Henriette stops gathering up the balance of my garments and stares at me wide-eyed.
“Margot, you cannot mean it. If you despoil this marriage and break the peace, your mother will have you beaten or worse.”
“My mother will know nothing of the matter.”
“You think the King of Navarre will be too embarrassed to admit you have refused him? That he will not demand his rights from the King? I would not for a moment count upon that. And only imagine the embarrassment if Charles or your mother vouchsafe to witness the consummation of your marriage.”
I shudder at the image of my mother, her face a twisted, gloating mask, standing beside my bed while my cousin mounts me. This would be a thing so horrible, I doubt I could survive it. But at the moment the idea of being wife to my cousin even en privé feels like to kill me.
If I crumble now, I will be lost.
“I cannot count upon the King of Navarre,” I say, raising my chin high. “But I am a Valois and a Médicis. Surely I can intimidate my provincial cousin: he will never dare lay a finger on me.”
*
In the morning I find that the King of Navarre is to take me walking at the Tuileries. “But it is so hot!” I say as Mother watches Gillone finish my hair.
“Nonsense! The gardens will be refreshing compared to the rooms of the Louvre. We will be a small party.” She reaches out absently and adjusts a jeweled pin on the right side of my head. “And I will keep the others well back so that you and your cousin may converse privately.”
“Good heavens, Madame, why? I have nothing to say to the King of Navarre.”
“Fine, walk in silence. But do so without incident or, mark me, I will beat you myself.” She smiles as if there is no threat between us. “You look lovely. Come, your cousin is waiting.”
He is indeed, at the gates of the garden, sweating noticeably—though I can hardly criticize him for that, given the oppressive heat.
“Marguerite,” he says, bowing and offering an arm.
I wait until we are a few yards in advance of the others before replying.
“I prefer ‘Your Highness.’”
“That is silly. I will call you Marguerite and you must call me Henri until you can call me ‘husband.’”
I do not know why I failed to foresee this moment, but I realize, with horror, that it is impossible for me to call my cousin by his Christian name. The name Henri is common, but even with a brother called by it, when I say Henri aloud I think always of my beloved Duc.
The King of Navarre stops walking. “Come, I must insist.”
“Sir, you are not in a position to insist on anything. My mother may insist I walk with you, but you have not the same power over me.”
“A fair point.” He shrugs. Mon Dieu, I hate that gesture. He begins to move once more, drawing me along. “I am in France and must play the part of guest. It is not a bad role, particularly since, as First Prince of the Blood, none who are not Valois take precedence over me. So I will let you call me as you please—for now. But remember”—he casts a half glance over his shoulder, but the King, with Mother on one arm and the Queen Consort on the other, has turned onto another path, taking his courtiers with him—“once we are married, it will be I and not your mother to whom you owe obedience.”
It is a reprimand but my cousin does not seem entirely comfortable with it: he avoids my eyes, looking instead at the cloudless sky. “We have such hot weather in the Navarre but it is different, perhaps because of mountains. I believe you will find it more tolerable.”
I do not believe I will find anything in the Navarre tolerable.
We walk on in silence. What a dreadful exercise. I can feel the sweat running down the center of my back. I can hear the lilting tones of the others conversing at a distance while I am stuck with my cousin. To our right lies the grotto. I cannot help glancing in that direction and remembering more pleasant times and more desirable companionship.
“Just what we need,” my cousin says, “some shade.” His eyes apparently followed mine. How I wish I could have my glance back again. Turning down the side path, he draws me across the threshold and drops my arm. I close my eyes for a moment and think of the last time I was here with Henri, of disrobing before him in the moonlight.
My cousin’s voice shatters my revelry. “Marvelous!” I open my eyes to find him running his hand over one of the ceramic lizards. Next he squats down to examine a frog. He is quite as enthusiastic as a child. I am glad no one is near enough to see him.
“You always did like frogs,” I say, meaning to mock him.
“I do still,” he replies, equally oblivious to my tone and to his utter lack of courtly sang-froid. “This little fellow is tout à fait perfect. I can nearly hear him sing.” And then, unbelievably, he makes a frog call. The low, throaty noise echoes off the walls. What, I wonder, might some stray courtier think we are doing?