I cannot resist turning my eyes in the direction of my glass. I am a tribute to my brother’s kingdom—my gown so thickly embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis that one might be forgiven for mistaking me for the Queen of France rather than the soon-to-be Queen of Navarre.
Led to the dressing table, I allow my mind to wander while the ladies apply my makeup and Gillone pins up my hair in preparation for covering it.
“Surely this will rouse her.” Henriette’s slightly mocking voice draws my attention. The Duchesse holds out a tray where a magnificent necklace rests. Enormous rubies and diamonds alternate along its length, and, intermittently, pearls as large as grapes hang like teardrops. “There is a tiara to match.” Henriette motions for the Baronne de Retz to open another box.
“Gifts from our brother,” Claude says quickly, as if she is worried I might think the objects come from my cousin. She need have no fear. I have seen my soon-to-be-husband’s taste in clothing and jewels. He has none. Such a heedless man could never have selected these things.
As she stoops to clasp the necklace around my neck, Henriette whispers, “It looks well with your gown, but just imagine how divine you would look wearing it tout seul. You must model it for Henri.” I know which Henri she means, but still I shudder at the idea that my cousin should ever see me naked.
Wigged and crowned I stand again while Gillone winds an ermine cou?t around me. The others wait, each holding a portion of my mantle with its enormous train. As they secure it at my shoulders, Mother enters.
“Daughter.” Her nod of acknowledgment is curt. Turning to Henriette, she demands, “Is she ready?”
I begin to cry. I cannot help it. I am doing what Her Majesty desires—marrying my loathsome cousin—still Mother has no word of love or comfort for me.
“Have you nothing to say, Madame, to your daughter on her wedding day?” I sniff.
“Stop crying,” she commands. “Half a million écus were spent to make you look the queen. Will you spoil the effect with a red nose?”
In the great gallery my train awaits. Charles looks oddly out of place standing at the head of a column of more than one hundred noblewomen. Many eyes are upon me, but most seem intent on taking in the details of my costume. Only those of the Queen Consort meet my own. She offers an encouraging smile. Mother leads me to the King, then takes her place. All around us there is a murmur of excited voices, yet my brother and I remain silent. Clarions are heard.
“It is the signal!” My sister Claude is not the only one to say it, but I hear her most clearly. Those ladies charged with carrying the train of my mantle rush to unroll it. Now my mother and sister are four ells behind me. Even if they were to offer me last-minute words of advice or encouragement, I could not hear them.
The doors of the hall swing open and ahead the outer doors of the palace stand open as well—a yawning chasm of pure, white light. As we begin to move forward, I can see nothing beyond this threshold. Can this be what a prisoner feels on the day of his execution? Dragged from a dark cell, seeing light, usually the symbol of all that is pure and good, and knowing it marks his doom?
Out I plunge, determined to make a good end. Determined that the tears I shed in my apartment will be my last until I am again in private.
I stand, blinking, on a wooden gallery built to allow me to travel from the Episcopal Palace to a platform before the doors of Notre Dame. Below, a cortege larger than my own approaches. Heralds-at-arms, their tabards emblazoned with the arms of France, and royal guards with clarions and cymbals lead the way for a sea of gentlemen from the King’s household, carrying halberds. The glint of the sun off the weapons again brings the image of a hooded executioner to my mind. And there he is, between Anjou and Alen?on: my personal executioner. He is clad in yellow satin heavily embroidered in silver and studded with pearls. The coats of my brothers could be doubles. Does my cousin not see the error in dressing so very like them? My brothers are tall, with striking dark features. They wear yellow well. It makes the King of Navarre sallow.