Médicis Daughter (42 page)

I stand, blinking, on a wooden gallery built to allow me to travel from the Episcopal Palace to a platform before the doors of Notre Dame. Below, a cortege larger than my own approaches. Heralds-at-arms, their tabards emblazoned with the arms of France, and royal guards with clarions and cymbals lead the way for a sea of gentlemen from the King’s household, carrying halberds. The glint of the sun off the weapons again brings the image of a hooded executioner to my mind. And there he is, between Anjou and Alençon: my personal executioner. He is clad in yellow satin heavily embroidered in silver and studded with pearls. The coats of my brothers could be doubles.
Does my cousin not see the error in dressing so very like them?
My brothers are tall, with striking dark features. They wear yellow well. It makes the King of Navarre sallow.

My groom’s eyes meet mine. Do I see hope? Apprehension? I do not care. Quickly I look away, searching for Henri. The religious conviction of each gentleman in the assembly is abundantly plain, for, unlike my soon-to-be husband, it appears the remainder of his coreligionists have not abandoned their mourning. I nearly laugh out loud: it is as I teased him—my Henri will blend in with the Protestants. But it seems his intention to dress in mourning did not hold. For when my eyes find him beside a scowling Prince de Condé, Henri is as pale as death but wearing silver and rose. The eyes that meet mine are fierce, and they do not leave me until they are forced to as the party passes by.

We stand for what seems an eternity. At last it is our turn. As we process, a sea of faces turns upward to watch. Additional spectators lean from windows and roofs. Yet there is little cheering. I hope my mother remarks this. I am sure my cousin’s men do. I can see several in the stands, their eyes wary, their smiles forced. They know that while King Charles professes to love his Catholic and Protestant subjects equally, the people of Paris are not so ecumenical.

Before the Cathedral doors, the King delivers me to my cousin, who holds out his hand. I ignore the gesture, letting my own hand drop to my side. While the ladies who carried it arrange my train, the others of my family take their places. The Cardinal de Bourbon steps to his. He looks remarkably shabby wearing only such vestments as he would for an ordinary occasion. But this is how the King of Navarre’s mother wished it to be. The Cardinal begins and I am lost—drifting in the heat, mesmerized by his voice to such a degree that I can make no sense of his words. I hear my cousin speak, then the Cardinal again, then silence. Charles takes a step forward and, rather forcefully, pushes my shoulder. Jarred, I realize I have missed my cue.

“J’accepte,”
I mumble. It is miserably given, but it is my consent and it is sufficient. My eyes stray to the carvings above the Cardinal—the last judgment—where the archangel Michael weighs the souls of the dead according to the lives they led on earth. At this moment I do not like my chances of entering the kingdom of heaven, married to a heretic in a union that violates canon law. The entire ceremony is impossibly brief for something that changes me from who I was to who I will be, but I am glad of it. My cousin’s proximity is unbearable. I wonder if the reason lies in the complete falsehood of our situation. As of this moment, he should be something to me—should be greater and more important than any other person living save my brother the King. Yet he is not. I am glad I will soon be away from him. And I bless Jeanne d’Albret and her myriad of conditions, conditions that will keep my cousin from hearing our nuptial Mass.

Before I am given a respite, however, I must take his hand. There is a fanfare of trumpets as he leads me into the dark, cool church. At the tribune separating the nave from the choir I am handed off to Anjou, who will stand in my cousin’s place for the Mass. Ordinarily Anjou’s arm is one I studiously avoid. Today I take it gladly. The lesser of two evils—no, not that, for I do believe my brother the more malevolent of the two. Merely an expedient, the first in a new life I fear will be full of them.

*   *   *

“… factum est, et habitavit in nobis et vidimus gloriam ejus, gloriam quasi unigeniti a Patre, plenum gratiae et veritatis. Deo gratias.”

Mass is over. Before the Cardinal and the Bishop of Digne have descended from the altar someone scurries to retrieve my cousin—my
husband
. I wonder if he knows how loud he and his fellows were as they stood in the cloisters—knows their talking and laughing could be heard, raising eyebrows and hostilities? There is no sign of embarrassment on his face as he approaches. I am ready for his arm. Instead, without warning, he pulls me into an embrace. When I stiffen, he pulls me closer, whispering, “We must give the King of France what he paid for, a symbol of the new
amour
between his Protestants and Catholics,
n’est-ce pas
?”

As we make our way down the nave, covered by the sound of the organ, I reply: “We are symbolic, Sir, but not of Charles’ ideal, rather of deceitful appearances. Two mismatched partners smiling for the crowds are very like a
paix
that exists on paper but not in the hearts of men.”

“Hearts are difficult to change but they are not so important as actions. We need not love each other to keep from killing one another.”

I wonder if he means the Protestants and Catholics of France, or we two.

In our absence, the hall of the Episcopal Palace has been lavishly decorated. We sit in places of honor, beside the King. One would think Charles himself had just married. He beams and I am barely seated before he takes my hand and fervently kisses it.

“My sister, this is a great day. I have ordered every window opened so that my people may hear the sounds of us celebrating.”

Looking over my wedding guests, I perceive few signs of joy or mirth, but it is not to my advantage to give voice to that thought. Royal favor is more important than truth.

“Brother,” I reply, pausing to lift his hand to my lips in turn, “I hope that though I am now the King of Navarre’s wife, you know that I remain your sister first. I pray you will continue to hold me as close to your heart as you are to mine.”

“Of course! The King of Navarre may clasp you to his breast but it does not follow I shall root you out of mine.” Charles eagerly leans forward to catch my groom’s eye. “Cousin, I have given you the most precious gift that was mine to dispose of—not in her dowry but in herself. You must promise to treasure her as I and my brothers have, or I will not be content.”

“Your Majesty, you have my word, I shall accord the lady all the respect and caring she has become accustomed to.”

I look closely at his face to see if he mocks me on purpose, but my cousin’s eyes are mild.

The first course comes. I say nothing to my cousin and he nothing to me. Charles pauses in his effusive praise of everything and everybody only when chewing. As the plates are cleared the King says, “Now we shall have a marvelous surprise.” He signals a pair of officers. A dozen heralds-at-arms enter carrying trays heaped with some sort of gold medallions which they begin to toss to the assembly. Charles motions and one of the young men approaches, lifting his tray.

“Take one,” Charles commands.

I pick up a medal. A lamb lies curled at its center, resting against a cross. Circling the image are the words, “I announce peace to you.”

“Turn it over,” my brother urges.

On the back I find my initials entwined with my cousin’s, explicit proof that I am the lamb sacrificed in hope of maintaining a two-year-old peace.

Charles smiles, looking for my reaction.

“It is beautiful,” I say, nearly choking on the words.

“Cousin, we must share your joy and my bounty. Come, we will toss these to those in the street.”

I watch as the two, with Charles carrying the tray he has taken from the herald, make their way to a window and cast out handfuls of gold. Others, I notice, watch as well—not only my beloved Duc but a goodly portion of the Catholic nobles. As my brother and husband turn from the casement smiling and Charles slips an arm around our cousin’s shoulders, some number of these guests glower openly. I understand how they feel, then remind myself that the sight of the King and my cousin amicably talking ought to please me. My marriage may make me miserable but it still can elevate me. If it gives me no power or prestige, it gives me nothing.

The two return to the table arm in arm. My cousin smiles at me, then drains his glass of wine in a single gulp. A few weeks ago I would have concluded he is oblivious to the disdain and dislike of some of our guests. But having received proofs that he is shrewder than others suspect, I am inclined to believe he senses the ill will of many attending but chooses to bluster through it.

“Ah, Cousin,” Charles says, as the King of Navarre calls for his glass to be refilled, “you have a healthy appetite.”

“For life, Your Majesty.”

“That is good. I do not trust a man who skulks about.” Charles gazes at Anjou. “I think you will turn out to be one of my favorite brothers.”

Mother compresses her lips, and both Anjou and Alençon look daggers.

As we rise at the end of the meal, Charlotte and Henriette come to me. “Your Majesty, stop a moment and we will remove your mantle,” Her Grace says.

I pause, eager for a moment with my friends.

The King of Navarre halts as well, as if he would wait, but Henriette waves him on. “Have no fear, Sir, we will bring your bride to you forthwith and much improved, for there will hardly be room for the two of you in one litter while the Queen of Navarre is dressed as she is.”

My cousin smiles at the Duchesse, winks at Charlotte, and then says, “And there will hardly be opportunity for gossip if I stand about stupidly.” With a bow he goes.

“He knows women,” Henriette says, looking after him.

“He knows horses better,” I scoff.

“If only you liked him a little more, and the King liked him a little less,” Henriette sighs. “As it is, the two of you seem intent on riling the better part of the Court. And how precisely does that help you?”

“I will behave.”

“No, you will not. Or have you changed your plans for the evening?”

I make no reply.

“I thought not. Not even to spare Charlotte.”

Turning to my other friend, I say, “I am sorry that you must cater to the demands I will rebuff.”

“That is all right. I am sure he will not be the worst I have had. At least he is in his prime. A man who wrestles, hunts, and plays tennis as well as the King of Navarre is surely not lacking in physical prowess.”

My cousin waits beside our conveyance to hand me in. As he climbs in beside me he asks, “Dust or heat?”

“Sir?”

“If we leave the sides open, we will be choking in dust. If we close them, we will have no breeze.”

“Whichever you prefer.”
See, Henriette, I can be accommodating.

“Closed,” he says to a lackey. “I think we have been gawked at enough.”

“I fear, Your Majesty, the worst is yet to come. Do we not stand for a portrait this afternoon? Is there not a ball this evening?”

“Ah, but painters do not gawk, and all those attending the ball have seen us together before.” He pauses. “Those who have never approved of the sight must now accustom themselves to it. And speaking of things that must be gotten used to, the time has come, Madame, when you must find something to call me other than ‘Cousin.’”

“How about ‘Sir’?”

“It will serve. But as we would not occasion gossip so early in our marriage, and I, at least, have no interest in incurring your mother’s displeasure, might I suggest you throw in a ‘husband’ here and there?” He smiles.

I do not like the idea of calling him “husband.” I do, however, wish to encourage such a practical and open approach to our marriage, for such discussions as this treat it as what it is—a political alliance. “Agreed … husband.”

He smiles again, then looks at me questioningly. “Whatever possessed you to wear that awful wig?”

“The same demon, Sir, that goaded you to wear yellow.”

“Your mother, then.”

I cannot help myself: I laugh.

“I knew I would either make you laugh or cry this day,” he says.

Both actually.
As the litter stops and my new husband offers a hand to help me alight, I realize I could never have imagined this brief moment of merriment when I wept this morning.

*   *   *

My wedding guests have danced. They have drunk. The sea-themed decorations in the
salle voûtée
were much admired. Étienne Leroy sang with beauty and delicacy during the ballet, but was upstaged by Charles, who arrived dressed as Neptune riding upon the tail of an absolutely enormous gilded hippopotamus.
Enfin,
I am done with the public part of the day’s celebrations—though, judging by the state of those left behind, there will be revelers still when the sun rises. A dozen companions accompany me to prepare for the most private part, my wedding night. A dozen
dames de la cour,
but not Mother.

Though I do not desire her company, Mother’s absence rankles me. My position as her daughter and my rank surely warrant a royal escort. She herself was brought to her marriage bed by Queen Eleanor. Then I remember: I have the Queen of France with me, at least in name—my sister-in-law, Elisabeth. She walks on one side of me and Henriette on the other, each woman with her arm linked through mine. Henriette knows my mind and by her arm supports my resolve. Elisabeth on the other hand seeks, by her arm and by her gentle hands as I am undressed, to quiet my virginal nerves. I am grateful to her, for I
am
nervous, even if she is mistaken as to the cause.

I still have every intention of saying no to my cousin, but whether he will respect my refusal has never been certain. As I am tucked into bed, I remember how boisterous he was at this evening’s celebrations. My husband may not be tall, but he is, as Charlotte pointed out only this afternoon, an avid sportsman and therefore strong. If my words do not stop him from pursuing consummation of our marriage, I have little hope of fighting him off.