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 Vend?me? 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 Vend?me for her health. She was not missed. Yet last week she came dutifully to stay at the H?tel 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 Vend?me 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.