Médicis Daughter (23 page)

“Perhaps you will be a bride even before your brother Charles takes one.” Mother is keen to have Charles wed the Emperor’s eldest daughter, Anna.

Try not to be married when next we meet.
The words sound so clearly inside my head that Guise might be in the room.

“You think negotiations will conclude so quickly?”

“I pray so.”

Who will God listen to, I wonder, if I pray the opposite?

There is a commotion just beyond the door. Mother and I both hear it. “Do not be alarmed,” she says. “My guard is outside.” But I notice she surreptitiously unsheathes the dagger she keeps on her worktable. I rise just as the door bursts open. My brother Henri stamps in—Henri, who we last heard was on the move below the Nièvre river. He is scowling. I am struck dumb by both his unexpected appearance and his expression. Mother too seems at a loss for words. Anjou is not.

“I have disbanded the army.”

“I pray,” Mother says, eyes wary, “that you have done so because you have won such a victory that it is no longer needed. But if so, why do you not greet us with smiles?”

“Your prayers, Madame, have not been efficacious as of late. Did you not pray that Zweibrücken’s men would never meet those of Coligny? Yet they did. Well, now those forces have met mine at La Roche-l’Abeille and I did not emerge the winner.” He kicks the nearest chair so hard that it topples over.

“Were many lost?”

“Most of two regiments of foot soldiers, including the men sent by His Holiness. They dress better than they fight, the Italians. Philippe Strozzi was taken captive and I ransomed him, though given what a miserable commander he was, I ought to have left that cost to the Pope. The Duc de Guise—”

“Was the Duc hurt?” I do not realize I’ve spoken until Anjou looks at me with mouth agape.

“No. I should have been glad if he had been, vainglorious idiot! His disregard of my orders was the cause of my embarrassment. Wherever he has gone, I pray I do not see him. Should he cross my path, I have a mind to thrash him or worse.”

“If the Duc is to blame,” I say, seeking to soothe Henri but not willing to unequivocally admit my love’s fault, “then surely he will be branded with it. You will not be held culpable for the defeat.”

“Sister, I adore you, but you know very little of war if you believe that. I am lieutenant general; all that goes ill is laid at my feet. If by no one else, then by our dear brother.” He looks pointedly at Mother.

Moving forward, I reach up and push back the hair at his temple. “You must know that we never believe anything ill that is said of you, not even by Charles.”

He puts an arm around me and pulls me against him, burying his face in my hair.

Raising his head once more, he addresses Mother. “Do not worry, Madame, I did not lose more than the King could afford. But I was so disgusted with those who remained and felt so little chance of success that I decided to let the men wander away to their homes. Tavannes was of the opinion that this might be the best way to pull apart Coligny’s army. For if they do not have us to face across a field, they may well disband and give us time to think.”

“And if they do not?”

“Then I will be back in the saddle and headed south posthaste. But for now I am going to my rooms to get drunk.” He releases me.

“I will walk with you.” Mother rises.

I am left behind, but I do not begrudge Mother time with Henri. I find myself drawn to Her Majesty’s desk, wishing to see for myself the words of our ambassador in Madrid—hoping that Mother is more optimistic about the negotiations than he. But Fourquevaux appears to believe Dom Sébastien will accept my hand. I am about to lay the pages down when a passage catches my eye: “I would be deficient in my duty if I did not report that I have heard, and from more than one source, that Dom Sébastien may be of little use in fathering children. So while an alliance between Portugal and France may be effected by the marriage, it may well last only as long the Princess and her husband survive.”

Of little use in fathering children.
I am not certain what that means, but it troubles me. I long to have children, and more than this, since I first kissed Guise, I have had undeniable urges to act in a manner that produces children.

*   *   *

“He has a perfect horror of women—that is what the nuncio’s secretary says.” Henriette keeps her voice low, though we are in my rooms. The Louvre is a place where anything one would keep confidential should be spoken softly.

“I cannot believe Mother would seek to wed me to a gentleman who prefers—”

“Boys?” Henriette offers.

“
I
cannot believe you seduced a priest!” Charlotte says.

“Why not?” Henriette replies. “I like novelty. And as His Holiness has been heavily involved in the negotiations for Margot’s marriage, I felt certain the nuncio’s secretary would be abreast of matters.” Turning to me she adds, “As for Dom Sébastien’s preferences, it is not entirely clear that he likes men any better than women when it comes to acts of love. What is clear is that he has been taught by the monks who have him in their thrall that every woman is unclean and the origin of sin. To such a man boys may be the lesser of two evils.” Refreshing my glass, Charlotte’s, and her own, she says, “Poor thing.”

I am not entirely sure who is the object of her pity, but I am feeling very sorry for myself at the moment.

“Thank heavens not every man feels as he does,” Her Grace continues, raising her glass. “Let us drink to men with a taste for women. Men we can enjoy and use to our own ends.”

What about love?

Charlotte sips, then smiles sweetly at me and says, “Men like the Duc de Guise, defender of Poitiers.”

My brother was not at Metz long when word came that the Huguenot army had gathered outside of Poitiers. A siege was anticipated. Henri rode off to reassemble the army. We returned to Paris, Mother being well enough to travel at last. And while we waited for word that Henri had reached Poitiers, other reports began to arrive—telling of the brave actions of the Comte de Lude and his garrison, and revealing that my beloved Duc and his brother Mayenne were within Poitiers, fighting to defend her. The Duc’s eagerness to build a soldier’s reputation may be gratified at last. If stories from that city continue to be so favorable to him, Poitiers will be his making.

I raise my glass, happy to acknowledge His Grace.

“When word arrived in the capital yesterday of the daring party Guise led to destroy the bridge over the Clain, my sister ordered a Mass to thank God for his safety and success,” Henriette says.

Alas, my happiness in the Duc’s achievements is not perfect. I am not alone in my admiration of him. Nearly every lady at Court swoons over each arriving dispatch. Besides ordering masses, the Princesse de Porcien writes bad verse in the Duc’s honor. I have seen it.

Then there is my brother’s equally unsettling reaction. From the moment Anjou got word of the Duc’s doings, his letters to Mother have been filed with vituperative tirades against Guise. Anjou seems to believe everything that is done by the Duc is done to make him look less.

I sigh. “I would rather marry Guise than the King of Portugal.”

Henriette and Charlotte are immediately serious. “You had better not say that to anyone else—not even in jest,” the Duchesse says.

“I know. But there must be some way to defeat this match. I do not wish to be married to a man who will hate the sight of me. I will be unable to sway such a man, and if I am to be a queen I long for influence.”

Both ladies nod.

“The Monsignor mentioned that Dom Sébastien’s mother wishes him married to an Austrian archduchesse,” Henriette says. “So perhaps, if you can delay the match, fate will intervene.”

“I have very little faith in fate, at least where it comes to it obliging me.”

Henriette rolls her eyes. “Yes, your life is quite blighted. You have two gallant ducs twisted about your little finger—one of them royal. You are an extraordinary beauty. You possess a pair of friends as loyal as can be found anywhere and you have lately become exceedingly close to Her Majesty. Obviously fate and fortune hold you in low esteem.” Dropping her mocking expression she continues, “But, as you are in your mother’s favor, perhaps you may depend on your influence rather than fate, and speak with her about the Portuguese?”

“I will see how Poitiers goes. If Anjou has a victory, perhaps I will plead my case with him. For now I am tired of thinking of the matter. The sun at last shows itself. Let us go enjoy it in the gardens.”

“Not before I finish my wine,” Henriette says. She picks up the half-full glass and drains it.

My glass is on its way to my lips in imitation when Mother sweeps in, beaming.

“Anjou sends word. Coligny’s army has been reduced by disease and is in the direst condition. He expects victory at Poitiers any day and wishes, before the need to pursue those Protestants who flee is upon him, to hold counsel with the King and his advisors. We leave immediately!”

We.
I am not being left behind!

We receive word as we ride that my brother, not wishing to tax Mother’s health, has come north as far as Plessis-les-Tours and waits for us there. By the time we see that comfortable old château on the horizon, all in our party are exhausted by the rapidity of our travel. Anjou runs from the building like a young boy to meet us—lifting Mother from her saddle and embracing her with vigor. I am the next to receive a welcome, and as I am clutched in his arms, a figure emerges from beneath an arch into the sunlight. It is Guise! Have the two of them made amends?

Charles comes forward to greet Anjou. While they pretend to be happy to see each other, I gaze at my Duc where he stands with a group of other officers. Even among such company—the flower of French manhood—he stands out, and not only on account of his height. There is something about the way he stands, grave, attentive, and yet entirely at ease, that draws the eye.

“Who are you looking for?” Henri’s voice surprises me.

I turn to him, smiling. “No one. I am only eager to be inside and take some refreshment.”

Anjou offers me one arm and Mother the other, drawing us past the assembled noblemen. As he does, Guise smiles—just that, nothing more, but the curve of his lips fills me with a rush of feeling that must show on my face, for the Duc’s smile grows. In the moment before we are past the gentlemen, I realize that Guise is not the only one to notice my reaction. The Seigneur du Guast peers at me thoughtfully.

Henri escorts us to Mother’s rooms. She brought so few ladies that I have no chance of sneaking away. Not that I would abandon my duty to Her Majesty. Henriette did not make the trip, but as Charlotte and I carry away some items of the Queen’s clothing I whisper, “I must see him.” She knows whom I mean.

We dine in the King’s apartment. Henri is in the highest of humors. Charles tries on several occasions to bring up plans for the conclusion of the siege and the war beyond it, but each time Anjou says, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall lay all before you until you and your advisors can see it as clearly as Tavannes and I do.” And if turning His Majesty’s questions aside in such a manner is unseemly, who will upbraid Anjou? Certainly not Mother. She looks at Henri with such worship-filled eyes that, even without being thwarted, Charles would doubtless have fallen into the sulking expression he soon wears.

Mother is chary enough to remember she is only recently over a long illness. As we push back from the table, satiated, she says, “I will retire.”

“Shall I go along with you and lie at the foot of your bed?” Henri asks.

“If your men can spare you.”

“They shall be made to, and any who complain of it will feel my anger. But I expect no protests, for all my friends know that you are the center of my world.”

Does Charles snort?

“Margot, come along and undress me.”

“Shall I come too so that you have all your children?” Charles asks. Then, without waiting for a reply: “I thought not. I have a headache, in any event. As Marie is not with us, you can at least leave me Margot to massage my temples.”

“Why does everyone like him better?” Charles asks, flopping into a chair once we are alone.

“They do not.”

“You do.”

“I love all my brothers.” Moving behind him, I place my fingers on his temples. Reaching up, he pushes my hands away.

“Get out.”

“But I thought—”

“What? You thought we were companions and confidantes? So did I. In you I thought I had a true heart and keeper of secrets. But you are Anjou’s creature.”

Moving around in front of him, I crouch down and place my hand on his knee. “Charles, please do not do this.”

He puts a hand over mine. “I cannot blame you. I may be king but it is Anjou who has elevated you. Draw what conclusions you like from that, and then censure me for my anger if you dare.”

“I do not fault you. It is not my place to judge you. You are my king, and a beloved brother. I only remark that letting Anjou nettle you tires you and emboldens him.”

“Could he be more bold?”

I fear the answer is yes. Henri has more confidence than anyone I know. Yet position he does not have. “Audaciousness cannot make him king,” I tell Charles. “You look more powerful when you resist the urge to swipe at him.”

“It is instinct, bred into my bone. The stallion nips at the fly, does he not? Well, though our brother bites me, I will not let him have my crown. You may tell him that … and Mother too.” He lifts his hand from mine. “Go.”

Standing outside my brother’s apartment, I feel sad and tired. Slowly, I walk in the direction of my chamber. I do not notice Charlotte until she says my name.

“There you are! My goodness, you are very stupid this evening, wandering in a daze when you might be using your liberty to better advantage.”

I blink at her.

“Did you not tell me you wanted to see him?”

All my
ennui
dissipates. “Yes!”

“Come, then. Her Majesty told me you were with the King. She will not be looking for you. In case anyone else should, Gillone will say you have retired.”