My groom’s eyes meet mine. Do I see hope? Apprehension? I do not care. Quickly I look away, searching for Henri. The religious conviction of each gentleman in the assembly is abundantly plain, for, unlike my soon-to-be husband, it appears the remainder of his coreligionists have not abandoned their mourning. I nearly laugh out loud: it is as I teased him—my Henri will blend in with the Protestants. But it seems his intention to dress in mourning did not hold. For when my eyes find him beside a scowling Prince de Condé, Henri is as pale as death but wearing silver and rose. The eyes that meet mine are fierce, and they do not leave me until they are forced to as the party passes by.
We stand for what seems an eternity. At last it is our turn. As we process, a sea of faces turns upward to watch. Additional spectators lean from windows and roofs. Yet there is little cheering. I hope my mother remarks this. I am sure my cousin’s men do. I can see several in the stands, their eyes wary, their smiles forced. They know that while King Charles professes to love his Catholic and Protestant subjects equally, the people of Paris are not so ecumenical.
Before the Cathedral doors, the King delivers me to my cousin, who holds out his hand. I ignore the gesture, letting my own hand drop to my side. While the ladies who carried it arrange my train, the others of my family take their places. The Cardinal de Bourbon steps to his. He looks remarkably shabby wearing only such vestments as he would for an ordinary occasion. But this is how the King of Navarre’s mother wished it to be. The Cardinal begins and I am lost—drifting in the heat, mesmerized by his voice to such a degree that I can make no sense of his words. I hear my cousin speak, then the Cardinal again, then silence. Charles takes a step forward and, rather forcefully, pushes my shoulder. Jarred, I realize I have missed my cue.
“J’accepte,” I mumble. It is miserably given, but it is my consent and it is sufficient. My eyes stray to the carvings above the Cardinal—the last judgment—where the archangel Michael weighs the souls of the dead according to the lives they led on earth. At this moment I do not like my chances of entering the kingdom of heaven, married to a heretic in a union that violates canon law. The entire ceremony is impossibly brief for something that changes me from who I was to who I will be, but I am glad of it. My cousin’s proximity is unbearable. I wonder if the reason lies in the complete falsehood of our situation. As of this moment, he should be something to me—should be greater and more important than any other person living save my brother the King. Yet he is not. I am glad I will soon be away from him. And I bless Jeanne d’Albret and her myriad of conditions, conditions that will keep my cousin from hearing our nuptial Mass.
Before I am given a respite, however, I must take his hand. There is a fanfare of trumpets as he leads me into the dark, cool church. At the tribune separating the nave from the choir I am handed off to Anjou, who will stand in my cousin’s place for the Mass. Ordinarily Anjou’s arm is one I studiously avoid. Today I take it gladly. The lesser of two evils—no, not that, for I do believe my brother the more malevolent of the two. Merely an expedient, the first in a new life I fear will be full of them.
*
“… factum est, et habitavit in nobis et vidimus gloriam ejus, gloriam quasi unigeniti a Patre, plenum gratiae et veritatis. Deo gratias.”
Mass is over. Before the Cardinal and the Bishop of Digne have descended from the altar someone scurries to retrieve my cousin—my husband. I wonder if he knows how loud he and his fellows were as they stood in the cloisters—knows their talking and laughing could be heard, raising eyebrows and hostilities? There is no sign of embarrassment on his face as he approaches. I am ready for his arm. Instead, without warning, he pulls me into an embrace. When I stiffen, he pulls me closer, whispering, “We must give the King of France what he paid for, a symbol of the new amour between his Protestants and Catholics, n’est-ce pas?”
As we make our way down the nave, covered by the sound of the organ, I reply: “We are symbolic, Sir, but not of Charles’ ideal, rather of deceitful appearances. Two mismatched partners smiling for the crowds are very like a paix that exists on paper but not in the hearts of men.”
“Hearts are difficult to change but they are not so important as actions. We need not love each other to keep from killing one another.”
I wonder if he means the Protestants and Catholics of France, or we two.
In our absence, the hall of the Episcopal Palace has been lavishly decorated. We sit in places of honor, beside the King. One would think Charles himself had just married. He beams and I am barely seated before he takes my hand and fervently kisses it.
“My sister, this is a great day. I have ordered every window opened so that my people may hear the sounds of us celebrating.”
Looking over my wedding guests, I perceive few signs of joy or mirth, but it is not to my advantage to give voice to that thought. Royal favor is more important than truth.