“Your Majesty, we should rejoin the others. It is not appropriate for us to be in such a secluded spot alone.”
Standing up he says, “You cannot honestly fear I will take liberties, particularly after your little speech yesterday. Or perhaps you think your hand irresistible?”
“I do not. And in fact I do not believe you felt any pressing urge to kiss it at dinner, save as a message.”
He smiles. Then, offering his arm, draws me back into the sunlight. Raising a hand to shield my eyes, I look about; I have had enough of being alone with the King of Navarre. Seeing Charles beside a fountain, I say, “Let us join His Majesty. After all, you accepted my hand to be brought closer to the King, did you not?”
Mother eyes us as we approach. “My son,” she says, holding out a hand to the King of Navarre. “I hope you will not begrudge me the early use of that pleasant appellation. Bring Marguerite and come and sit beside me that we may be a cozy family.”
As if my family has ever been anything of the kind.
“I know you are missing your mother,” Her Majesty continues. “Perhaps I may in some part ameliorate her loss by my affections to you.”
I remember my cousin’s words shortly after he entered the Louvre: he knows what Her Majesty is, and the fact that she does not know him so well—that she thinks she can fool him—gives him an advantage. This is not displeasing. I do believe, though it is a close matter and I could well do without either, I may prefer the rule of my cousin to the rule of my mother.
“Madame,” my cousin replies, “my mother’s letters did not do you justice.”
I must disguise a laugh as a cough.
Charles leans forward to look at our cousin. “When we go to war with Spain, you must have a command.” I am surprised Charles is willing to raise intervention in the Low Countries on such an outing. It is a sign of which way his loyalties are leaning in the struggle between Her Majesty and the admiral—at least at the moment.
Mother’s face darkens. “We are not going to war with Spain.”
“Are we not? Why, the admiral and I were just speaking of it last evening.”
As if summoned by the words, Coligny emerges from a side path and strides toward us.
Charles rises and embraces him. “Mon père.”
I can hear Mother’s teeth grind.
“Your Majesty”—the older man’s face is grave—“Don Frederic of Toledo has routed the Seigneur de Genlis and his troops at Quiévrain. Not two hundred Frenchmen survived.”
“Ha!” Her Majesty’s exclamation draws both men’s eyes. “Yet you insist, Admiral, that French troops of Protestants and Catholics combined are ready to face the Spanish.”
Coligny ignores her. “Genlis ought to have waited for the Prince of Orange and his men. But now he has acted, what will Your Majesty do?”
Mother snaps her fingers. The ladies, including the Queen Consort, rise and scatter. I do not move, content for the first time to remain beside my cousin. Mother narrows her eyes and asks, “Why should His Majesty do anything?”
“Genlis had our blessing,” Charles replies.
“He did not.” Mother is emphatic. “You would never be foolish enough to condone an attack by any of your subjects on Spanish troops within their own territory.”
Charles looks exasperated. “Was Louis of Nassau foolish? His invasion succeeded and everyone upon my council, yourself included, took delight in that.”
“Being pleased by someone else’s victory and being involved in a military campaign are two different things.” Mother is so angry that she visibly shakes. “I say again: you did not condone the actions of Genlis. And you will state so, publicly.”
“If the Seigneur has been taken, there may be a letter in his possession which will give the lie to such an assertion.”
Mother glares at the admiral. If I were he, I would be prodigiously glad to be armed. Looking back at Charles, she says, “Then lie. Your subjects disobeyed your orders by marching into Flanders. You wish for peace between France and her Catholic ally Spain.”
Charles’ shoulders droop. Coligny knows this signals capitulation. Bowing to the King he says, “I will return to the Louvre and see what can be done to secure the release of prisoners.”
“Fine,” Mother says, “so long as you do not expect to ransom them with royal moneys. You Protestants are not without resources: Let them be expended.”
Charles stands as the admiral departs, but Mother puts a restraining hand on his arm. She is not finished with him—not while there is still a question as to who has the most influence with the King. It is a question I see in the eyes of those surrounding us. “My son,” Mother says, “you wring my heart with your foolishness.”
“It was only five thousand men, and I did not finance them.”
“Not that imprudence—the greater one. You rely too much on one not worthy of your trust.”