Médicis Daughter (32 page)

I am far from happy with this development, but how can I object? Henri’s safety is paramount. As he stoops to kiss me one more time, I ask, “When will I see you again?”

“At the ball.”

My breath catches. “Not before?” I know his decision is wise. After the events of this evening it is clearly not safe for him to venture from the Hôtel de Guise. But my need for him is such that the thought of a fortnight without sight or touch of him seems unbearable.

“We are at war, remember.” The arm he has slipped around my waist tightens in an almost violent manner. “Sacrifices must be made.”

*   *   *

The night of the ball has arrived! Trailing behind Mother with the other ladies, I attempt to check my excitement, or at least the appearance of it. But it is difficult to look calm when tonight my love returns to Court. So much depends on his reception. When we reach the
Salle des Caryatides,
the musicians are on the balcony playing softly. Charles is seated beneath his velvet canopy with a number of gentlemen gathered about, basking in his momentary favor while Anjou keeps his own court in a corner.

Charles rises, acknowledging Mother’s entrance. Those we pass bow. All eyes are upon the Queen until they aren’t. The disturbance—a murmur:
“C’est de Guise.”
Heads snap round. Eyes, not the least among them those of His Majesty, look down the length of the room. At such a moment I need not fear attracting attention by looking as well.

Henri is immediately distinguishable thanks to his height. He is dressed magnificently and makes his way by confident, unhurried steps toward the King. Charles moves in the Duc’s direction with Mother behind. Guise has been absent from Court long enough, and his absence given so many explanations—all of them whispered and few of them true—that those present naturally close in upon the spot where my brother and my beloved must meet. When they are nearly upon each other, Henri stops, bows deeply, and says, “Your Majesty.”

Charles’ hand moves to his sword. I take a step forward, but Henriette grabs my arm. “What is your business?” Charles’ voice is shrill.

“I have come to serve my king as I have in the past, in fulfillment of my office and my inclination.” Henri bows again.

“Did you serve us in the past? Or did you serve yourself?”

“Your Majesty, I protest that I have served you faithfully, often in arms and with no thought either for my aggrandizement or my life.”

A voice behind me says, “Poor Guise, I think he must be telling the truth. For if he cared for his life, he would not have come tonight.” It is Anjou. Hatred surges through me. Were I not necessarily transfixed by what passes between Charles and Henri, I would fall upon Anjou, scratching and biting like an animal until removed by force, heedless of the spectacle I was creating.

“You serve at our pleasure, do you not?” Charles asks bitingly. “Well, you have misapprehended our pleasure if you believe we looked for you tonight, or that you are welcome.” Henri stands steady and proud before the King. Yet I who love him perceive a slight flexing of the muscles along his jaw. Charles takes a step forward, his hand still on the hilt of his sword. “We forswear your service, Sir, and caution you to keep yourself out of our eye and the reach of our sword.”

The crowd, which was all this time silent, begins to buzz like a nest of angry bees. The slight could not be more public nor the warning more clear. A tinge of color rises on Henri’s cheekbones. He bows again with perfect correctness. When he straightens, his eyes meet mine for a single instant. I see worry in them. Then he turns and makes his way through the crowd toward the door.

“As you love him and trust me,” Henriette whispers, “do not follow.” She slips from my side as the courtiers surrounding us come to life. Some surge to the King. Others turn to their neighbors. A number follow the Duc. What was a buzz becomes a cacophony. The sound and the movement overwhelm me—or is it my raw fear? Charlotte slides to the place Henriette vacated and slips an arm about my waist.

“Come,” Mother says commandingly, “this is a ball. Your Majesty”—she must touch Charles’ arm—“will you open the dancing with your sister?”

Me? How can I dance when I do not trust myself to stand should Charlotte’s arm be withdrawn
?

“Disappointed, Margot?” Anjou asks, stepping beside me. “Madame,” he says to Mother, “I believe our sister thought to have another partner.”

The Queen throws him a look that would cause any save her favorite to quake. “Margot.” Charlotte releases me and I, quite miraculously, stay on my feet and give my hand to Charles. Courtiers part. The musicians strike up the first chords of a new piece. “Smile.” This last admonition is hissed at us both as Her Majesty backs away. There is nothing for me to smile about, but at the sight of Anjou’s sneering face I do. To be crushed is one thing. To let my brother see that I am crushed is another. As the King and I complete our second pattern, others join the dance. Charles asks quietly, “Did you summon him here
ce soir
?”

“I? I wish he had not come.” The words are true and, apparently, Charles can read their veracity in my tone.

“I take no pleasure in paining you,” he says. I believe him. In this he is entirely unlike Anjou. “But I cannot permit Guise’s grasping insolence. As Mother said, it is over, Margot. And make no mistake”—the momentary regret in his voice vanishes—“I will see the Duc dead before I will let him into this family.”

“I have given him up, Charles, I swear it!”

“You will have to do better than that. You will have to prove it.”

How does one prove such a thing?

Looking across the formation of dancers, I see the Princesse de Porcien and I know with dreadful certainty. With certainty comes despair. I might cease to breathe, sink to the floor and turn to dust, did not my pride demand I get through this dance, and did not one vital, horrible task remain to me.

When the music stops, I look for Charlotte. She knows without my saying anything that the room, full of swirling bodies and laughter, is no place for me. Taking my hand, she leads me toward the door. We are a few feet from making our escape when the Baronne de Retz appears. I do not wait for her question.

“I am going to my room. If you believe my misery needs another witness, you are free to follow.”

Charlotte must have expected me to collapse as soon as we are out of the sight of the rest of the Court, for she casts me curious sidelong glances as I press on rapidly toward my apartment. When we are nearly there, we come upon Henriette. “He is safely away but he is shaken,” she says. There is none of the delight in her eyes that usually accompanies narrow escapes.

“We are all of us shaken,” Charlotte says as we enter my anteroom. “Whatever people imagined about the quarrel between the Duc and the King, I will wager none imagined His Grace being turned away from the Louvre.”

“Yet now they doubtless imagine much worse,” Henriette says.

“Because of me,” I say, at last finding my tongue.

“No!” Charlotte replies. “You are not to blame.”

“What use is there in assigning or accepting fault?” Henriette asks impatiently. “What is to be done?”

I open my mouth but no sound comes. I take a deep breath, which catches, then try again. “Henri must marry. He must close the matter with your sister at once.” The words come out broken, like my heart. Part of me hopes Henriette and Charlotte will express disagreement, but while both look stricken, neither raises an objection.

“He will need persuading,” Henriette says. “Likely more persuading than I alone am capable of.”

I hope so. Dear God, I hope so. If Henri is not as horrified by the idea of his marrying the Princesse as I am, I will be inconsolable.

“I will write to Claude. Henri is not alone in his danger; the entire House of Lorraine should care deeply what befalls him.”

“Yes!” Henriette nods approvingly. “The Duchesse’s husband will wish this disgrace resolved quickly. Ask the two of them to come to Court.”

A lump rises in my throat at the thought of what I must say. I must reveal much that is painful—not only the depth of my own love and loss, but the betrayals and cruelties of my family. There is a small measure of consolation in the fact that such Valois sins will be confided fully only to another of my bloodline.

*   *   *

I am as nervous as a cat. I have counted and recounted the days until Claude could be expected in Paris. She did not come yesterday, so this day must certainly see her arrival. True sister, she replied at once, saying that she would rescue me from my disgrace and put my beloved on the path to his salvation. I care nothing for myself. I am content to be ruined so long as Henri is no longer in peril.

Mother knows that the Duchesse and Duc are coming. How could it be otherwise? A leaf does not drop in the garden of one of the great châteaux without her knowing. She goes about whistling softly, anticipating the company of a daughter more satisfactory than I—one who married where she was bid and lives blamelessly. I wonder, watching the Queen clicking her tongue against her teeth, then smiling as she feeds her parrot, whether she has guessed in part the purpose of Claude’s visit. I suspect she has. It would be unnatural if the Duc de Lorraine did not come to counsel his kinsman.

The door opens. I glance in that direction with anticipation. It is only Anjou. Doubtless he comes to borrow Mademoiselle de Rieux. He has taken her up again and is very indiscreet. I turn back to my embroidery.

“Look who I found making her way from the courtyard,” Anjou says.

My eyes rise again. Claude!

“Daughter.” Mother offers my sister both her hands and both her cheeks in turn. “Did you bring the children?”

Claude now has six little ones.

“No. Charles thought it best they stay at Bar-le-Duc, as our visit will be short.”

Mother puts an arm around Claude’s waist and guides her toward the settle across from me. “He is right, of course,” Mother says. “Coligny and his ilk make the roads less safe by the day. I received word this morning that he closes on La Charité-sur-Loire. But let us not talk of the war. I spend nearly the whole of my time considering it, to the detriment of my health and, I fear, without substantial benefit to your brother’s kingdom.”

“Madame,” Claude replies, “you are too modest. The conduct of the war may not progress as quickly or as definitively as His Majesty’s most devoted subjects would wish, but the King and his troops would be lost without your good counsel.” Then, looking across at me, she says, “Sister, I hope I find you well.”

Mother gives me a chastising look. “Your sister has been involved in a bit of folly—not uncommon in the young—and suffers from low spirits in consequence.”

Her trivialization of my heartbreak grates, but I bite my lower lip and keep silent.

“I am sure Marguerite is chastened whatever her transgression, Madame. She has a true Valois heart.” She rises.

“You are going?” Mother asks.

“I must. I have not yet been to our
hôtel
. I was so eager to see you that I persuaded Charles to part company with me. But if we are to return and dine, I must unpack and rid myself of the dirt of the road.” Claude takes a few steps toward the door, then stops. “I wonder, shall I take Marguerite with me?”

“Do. Your influence will do her good, and in her present humor she is of no use to herself or anyone else here.”

Anjou moves aside to let us pass. “There is no use beating her; we have already tried.”

Claude throws him an icy backwards glance, then whispers, “Courage.” We sweep to the courtyard where her litter stands. Climbing in beside me, she says, “The Hôtel de Nemours.”

I gasp.

“I am sorry I could give you no warning, but from the moment I read your letter it has been my opinion that the sooner this thing is settled, the better. Charles and I stopped to see the Duchesse de Nemours before I came to the Louvre. Her Grace understood our plan at once, but she fears her son will be difficult to persuade. He is, after all, a most determined man and used to having what he wants.”

“But what can I tell the Duchesse that you have not?”

“You misapprehend me. While I have been here, Charles rode to get his cousin.”

Henri! Henri will be at the Hôtel de Nemours! Here is a thing I never prepared for—to argue personally for a marriage that will destroy me.

Claude looks concerned. “Have you the strength to see him? I believe you may have a power over him that exceeds that of any other.”

Do I have the strength?
At this moment I fear not. I fear that, much as I have told myself ceaselessly since the night of the ball that I would do anything to save Henri, I will not be able to push him from me. I close my eyes.
Please Lord, grant me sufficient self-abnegation to do this terrible but necessary thing. In the name of Your Son who gave up His body to be beaten and His life so that sins might be forgiven, help me offer up all my hopes for the future to save my beloved.

When I open my eyes, Claude still looks at me. “Shall I turn the litter?”

“No. The Duc must go from Court and not return until it is time for him to wed the Princesse de Porcien. This and this alone will stop the mouths of his enemies and mine. This alone will save the life so precious to me. If I am necessary to this result, I will do what I can.”

She takes my hand and kisses it. “You do have a Valois heart, or perhaps better say a Médicis one.”

I am startled to realize what she means: my mother is known by all to have the strength to do what others cannot, the strength of her sons combined. Could there be something of my mother in me that is useful rather than hateful?

When we arrive at the Hôtel de Nemours, the Duchesse waits just inside. She embraces Claude and curtsys to me. There is wariness in her eyes. I cannot blame her. She must hate me at this moment, for her sons are her life and I have endangered the eldest and dearest of them.

“Has Charles begun?” Claude asks.

“He will not hear reason,” the Duchesse says. “He knows he is in grave disfavor, and accepts even that his life is in peril, but turns from the remedy.”