Authors: Sophie Perinot
I am taken back to my room and arranged, semi-recumbent, before the fire. I am reading in company with the Baronnes de Retz and de Sauve when Anjou swaggers in. Guise is with him.
“My dear sister,” he says, “look whom I have brought to you. How fortunate we do not find you in bed, for that would breach propriety.” He winks horribly and my stomach lurches. My brother is a veritable demon.
Charlotte begins to rise to make way for the gentlemen. I make a desperate, darting grab for her hand and pull her back down beside me.
I am not so fortunate with the Baronne de Retz. Before I can turn in her direction, she says, “Will Your Highness sit?”
“Oh, I must insist my friend take the seat.” Putting an arm around Guise’s shoulder, Anjou draws that gentleman forward. “He is as dear as a brother to me—would he were one—and he has been in agony over the Duchesse de Valois’ illness.”
Henri is clearly perplexed by Anjou’s show of affection. Warily he takes the proffered chair. My brother stands behind, putting a hand upon Guise’s shoulder. It is a position of dominance, and I can see by the Duc’s eyes that it is not to his liking. But what can he do? He can hardly shake off the hand of a royal prince.
Looking at me, Anjou gives a chastising shake of the head. “Sister, it was unkind of you not to receive His Grace last evening. You left him to suffer a sleepless night.”
“I assure you, Your Highness, I slept,” Henri says. I am not certain whether he addresses me or my brother.
Anjou replies: “I am glad to hear it. But you would have lain down more comfortably had you seen Marguerite.”
There is insinuation in both what Anjou says and how he says it. Perhaps only I perceive it, but my stomach tightens further and my face flushes.
Anjou cannot let this pass. “Observe the color in her cheeks, Guise. The sight of you does her good. If only Her Majesty were here to see as much.
“Well, I must go,” my brother says brightly. “Her Majesty expects me.”
The Duc begins to rise. “I should go too.”
Yes. You should.
“No, Guise, stay where you are. I insist. If anyone is looking for you, I will tell them where you can be found.” Passing the Baronne de Retz, Anjou says, “Madame, I believe your husband seeks you.”
Clever. I take hold of Charlotte’s hand and mouth the words “Do not leave.” She looks puzzled but nods.
Charlotte’s presence will, I pray, be sufficient to guard me against evil rumors, but she is no impediment to the Duc. The moment the others are gone, he leans forward, hands on knees, and says, “I have been mad with worry. We heard that you were ill but then nothing—nothing but the daily report of who had succumbed. I had no recourse but to hold my breath and pray your name would not be among the dead, for I have no claim that would have permitted me to inquire about you.”
“I am sorry I worried you.”
“Are you?”
“Of course.”
“How can I believe that after—” He stops short. “Surely, Baronne, you might withdraw a little further. Please.”
Charlotte looks at me.
I am at war with myself.
“If you would sit by the door,” I say at last.
The Duc releases his breath in a single long puff. “Why did you write me that terrible letter?”
“Your Grace—”
“Henri.”
“Your Grace, it has been brought to my attention most forcefully that our…” I pause.
Our what? What word can I use?
“Affair” suggests more than we have done. “Dalliance” trivializes our encounters and they were anything but trivial to me. “… that our
amour
has led me to transgress, to behave in a manner unbefitting a princess of France.” I look at my lap. “I must ameliorate my ways before I embarrass His Majesty.”
“
I
am an embarrassment?”
Glancing up, I find his eyes as full of pain as they were in the courtyard last evening. How I wish I could stop hurting him. “No,” I say. “You are a gentleman of honor and well-earned reputation; I am not embarrassed of my admiration for you. But it has led me into sin.”
“A kiss is a sin?”
“Not one.”
“How many, then? How many does it take to make a sin?”
“Sir, we have surely exchanged enough kisses to cross the threshold wherever it lies. And not all kisses are equal.” I feel myself blushing.
“I consider myself a devout man, and yet I do not believe anything we have done is sin,” he replies earnestly. “Not the embraces we have exchanged nor the professions of love.” Taking a hand from his knee, he runs it through his hair.
“Others think our flirtation less innocent.” I lower my voice. “They mistake me for another sort of
dame de la cour
.”
“Who? Who thinks such things of you?” He springs to his feet. “I will call them out and run them through!”
His fierce, protective tone, the angry tilt of his jaw—I believe I have never loved the Duc more. I ache inside.
“I cannot say.” I drop my head. For a moment nothing happens. Then the Duc sits down. I feel his fingers upon my chin, drawing it upward until we are eye to eye once more.
“Such gossip is poison, but you must not let it fell you. You know that you are not such a one. I know it.”
I wish I felt the confidence he so obviously does on the point. But Anjou’s words blaming me for his attraction—and Guast’s wolfish glances—are not so easily dismissed.
“There is more. The Duc d’Anjou believes I spy for you.”
“He is a fool!”
He is far worse.
“Is this why you distance yourself from me—to silence unjust gossip?”
I nod. He smiles. I am stunned.
“What can there be to smile about?”
“I thought you had ceased to love me.” He takes my hand. I know that I ought to retrieve it, but his touch, unlike that of the other men who have lately sought my hand and more, comforts.
“I kept telling myself it could not be so, for you cried when you wrote that dreadful letter—”
“You noticed.”
“Of course. But the stain was so at odds with the prose, and soon I saw only the latter. Again and again I asked myself why you would demote me by the term ‘friendship’ and call me by my title. The only explanation I could find was terrible—that I had lost your love.”
“You have not. But can we not love from a greater distance?”
He draws the hand he holds to his mouth and grazes my knuckles with his lips. “Can I do this from a distance?”
“No.” I sigh where he perhaps expected me to laugh, and his face falls.
“I distress you. That is not my intent—ever. If you will not let me fight in defense of your reputation, then I will live in defense of it. What must I do?”
“I have sworn I will not be alone with you.”
“Then you will not be: I will renounce the pleasure of unchaperoned moments. And in public not a word, not a look, shall escape me which would raise an eyebrow of the Baronne de Retz—at least, not when there is anyone nearby to hear or see it.”
At this I do laugh. “And when they are not?”
“Why, then I shall say I love you and call you Marguerite. And you will smile and whisper, ‘I love you too, Henri.’”
“I do.”
“Knowing that will make all our new cautions bearable.”
Spring 1570, Paris
“No, no, no!” Henriette’s voice is strident enough to bring Gillone’s head popping out of the adjoining chamber. I wave my shadow back.
“How can you be so cruel?”
Henriette’s expression is hard. “It is you who are cruel—to yourself and to me, a friend who only tries to safeguard you from your own foolishness.”
“But you have relayed messages between us before. Many times.”
“I was trying to help you to be discreet, but that is no longer possible. The whole Court talks of your romance with the Duc and speculates on where it will end. I do not need to speculate. I can predict the future as clearly as Her Majesty claims she can—at least in this instance.” She shakes her head. “Your mother will crush this
amour,
and you will be even further from her favor than you are now.”
“I do not believe that. Nor does Henri,” I reply defiantly. “Her Majesty grows frustrated by the lack of progress in the Portuguese match—”
“And you think her current short temper favors you? Unbelievable!” Henriette throws up her hands.
“We do not! Why do you think Henri has left Court? We
know
we have engendered a dangerous level of talk, and this is not the time for him to press his suit. But it does not follow that such a time will never come.” My friend’s eyes do not soften. And her expression might, without stretching too far, be called mocking. I am in no mood to be ridiculed. “The House of Lorraine is one of the greatest in France,” I say with all the hauteur I can muster. “Henri may be from a cadet branch, but he is clearly Lorraine’s future. He is a hero of the wars and all France is in love with him.”
“All except those who matter: Madame Catherine and Anjou.”
“Neither is king,” I snap. “Charles and I are close. I understand him. I soothe him in his moods. When Anjou rejoins the army, Henri and I will approach the King. As he loves me, he will want me to be happy.”
“You are seventeen, Margot, not a child. Stop behaving as one! Is His Majesty happy himself?”
Henriette’s question makes me think of the last hours I passed with Charles. He had another of his headaches and required the ministrations of both myself and Marie. Mother had just delivered a blow to him: Anna of Austria, to whom he was betrothed, had married Philip of Spain by proxy despite my brother’s prior claim. This was, of course, neither Charles’ doing nor his fault, but in her fury Mother made him feel as if it was.
Henriette moves to fill my silence. “If the King does not have the power to make himself happy, manipulated as he is by Her Majesty, how can you believe him capable of giving you what you want in opposition to the Queen?”
I will plead with her no more. I will find another way to correspond with Henri. And I will not be cowed. “I have faith in His Majesty,” I reply, lifting my chin. “And faith in the Duc. They will not disappoint me, even if you do.”
Henriette gives a short laugh. “Will it shake your faith, I wonder, when I ask where Her Majesty is this morning?”
“I do not know.” It is the truth. Mother is secretive in her comings and goings. She could be with her astrologer or Maître René, who mixes her perfumes and her poisons as well. She could be meeting with foreign envoys privately. Or perhaps she walks to examine the work at her beloved Tuileries with Jean Bullant, who has taken charge of the project. I was merely glad to have this free time to seek a word with Henriette, and gave no thought to why we were at liberty.
“Her Majesty went to see the Cardinal of Lorraine in his sick bed,” Henriette tells me.
“So? That is very Christian of her and, if anything, proves that even she cannot ignore the House of Lorraine.”
“Your argument might have more force if she went to see him openly. That she did not suggests she will deliver more than polite well wishes. I have reason to believe she will confront him with his part in spreading rumors you will marry his nephew.”
What a horrible thought. That I cannot dismiss it makes me furious. “You have reason? You mean you have spies!”
“Everyone has spies—everyone who can. You have been grateful for the information I gathered in the past. When you do not like the message, will you condemn the messenger? You are your mother’s daughter. Fine: Be blind, then. Be deaf. Neither choice makes it more likely you will be happy.” Henriette pauses and takes several deep breaths. “As I love you, I had better leave before more harsh words make rapprochement between us difficult.”
When she is gone, I sit down and have a good cry. In the half year since my rupture with Anjou, Henriette and Charlotte, always dear to me, have become yet more important. Mother remains distant. More than this, she shows a level of distrust absent from her manner before I gained her favor. Then I was merely overlooked. Now I am observed most warily. And this has complicated things. For though Henri and I foreswore all unchaperoned contact at Angers, when winter broke, so did our resolve. It was surprisingly easy to ignore my conscience—nearly as easy as it is to discount the reproachful lectures the Baronne de Retz favors me with daily. It is harder to disregard Henriette’s words. I know she loves me and she is among the most astute courtiers. Still, I must believe she is in error and that Henri’s hopes are not without reason. To do otherwise would break my heart. For no man but he can ever make me happy. I simply must be his wife. And while he is away, I simply must be able to exchange a line or two with him.
Wiping my eyes, I turn my thoughts in a practical direction. Who among Mother’s ladies might correspond with the Duc? I remember that the Comtesse de Mirandole is a friend to Henri’s mother. She is of an age where she might write to anyone without being suspected of something immoral. She will do nothing to oblige me for my own sake, nor can I say we are friends and therefore that I can trust her as I do Henriette. But if I can bribe her to act for me, then I can, I believe, count on her self-interest to keep her from betraying me. She would certainly be sent from Court if we are caught. And the risk of being banished even if she goes to Mother with my proposition rather than acting upon it is high. Mother is happy to have tales of her children, but she will protect even the less favored of us from the repetition of such gossip to others.
Going to my wardrobe, I open the box containing my jewelry. It is nothing compared to what Mother possesses. But I am a royal princess, and so I have some pieces with stones of value. My eyes light upon a ring Anjou gave me. A token of our former
amitié,
it means nothing to me. Concealing it, I leave my room in search of the Comtesse—in search of a new accomplice.
* * *
“Your Highness.” The voice that awakens me is urgent. A single taper reveals Gillone’s pale face. “Her Majesty sends for you.”
I struggle to a sitting position. The sheer difficulty with which I opened my eyes suggests that I have not slumbered a full night. “What hour is it?”