Médicis Daughter (26 page)

“My Alexander”—Mother lifts a hand to his shoulder—“how can you call it incomplete? Prisoners in the thousands, Coligny injured … That is a glorious victory, to be certain.”

“Ah, but, Madame, I had thought to make Coligny ride the ass as I did Condé. A dead man cannot flee south and take the remnants of his armies with him.”

Here, then, is the reason for Henri’s ill humor: Coligny’s escape.

“The admiral has the devil’s own luck.” Mother shakes her head. “But it cannot last forever. You must tell me about this Maurevert you mention in your letters. A man with so few scruples could be useful, provided his aim improves.”

“Madame, I am happy to give you my opinion on that subject, but later…” Anjou looks at me, his lip curling back oddly.

Something is wrong, and it is not merely the escape of Coligny.

“… Some stories are best kept close, and our sister has
friends
only too eager to know every detail of our actions.”

I am perplexed by his reference to “friends.” But if Henri’s meaning is ambiguous, his hostility is clear. Mother does not miss it—indeed, how could she? “Henri, what goes on here?”

“Here?” he replies. “Nothing. Elsewhere … well, we shall talk of that later. When you are out of your wet things and we are alone.”

A handful of women tumble in, laughing and shaking the rain from their cloaks. Henri kisses Mother’s hand. “I will leave you to the ministrations of your ladies.” As he goes, he throws me a last look—filled with both anger and pain.

Has Guast said something to Anjou, and what precisely?
If he claims I have fallen to him, I will defend myself! Surely he is not such a fool.
I must find out what is amiss here. But the usual entertainments stand between me and that opportunity. Thankfully our long days of travel have left everyone tired. By the time we share a cold supper, yawns are frequent, and Her Majesty declares her intent to retire early. Good. Henri will surely come to see her once she is tucked into bed. He always does. I will try to have a word with him while he, Mother, and I are closeted cozily together.

Charlotte mixes Mother’s wine while the rest of us undress Her Majesty. As Mother slips into a velvet nightgown lined in sarcenet, Anjou enters. The cluster of bodies surrounding Mother parts for him and he kisses her on both cheeks.

“You may go,” she says, dismissing the others. As they pull on their cloaks, I mix glasses of wine for my brother and myself.

Anjou leans in and says something in Mother’s ear.

She hesitates, then says, “Margot, you as well.”

Oh, no
. Henriette, at the tail of those departing, glances back. Trying to seem unruffled, I take up my cloak and bustle to join her.

I stop just outside. Henriette and Charlotte do as well. The three of us stand silent in the circle cast by the lantern in Henriette’s hands. Only when the others are out of sight do I speak. “Something is wrong.”

“Nonsense!” Charlotte squeezes my arm. “You know how they are, Her Majesty and the Duc: they have merely been apart too long and each craves the other’s undivided attention.”

Henriette, however, clearly believes me. Raising the lantern so that she can see my face, she asks, “Can the reason you are dismissed be the same that sees you off your food and out of looks?”

“I believe so.” My mind races. I fear more than ever it is Guast. But how can I be entirely certain without speaking of my encounter with that gentleman directly? Because if I am wrong I would not have either Anjou or Mother know of Guast’s attack.

“Come away and tell us all. We will devise what is best to be done,” Henriette urges.

I shake my head no. “Leave me.” Standing in the rain, I resolve to probe the cause of Anjou’s pique first with Mother, who, loving me as she does, will surely tell me. I must wait for my brother to depart.

Henriette shrugs, knowing I can be as stubborn as she. She offers me the lantern. When I make no move to take it, she slips an arm about Charlotte’s waist and the two move away. Charlotte looks back before they disappear, her pale face a mask of concern. I am sorry if I have hurt her. She and Henriette are my dearest friends, but this is a Valois matter.

Left alone in the dark and rain, I cannot say how long I stand, only that it is long enough for my shoes and cloak to be soaked through, long enough for me to feel as if the rain will drown me. Then a shaft of light cuts the darkened ground. My brother, lantern in hand, turns back to the interior of Mother’s tent. “
Bon nuit,
my beloved.” He hurries off as I stand perfectly still so that he will not see me.

Mother does not look up when I enter. Likely she thinks I am a servant. She sits calmly before her brazier, arms crossed over her chest, lost in thought. I clear my throat.

“Marguerite, what do you do here?” Her use of my full name is telling.

“Madame,”—I hasten forward—“I would speak with you.”

“Speak, then. I am tired. This day has been more trying than expected.” She looks at me as if I ought to know why and my heart skips a beat.

“For myself as well, Madame. Can you tell me why my dearest brother disdains me? Why you break our comfortable habit of spending a few quiet moments together before you retire? I cannot account for the coldness on either of your parts.”
Or rather, I will not if I do not have to.

“I well believe that, daughter, for you are young and foolish.”

“Young I may be, but this past month you have praised me many times for my clarity of thought and maturity of action. To my knowledge I have done nothing to alter your opinion.”

Her face softens. “I am willing to believe that what you have done you have done unwittingly—”

This confuses me, for if Henri reports to Her Majesty that I have flirted or worse with Guast, how could such immodest behavior be unwitting?

“—but the plain fact is you have attracted the amorous attentions of the Duc de Guise. Do you deny it?”

For a moment I am relieved. I am accused of Guise, not Guast, and here I may defend myself without mortification. Then a darker thought intrudes: for the second time in less than a fortnight my flirtation with the Duc brings unpleasant consequences.

“The Duc admires me, Madame, but how can that affect your opinion of me?”

“I cannot permit the House of Lorraine to use your ears to hear matters of state. They held sway over your brother King François. They will never have such influence with another Valois king while I draw breath.”

“Madame, I assure you, my ears are my own and my lips know better than to repeat matters important to my king or my kin.”

“Lips forget their restraint where kisses are involved, daughter. When you are older you will know the truth of this. Your brother says you have been flirting with Guise. There is nothing unusual in a girl your age playing at love, but if you will make your lips available to the Duc and others for amorous enjoyments, can you blame me for making certain they have nothing of political significance to whisper?”

“Others”—the word stands out in Mother’s accusation. I am so angry that for a moment I cannot see. My face burns and angry tears sting the corners of my eyes. “Who else does my brother accuse me of?” I know the answer, but the question must still be asked.
Oh, Henri, after all my devotion, how can you be so willing to believe and speak ill of me?

“Anjou asserts you tease the Seigneur du Guast and make a fool of yourself in pursuit of him.”

“I detest the Seigneur and would rather have no lips than kiss him!”

“That is well, but I fear it is at odds with what your brother tells me.”

“My brother has been misled!”

“Why should the Seigneur spread rumors about you?”

Because I spurned his advances
. I want to speak the words, to shriek them, but they simply will not come out. The thought of where they might lead stops my tongue. How can I bear to describe my encounter with du Guast to Mother? The mortification would crush me. And if she should not believe me … in that event, I think I would die.

After a moment or two of silence, Mother rises and, putting a hand on my arm, turns me in the direction of the door. “Go to bed, Margot.”

“Madame, I beseech you, have more faith in me. Do not distrust me on Anjou’s word alone.”

“You forget that I trusted you first on his word. If he has withdrawn his confidence, that is sufficient to shake mine.”

“And everything that passed between us is to be forgotten? All the good service I did for him set aside because someone tells him lies about me or he tells them himself?”

Mother slaps me. “Never call your brother a liar.”

I can taste blood, but I stand my ground. “Betrayer, then. Strike me again if you like, I will not take it back. I have offered Anjou nothing but loyalty and he defames me mightily in a manner calculated to cause me injury. I will not forget it.” I lift my chin defiantly, eager to see what Mother will say. Without a word she turns her back. It is worse than the slap.

*   *   *

“You are getting water on my carpet.” Anjou’s voice is maddeningly calm.

“Is that all you have to say?” Rage and disappointment rise like twin fountains inside me.

“What else should I say?”

“You might tell me why, though I have honored our pledge in every particular since Plessis-les-Tours, you have slandered me to Mother.”

Henri rises with his ordinary fluid grace as if nothing were wrong, and moves forward until he is very close. “You know why. The Duc de Guise. He moons over you. Everyone says so.” He reaches out his right hand and runs the back of it along my jaw in a caress before taking my chin between his thumb and first finger.

“And if he does? Do you think a little flattery is sufficient to make me forget my duty to you?”

“Ah, but it is more than flattery, is it not? You have fallen in
love
with the Duc.” He gives my chin a vicious squeeze, then releases it.

“No.” I raise fingers to my face where it aches from his touch.

“No? Come, Margot, your blush tells the truth that your lips will not.”

“If I admire the Duc, so do half the women of the Court,” I reply defiantly. “Where is the betrayal in that?”

“You are not the other women of the Court. You are as far above them as I am above Guise. How can you debase yourself with him?”

“I do not debase myself! The Duc is not”—I struggle to make myself say the word, to contradict directly what I am sure my brother has heard from Guast—“not my lover. I do not take lovers. You cannot say the same.”

“My mistresses have meant nothing to me. But Guise means something to you.” Anjou leans in until his lips brush my ear. His breath makes me quiver. “Does he mean more to you than I do? Will you torture me by embracing my enemy?”

I take a step back. “The Duc is not your enemy. He serves the King under your command.”

“He serves himself, and ignores my commands whenever it suits him. Or have you forgotten La Roche-l’Abeille?” My brother’s face is fierce. Despite months and intervening battles, the embarrassment of that occasion clearly remains a fresh wound.

“I have not, but surely everyone else has. It is time you do too. Your many victories since are spoken of throughout France.”

Anjou does not appear placated. I cannot understand why he fails to see any affection I have apportioned to Guise leaves plenty for him. “The Duc is an ambitious man,” I continue. “It would be unusual if he did not husband his own interests. But I have promised to safeguard yours and you can trust me to do so because I love you.”

“Do you?”

“Can you doubt it? Can you doubt it when I have sung to you, danced with you, hunted beside you, and taken your part in every quarrel since we were reunited at Fontainebleau five years ago? Can you doubt it when I offered God my life in place of yours when you were ill?”

“I do doubt it.” His eyes blaze again, but not with anger. This is something else. He moves close once more. “But you can put my doubts to rest. Swear you will not see Guise alone.”

It is difficult to imagine such a pledge, but not as difficult as it would have been a week ago. My brother merely asks me to give voice to the promise I made on my knees the night of Guast’s assault. Yet my voice is a whisper as I speak. “I swear it.”

Anjou exhales audibly. His left arm encircles my waist. He bends and I expect his customary kiss on the forehead, but his lips do not stop their descent until they meet mine. It is a lover’s kiss. My mind spins and settles upon one thought—Henri’s anger was rooted in jealousy! I am confused both by this fact and by my lack of revulsion at his lips against mine. Here is sin greater than any the Duc and I have committed, yet my heart races as it does in Guise’s embrace. My tongue seeks Anjou’s and my flesh thrills at the touch of his hands.

Then, in an instant, attraction turns to disgust—not at my brother but at myself. I must be the most wanton, lustful woman on God’s earth; a monster so openly licentious that every man around me succumbs to base passion, even my own flesh and blood. Worse still, my passions respond to such sin-soaked caresses. Tearing myself from Anjou’s embrace, I stoop, hands on knees, retch, and vomit.

Henri recoils. Doubtless cognizant for the first time of the evil nature of what we have done. I put up a hand to shield my face so he cannot look at me.

“I see how it is. I disgust you! I repulse you but Guise does not.”

I look up, stunned.
This
is his concern?

“And to think I believed you when you said you loved me best. You are all artifice, just as Guast said, captivating men for your own cruel purposes. Unwilling to fulfill the promises your lips and your actions make.”

I cannot breathe. Cannot believe what I am hearing. I retch again, but nothing comes up.

Grabbing me roughly, Anjou drags me toward the entrance of his tent. “Well, the Duc can have you, then, and welcome. I want none of you. From this moment your beauty and your pretty words have lost their power over me. Get out!” Opening the tent, he shoves me into the rain. I stumble and fall to the ground, shaking uncontrollably, in the wedge of light shining forth from behind my brother. Then the flap closes, the light is gone—all the light in my world. I am abandoned by Henri, distrusted by my mother. I am wretched, guilty, and alone.