Médicis Daughter (43 page)

“You are pale.” Elisabeth leans in kindly and tries to hand me a glass of wine, which I wave away. I believe I have drunk less than anyone else during the course of the day. If my wits are to be my only defense, then they must be sharp.

“I am only tired.”

“Too bad you will likely get little sleep tonight,” Fleurie de Saussauy quips.

The ladies around my bed laugh, and that laughter is joined by some from beyond my door. My cousin and a handful of his gentlemen have arrived, talking and laughing as they jostle each other. The sight of my lighted room full of lovely women momentarily silences them. Then a gentleman behind my cousin gives the King a shove across the threshold, saying, “Go on, she may be Catholic but she is pretty.”

Drunk,
I think. The speaker’s face is flushed and the top buttons of his doublet are undone.
Definitely drunk
. I look more closely at my cousin, blushing as my ladies stream past him. His ruff is missing and sweat beads his face. Are these merely signs of the day’s heat, or is he as inebriated as his friend?

I jump from my bed as if it were on fire, forgetting how sheer my night dress is.

The King of Navarre stares at me openly as his companions lurch away.

Henriette gives me a look for courage then she too is gone. The King of Navarre turns at the sound of the closing door, giving me time to snatch up my
surcote
.

“Madame.” My husband tilts his head slightly to acknowledge me. The surprising grace of the movement and the clarity of his speech suggest that however drunk his friends, he is in control of all his faculties.
Thank God
.

Sitting on the nearest chair, he removes his boots. I seem unable to find my voice and am reminded of how tongue-tied I used to feel when called before my mother as a girl. Rising, my cousin begins unbuttoning his doublet. The sight of his flesh at the open neck of his shirt jolts me to action.

“Stop.”

His fingers pause.

“Madame?”

“We have something to discuss.”

“You have spoken very little to me today, and
now
you would talk? I am tired; talk can wait.”

“It cannot.”

“All right, then.” He crosses his arms.

“I do not want you here,” I declare, raising my chin.

“Is that all? You did not want me for a husband either, a fact you made clear on many occasions, but we are wed.”

I sense my open defiance is only making him equally defiant. I must try another tack. Remembering our shared moment of laughter in the litter, I realize I must behave as an ally even before an alliance is struck. Stepping forward, I gently place a hand on his arm.

“We are wed, so let us make the best of our union by starting it as friends.” It is hard to imagine myself my cousin’s friend but not as difficult as it was on the day he rode into Paris. “You are tired. I am tired. If we speak this evening, we will only bait each other. Leave me now and we will talk tomorrow.”

“Leave without taking you to bed?”

“Yes. And resolve to not even to think of such an act. My brother the King may have made you my husband in church, but I have no intention of letting you make me your wife in the carnal sense.”

I remove my hand from him and take a step back, girding myself for an outburst of anger.

But there is no fury. Instead my cousin looks puzzled. “But it is my right.”

“It is your right,” I concede. A painful admission, but concessions are key to bargaining. “But if you exercise it you will make an enemy of me. Do you not have enough enemies in Paris?”

He considers me for a few moments, then shrugs and begins to re-button his doublet. “Yours are not the only arms in which I may find pleasure. There is that pretty little Baronne friend of yours who makes eyes at me.”

“Pursue Charlotte, by all means,” I say, taking care to adopt the most indifferent tone possible. “Bed her. I shall never remark upon it. Bed every woman of the Court and cuckold every husband. I will not be provoked.”

“What is the price for all this forbearance?”

My husband is not stupid.

“I wish to be free as well.”

“In your affections, you mean.”

“Yes, and I shall expect you to be as blind as I.”

“Even if you embrace my sworn enemy?”

The taunt
Which one?
rises to my lips but dies, because we both know he means Guise.

“Yes.”

“Then you ask me not only to be blind but foolish.” My cousin shakes his head.

“No. You may well have been foolish not to turn round and ride back to the Navarre when you heard of your mother’s death. But having come to Paris and bound yourself to the House of Valois, it is time to be practical, a quality I believe comes naturally to you. Do you not wish to have one certain friend among the Valois? One dependable ally at the French court?”

“The King embraces me and calls me ‘brother.’”

“The King is as changeable as the wind.”

This time he nods in the affirmative. Yet I sense he is not entirely convinced. He stands, thinking. “If I lose the King’s love,” he says at last, “I shall not be without influence. Coligny has His Majesty’s ear and is my fixed friend. His friendship, being the result of years, is, if you will pardon me for saying so, more worthy of trust than the one you offer. As for allies, I brought them with me—eight hundred of them.”

“Protestant allies at a Catholic court.” I shrug, trying to sound as unconcerned as he. “They see only what my mother permits. There is not one among
vos amis
who knows the rooms and halls of this palace or the people who pass through them as I do. Not even the admiral.”

“And you would guide me?” He shifts his weight and looks at me intensely.

An easy, meaningless “Yes” dies on my lips. It is my turn to pause and think—to consider how far I am willing to commit myself, knowing that if I say I will be my cousin’s guide, I will not find it easy to renege.

I expect neither love nor happiness from my marriage but I do hope to improve my position by it—to be free from the domineering will of my mother, to have my own household. If anything good is to come from being Queen of Navarre, the King of Navarre must thrive. I regard my cousin, his lavish pale yellow doublet askew where he has misbuttoned it, the shadow of a moustache over his unsmiling mouth, his eyes examining my face with earnest concentration. He is out of place here. He is savvier than the others understand, but he will need guidance. I have little influence with Charles. With Anjou and my mother I have none at all. Perhaps I may have some with my husband by making myself useful from the beginning.

“I promise you my honest opinions and advice, so long as you do not impose yourself upon me.”

“Agreed.” His shoulders relax. It is the first indication I have had that he was nervous. Then, looking down and noticing the poor job he has done fastening his doublet, he begins to unbutton it once more to make it right.

“Leave it. Some disarray in your dress will support the desired illusion.”

My husband laughs lightly. “So your first advice to me concerns how to look as if I have done the very thing that our bargain forbids?”

I laugh in response—not as hard as I did in the litter, but as sincerely. There is no attraction between us, but it seems we can be easy together. And that may be something far more valuable. The apprehension I felt before the King of Navarre’s arrival is whisked away. There is nothing menacing in my husband. How silly it seems that only a short while ago I feared he might take me by force.

CHAPTER 18

August 19, 1572—Paris, France

This time there are no tears when I wake. I feel more rested than I have in weeks. How amazing: the thing I dreaded most has come to pass and, far from being destroyed by it, I feel liberated. I am a queen and a married woman, with all the rights and status those things entail. And I am free, utterly free, to pursue my passion … until and unless my husband removes me to the Navarre or until both my beloved and my husband march off to a war with Spain.

I push these last thoughts from my mind and rise from bed. I will write to Henri bidding him to come to dinner at the Hôtel d’Anjou with a light heart and a good appetite. His hunger for food and for me shall each be fully satiated in the course of the evening.

As I pad across the floor I remark that the room is stiflingly hot, so either I have slept long or this day will be even more oppressive than the last. I throw open the shutters at the nearest window. The sun is at its apex. The day half gone? Good heavens!

Gillone bustles in.

“Why did you not wake me when the Duchesse de Nevers called?” I ask.

“She has not called, Your Majesty.”

“Not called?”

“No one has. The palace was deserted all morning. Everyone rests after your wedding. I heard in the kitchens that even the Queen Mother slept late.”

Taking a seat at my escritoire, I uncover my ink.

“Your husband was up with the dawn, however, and is playing at tennis.”

Having neither asked nor thought about the whereabouts of the King of Navarre, her comment startles me. “In this heat? I cannot imagine who among his companions would be fit to play; they were all drunk last night.”

“As were we,” Gillone replies, clearly meaning the Catholic portion of the Court. “Perhaps it is a peculiarity of the Huguenots, rising early. They have many.” She retreats, doubtless to get my breakfast, and I busy myself with my note.

When the door opens next it is Henriette, not Gillone, who enters carrying my tray.

“Ah, the bride,” she says wryly. “Survived her wedding night, I see. Without incident?”

“Utterly.”

“Well, that would confirm the rumor I heard as soon as I passed the wicket.”

“Rumor?”

“That the King of Navarre was seen leaving the Baronne de Sauve’s chamber this morning, carrying his boots.”

“Poor Charlotte,” I quip. But, rather oddly, I feel less pity than I expected to.

“Indeed”—Henriette gives a vicious smile as she sets down my tray—“she will taste garlic for a week.” She gives an exaggerated shudder and laughs.

“I have a note for the Duc,” I say, holding it out.

“You mean you are sending me back into the hot dusty streets?” She tucks the note away deftly in her décolletage. Taking a berry from my tray she pops it into her mouth. “At least it will be a pleasant errand. I should fear to show myself at the Hôtel de Guise had the King of Navarre been seen leaving
your
rooms boots in hand.”

I make short work of my breakfast. It is too early to dress for the day’s festivities, but, despite the heat, I have no desire to sit idly about in my chemise. I have Gillone dress me in something simple.

“Let us go and watch the King of Navarre at tennis.” I speak lightly but Gillone’s eyes widen nonetheless. “People will expect it.” It is a weak explanation. I hope that Gillone does not question it. I certainly don’t intend to.

My cousin is playing with the Marquis de Renel against the Comte de La Rochefoucauld and the Seigneur de Pardaillan. He runs full out, handling his racket with vigor. There is no one watching, so he plays for sport, not show
.
It is an illumination of his character,
I think, tucking the fact away. In the shadows of the gallery I enjoy the game. My cousin has an easy, natural athleticism. Scoring the final point, he clasps Renel’s arm and congratulates his opponents on their efforts. Then his eyes stray and find me.

Racket in hand, he makes a bow. “Gentlemen,” he declares, “Her Majesty the Queen of Navarre honors us with her presence.” There is nothing mocking about the statement, but when the unfriendly eyes of his companions fix upon me, I feel awkward.

The remaining gentlemen salute me, then turn back to each other. “Have you had enough?” the King’s partner asks the men across the net. “Or must you be beaten again?”

I rise, hoping to escape my embarrassment. My cousin, who has remained looking through the curtain of net that separates us, moves forward and laces his fingers in it. “You are going, Madame? I would be happy to have you cheer me in the next.” His eyes are entirely earnest, as if he senses that his companions made me feel ill at ease and regrets it.

“I fear I must, Your Majesty.” I give a slight curtsy. “Ladies need far longer for their toilette than gentlemen, and all eyes will be on us when we dine
cette après-midi
.”

“True. But as you, a renowned beauty, need fear no man’s eyes, I must suppose you urge me to greater exertions in my own toilette.” He smiles slightly. “So much wardrobe advice since we were wed.” He is clearly referring to our encounter last night. Why? To remind me of our bargain? Or maybe he merely wishes to re-create the ease we felt.

“I wear silver. You must suit yourself.” It strikes me forcibly that, though we may look like a pair at our nuptial festivities, it will take some time for us to be a pair—even a pair of allies. Giving another curtsy, I turn.

As I make my way down the gallery I hear one of the gentlemen on the court mutter, “Spy.”

My cheeks burn. It is an old charge, so it stings powerfully. My mother condemned me as a spy for the Duc. Perhaps that is whom my husband’s cohorts think I act for now. Or they think me a spy for that same mother who herself labeled me untrustworthy. I am tired of being every person’s pawn, trusted by no one. I resolve to prove myself my cousin’s ally, the more quickly the better.

*   *   *

I do not see my husband again until he climbs into a litter beside me for the short trip to the Hôtel d’Anjou. Anjou is the host of this dinner and the ball at the Louvre that will follow. I find it both laughable and pleasing that etiquette should force my brother to celebrate my marriage. Laughable because he detests my husband. Pleasing because, given his pride and his elaborate tastes, the events likely cost him a fortune.

Having determined to be on good terms with my cousin, I offer him a smile. “How was the rest of your tennis?”

“
Formidable
. I won every game.”

“Truly?”

“No”—he smiles broadly—“but I hoped to get away with claiming as much, given you were not watching.”