Within the Court, Anjou and his gentlemen pick fights with my cousin’s men. Every sport becomes serious. Tennis draws blood. Wrestling resembles combat. As in the city, Mother does what she can to quiet mounting tensions. And when she has limited success, she acts to assure they will be of the shortest possible duration, having Charles declare all official business suspended during the events of my wedding, and that two days after those celebrations his entire household will quit the city for Fontainebleau, seeking better air for the Queen Consort.
I weep daily. Last evening I began to cry while in bed with Henri, rendering him so agitated that I feared he would take his dagger and charge through the rooms of the Louvre in nothing but his shirt, seeking my cousin. His lack of control frightened me. Even as I would avoid marrying the King of Navarre if I could, I cannot quite wish him dead. Beyond my moral compunctions, the death of my cousin at Henri’s hands would mean a death sentence for my love in turn. I soothed my Duc and made him swear to me he will not be rash or violent. I cannot, however, keep him from hating, nor from brooding. When we are in company, Henri’s eyes are constantly on the King of Navarre.
“Did I not know the odious duty fell to me, I might think the Duc charged with the King of Navarre’s seduction,” Charlotte jokes from behind her hand.
We are in the King’s apartment, four dozen ladies and gentlemen—the choicest members of my brother’s household and my cousin’s—allegedly enjoying an evening together. My cousin plays dice with the King. Guise walks the perimeter of the room staring at him.
“Were that the case, softer looks might serve Guise better. In fact, they might serve him better now, if you could persuade him to them, Margot,” Henriette says. “It has taken His Grace full long to be restored to royal favor; it would be foolish for him to harm himself there by offending a prince your mother and brother wish embraced.”
I shrug, then curse myself for doing so, as the gesture reminds me of my cousin. “I cannot make Henri other than he is. As he loves me, he cannot bear the King of Navarre.”
“Well, he will have to bear him, just as you have had to bear my sister,” Henriette replies.
The King of Navarre cries out triumphantly and receives a slap on the shoulder from one of his friends, a man I see him with constantly. Is it the Seigneur de Pilles? I can never remember the names of his gentlemen, perhaps because I do not care to know them. My cousin rises. Charlotte sighs and does likewise.
“Wish me luck,” she says before gliding off to fuss over him.
“She is a fool to ask me to wish her luck. I have none myself,” I say.
“You do not need luck, for you have beauty and talent.” Leaning over between Henriette and me, my brother Fran?ois holds out a lute and smiles. “Will you play for me?”
Taking the instrument, I smile back at him. “Of course.”
Fran?ois takes a seat on the floor before me. I begin to play and sing softly. Like a siren’s call my voice draws Henri. He stops just behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder possessively. The Prince de Condé says, “Cousin, you miss the performance.”
My cousin turns from Charlotte, with whom he has been whispering. Not understanding Condé’s meaning and seeing me with the lute, he says, “Apologies, Mademoiselle, do you play for us?”
“I play for whoever will listen.”
“What an agreeable woman.” Condé smiles, but there is no warmth in it. “The Duchesse de Valois is not particular. She will entertain all comers.”
Henriette draws an audible breath and puts a hand on my leg. Henri’s hand tightens on my shoulder, but it is Fran?ois who comes to my defense. Springing to his feet he says, “What do you insinuate, Sir?”
The King of Navarre touches Condé’s arm.
The Prince ignores him. “Come outside and I will be explicit.”
“Gladly, Sir, only let us first send for our swords so that once you have done I may make quick work of you.”
The Protestant gentleman I have come to recognize as Seigneur de Pilles laughs, doubtless because Fran?ois is untried in combat and the Prince a veteran of the wars. That laugh is a mistake. Enraged, Fran?ois spins, looking for the source. When he cannot identify it, his eyes come to rest on Charles. “Brother, were these Huguenots not your guests I would slay them all and leave none to make light of Valois honor or ability.”
“And I would gladly help you.” Henri’s voice over my shoulder is soft, but not so soft that the King or the Prince de Condé fail to hear it.
“I do not like your chances,” Condé replies. “We are as many as you, and none of us have surrendered.” This last, an open jab at Anjou and the tale that he killed the Prince’s father only after that gentleman was his prisoner, draws gasps.