Médicis Daughter (7 page)

“May Henri and I dance in one of the entertainments?” I ask. “Our Spanish Pavane was much admired in Toulouse.”

“Yes, there will be balls, ballets, and every sort of grand entertainment,” Mother replies. “But, daughter, these are merely the trimmings, not the gown. When you are a queen, pray remember that agreements are more easily made in pleasant surroundings than in austere ones. And it is those agreements that truly matter.”

“Queen?”

“Have you forgotten I promised you a crown?” She lifts her right hand and strokes a bit of hair at my temple.

I remember. Of course I do.

“This meeting with Spain is to be more than a reunion of family,” Mother continues. “Much as I long to embrace your sister, I have other, more diplomatic needs. Or rather, France does. And the Spanish desire something more than to invest Charles with the Order of the Golden Fleece.

“I have summoned you because you are a marriageable young woman. I understand that your courses have come regularly for more than half a year.”

I drop my eyes to the hem of Mother’s gown and blush. Much as I wanted her recognition of this change when it happened—recognition that never came—her frank, offhanded mention of it now mortifies me.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Excellent. His Majesty the King desires closer ties with Spain. Beside ties of blood, ties of marriage are the surest. We will forward a match for you with King Philip’s son, the Prince of Asturias. Then you can wear the Spanish crown when your sister is Dowager.”

Queen of Spain! If my cheeks are pink now, it is with pleasure, not shame. I can hardly wait to tell Charlotte. No wonder Claude smiled at me.

“I, a bride!”

“Ah,” Mother says quickly, “but you must not speak of it openly. Not until it is signed and sealed.” Walking to the alcove of the nearest window, she brushes a pile of folded chemises from the seat as if they were inconsequential. Seating herself, she motions to the place beside her.

When I am settled, she leans in as if we are conspirators.

“I will do all I can to secure this match,” she says, stroking my hand where it rests upon the bench between us. “And I will employ your sister Elisabeth in the business. Her letters and my spies indicate she is highly regarded by her husband and allowed considerable influence. But you must do your part as well.”

I nod, eager to do what I can to please Mother.

“I have sent orders ahead to Bayonne for more than a dozen new gowns for your wardrobe. Every moment you are in company with the Spanish, you must be fashionable, you must be graceful, you must be modest. You have become a young lady of note based upon more than your birthright these last months…”

A compliment from Mother!
I feel a rush of pleasure. I have been working hard to mold myself into a true lady of the Court, half Baronne de Retz and half—much to the Baronne’s hinted displeasure—Duchesse de Nevers. How wonderful to think Mother has noticed the results.

“… Display your natural wit, but never to the disadvantage of the Prince or any member of your sister’s retinue. Display your piety at every opportunity, for the Spanish are as fanatical in their devotion to the Church of Rome as Admiral Coligny and his fellows are to their so-called reformed religion.”

“Madame, I will obey you in everything.”

A sharp knock sounds.

Mother takes both my hands and kisses them. “Do your duty to me and to the King and you will be a Spanish princess before the year is out. Now go—that will be your brother Henri.”

“Henri?” I ask, rising. But Mother’s mind has already left me.

My brother bows to me on his way in, but there is no opportunity to tell him my news. I burn to tell him. So, though I have packing of my own to attend to, I wait outside for his business to be finished.
Queen of Spain!
I turn the title over in my mind.
A queen like my mother
. And like my sister. True, the crown of Spain must wait for my sister’s husband to die, but to be in line for such a crown is a mighty thing, and I will be Princess of Asturias in the meantime. If I must go to a strange land, it will be good to be part of my sister’s court. I hardly remember her, but family is family.

My thoughts turn to my prospective groom. I long to ask someone what the Prince of Asturias looks like. I wonder if he likes dancing. If he is as spritely of step as Henri? Oh, why did my brother interrupt my time with Mother before I could ask such questions?

Henri emerges, the door falling closed behind him with a tremendous bang. He strides past as if I were invisible. Following, I grab his arm. “I am going to be a Spanish princess,” I say. Only as he turns do I notice his black looks.

“Devil take the Spanish!” He gives a fierce shake to free himself of me.

“Henri, what is the matter?”

“Yours is not the only marriage being discussed. Our brother expects me to marry a woman old enough to be my mother.” He gives a kick to a small bench along the wall and it skitters away like an animal.

“Who?”

“The King of Spain’s widowed sister.” He spits the words out. “She is thirty. Thirty! I told Mother no. Said that the very suggestion shows my happiness means nothing to her.”

“You didn’t.” I am stricken that he would defy Mother when she loves him so dearly and when she has every right to expect his cooperation in the crown’s arrangement of his marriage.

“You do not believe me?” It is he who grabs my arm this time, dragging me back toward the door. “Go in and see for yourself. I left her crying.”

I have absolutely no desire to see Mother in such a state. Wrenching away, I run as hard as I can, not stopping until I gain my room. Charlotte is there. At the sight of her I forget Henri’s bad behavior.

“It is Her Majesty’s desire that I should marry the Prince of Asturias.”

“A royal marriage!” Charlotte shouts. The servants folding and packing my things look up.

“Hush, I am not supposed to speak of it widely.”

“Why not? If it is the Queen’s will, then surely it will happen—”

I must admit I feel the same. My mother’s will is strong, and, in all modesty I believe my personal appearance and attributes make me an attractive prospect as a bride.

“—and then I will be the only one of us without a husband.” Charlotte’s face falls. Henriette married Louis de Gonzague, Prince of Mantua, in March. She is not overly fond of the gentleman. But he is one of Charles’ secretaries of state and he is no graybeard, so, all in all, she declares him an unobjectionable husband.

“Not for long, I am sure. No woman as beautiful as you finds herself single at sixteen unless she wills it so,” I reply, hoping this consoles her.

It does. She smiles. “I would still rather have been married before my thirteenth birthday, as it appears you shall be. Promise that I can help carry your mantle at the Mass. Or do you think the ceremony will be in Spain? That would be too cruel. Next to a wedding of my own, I will enjoy yours more than anything.” She hugs me hard.

While she is squeezing the breath out of me, my sister Claude and the Baronne de Retz come in. Both are beaming.

“Here comes another bride to be,” Charlotte exclaims, releasing me. My
gouvernante
is betrothed to Albert de Gondi, Charles’ former tutor and a man much in favor with both the King and Mother. He has just been made
Premier Gentilhomme de la chamber du Roi,
but Henriette insists such titles can never erase the fact he was born a Florentine merchant’s son.

“Felicitations!” Claude cries, hugging me. “It seems, of three sisters, two were destined for Spanish climes, and I can hardly regret being left behind when I have my dear Duc de Lorraine.”

“And your pretty baby,” I say, kissing her. The image of my chubby, pink nephew, whose baptism we attended near the start of our journey, fills my mind. How I would like a pretty baby of my own. “Tell me everything about the Prince! Her Majesty told me nothing … not even his name.”

*   *   *

His name is Don Carlos. He is nearly twenty. They tell me he is tall. They say his father holds him in great esteem and that when he had an accident three years ago and all thought he would die, Philip asked for a miracle and promised to work one for God in return if the boy were spared.

My new gowns have been fitted. Today I wear the first. It is black, because, Mother assures me, that is the Spanish taste. It seems the wrong color for the weather. It is horribly hot. For this reason the Queen of Spain’s entry into Bayonne takes place in the evening. But even though the sun has set, I can feel perspiration beneath my chemise. I sway slightly where I stand with Their Majesties, surrounded by a glittering array of courtiers and a hundred torch bearers. Is my unsteadiness a result of the heat or my nerves? Although we met my sister Elisabeth yesterday—receiving her quietly at Saint Jean de Luz and enjoying a private dinner as if we were any family and not a family in possession of multiple crowns—I have good reason to be apprehensive. Today I will meet my future husband for the first time.

My dear Henri is charged with escorting our sister into Bayonne. He rides beside her, springing from his horse to help her down from her stunning jeweled saddle. When they are side by side, it is easy to see they are brother and sister. Elisabeth’s skin is pale, her cheeks are a delicate pink, and her eyes are dark. She is lovely. Everyone says so and I thrill at the thought that I have been told that I am better looking than she. I wonder if the Spanish prince will see this at once? I know my vanity is a sin, but can it really be wrong to wish my future husband to find me beautiful?

Henri leads Elisabeth forward, followed by a pair of gentlemen. The first is old. The second must be Don Carlos. He is tall, just as I was told. I wish I could say he was handsome, which I was also promised, but there is something out of harmony in his face. His chin juts forward oddly. Yes, that must be it. It is not so bad, really. His nose is good and he has shapely calves; I can see them quite clearly as he makes his bow. I try to catch his eye, but he shows no interest in me, and little interest in Mother or my brothers. Mostly, his eyes are on Elisabeth.

Mother offers Don Carlos a smile but seems more interested in the second gentleman, the one announced as the Duc d’Alba. She holds out a hand for him to kiss. “Your Grace, we are pleased to see you. We know in what high esteem our son, His Majesty King Philip, holds you.” Her voice is pleasant, but every French courtier knows she is not pleased at all that Alba stands before her instead of Philip, and unless the Duc is an idiot he knows it as well.

“Your Majesty,” he replies in clipped tones, “it was my honor to be entrusted with the Queen of Spain’s safety, and it is my pleasure to reunite you with a beloved daughter.” He calls forward the new Spanish ambassador for introduction and I transfer my attention back to Don Carlos. His clothing, I cannot help but notice, while certainly not mean, is nowhere near as fine as that of my brothers. There is an air of shabbiness about it that puts me in mind of my cousin the Prince of Navarre—my cousin who, like the rest of his coreligionists, is absent at the King of Spain’s insistence. Periodically, Don Carlos’ head seems to jerk ever so slightly. I wonder if he is tired and having difficulty staying awake.

Mother has a lavish Collation planned, the first of many entertainments costing hundreds of thousands of écus, all intended to impress upon the Spanish that France is as great a power as Spain. Because it is a fast day, all the courses that are not sweet will be fish—each rarer than the last. I am seated beside the Prince of Asturias.

“How was Your Highness’s journey?” I start with the simplest of questions as the first dish—lamprey with white ginger and cinnamon—is brought. I am utterly ignored. The Prince simply attacks the food before him. It is as if he has not eaten in a fortnight! I am transfixed and horrified. All the more so in the next course when he slurps the broth accompanying his eels so loudly that persons seated at the tables below look up.

In a desperate attempt to make him stop, and to please Mother, who keeps casting me pointed looks, I try again. “Your Highness enjoys eel, I see.”

This time he raises his head and I expect an answer. Instead I get a belch. Then, without looking at me, he says, “Obviously.” A moment later he rises and disappears. He returns as the next course is brought. There is a fleck of something that looks like vomit in the fur at the front of his short cape.

Servants set down salmon from the Bidasoa river cooked with orange slices.

“I suppose Your Highness has seen oranges on the tree in Spain, but I had not before we visited Provence where these were picked.”

He looks at me from the corner of his eye, then takes a bite of fruit and fish together. He starts, clearly surprised. “They are sweet like those the Portuguese traders bring.” He takes another bite. “You say these were grown in France?” He appears incredulous, an expression that makes his large lower lip jut out even further.

“Yes, I saw them in fields on the Mediterranean.” Glad that I have finally managed to start a conversation, I am willing to overlook his sour expression. “Her Majesty was so delighted that she bought property near Hyères so that she may have her own park full of orange trees.”

“Such money would better be spent crushing heretics.”

“We do not need to crush anyone. France has peace.”

“Ha!” His laugh is loud and sharp. “Do not let the Duke of Alba hear you say that. His motto is
Deo patrum Nostrorum
and he is here to press the Tridentine decrees upon the King of France and
La Serpente.
”

“Who?”

He curls his upper lip back but says nothing.

He must mean my mother.
A white-hot anger burns inside me, an anger hardly compatible with making myself agreeable. I am well content to let the rest of the meal pass without speaking to the Prince. I keep my gaze elsewhere as well, not so much to punish him as to avoid observing his manner of eating. As the remnants of an exquisite sugar porpoise are carried away, Mother catches my eye. She narrows her lips sternly. I know what she is saying, though she does not speak. I wish I were as skilled at conveying my thoughts by looks. I would ask her what I am to do when the Prince is boorish and unwilling to make polite conversation.