not in accord. The Duc’s visit—so brief—changed much. The clandestine correspondence that Henriette has facilitated between us since altered things even more. For while an embrace may permit the confusion of lust and love, surely words alone do not. Henri’s notes are infused with such nobility and piety and convey such a depth of feeling that they cause me to admire him more with every line. This must be love—true, holy love. It is a feeling so precious that I have not spoken of it even to my friends. Let them think I still play a courtier’s game. I cannot bear for them to laugh at me as Henriette did the first time I proclaimed myself in love with His Grace. Besides, Henriette might cease to help me if she knew I am in such earnest.