The gentleman nods and shuts the window.
“So, daughter,” Mother says, drawing close, “you will not wait for a crown.” She does not bother to conceal her satisfaction. “We must go directly to your brother. Charles must claim for himself the sad duty of informing your cousin of his loss. For if the Prince—or should I say King—of Navarre’s friends tell him, they may ride too quickly. It would be good if Henri de Bourbon were well on his way to Paris before hearing the news, for we would not wish his grief to delay his wedding.”
CHAPTER 16
July 1572—Paris, France
They arrive like the black birds from my childhood nightmares—eight hundred gentlemen, their mourning mantles fluttering slightly as they ride. We receive reports of their entry into the city long before sight or sound of them can be apprehended at the Louvre. But at last the inevitable can be delayed no longer. I must go out and greet the man I will marry.
Despite the considerable effort made to dress me in rich colors, I know my face is as grave and colorless as my cousin’s attire. The inhabitants of Paris are somber as well. How else to explain the fact that even as the sound of so many horses’ feet becomes audible where we stand, we hear no cheering. The people of Paris feel no joy over my impending marriage, and I love them for it.
The first riders draw into the court of honor. My cousin’s party was joined in the Faubourg Saint-Antoine by an escort of four hundred of the King’s gentlemen, so the horses and riders seem numberless. At their fore, my groom is flanked by Alen?on and Anjou. My Henri rides nearby, his face tight with fury and hurt. My beloved’s pain heightens my own. I clench a hand at my side until my nails bite into flesh to keep from crying.
Standing beside me on the steps, Mother instructs me to smile as my brothers and my cousin pull their horses to a halt. When I do not, she puts an arm about my waist and I feel her nails digging into my side through the heavy fabric that encases me, making me all the more miserable in the summer heat.
The man who will be my husband in a month bows over the neck of his horse. “Your Majesties, Your Highness.” Nothing else. No speech, no prepared compliments. I have not seen my cousin in over five years. He was not particularly impressive when we parted, and he does not appear improved. His manners show no grace and his ruff is not even straight.
Charles, cutting a fine figure in an immaculate doublet of pale rose embroidered in violet, steps forward. “Henri, Roi de Navarre, we welcome you to our court. You are family and shortly will be doubly so when we bestow our sister’s hand upon you. Be at home here and let l’amitié and goodwill between us reinforce the peace between Catholics and Protestants throughout France.”
Admiral Coligny, sitting on his horse, looks abundantly pleased. He and Mother are the chief beneficiaries of my marriage, but I doubt either of them has a thought to spare for me as they contemplate their good fortune.
The principal gentlemen dismount. Only those of the highest offices and most exalted families will attend the banquet honoring my groom’s arrival. Anjou argued strongly that Catholics ought to outnumber Protestants, “to let them know their place from the first.” But Mother insisted the numbers be even.
My cousin bounds up the steps two at a time, like a man eager for his dinner. There is absolutely nothing regal about him. He holds out an arm. I place two fingers upon it. I may know my duty and the choreography for this event, but I see no reason to do either exuberantly. I realize, now that we are side by side, my cousin is very little if at all taller than I. I cannot say why, but I take a perverse pleasure in this. I wonder: Am I to pass a lifetime taking pleasure in his failings?
Casting a sidelong glance at my companion as we move toward the great hall, I read sadness and fatigue in his features. I remember my last interview with Jeanne d’Albret—my promise of kindness. The man has lost his mother. And, unlike me, he was not given the opportunity to pay his respects to her as she lay in state. Nor did he attend her burial, as his reaction to her death was so violent, it delayed his travel, and by the time he reached Vend?me she had been interred.
“I am sorry, Your Majesty, that your honored mother is not here to greet you; that after all her work toward this end, she did not live to see us wed.”
“Are you?” He searches my face. “I suspect you are the only dame de la cour to feel so.”
“Sir, I assure you, such is not the case. When the Court went to pay those respects to the Queen of Navarre which her rank and our nearness of blood demanded, I saw tears in the eyes of more than one lady.”
“How can I trust such tears, Madame, when I hear your mother wept?” The words are fierce.