Authors: Sophie Perinot
The Baronne gives a deep sigh. “You must conduct yourself with more decorum and aloofness than Fleurie de Saussauy. You may pass your time
with
the ladies of Her Majesty’s household, but you are not
of
them. You must understand the difference.”
“But I do not,” I reply. “I see that Her Majesty’s ladies behave differently than I have been brought up to do by you and Madame at Amboise, but theirs are the manners of Court. Why may I not adopt them?” I am warming to the injustice of my situation. “Why,” I challenge, “may they wear their gowns without a partlet while I remain covered to the neck? Why may Renée de Rieux flirt shamelessly with my brother while I am made to feel ashamed for joking with his friend?”
The Baronne is silent, contemplating my face earnestly in the dim light. “Your Highness, every woman in the Queen’s household has a duty to Her Majesty, a duty of obedience. If they are not content to serve the Queen as she will be served, they may leave Court. If they are derelict in their duty, they will be sent. The specific duties of Her Majesty’s other ladies are not for me to say, nor for you to speculate upon.
“The duty you owe the Queen is different than that owed by the others. Yours is the duty of
une fille de France
and a daughter. The nature of your duty—to reflect well upon your royal house and to marry to the crown’s advantage in due time—has been clear since your infancy. Such duty, set upon your shoulders by birth, cannot be declined. You may, however, fail in it.”
My defiance collapses instantly. Tears gather in the corners of my eyes. “I do not wish to fail.”
“Of course not. No more do I want you to.” She places her hand upon my shoulder. “Her Majesty has not announced it yet, so perhaps I ought not tell you, but Madame is growing old. Her Majesty has adjudged it time for that lady to be relieved of her duties and allowed to enjoy leisure in recompense for years of service. As we depart on progress, I will take Madame’s place as
gouvernante
charged, officially, with overseeing Your Highness.”
I draw a sharp breath. I cannot remember a time when Madame was not with me. The tears which a few moments earlier merely stung my eyes roll down my cheeks.
The Baronne hands me a handkerchief from her sleeve. “My appointment gives me great pleasure. And I hope you will learn to view it as a positive good. You are lovely by God’s gift, but if you will be more—if you will be a lady of refinement, witty and cultured—then you must take pains to develop the best qualities and eschew other less desirable ones. I shall endeavor to guide you, and I hope to see you flower into the first among Her Majesty’s ladies. The one admired by all.”
Dabbing away the last of my tears, I smile. To be thought capable of such attainment by a woman oft called “the tenth muse” is flattering. I mean to comport myself in accordance with the Baronne de Retz’s direction from this moment forward.
March to June 1564—On the Roads of France
We are a city in motion. Nay, larger than many of the cities we will pass. For weeks Henri and I watched the royal train assemble, but never could I have imagined the true enormity of our party. Leaning out of the coach, I regard with wonder the people and conveyances stretched as far as my eye can see. Litters, coaches, riders on horseback, pikemen, men-at-arms, foot soldiers, and a multitude of servants—the variety, colors, noise, and movement of the train are entirely overwhelming.
“Henri!” I call. “Can you see the end?”
Pulling up his horse, my brother allows the window at which I sit to draw even with him. “I cannot. I’ll wager there are still riders inside the gates of Fontainebleau.”
“Really? But we have come miles already.”
“Yes, but we ride at the head of more than fifteen thousand souls.” The pride in his voice is pronounced.
I have never seen fifteen thousand anything, let alone fifteen thousand people traveling together. I am jealous of my brother’s view and of his relative freedom. “You are fortunate to be on horseback,” I say.
“There will be plenty of time for you to ride beside me when the weather is not so cold. We will be on the road for months—for years.”
Years.
The thought of everything I will see and all that might take place on such a long journey excites me to the point of agitation.
How different I will be when we next see Fontainebleau! I will be a woman.
I feel a hand on my arm and turn to the Baronne de Retz. “Your Highness,” she says softly, “pray close the curtains, the other ladies are shivering.”
Mortified, I cast Henri a longing look and then let the curtains fall.
“Your Grace, if you will be so kind.” The Baronne inclines her head in the direction of the uncovered window beside the Duchesse de Nevers at the opposite side of the coach.
The Duchesse looses the curtains with a murmur of
“Bien sûr.”
But I do believe her eyes, which seek mine, give just the slightest roll. I am shocked but that is not my only feeling. Her Grace and the Baronne de Retz are the same age but they are so different, and that difference intrigues me. Whereas the Baronne is steady and without question a paragon of female propriety, the Duchesse is all daring and dazzle. I know my duty is to allow my
gouvernante
to direct my behavior, but a little daring is surely not dangerous.
* * *
“Why do you pout?” My brother sidles up to me where I stand, watching Charles and Mother receive basins and ewers from the Cardinal de Bourbon. Nearby, a collection of Troyes’ paupers—mostly women and children—sit on a long bench, prepared to be the objects of royal Lenten piety.
“I did not realize I would be left out of some of the grandest ceremonies of the journey.”
Yesterday the King made a magnificent Entry into Troyes—riding beneath a canopy supported by dignitaries past elaborate set pieces and stopping to hear recitations of poetry written for the occasion. The residents of the city, from the wealthiest to the urchins roaming its streets, were permitted to witness it all. I was not. It seems the women of the Court, even the Valois women, are not included in the proceedings that constitute a Royal Entry.
“You did not miss anything worth seeing,” Henri whispers. I know he is lying to make me feel better, and this pleases me. “Jean Passerate may be considered a great poet by the standards of Champagne,” he continues, “but I was not the only one who snickered at some of his forced verses. I thought Ronsard would have a fit.”
I blush at the word, knowing that Ronsard has better self-control than I. I threw an actual fit when I learned that the sights I was missing included a collection of exotic savages from the New World. I am very, very glad that Henri has not heard about my tantrum. The Baronne de Retz was aghast. “If this is how you will behave when disappointed,” she said, “you will spend a great portion of your life stamping and scowling. To be a woman is to wait, to stand in the background, to accept that your life is governed by others.”
When she was done with her reprimand, I cried and said I was sorry. But, watching my mother washing the feet of those selected for the honor, I am not certain being always in the shadows is a situation I wish to accept. It is not how she lives. Nor how the Duchesse de Nevers does. Then again, they are extraordinary women and I cannot fool myself into thinking I am that. Perhaps if I were a queen. Mother promised me I would be, back before France had peace. I must trust her, I must be patient.
Beside me, my brother shifts from foot to foot. He is never patient. When Henri wants something, he pursues it boldly, badgering Mother shockingly. “I cannot wait for Lent to be over,” he mutters. “My stomach aches. It wants to feast, not fast. Let’s go see the gift the city made to Charles.”
“You saw it yesterday.”
“But you did not and it’s magnificent.”
It turns out my brother’s idea of magnificent is the stuffed body of an animal I do not recognize. It is like a salamander only much, much bigger, with a square snout containing fearsome teeth.
“It came back with one of the gentlemen who traveled with Admiral Coligny.” Henri defies the warning look of one of the Swiss guards and reaches out a finger to stroke the beast’s snout. “Feel the skin.”
I ignore his instruction. “It does not look valuable,” I remark. “Monsieur de L’Hôpital must be disappointed.” L’Hôpital, Charles’ chancellor, was assigned the first gift of the journey, doubtless because he gave Mother support for declaring the King of age a little early.
“Are you mad? This is far better than some golden statue! If I were Charles, I would not give it to L’Hôpital. I would pay him off instead.”
“So would I.” The voice from behind startles me.
Henri turns. “Cousin.” His voice contains enthusiasm—something I certainly do not feel upon recognizing the Prince of Navarre.
“I wish I could have gone to the New World with Coligny. Or at least that they would make the savages stand here on display,” my cousin says.
“Never mind,” Henri replies. “We will soon have the English to gawk at. They have let Ambassador Throckmorton out of prison to sign the treaty. I guess I will have to keep an eye on you, Cousin. Was Throckmorton not arrested for conspiring with Huguenots against the crown?”
The Prince of Navarre shrugs. “I have never conspired with anyone, and I would rather see the savages or even the satyrs riding goats from yesterday’s procession than stand around watching diplomats sign things.”
Finally something my cousin and I agree on. Not that it matters. Given the size of our party, I am seldom in close company with him.
“Which would you rather see?” the Prince of Navarre asks as if he is quite content to have me settle the question.
“Neither. I want to see the Duchesse de Lorraine’s new baby, just like Her Majesty.”
“Girls! There is no accounting for them.” And without waiting for a reply, he runs off, doubtless to look for savages.
* * *
“The city fathers of Lyon know how to impress.” Charles sits on his horse gazing at the splendid boat waiting for him. Waiting for
us
. Not all of us, but for those selected especially by my brother and mother to accompany His Majesty down the Saône from Chalon-sur-Saône to Lyon. The rest of the train must go on as they have come this far: by horse, litter, coach, and foot. I cannot wait to get on the boat. As I am climbing aboard, I see the Prince of Navarre among those waiting to embark. Well, family is family, I suppose. I notice that the young Duc de Guise and his mother will also travel with the King. Unlike my cousin, the Duc is a fine-looking young man whose clothes hang easily upon him. He never looks out of place or discomforted whatever the occasion. And he is handsome, nearly as handsome as my brother Henri. His Grace’s eyes catch mine for a moment and I feel a fluttering in my stomach. I wonder what he thinks of me. Apparently nothing, for his glance quickly moves on; he is merely, I decide with disappointment, taking stock of who has sufficient royal favor to be included on the voyage.
“Come, ladies,” says the Duchesse de Nevers to Charlotte and me. “Shall we sit down before all the places furthest from Her Majesty are taken?”
Her Grace’s quip is shocking but entirely accurate. The youngest and most adventurous of Mother’s ladies generally try to keep the farthest distance, desiring the freedom that comes with less supervision.
We fall in behind the Duchesse, who makes her way along the deck briskly, then stops short and turns to cross to the other side. I notice Her Grace’s sister, the Princesse de Porcien, walking in the direction we were originally going.
“You will not sit with your sister?” Charlotte asks.
“No, indeed, for did you not notice the Prince de Porcien beside her? I doubt even she will bear his company for long.”
“Because he is a Huguenot?” I ask.
“Because he is a terrible bore,” the Duchesse replies with a smile. “I know His Majesty wishes us to love the Protestants. How many speeches has he made en route urging the people to obey his edict of pacification? I have lost count. But I do not believe I shall be found in violation of his decree merely because I snub my brother-in-law.”
Charlotte and I both laugh appreciatively. Truth be told, I think being a Protestant a greater sin than being tedious, but I would never say such a thing aloud, as I wish to have a sophisticated air. Piety, it seems, is not particularly fashionable, and so I keep mine to myself as much as possible.
We settle into seats close to Mademoiselle de Saussauy. “What of scandal have you to tell, ladies?” the Duchesse asks the moment we are comfortable. “Come, I mean to be entertained, and I am not one to find scenery fascinating.”
“Do you not wonder why the Baronne de Limeuil is left ashore?” Fleurie seems well content to begin the gossip. “Well, I have heard that, for all his stern looks and piety, Don Francisco de Álva has shown marked admiration for her.”
“The Spanish ambassador! He would be a feather for her cap and increase her value to the Queen,” Charlotte says.
The Duchesse de Nevers nods. “There cannot be another gentleman whose opinions are more important to Her Majesty as she wheedles for a meeting with King Philip.”
I know that the diplomatic centerpiece of this tour, for all it is intended to show Charles to his subjects, is a rendezvous with my sister Elisabeth and her husband—the details of which have not yet been entirely agreed upon.
“Exactly!” Fleurie says. “He is the
plus important,
but when the Queen urged Isabelle to take him up, she refused.”
“Refused the Queen!” I realize the moment I have spoken that my voice is too loud. But my shock is such that I did not think to whisper. Verily, I believe if Mother told me to jump from the ship, I would do so without question.
“She did.” Fleurie leans in. “Her Majesty told the Baronne she could walk to Lyon for all the Queen cared.”
“I wish I could have Don Francisco,” Charlotte says.
“Ambitious.” The Duchesse nods approvingly. “But do not overreach. You are too young and too unmarried for such a task. Do not insert yourself there thinking to gain royal favor; be patient and await the Queen’s will. For obedience to Her Majesty generally comes with a wealthy husband.”