I stand on the edge of failure, but I am not willing to give up. Not when my entire future hangs in the balance. Pragmatic arguments are not moving Charles, but there is another plea I can make: that of a sister. Advancing to my brother’s chair, I kneel. Looking into his eyes, I say, “Charles, as my King, you have every right to rule over me as you do your people. But as a kind and loving brother, will you not consider my desires? I beseech you to give me the King of Portugal for my husband.”
“Dom Sébastien is not the only one to discover his feelings en retard.” Mother’s tone is sardonic. “In this you make a pretty pair. He did not like you for a wife but is now desperate to have you because Pius the Fifth tells him so. You had no desire to marry him, yet now you beg on your knees to have him. Who, I wonder, has instructed you? Could it be a duc, not a pope?”
Does Mother truly think Henri counsels me, or does she merely want to convince Charles he does? She has told the King that my marriage to Navarre will help to counterbalance the influence of the House of Lorraine. If Charles sees the hand of Guise in my plea, my fate is sealed.
“No, Madame! ’Tis my conscience that instructs me. My own and no other’s.”
Mother gives a dry laugh, as if she doubts I have a conscience. Anger nearly blinds me.
“Madame, I am a good Catholic! You have every cause to know that. When your other enfants said their prayers in French, I was entirely faithful to the Church of Rome. Nor have I strayed since. How can it surprise you that the thought of being yoked in marriage with a notorious heretic is abhorrent to me?”
“Margot! Do not speak of your cousin in such a manner,” Mother admonishes.
“How should I speak of him, then? Was he required to abjure as part of the peace? If he was, I have not heard it.” I know that I am doing myself no good by losing my temper, but I am powerless to stop. “I did not complain when you sought to bind me to a madman. No, I bowed my head and said, ‘As you wish.’ Nor did I object to an old man, one who was already in my imagination as a sister’s husband. The King of Portugal was not to my liking, but at least he—and those who came before—were Catholic gentlemen. It is bad enough that we have to sup and dance with heretics; that they return to the King’s council. I thought the peace an edict of toleration—live and let live—but I see now it is an edict of submission. Not for the Huguenots, but for your children who you will suffer to be corrupted by the Huguenot taint.”
Mother gives a triumphant smile. “Your sister protests that her words are her own, but she sounds just like that idiot Anne d’Este and her son.
“Margot, have you learned none of my pragmatism these last half dozen years? Pity. You ought by now to be able to take any situation and turn it in a useful direction. If you do not like the idea of a Protestant husband, then once you have him, make Navarre Catholic. I assure you neither I nor the King will object to that. In fact, it is what we hope for. Now, get up.”
Ignoring her instruction, I look to Charles. When he will not meet my gaze, I get to my feet, defeated.
“You have been heard,” Her Majesty says. “Now hear me. The papal delegate requests an audience with you. You will grant it, but I will be watching. Do anything to thwart the match with Navarre, and I will reward the religious fervency you have just exhibited with a cloistered stay in an abbey at the edge of your brother’s kingdom.”
I bow my head, knowing I could not bear to be locked away where Henri could never find me. I have no choice but to tell the Holy Father’s representative that my faith requires obedience to my king, not just to my god.
*
There is grace in this place—grace and pain. Pain for my mother and soon, I suspect, for me. The papal representative had barely left my apartment at Blois when it was decided we would come to Chenonceau and Jeanne d’Albret would be redirected to meet us here. A short time ago a rider in royal livery galloped up. Surely the party from Navarre has been spotted. I walk back and forth before the windows in my apartment, looking at the frozen river Cher as I wait for the Prince of Navarre and his mother to arrive. I am dressed extravagantly, and to all eyes appear entirely ready to play my part. Only I know that beneath my gown, over my heart, I have secreted a letter from Henri, a reminder to continue to resist this match.
The door behind me opens. A summons, no doubt. I do not turn.
“If you are not the death of me, Jeanne d’Albret will be.”
Mother!
“The Queen of Navarre is only a short distance away,” Her Majesty says, motioning me toward her. She ought to be elated, but her face is angry. “She has her daughter with her but not her son.” Her voice bristles. My breast fills with relief. “Come. We will greet the infernal woman with smiles and see if we can discover where she has left the Prince.”