Authors: Sophie Perinot
“The documents are ready.”
My eyes open at the sound of Mother’s voice. The blue skies over Blois have lost their power to delight. The twittering of the birds seems suddenly the cackling of diplomats. For three months my hopes of avoiding a marriage with Navarre rose and ebbed. In a moment I will sign my marriage contract. There is no hope left.
Turning from the window, I see the King, with the Cardinal de Bourbon and Admiral Coligny on either side of him. I cannot read Charles’ face; the admiral smiles; the Cardinal looks solemn. I wonder if this is because, unlike Coligny, who merely worked for this match, His Grace must pay to achieve it. He has been made to renounce all rights and recognize my cousin as sole heir of the House of Bourbon. On top of this, he will turn over one hundred thousand livres to my groom.
Opposite His Grace, Mother stands with Jeanne d’Albret. The two queens, in their dark attire, stand out starkly against the myriad of gilded panels lining Mother’s study. The paneling makes this one of the most admired rooms at Blois. Most visitors see only beauty. I, however, see not the craftsman’s art but the treachery that lies beneath. With a touch only she knows how to bestow, Mother can make panels swing open, revealing secret cabinets holding God knows what. Moving to the table, I wonder if my executed marriage contract will be hidden away in such a manner.
The document is long but I need not read it, only sign. The quill lies next to the last page. Just in case I do not see it, Mother picks it up and holds it out. For one wild moment I think of refusing to take it, refusing to seal this dreadful bargain with my name. But what life would be left to me then? Assuming for a moment that I am not forced to sign—by threats and violence—or that my mother is above forging my signature out of the sight of the Queen of Navarre, I cannot imagine anything will await me but imprisonment. To live confined, deprived of the sight of my Henri and the companionship of my friends, perhaps without light, air, music, books. What is such a life but the death of the soul? A real death might be warmer and more welcome. I take the quill. The feather is black. Shall I be a black bird, then? Run to the window, fling myself out? Shall I fly to my death with arms outstretched against a bright spring sky?
No. To defy my mother is madness, but to defy God—to transgress His holy laws—would be worse. It would bring damnation, a never-ending torment of fire and pain. Being the Queen of Navarre is unpalatable, but it is the most palatable choice left me. The thought is so surprising that I laugh. Mother gives me a menacing look. A wasted look, for I am already dipping the quill; I am already signing.
As I lay the pen down Mother puts her hands on my shoulders and kisses me on one cheek and then the other. The Queen of Navarre kisses me as well. “Daughter,” she says awkwardly. Like me, she is unsmiling. She holds out a box. A ring lies inside. Elaborate gold scrollwork frames a single diamond set in a bezel. The stone is lovely: a dome of facets catches the spring light. Were it not a betrothal ring, I would surely delight in such an ornament. But under the circumstances I am no more eager to pick it up than I was the quill.
Does Charles see my hesitation or does he respond to a look from my mother or a nudge from the admiral? He lifts the ring, proclaims it
magnifique,
and then says, “My dear sister, you must allow me the pleasure of helping you put this on.”
* * *
“I cannot wander off to the Tuileries,” I tell Henri sternly. Dinner has finished and courtiers are scattering. Normally, this might be an excellent moment to disappear with Henri, and those gardens have become our favorite spot to become “lost.” But not today. “Our cousin the Queen of Navarre has been taken ill, and we must visit.”
“Why could she not have been taken ill while she was in Vendôme? Far enough away to keep from being an inconvenience,” my impatient lover asks.
After my marriage contract was signed, the Court returned to Paris. Mother was eager to begin arranging things for the celebration. I was scarcely less impatient to be in the capital despite the unpleasant smells and blistering heat that ordinarily make it undesirable in summer. After all, Henri was in the city, and my days with him become increasingly uncertain. The Queen of Navarre, however, eschewed Paris, retreating to Vendôme for her health. She was not missed. Yet last week she came dutifully to stay at the Hôtel de Condé. I have heard she is busy ordering wedding clothing for the Prince of Navarre from the best tailors. It is hard for me to imagine any amount of finery making a difference to the gentleman’s appearance.
“She was doubtless ill at Vendôme as well. She was certainly often ill while we were at Chenonceau and Blois,” I reply. He tries to take my hand but I am too quick for him. “I must go. Her Majesty wishes to make a show. If we are seen to be neglectful, there will be talk.”
“Make your show, then. As long as you plan to show me something later.” Henri accompanies this last remark with a wicked look.
Leaning toward him, I whisper, “At the fountain nearest the grotto—in the moonlight.” Then I go in search of Mother.
When we arrive in the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honoré, it is immediately clear Jeanne d’Albret is more seriously ill than she was during the months we passed together. Members of her household are grim-faced even before spotting us. The Queen of Navarre’s bedchamber is deep with physicians.
As we draw close to the bed, I realize Jeanne is speaking, very softly, to a gentleman beside her who takes notes. She looks terribly pale and her mouth is stained with blood.
“I forbid my son to use severity toward his sister. I wish him to treat her with gentleness and kindness…” Aware of our presence, Jeanne’s voice trails off. She no sooner stops speaking than a great paroxysm of coughing takes her, splattering more blood onto the cloth that she raises to her mouth.
“Dear cousin”—Mother stops and puts out an arm to keep me from going closer—“we had no idea you were so poorly. Had we known, His Majesty’s personal physician would have come immediately. As it is, he will be here without delay.” She snaps her fingers and points to the nearest of her attendants.
“I thank you.” Jeanne gives Mother a wry smile. “Meaning no disrespect to the skills of the King’s doctor, I do not believe he will be able to do more for me than my own, which is to say nothing at all.”
“Surely it is not so serious!”
“When you come to see me next, Madame, I believe it will be to pay your respects. May I ask two favors?”
“Of course.”
“I would be buried in the sepulcher of my ancestors in the Cathedral of Lescar, and I would have a moment alone with the Duchesse de Valois.”
I have no desire to be alone with Jeanne. But it is not in my power to refuse a woman who thinks herself dying.
Jeanne’s eyes remain on me while the rest of the room’s occupants exit. I am not particularly uncomfortable under her stare, but I would just as soon she looked elsewhere. When the others are gone, I take a step forward, but she stops me with a gesture. “For my son’s sake as well as yours, we cannot be too careful,” she says. “This fever might be catching.” She begins to cough again. I feel a twinge of pity watching her body wracked by the effort.
Recovering, she says, “I meant to keep an eye on you in the Navarre.”
With that single sentence my pity fades.
“You will not be sorry, I think, to escape my watchfulness. But I wish you would believe that I also meant to be a good mother to you. You need a good mother.”
“Her Majesty the Queen did not leave me alone with you so that you could insult her.”
“I do not have so many breaths left that I wish to waste any on nonsense, or on niceties. I say plainly I wish you had a different mother for your sake, though you would be no use as a bride for my son had that been the case.”
Happy thought.
“You have made clear to me that you have no lingering childhood affection for my son,” Jeanne continues. “You are a papist and rumored to be a wanton—”
“Madame! You cannot expect me—whether you be dying or not—to remain in the face of such insults.”
“I do not ask you to stay much longer, but perhaps you will do me the charity of allowing me to finish my sentence?”
I grit my teeth but remain where I stand.
“I was about to say that, for all that, I persist in believing you to be a good woman.”
This may be her most shocking statement yet.
“I appeal to the goodness in you. Be a kind and obedient wife to my son. I will not be here to see you receive the jewels I have purchased these last days for Henri to give you. Know this: their value is nothing compared to the worth of my son. He may not shine as they do, but as I see past appearances in your case, I ask you to attempt to do the same in his.”
Extraordinary speech
. Some reply is warranted, but I do not know what to say. That Jeanne loves her son and thinks highly of him makes me think more of her. But does not every mother love her sons? It is possible, in fact probable, that a mother will think more of a son than he deserves. Look at Mother and Anjou. The Queen of Navarre’s opinion of my cousin cannot supplant mine. But on reflection she does not ask for that. She does not ask me to agree that the Prince of Navarre is wonderful, she only asks me to be kind to him. I can promise this, I think, without perjuring myself.
“Madame, I do not take duty lightly. If I did, I would not be marrying your son in the first instance. I do my duty as a daughter and a sister by undertaking this marriage. I say this not to boast but to reassure you. If I take my marriage vows as the Prince of Navarre’s wife, I will owe him the duty of a wife, and I will not shirk in it. I promise you that I will endeavor to show him respect and kindness.”
“If.”
She misses nothing.
“I should have said ‘when,’ Madame.”
She nods. “Thank you, daughter.”
It is only the second time she has styled me such. Unlike the first, there is nothing awkward in the appellation this time.
“I give my blessing to your union, as I fear I will not be present at the wedding to give it. I cannot offer such blessing with an untroubled heart—like you, I have reservations about the match which can only be erased by time, something I no longer have—but I do give it with a mind eased by your promise. Now you may go.”
I curtsy but Jeanne does not see. She has closed her eyes. In the anteroom I tell Mother the Queen of Navarre would rest. We are in the courtyard, mounting our horses, when the wailing begins. A window opens and our cousin’s chancellor looks down.
“Your Majesty,” he says, “the Queen of Navarre is dead.”
“I will carry this grievous news to His Majesty, and we will return to mourn her together.”
The gentleman nods and shuts the window.
“So, daughter,” Mother says, drawing close, “you will not wait for a crown.” She does not bother to conceal her satisfaction. “We must go directly to your brother. Charles must claim for himself the sad duty of informing your cousin of his loss. For if the Prince—or should I say King—of Navarre’s friends tell him, they may ride too quickly. It would be good if Henri de Bourbon were well on his way to Paris before hearing the news, for we would not wish his grief to delay his wedding.”
July 1572—Paris, France
They arrive like the black birds from my childhood nightmares—eight hundred gentlemen, their mourning mantles fluttering slightly as they ride. We receive reports of their entry into the city long before sight or sound of them can be apprehended at the Louvre. But at last the inevitable can be delayed no longer. I must go out and greet the man I will marry.
Despite the considerable effort made to dress me in rich colors, I know my face is as grave and colorless as my cousin’s attire. The inhabitants of Paris are somber as well. How else to explain the fact that even as the sound of so many horses’ feet becomes audible where we stand, we hear no cheering. The people of Paris feel no joy over my impending marriage, and I love them for it.
The first riders draw into the court of honor. My cousin’s party was joined in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine by an escort of four hundred of the King’s gentlemen, so the horses and riders seem numberless. At their fore, my groom is flanked by Alençon and Anjou. My Henri rides nearby, his face tight with fury and hurt. My beloved’s pain heightens my own. I clench a hand at my side until my nails bite into flesh to keep from crying.
Standing beside me on the steps, Mother instructs me to smile as my brothers and my cousin pull their horses to a halt. When I do not, she puts an arm about my waist and I feel her nails digging into my side through the heavy fabric that encases me, making me all the more miserable in the summer heat.
The man who will be my husband in a month bows over the neck of his horse. “Your Majesties, Your Highness.” Nothing else. No speech, no prepared compliments. I have not seen my cousin in over five years. He was not particularly impressive when we parted, and he does not appear improved. His manners show no grace and his ruff is not even straight.
Charles, cutting a fine figure in an immaculate doublet of pale rose embroidered in violet, steps forward. “Henri, Roi de Navarre, we welcome you to our court. You are family and shortly will be doubly so when we bestow our sister’s hand upon you. Be at home here and let
l’amitié
and goodwill between us reinforce the peace between Catholics and Protestants throughout France.”
Admiral Coligny, sitting on his horse, looks abundantly pleased. He and Mother are the chief beneficiaries of my marriage, but I doubt either of them has a thought to spare for me as they contemplate their good fortune.
The principal gentlemen dismount. Only those of the highest offices and most exalted families will attend the banquet honoring my groom’s arrival. Anjou argued strongly that Catholics ought to outnumber Protestants, “to let them know their place from the first.” But Mother insisted the numbers be even.
My cousin bounds up the steps two at a time, like a man eager for his dinner. There is absolutely nothing regal about him. He holds out an arm. I place two fingers upon it. I may know my duty and the choreography for this event, but I see no reason to do either exuberantly. I realize, now that we are side by side, my cousin is very little if at all taller than I. I cannot say why, but I take a perverse pleasure in this. I wonder: Am I to pass a lifetime taking pleasure in his failings?