When we have been at Blois a week, Henriette bustles in as my hair is being dressed. I know by the way she moves that she has something important to tell. Has my cousins’ party been sighted? Does she have news from Paris?
“A representative of the Holy Father arrived this morning,” she proclaims. “And not just any diplomat: the Pope’s nephew, Cardinal Alessandrino.”
Dear God! Can it be the dispensation? Henri assured me it would be difficult to obtain and I have taken solace in those words, considering the Holy Father the final bulwark against this detestable match. If a dispensation has been secured this quickly.… I can barely breathe. Then it dawns upon me: Henriette is smiling. She would never delight in news abhorrent to me.
“And?” I ask, clutching the edge of my dressing table.
“He brings a letter from the King of Portugal—”
I believe I have stopped breathing entirely.
“—avowing that he is so eager to have you, he will take you without dowry and without delay.”
“Oh, Henriette!” I jump to my feet and pull my friend into an embrace. “I am saved.” Three years ago, when the Portuguese match was first pursued, I would not have celebrated such news. But now, with no hope of marrying my lover and faced with a marriage to a heretic, Dom Sébastien seems an attractive groom indeed.
“Margot, you are too hasty! I fear the Cardinal comes too late. My husband, from whom I had this news, asserts it is so. He says both King and Queen Mother firmly believe Navarre the more desirable husband.”
“An opinion easily held when he will be someone else’s spouse! It is not they but I who must subjugate myself to a heretic. I who must spread my legs for a man who, when last I saw him, smelled and looked always as if he had passed a long summer day in the saddle. How shall I bear such a thing?”
“You can hardly say that. But you may choose to say something to sway matters. That is why I bring the news expeditiously.”
“I will go to the King at once.”
When I arrive at Charles’ apartment, I am not surprised that it is Mother who calls “Enter.” Her Majesty, on the other hand, is entirely astonished to see me. “Margot? Your brother and I are engaged in business of state.”
“I have come on a matter of state.”
She looks faintly amused. “The only matter that need occupy you is the order in which you will wear your gowns when we entertain your future husband.”
“I believe, Madame, there is something more serious to be considered.”
Mother narrows her eyes. Her fingers drum on the arm of her chair.
“I have heard Dom Sébastien of Portugal renews his suit.”
Mother’s fingers stop but she holds her tongue, perhaps not wishing to confirm the news.
“Is it true, Charles?” I ask. “Has the King of Portugal sent word that he will have me?”
“Yes. In fact, he sent pages of them in his own hand. But those words do not move us. Why should they?”
Charles is prone to feeling slighted. I pray my understanding of that fact will assist me. “The King of Portugal comes late to a proper appreciation of the glory and advantages that a connection with the royal house of France brings,” I say, shaking my head. “I feel that to be so, as, doubtless, you do. But though his former coldness toward the match deeply offended my dignity, I am willing to look beyond that to factors that might matter more to you and to France.” I bow my head as a sign of submission.
“You would forgive Dom Sébastien’s insult?” Charles’ voice betrays curiosity. Mother must hear it, for she jumps in.
“It is not only your sister who was insulted—”
Charles holds up a hand—a rare occurrence. My hopes rise. If I can be heard, I have some chance, at least.
“Why?” he asks, looking at me searchingly.
“Because I care more for the Holy Church than for myself. My marriage to Henri de Bourbon would be an anathema to our faith, Charles. If I marry the King of Portugal, then the great Catholic powers stand together undivided and unsullied.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “I am more interested in the peace and prosperity of my kingdom.”
I must tread carefully. I swallow, afraid I will anger him by repeating what I have heard from Henri and Henriette. But he must certainly have heard the same from others, so I press on. “On that score too you should hesitate to wed me to Navarre. The idea is unpopular with your subjects, particularly those in Paris. They see our cousin as an enemy to the crown and part of a sect that has been too liberally treated.”
“Why should the opinions of common men intimidate His Majesty?” Mother asks. “He knows what is best for them.”
Charles nods.