Médicis Daughter (3 page)

I look at Madame and she nods. Down the aisle I go to a general murmuring while the others of my party, announced in the same officious tone, follow. Stopping at the foot of the dais, I am aware that all eyes are upon me. I stand as straight as I can before executing my curtsy.

“Sister,” Charles says, “we are pleased to have you at our Court. You will be a great ornament to it, we are certain, for we have received good report of your wit and of your dancing.”

I am surprised. I supposed my education beneath Charles’ notice. And if Mother is the source of Charles’ information, then I am astounded to hear him praise me. There have certainly been very few words of approbation in the letters she sends Madame—or at least in those portions read out to me. Why, I wonder, if she is willing to speak well of me to my brother, can Mother not spare a word of encouragement for me? I have worked so hard this past year—applying myself to every lesson, whether with the tutor she sent for me or with my dancing master.

Turning to Her Majesty, Charles says, “Madame, the collection of beauties in your household is already the envy of every court in Europe, and here is another lovely addition.”

I am to be a member of my Mother’s household!

“As Your Majesty’s grandfather King Francis was wont to say, ‘A court without beautiful women is springtime without roses,’” Mother replies, smiling.

*   *   *

Late in the afternoon I get my first glimpse of the roses. Dressed in the sort of finery seldom required at Amboise, I am shepherded to Mother’s apartment by the Baronne de Retz, who came with me from Amboise. The door of Her Majesty’s antechamber opens to reveal at least two dozen young women. The colors of their fine silks, velvets, and brocades set against the room’s brightly painted walls dazzle my eyes, and the smell of perfumes—both sweet and spicy—fills my nose. The entire scene is fantastical and made even more so by the arresting spectacle of a bright green bird flying above the gathered ladies.

“Here is the little princess!” The woman who exclaims over my arrival gives a small curtsy. Smiling, she reaches out her hand. I offer mine. “She is like a doll,” she says, spinning me around. The other ladies laugh and clap in admiration.

“Something is missing.” This new speaker has hair so blond, it looks like spun gold. She also has the tiniest waist I have ever seen. I simply cannot take my eyes from it. Stepping forward, she takes my chin and tips my face first this way and then that. “A little rouge, I think.”

There is a ripple through the assembled ladies and someone hands a small pot to the woman before me. Opening it, she dips her finger then touches it, now covered with a vermillion substance, to my lips.
“Parfaite!”
she declares. “She will break many hearts.”

The Baronne de Retz clears her throat softly. “Mademoiselle de Saussauy, Princess Marguerite is too young to think of such things.”

The pretty blonde laughs. “One is never too young to think of such things.”

I
like
Mademoiselle de Saussauy.

“Where is Charlotte?” the Baronne asks.

A girl with chestnut hair and carefully arched eyebrows comes forward. “Your Highness, may I present Mademoiselle Beaune Semblançay. She is the young lady nearest to your own age among the present company. Perhaps you would like to become better acquainted?”

The Mademoiselle holds out her hand. “Come,” she says, “let us go where we can see the dresses better as everyone enters.”

“This is not everyone?” I ask, amazed.

“No indeed, not by half,” my companion replies. “Her Majesty has four score ladies, from the best and oldest houses.”

My companion threads herself expertly through the crowd until we reach a spot that she adjudges satisfactory. As the door swings open to admit two ladies arm in arm, Charlotte screens her mouth with one hand and says, “The shorter is the Princesse de Porcien, the taller her sister the Duchesse de Nevers.”

I can see the resemblance. Both have luxurious hair with tones of auburn. Both have milk-white skin. The Duchesse, however, has the better features, for the Princesse has a childish roundness to her cheeks.

“How old is the Princesse?”

“Fifteen.” I detect envy in my companion’s tone.

Wanting to make my new friend happy, I whisper, “You are far prettier than she.”

Charlotte kisses me on the cheek. But her pleasure is short-lived and the look of jealousy creeps back into her dark eyes. “Ah, but the Princesse has been married already three years. I will be fourteen this year and have no husband.”

For a moment I no longer see the door or the ladies who enter. I am lost in thought. At Amboise my companions did not speak of men. But here the topic seems to be on the tip of every tongue, from Mademoiselle de Saussauy, who said it was never too early to think of charming them, to the girl beside me, who worries because she does not have one.

“Her Majesty the Queen.”

The pronouncement brings me back to my surroundings.

I do not immediately see Mother, but I do see a splotch of black against the colorful garb of the ladies-in-waiting. Working my way toward these somberly clad figures, I find Mother with the green bird perched upon her shoulder.

I wait to be recognized, but her eyes pass over me.

“We must not keep His Majesty waiting,” she declares, clapping her hands and putting her feathered companion back in flight.

The room is so full of movement, talking, and laughter that it seems impossible anyone but those of us closest could hear. Yet the effect of Mother’s declaration is immediate. The ladies part, allowing Her Majesty to precede them, then follow in her wake.

Charlotte takes my arm. “Hurry, before the best places are taken.”

The best places are those with the best view of the King and the powerful men assembled about him. My brother Henri is already seated
tout proche
to Charles. He gestures to Charlotte and me, and we move to join him. A young man beside him rises at our approach. “François d’Espinay de Saint-Luc,” Henri says, inclining his head casually in the youth’s direction. Then, changing the tilt, he says, “My sister.” Saint-Luc bows.

“Do not even think of asking her to dance,” Henri continues, patting the seat beside him and forcing Saint-Luc to move down one by the gesture. “Now she is come, I finally have an adequate partner and I will not suffer to share her.”

I blush.

I may sit beside him, but as the meal progresses I notice that another lady’s eyes are constantly upon Henri. She has dark, curly hair and her dress is cut very low. “Who is that?” I ask Charlotte.

“Renée de Rieux.”

“Is she one of us?”

“She is one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor,” Charlotte sniffs diffidently. “But she is very wild and ambitious. Take care: she will use anything you tell her to her advantage.”

I look back at the girl. Not far from her, the tall woman who spun me round earlier sits with her hand possessively on the sleeve of a man clad entirely in black.

Again I consult my knowledgeable friend. “Who is that gentleman, and whom does he mourn?”

Charlotte laughs. “He does not mourn. Why should he, when his Protestants have peace with the crown? That is the Prince de Condé. He and many of his sect favor dour dress, though why they think such drab colors are pleasing to almighty God, I cannot say.”

I am stunned. This man with striking blue eyes and a well-groomed sandy-colored beard, who exudes an aura of importance, is the bugbear of my nursery? Good heavens. For most of my childhood I have known him as an enemy of the crown, yet here he is at Court dining and laughing as if there were nothing extraordinary in that. And perhaps there isn’t. Perhaps this is peace. It seems I must reorder my thinking.

The Prince leans over and says something that makes the tall lady color.

“However severe his dress, the Prince seems to please that lady,” I say.

“The Baronne de Limeuil? Indeed.” My friend laughs.

The Prince reaches out a finger and runs it along the Baronne’s cheek. A gentleman near to me scowls at the gesture.

“Poor Florimont.” Charlotte rolls her eyes and tilts her head in the direction of the scowler. “He makes a fool of himself. He cannot accept being replaced by Condé. He doubtless reasons he is better looking than the Prince. And so he is. But with his patron the old Duc de Guise dead, the Queen has less need to know his mind than to know what passes through the Prince’s. So the Baronne is in the proper bed, for the moment.”

Perhaps I do not understand. It sounds as if Charlotte implies the Baronne has been both men’s mistress. My face must show my dismay, for Charlotte, lowering her voice and pressing her mouth almost to my ear, says, “Do you think Her Majesty collects the most beautiful women in France solely to amuse herself? Some in her household serve her in ways that are less conventional than helping her to dress and guarding her against
ennui
.”

Then, as if there were nothing shocking in her statement, Charlotte takes a drink of wine and speaks across me to another of Mother’s ladies.

The balance of the evening passes in a blur. By the time I return to my chamber, I am utterly exhausted, thoroughly overwhelmed, and tremendously excited! There is
so much
of everything here—so much food, wine, dancing, music, and intrigue.

Sitting on the edge of my bed, I do not know which hurts more, my feet, my stomach, or my head. Yet, even as I rub my arches, I cannot wait for the sun to rise again, heralding a new day of discovery and adventure.

“Tomorrow,” I tell my pillow, extinguishing my light and pulling shut the curtains of my bed, “after attending Mother and Mass, I mean to begin exploring this grand château.”

*   *   *

I expected my grandfather’s great gallery to be beautiful. I did not expect to have the breath sucked from my body by its majesty. It is unlike anything I’ve ever seen, unlike anything I have imagined—a vast, glorious eyeful with late morning sun spilling through its elegant windows. The carved wood of the wainscoting and ceiling is so elaborate, it makes the
salle des fêtes,
which held me spellbound yesterday, seem nothing at all. Frescoes framed in stucco and full of figures in classical dress cover the upper portion of the walls. A magnificent elephant wears my grandfather’s regal F and a scattering of salamanders. Did King Francis own such a beast? How I wish I could have seen it!

Moving along, mouth open in wonder, I experience a growing awareness that many of the people and even the animals in the paintings are behaving unusually. A woman leans from a white horse, caressing an enormous swan. There is something about the look on her face that makes me uncomfortable in the same way that I was last evening when Mademoiselle de Rieux took a gentleman’s hand and laid it in her lap.

Turning from this disturbing image, I cross the gallery but find little relief for my agitated feelings on the opposite wall. A pair of putti touch each other … in a very naughty place. Further along, I am confronted by a collection of men and animals contorted in face and form. How innocent the putti suddenly seem. I feel I ought not to see such things without knowing exactly what I
am
seeing. Yet I am fascinated. Glancing about, to reassure myself I am alone, I climb onto a bench beneath the fresco to have a better look. A door at the west end of the gallery opens and I freeze, hoping to remain unnoticed.

The boy who enters seems out of place in this gleaming and elaborate setting. His ruff is crooked; one leg of his breeches hangs lower than the other. The fabric of his clothing, while certainly suggesting he is a gentleman, is very plain. He does not notice me—or I presume he does not—because, without warning, he begins to run at top speed down the gallery. His arms pump. His footfall echoes on the wooden floor. A smile illuminates his unremarkable face, quite transforming it. Then he spies me.

Pulling up short a few feet from my perch, he bends, hands resting on his knees, and breathes heavily for a moment. Then looking up he asks, “Why are you standing on the bench?”

I do not feel I owe him an explanation. So I content myself with trying to mimic one of Mother’s stern looks. “You ought not to run in here,” I admonish.

“I know.” The boy straightens up fully. He is not particularly tall and he wears his light-brown hair as haphazardly as his clothing. “But my tutor says it is too cold to go outside, and it is not as easy to sneak out as you would think.”

Sneak out? I cannot imagine wanting to sneak out of the château, especially after weeks of wishing and waiting to arrive. “Can you not find amusement inside, in a court full of every sort of entertainment and attended by everyone of consequence?”

“I would rather look for frogs at the lagoon.” He shifts from foot to foot. Slipping one hand inside his shirt, he gives his neck a scratch.

“You would get dirty,” I say.

Again the shrug. “I like dirty.”

“I don’t.” I smooth my overskirt in a gesture I’ve seen Madame do a thousand times.

“Best not let your mother catch you looking at that picture, then.” He points at the fresco behind me.

My eyes rise unbidden to the naked men nearest me, their lips pressed. My cheeks burn. The boy’s words come remarkably close to my own thoughts before I spotted him. How dare he make me feel guilty! Narrowing my eyes, I snap, “What do you know of my mother?”

“She is the Queen,” he replies without hesitation. “You are Princess Marguerite. You’ve just arrived. I saw you at dinner yesterday.” Then, as if he can hear the question I am preparing to ask, “I am your cousin Henri de Bourbon, Prince of Navarre.”

“Why did you not say so at once? You are not very polite.”

“No, I guess not. Or at least, people here tell me that I am not—often. I wish I could go back to Béarn.” He shuffles his feet again. “My manners were fine there. And I was outside all the time—climbing, swimming, hunting.”

I remember hearing that his mother, Jeanne d’Albret, Queen of Navarre, returned to Béarn after his father died of wounds suffered in the Siege of Rouen. I never gave any thought to where my cousin was. Or even, truth be told, to his continued existence since last we met as very young children. I wonder why he is here rather than at the court of his mother? But, more pressingly I wish him gone. He is singularly irritating.