Authors: Sophie Perinot
I nod. I am pleased. Pleased to have Mother’s attention, and pleased that my brother will no longer be inclined to cast my books on the fire. While we were living in company, he burned more than one. He gave me a book of Huguenot prayers to replace them, but I gave that to Madame and prayed daily that he would turn away from heresy. I was not sorry when his transgressions came to Mother’s attention, though I was sorry for the beating he got as a result.
“The Lady Marguerite is very pious,” Madame says. These are surely meant to be words of praise; why, then, does she shift from foot to foot? “But…” Her voice trails off and she clasps and unclasps her hands.
“Yes,” Mother urges. The eyes upon me harden.
“Your Majesty,” Madame’s voice drops as if she will tell something very secret, “the Lady Marguerite
knew
you were coming. Knew it before the courier arrived.” She crosses herself again.
“She knew?”
“Yes…” Madame’s voice fades. I can hear her swallow. “During our morning lessons she told me she was waiting for you.”
Mother’s eyes sparkle. “So, Margot, it seems you are a daughter of the Médicis as well as the Valois.”
I do not understand. Nor, it appears, does Madame. She looks entirely bewildered.
“I foresaw your father’s death,” Mother says, looking me in the eye. “I dreamt of his face covered with blood. I begged him not to enter the lists on the day he was mortally wounded. He would not listen.” There is tremendous sadness in her voice, but then the corners of her mouth creep upward, almost slyly. “Some fear the gift of premonition. But I tell you, daughter, never fear what is useful to you.” Mother intertwines her fingers before her and her smile grows.
“Mark my words, Baronne, I will find a crown for this one, as I did for her sister the Queen of Spain. There will be no need to settle for a Duc as we did for Claude.”
I have but imperfect memories of my sister the Duchesse de Lorraine, but I know that she had a sweet temper and a deformed leg. Apparently the former mattered less than the latter when it came to making a match for her. I find this both surprising and interesting.
I wonder if this talk of my future means I will be allowed to return to Court with Mother. I am too young to be married, but surely I could learn many things—both from observing Her Majesty and from her retinue of great ladies. Henri is at Court; why not me? I open my mouth to ask, then close it again.
“Have you something to say, child?” The question stuns me. Nothing, not a breath, not a twitch, escapes Mother’s attention.
“I…” The permission I would seek lies on the tip of my tongue. Instead I hear my voice say, “I have prepared a recitation for Your Majesty’s pleasure.”
“Well then, go on.”
Frustrated by my own timidity, I will myself to ask the question, but the moment has passed. I have been bid recite. Obedience and training take over. Almost without volition, the well-rehearsed Plutarch pours smoothly from me like wine from a cask. My mother’s glance never leaves my face. When I am finished, I stand, hands clasped, waiting for her verdict. Perhaps if she praises me I might raise the topic of Court.
But no words of praise come, at least not for me. Instead, the Queen’s attention turns to Madame. “The effects of your tutelage show well in the Princess. I think, perhaps, she may be ready for more rigorous study.”
“A tutor at her age, Your Majesty?” Madame seems mildly shocked, and her reaction rankles me. I know that I am clever.
“Yes. To secure a crown Margot’s looks and family name may be enough, but to be useful to us once she is crowned, more will be required. To be a queen, a disciplined and developed mind is essential.”
And like that our audience is over. Mother merely waves her hand by way of dismissal and, as Madame shepherds us toward the door, picks up a piece of fruit from a bowl on her table.
Well, I console myself as I am tucked into my bed, perhaps I will manage to find the courage to ask about Court tomorrow. When I awake in the morning and learn the Queen has gone—departed without taking leave of François or me—I hide and cry bitter tears.
Winter 1564—Fontainebleau, France
“Dear God, the cold!”
It must be the hundredth time my
gouvernante
has uttered these words, or something very like, in the last three days.
“It was also cold in Amboise,” I reply, trying to keep my voice cheerful while repressing an urge to kick Madame in the shins as she sits across from me in the coach. How can she think of the cold at a time like this?
“There were fires at Amboise, Your Highness, and chimneys that drew properly.”
When we stopped at Nemours last evening, Madame was nearly smothered, thanks to an ill-maintained flue. Well, she can hardly blame me: I wanted to continue on to Fontainebleau, as it could not be more than another two hours’ ride. Madame, however, insisted we stop. She wanted me freshly dressed and looking my best for our arrival at the château, for my arrival at Court.
Court—since word came a fortnight ago that I was summoned, I have thought of nothing else. I am going to join the Court, and the Court
ensemble
will depart upon the largest royal progress ever undertaken.
Drawing back a tiny corner of the heavy drapes that cover the window, so as not to seem disrespectful of Madame’s comfort, I devour the landscape. The views on our trip have been dominated by rivers—first the Loire and then the Loing—but we are surrounded by woods now, the royal forest of Fontainebleau. Most of the trees are leafless in the gray winter light, but I can imagine them clothed in green, just as I can imagine a royal hunting party like those my brother Henri and I used to watch at Vincennes. I can almost see the riders in their dazzling attire moving between the trees; hear the snorts and pawings of the horses, and the barking of the dogs. I do not need to imagine the stag, for suddenly,
juste
à
côté
the road, a magnificent animal appears.
“Look!” I cry. But Madame and the other ladies are too slow. Before their heads turn, the stag is gone. Never mind—there will be more of interest to be seen, much more. I remain eyes out the window and mute, letting the conversation of my companions flow over me like water over stone. For a time I forget the scenery and think of my younger brother. How François cried when he discovered that he would not make the progress. He was told he is too young for such exhausting travel and too imperfectly recovered from a bout of smallpox that nearly killed him just short of a year ago. He insisted he was neither. Then, late on the night before he left for Vincennes, where he will stay, he woke me to say he thought the pox was to blame for his exclusion.
“It is because I do not look right,” he said, tears streaming down his scarred face. “They are afraid I will scare the horses and ruin the pageants.”
I told him not to cry, that no one would be frightened of him. To lie in such a situation cannot be a sin. In truth, the damage illness did to my once comely brother is shocking. Deep pits mark his face, and his nose remains misshapen. And part of me wonders, and feels guilty for doing so: Is he right? Has Mother left him behind because he would spoil the tableau that all murmur she wishes this progress to paint—a picture of the House of Valois triumphant and firmly in command of a France at last at peace? Surely one scarred little boy would not be the ruination of all her plans. No, I must believe he was left for his own good.
My sadness over separation from François cannot dampen my excitement for long. The trees give way to a more cultivated landscape. I spot a magnificent lagoon with an island in its center, then a portion of a château of white stone piped with delicate rose brick. It is long where Amboise was tall. I feel the wheels touch stone and my excitement surges. I am not alone: curtains on both sides of our conveyance are pushed open despite the rush of frigid air. The Baronne smooths her gown and then, reaching across, pinches both my cheeks.
We pass through a magnificent gate, stopping in an oval courtyard ringed by a delicate colonnade. Everywhere my grandfather’s salamander greets us—carved in stone or worked in gold. Liveried figures and lackeys of all sorts swarm toward our coaches. Among the moving bodies and jumble of faces, I spy one I have been longing to see.
Without waiting for assistance, I reach out and fling the coach door wide. “Henri!” I hear Madame’s gasp—a mingling of fear and disapproval—as I spring down, but I do not care. I haven’t seen my thirteen-year-old brother in nearly two years. “You’ve grown so tall!”
“You have forgotten to say dignified.” He takes my hand and makes a show of bowing over it. Then, pinching my arm, he turns and runs. I pursue as he weaves through the crowd in the courtyard and darts into the château.
Henri has the advantage. Not just because he is older and taller, but because he knows Fontainebleau. I pass through several rooms heedless of my surroundings, intent solely on closing the gap between myself and my brother. Then, suddenly, I am in a vast space. Winter light spills through enormous windows, causing the parquet floor to shine like ice, and swimming in this glossy surface I see my father’s emblem. I stop and look upward, searching for the source of the illusion. There, among elaborately carved panels of wood touched with blue paint and gilt, I spy my father’s device. Now that I have stopped, Henri stops as well.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“The
salle des fêtes,
you goose.”
Ignoring the jibe, I turn slowly, admiring the room. Just behind my brother, frescos show hunting scenes like those I imagined this morning, only the figures are clothed in the ancient garb of myth rather than the grandiose fashions of the Court. I want to dance here. It is a ballroom after all. Without another thought, I begin an
almain
. As I rise to balance on the ball of one foot for the fourth time, Henri joins me. Humming beneath his breath, he catches up my hands and begins to lead me in a circle. I realize that we are no longer alone. A small dark figure stands just inside the door by which we entered. Mother! I pause, arresting Henri’s motion, but not before he steps on my foot.
“Why do you stop?” Mother’s voice is clear despite the considerable distance. “Come, let me see how you manage a
gaillarde
.”
My brother does not hesitate. “We will do the eleven-step pattern,” he whispers, and then begins to hum the more rapid music the dance demands. My brother is a natural athlete. And I, I am the stag, prancing and full of high spirits. As we execute the cadence and come to rest, Mother applauds.
“Henri my heart, you put gentlemen twice your age to shame! So elegant! It is pleasant to see you partnered by one whose looks and grace match your own. We must have a ballet featuring you both, now that Margot has come.” Mother walks forward as she speaks, stopping just before us.
“As part of the Shrove Tuesday festivities?” my brother asks eagerly.
Mother smiles indulgently, offering her hand. “Ambition too,” she says, stroking Henri’s hair with her free hand as he bends over her other. “You are God’s most perfect gift.” Then, turning in my direction, her eyes harden and her lips compress. “Your
gouvernante
was at a loss to explain your whereabouts when I arrived in the Cour Ovale.”
I feel myself blushing.
“It is my fault.” Henri’s voice surprises me. “I was waiting for Margot and whisked her away.”
Mother’s expression softens. Putting an arm around my shoulders, she says, “The King waits to receive you.”
I imagined meeting Charles in his apartments—a gathering of family. So I am awed when a door opens to reveal His Majesty seated on a dais with dozens of courtiers in attendance.
A woman and a young man stand before him. I can see neither of their faces. Charles looks away from them at the sound of our entrance. He has become a man! A slight mustache darkens his lip. His face is not as handsome as Henri’s, but it is kind. Does the King smile at the sight of me? If so, the smile is fleeting. Standing beside me, Mother gives a sharp nod and Charles’ eyes return to the pair before him.
Taking advantage of his attention, the lady, who is exquisitely dressed, says, “Your Majesty, I appeal to your sense of justice. Surely a woman deprived of her husband by an assassin’s hand is entitled to pursue his killer.”
“Duchesse de Guise, Jean de Poltrot was put to death a year ago. Is that not justice?”
Charles’ voice has deepened. If it is Anne d’Este who petitions, then the sandy-haired young man at her side must be her son Henri, Duc de Guise.
“Your Majesty, Poltrot may have struck the blow, but he was merely an instrument.”
Mother sweeps forward. “Your Grace knows,” she says, brushing past the Dowager Duchesse and ascending the dais to stand at Charles’ side, “how dear justice and your persons are to His Majesty. But you must also know, Duchesse, how dear to His Majesty, indeed to all who care for France, is the present tenuous peace. It is not a year old. Would Your Grace kill it in its infancy with this lawsuit against Gaspard de Coligny?”
Mother’s eyes are piercing. They seek an answer while making quite clear that only one answer will do. “His Majesty does not dismiss your suit, he merely suspends it,” she presses.
“Three years is a very long time to wait for justice.” The Duc speaks, drawing himself up. He is very tall for a young man Charles’ age.
Mother offers him a smile—the patronizing type adults give children. But she does not answer him. Instead she speaks to the dowager. “Your son’s feelings honor his fallen father, but also reveal his youth. You and I, Duchesse, have lived long enough to know how very short a time three years are when properly reckoned.”
The Duchesse curtsys. “Your Majesties, we will be patient, since that is the King’s will.” She touches her son on his shoulder and he bows, then the two make their way down the aisle. I see a mingling of confusion and impatience in the Duc’s eyes as he glances sideways at his mother. He is quite as handsome as he is tall.
My observations are arrested by the voice of a household officer. “Her Highness the Duchesse de Valois,” he announces.