Médicis Daughter (6 page)

“If you know so much about securing a husband,” Fleurie challenges, “why do you not have one?”

“I am a different case. I have a title and wealth of my own. Those bring freedom. I must marry to be sure, and mean to do so before we return to Paris if I can.”

“And what shall you look for in a husband?” Charlotte asks.

“A man of the Court who understands it thoroughly. Someone of importance. Oh”—she winks—“and a man without any gray in his beard, so that when I lie beneath him I am not kept awake by the creaking of his knees.”

I give a little laugh, hoping that it sounds worldly. I am quite sure I have a far less complete understanding of what goes on when a man and woman perform the act of love than my companions, but would prefer not to seem the naïf.

After a cold dinner, the members of the Court begin to doze. Though my stomach is full and my head buzzing with all the wonderful if sometimes wicked things I heard at the Duchesse de Nevers’ elbow, I have no intention of napping. Unlike Her Grace, I find the scenery we pass entirely engaging. Leaving my sleeping companions, I go to the rail for a better view.

My eyes are on a group of people on the bank elaborately saluting the King—little knowing that he dozes in his lavish chair—when my cousin joins me. I know it is him by the state of his hose and shoes, which I glance at surreptitiously. I have no intention of turning noticeably in his direction and engaging him.

“Shall I tell you a secret?” he asks without preamble.

“What makes you think I would keep it?” The last thing I want is to be the Prince of Navarre’s confidante.

“I would not assume as much, but if you gave me your word I would trust it.” I am considering my response but my cousin does not wait. “You are the only lady who does not find the sun too strong.” He gestures to those under the elaborate canopy. “They are being silly because travel continues all summer and they are sure to get browned by the sun on horseback. They might as well enjoy the view as we do.”

I was enjoying the view.
I bite my tongue to keep from saying this. I know from past experience that, though my cousin provokes my incivility, I am never happy with myself once I have been rude to him. I begin to feel bad for even thinking such a harsh thing.

“What is your secret?” I ask, turning to look him in the face. The question is my penance.

He looks at me expectantly.

“I give you my word I will keep it.”

“You know my mother meets us at Mâcon.”

I do, and I have apprehended how excited my cousin is for this event. Henri and some of his friends have laughed over it, but, much as I do not like the Prince of Navarre, I could not join them. My cousin has not seen his mother in nearly two years. I know well how this feels.

He moves closer. “I will be going back to Gascony with her.”

“I am happy for you.” I am. My cousin, despite his long residence with it, seems continually out of place in my brother’s Court. He fits in better on the road where he can ride all day. I’ve even observed him on foot, running in the dust with some of the pages. And he appears to enjoy adventure more than many in the train. Another thing we have in common. The thought of having multiple things in common with the Prince of Navarre is unsettling. Still, it cannot be denied. I simply do not understand the complaining that some do about the inconveniences of travel. They are, to my mind, entirely outweighed by the novelty of new places.

Yet even on tour the Prince of Navarre remains distinctly “other.” Odd, I think: it is not his religion that makes him so—many Protestants travel with us and blend in until a Sabbath or holy day presents itself and they separate themselves for their odd worship. The Prince de Condé, who recently departed the train, never sticks out so, and he is a great leader of the Huguenots—something it is hard for me to imagine my cousin will ever be.

*   *   *

We dock close to Mâcon in ample time before Charles’ planned
Entrée joyeuse
. As they are positioning the plank, I notice a woman with hair the color of Elizabeth of England’s waiting, surrounded by half a dozen richly clad gentlemen. Their deference to her is clear. And her identity is made obvious to me by the agitation of my cousin, who nearly jostles the King in his attempts to move closer to where the plank meets the deck. This must be Jeanne d’Albret, come to receive us. A little forward of her, a young man in clerical robes also waits. The moment the plank is secured, he strides up it. On deck he kneels before Her Majesty, pressing a message upon her. Her face clouds as she reads it.

“Your Majesty, what is it?” the chancellor asks.

“Some of His Majesty’s subjects insulted the host at the Corpus Christi procession.”

I feel unsteady on my feet and not from the sway of the boat. Mother does not say the word Protestant, but what other sort of subjects could behave in such an abominable manner?

“They refused to remove their hats as it passed. Some heckled and others shoved those accompanying the Blessed Sacrament.”

The Abbé de Brantôme, standing behind Her Majesty, mutters, “Heaven protect us from heretics.”

Amen.

Mother looks past the messenger and my gaze follows hers to where the Queen of Navarre stands.

She offers her hand to the young priest so he may kiss it, then takes Charles’ arm. “Let us not keep your cousin waiting. Where is the Prince of Navarre?” Spotting him, she says, “Come walk between my own son and daughter.” Perceiving a number of incredulous looks, she adds, “Those who did not respect the Eucharist wish to divide France once more, and the King will no more permit such a division than he will allow their abominable behavior to pass uncorrected.”

On shore the greetings between the Queen of Navarre, Charles, and Mother are gracious and formal. I swear I can feel every one of my cousin’s muscles straining where he stands beside me waiting for the pleasantries to be finished. More than once, I catch Jeanne d’Albret’s eyes wandering in his direction while others are speaking. The niceties at an end, Jeanne moves to stand before her son. He bows.

“My son, it has been too long. I have been glad of your letters.”

My cousin looks into her face with eyes that are nakedly eager. I have the feeling that were they in private he would throw his arms about his mother. I wish away the hundreds of souls who must perceive as I do, and not because I am embarrassed by his lack of fashionable detachment—well, not entirely. His pleasure at seeing his mother moves me and I wish he could indulge in his impulse.

“I hope, Madame, you did not mind my spelling errors too much.”

The Queen of Navarre smiles slightly. “We will talk of that later.” Turning to Mother, she says, “Thank you for your attention to the Prince’s studies and for your care of his person.”

“
Ce n’était rien.
You are family and therefore he is as precious to us as he is to you,” Mother replies without a hint of irony. “We endure this parting only because it is brief, and because we will see the both of you during the ceremonies that mark His Majesty’s time in Mâcon.” Mother watches as Jeanne puts her hand on my cousin’s shoulder; then, just as the Queen of Navarre is about to lead her son away, Mother says, “Apropos such ceremonies, you will join us on Thursday next, I am sure, for an additional event. His Majesty is ordering the Corpus Christi procession repeated. We understand that the original was marred by some unbecoming conduct that I must ask you, by your sway among certain communities, to help ensure is not repeated.”

It is clear that the Queen of Navarre knows what Mother refers to. Her lips compress. The gentlemen accompanying her murmur among themselves.

“Your Majesty knows that our faith will not permit us to walk in such procession,” Jeanne d’Albret replies.

“Ah, but as His Majesty insists respect be shown to your sect, surely you and its other adherents can vouchsafe your Catholic brethren the same by attending.”

“We will attend.”

Mother lays her hand on my cousin Henri’s other shoulder, closing her fingers. The boy is now between the two queens. There is an obvious tension and for one wild moment I nearly expect each to begin tugging upon him.

“Why, then you must sit beside me,” Mother says. “And as he is but a boy and so accustomed to being with his cousins, you must give the Prince of Navarre leave to dress as an angel with my own children.”

The two queens gaze into each other’s eyes. Neither smiles, though the image of my cousin costumed as an angel ought to seem humorous to anyone who knows him.

“I suppose there is no harm in that,” the Queen of Navarre replies at last. “It might do His Majesty’s Catholic subjects good to be reminded that there are Protestants in heaven.”

Heretics in heaven? Never!

“I hope such angels show better respect to their Catholic fellows than those of your sect in Mâcon.” Mother releases my cousin’s shoulder and the Queen of Navarre leads him away.

*   *   *

My cousin bore being an angel very well. He only stepped on his robe twice and on mine once. I tolerated being trod upon with equanimity because I knew that today we would return to our boat, while he would ride south with his mother. Twice in the course of the procession—which this time met with nothing from the Protestant inhabitants of the city but bowed and uncovered heads—he reminded me in a whisper that he would be back in the Pyrenees before long. It was not to be, however. Instead I stand watching Jeanne d’Albret take leave of her son.

There is pain in the Queen of Navarre’s eyes. But nothing compared to the agony that transfigures my cousin’s entire face.

“Why?” I whisper to the Duchesse de Nevers. “Why does he not go? Why would his mother take gold instead?”

Henri told me this morning that the Prince of Navarre would remain because His Majesty paid for the continued privilege of our cousin’s company.

“She took the gold because she is no fool,” Her Grace replies. “She would not have the boy in any event. Her Majesty made up her mind that his presence with the Court is necessary to the peace.”

“How? He does nothing but race, ride, and wrestle like the rest of the gentlemen his age.”

“Think, Your Highness. Think of the history of your own father. Did he not spend some years as a guest of the King of Spain?”

My cousin throws his arms about his mother, heedless of the snickers of some courtiers. My stomach tightens. My father was held hostage by the Spanish king—as a living guarantee that the French would give him no trouble. I do not believe I will ever like my cousin, but I cannot help feeling sorry for him.

“I should not like to be kept away from my family by politics,” I whisper to the Duchesse. She looks at me oddly.

My cousin’s tutor puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him toward the boat. The Prince of Navarre is not, I am relieved to see, crying. Charles and Mother move onto the deck with light steps, but my cousin, just behind them, trudges. Then he is lost to my view as the rest of the gentlemen and ladies in our party stream aboard.

*   *   *

The year is changing. Not from one to the next—that would be quite ordinary—but the very essence of what a year is. We are at Roussillon, and Charles has signed an ordinance proclaiming that henceforth each year will begin on the first of January instead of on Holy Saturday after vespers. This is monumental.

Something else monumental has occurred. This morning when I arose from my bed my linen and my shift were soiled. And though I was horribly embarrassed, and blushed throughout the Baronne de Retz’s earnest instructions on the finer points of managing what will henceforth be a monthly event, my delight outweighs my distress. I am, at last, a woman. The words fill my head, but I cannot imagine saying them to anyone—not even Charlotte or the Duchesse de Nevers. The latter has become as close a companion as the former during these travels, and now permits me to call her Henriette. Will my friends know by looking at me? Will Mother? Surely Her Majesty will be told, for this development makes me marriageable. Will she say something to me? Will a prospective groom be mentioned at once?

I examine myself in my glass. Other than my cheeks being a little pink with excitement, I can detect no overt change. Disappointing. Well, at the very least I can make an alteration myself. Sitting at my dressing table, I unfasten my partlet at the front and open it, pushing the fabric back beneath the edges of my kirtle as necessary to achieve the desired effect.
That is better
.

I often feel as if my life, the real living of it, began when I joined Mother’s household. I remarked as much to Henri the other day and he laughed. “By that calculation you are an infant too young even to walk,” he said. Perhaps he has been out of the nursery too long to remember its limits. I remember them well—remember when the most exciting thing was the arrival of Mother, or catching a glimpse of some other person of import. Now I see important people every day, and Mother too. Yet, despite being the Duchesse de Valois and sister of the King, I am not an important person myself.

That is what I crave next.

CHAPTER 3

May 1565—Bordeaux, France

Mother’s room is littered with things and with women packing them for tomorrow’s departure. I assume I have been summoned to assist, but at the sight of me she claps her hands. “Ladies,” she says, “the Duchesse de Valois and I have business.”

As the others depart, I contemplate her statement. Business? To my certain knowledge, my mother and I have never had “business.” As she passes me, my sister Claude, who recently arrived to join the royal train, offers me an excited smile.

When we are alone, there is no preamble. “You know we meet the Spanish next month.”

“Indeed, Madame, planning for the event is all anyone speaks of.” I might add:
or has spoken of for at least three months.
Unfortunately, the anticipated event is not as Mother envisioned it. Mother had been promised the attendance of King Philip, or so she thought. When she was told that the King refused to come—a show of his disapproval for the continuing peace with the Protestants—she went into a rage.