We descend to assume positions in a carefully arranged tableau in which the widowed Princesse de Condé is prominently placed, as are the other Protestant ladies. Someone shoves a puppy into my arms. It is from one of the King’s litters and has a bow around its little neck. I am to give it to Catherine de Bourbon in a sisterly gesture. Fine, I have no objection to pleasing a thirteen-year-old. The animal wiggles in my arms. I nuzzle its ear.
Jeanne enters. She is not as pretty as I remember her being when I saw her years ago. And she holds her mouth in a pinched manner, as if she disapproves of everything and everyone. Good. A woman with such an expression will be predisposed not to like me. She and the Princesse of Navarre are surrounded by an impressive entourage. As the group sweeps forward, the Baronne de Retz identifies key noblemen in a whisper. I pay no attention. I see no point in learning their names. I shall doubtless be afforded little contact with them and do not care who they are so long as they go away dissatisfied.
We exchange the formal greetings etiquette requires. Then, as I hand the squirming puppy to the Princess, Mother says, “Cousin, we hoped also to welcome your son. Where is the Prince? Not indisposed, I hope?”
“Have no fear on that score,” Jeanne replies. “He was in excellent health when I heard from him three days ago. I have charged him with managing my kingdom in my absence. Such training is invaluable for a man who will be king.”
Mother nods understandingly and I nearly laugh out loud. She has no interest in training or allowing my poor brother Charles to rule without her and he is already king.
The Queen of Navarre turns to me. “The Prince sends his greetings. He looks forward to receiving you at Pau when the little details that must precede your marriage have been resolved.”
Married in the Navarre? This is no little detail. The wrangling has begun before the horses are unsaddled. “Your Majesty,” I say, “when you write to the Prince, thank him for his salutations and tell him that, although he remains in the south, I have memories from our childhood to rely upon in forming my opinion of him. Perhaps he can likewise recall when last we were together.” There is nothing whatsoever wrong with this little speech from Jeanne d’Albret’s perspective, but Mother’s ladies must see its unflattering meaning plainly. My attitude toward the Prince when we were younger was hardly secret. I do hope that the Prince of Navarre remembers vividly every occasion on which I corrected his behavior, avoided him, or teased him. And most particularly that he remembers my vow never to allow him to kiss me.
“I wonder, would the Duchesse de Valois escort me to my rooms?” Jeanne asks.
“We will share that honor,” Mother replies. “It has been too long since we saw each other. I am eager to be reacquainted even as you get to know my daughter better.”
In other words, Mother has no intention of permitting Jeanne and me to be alone, as neither of us can be relied upon to proceed according to her script. I have the sense the Queen of Navarre is not used to being managed. I might feel sorry for her if my future did not depend on her being thwarted.
*
“The Queen of Navarre is so frustrated that she becomes ill,” Henriette says. She and I are huddled in one of the chapel confessionals. With the chateau full of spies for both sides of the negotiations, it seems the only truly safe place to report on such matters. Henriette has one of her own spies kneeling in prayer at the back of the space, near the door.
“I have noticed her coughing,” I reply.
“She has night sweats and fever.” Henriette pauses for a moment, listening intently. “Where is Charlotte?”
We expected the third of our circle to be with us, reporting on what she has learned about Jeanne’s letters since she enterprisingly bribed one of the servants to bring her the Queen of Navarre’s blotter. “Never mind Charlotte,” I say. “What else?”
“The Queen complains that your mother says one thing in the morning and another in the afternoon.” Henriette shifts slightly, inadvertently stepping on my foot. “And that she is observed everywhere, even in her rooms.”
“Doubtless she is. Holes and cracks are not just for mice where Mother is concerned. How I wish my cousin would give up. Instead of coming back to Blois with us, she could as easily have headed south to Navarre.”
“I am sorry to report that, despite the arduous nature of the negotiations, those who give odds on such things still favor resolution.”
“There are odds given on my future?” Is there no embarrassment I will be spared?
“Among the gentlemen, yes.”
In a strange contrast to the two dour queens locked in endless rounds of quibbling, the gentlemen Jeanne brought with her and those in Charles’ suite appear rather easy with each other. His Majesty has found a favorite among them, the Comte de La Rochefoucauld, who despite being much older is always willing to join in entertainments from tennis, to cards, to playacting.
The curtain parts and Charlotte’s face appears. She is exceedingly pale.
“You look as if you have seen a ghost.” I expect her to laugh but she looks down at her feet.
“It is worse: I have been with your mother.”