Anjou, who until now leaned in a corner with Saint-Mégrin enjoying the unfolding spectacle, moves to join Fran?ois, clapping his arm around my younger brother’s shoulder in a rare show of unity. “When we send for the swords, brother,” he says, “perhaps we should see if there is an ass in the stables.”
Condé takes a step toward Anjou but only one before Charles jumps to his feet. “What is wrong with all of you?” he shouts. “Are you so fond of dying? Fine, but mark this: I am king. You die when and where I command, not here and not now.” He looks back and forth between the would-be combatants. The King of Navarre again touches Condé’s sleeve, this time to effect. The gentleman steps back. Charles nods in approbation, then looks piercingly at Anjou and Alen?on. Fran?ois moves to join Guise behind me. Anjou gives Condé one last sneer and saunters back toward Saint-Mégrin.
“I am tired of Frenchmen killing Frenchmen,” the King proclaims. “The admiral is right: I must send you all to fight the Spanish, if only so that I may have peace.” Throwing himself back into his seat, he picks up his glass, drains it, and then holds it out for Marie to refill.
In the corner Anjou gives a little smile. I know what he is thinking: here is something to tell Mother that will remove Charles from her favor again.
Condé stalks to where several Protestant gentlemen were, until the disruption, playing cards. He taps one on the shoulder and that gentleman quickly makes way for him. “Deal,” the Prince says. The sound of cards being shuffled breaks the silence.
“That is right,” Charles says, “let us return to more pleasurable pastimes.”
Crossing to where I sit, my cousin gives me a smile. “It seems I have been negligent in my attentions this evening and look where that brought us. If you will play again, my attention is entirely yours.”
I have no desire for my cousin’s attention but nor do I wish the evening to devolve further into unpleasantness or violence. So I smile and take the lute up from my lap. As I begin to play, Henriette vacates her seat. “This place is yours, Sir,” she says to the King of Navarre. Then, moving to Guise’s side: “Brother, you must take me for a turn. We are both, I think, overheated.” I feel the Duc’s hand leave my shoulder.
As he and my friend stroll away, my cousin says, “With so many Henries it is easy to become confused, so I will be plain. I am not my cousin Condé who would defame you. Nor am I your brother who plays everyone to his own end. But just as I would not have you mistake me for them, do not mistake the Duc de Guise for me—I am the man who will, in less than a week’s time, be your husband.”
“Sir, I am under no illusion to the contrary. It is that thought which keeps me awake nights.”
*
There is a rumor that, with my ceremony of betrothal and wedding mere days away, the papal dispensation has not arrived. My heart is light. My feet have wings as they carry me in search of Charles. I must know the truth. I am nearly running when I round a corner and come upon my cousin, sans doublet, shirt open at the neck.
“You look very happy,” he remarks, stopping to bow and forcing me to stop by doing so.
I am stuck for a response. I am happy, but the source of my happiness is hardly something I can disclose without seeming cruel.
I notice he is smiling and take my inspiration there. “You also.”
“I’ve just left your brother Anjou blaming the heat for his loss to me at tennis.”
I smile at the thought of this.
“Can it be we are sharing a moment of enjoyment?” My cousin’s voice is playful. “I believe we are. Well, then, I will seize the chance to say I hope it will be the first of many.”
I do not share his hope, but again, I do not wish to be contrary to no purpose. “I would be glad to see you happy.” It is true. My cousin is far from my favorite person, but he becomes more likable as he becomes more familiar. And unlike many I might name, he has never deliberately sought to harm me. “And I am very glad you beat Anjou.”
“Soundly,” he assures me, his voice both confident and teasing.
I applaud lightly. “The more soundly the better.”
He regards me earnestly, as if trying to puzzle something out. “You know, despite the years I passed with this court as a boy, and despite the reports sent by my mother, I find many things not as I expected. Among these nearly every member of your family.”
“I can well believe it.” I laugh, thinking of what Jeanne de Navarre likely said about me. Doubtless it was no more flattering than what my mother says of the King of Navarre when he is not about. She calls him “the peasant.” I wonder how long it will be before she calls him “my friend.” When she does, all around will know she thinks him a fool—for that is her traditional use of the phrase, to express a patronizing derision—but he will not. The thought of my mother playing such games with my cousin, and he all unaware, is not pleasing.