“I fear, Your Majesty, the worst is yet to come. Do we not stand for a portrait this afternoon? Is there not a ball this evening?”
“Ah, but painters do not gawk, and all those attending the ball have seen us together before.” He pauses. “Those who have never approved of the sight must now accustom themselves to it. And speaking of things that must be gotten used to, the time has come, Madame, when you must find something to call me other than ‘Cousin.’”
“How about ‘Sir’?”
“It will serve. But as we would not occasion gossip so early in our marriage, and I, at least, have no interest in incurring your mother’s displeasure, might I suggest you throw in a ‘husband’ here and there?” He smiles.
I do not like the idea of calling him “husband.” I do, however, wish to encourage such a practical and open approach to our marriage, for such discussions as this treat it as what it is—a political alliance. “Agreed … husband.”
He smiles again, then looks at me questioningly. “Whatever possessed you to wear that awful wig?”
“The same demon, Sir, that goaded you to wear yellow.”
“Your mother, then.”
I cannot help myself: I laugh.
“I knew I would either make you laugh or cry this day,” he says.
Both actually. As the litter stops and my new husband offers a hand to help me alight, I realize I could never have imagined this brief moment of merriment when I wept this morning.
*
My wedding guests have danced. They have drunk. The sea-themed decorations in the salle vo?tée were much admired. étienne Leroy sang with beauty and delicacy during the ballet, but was upstaged by Charles, who arrived dressed as Neptune riding upon the tail of an absolutely enormous gilded hippopotamus. Enfin, I am done with the public part of the day’s celebrations—though, judging by the state of those left behind, there will be revelers still when the sun rises. A dozen companions accompany me to prepare for the most private part, my wedding night. A dozen dames de la cour, but not Mother.
Though I do not desire her company, Mother’s absence rankles me. My position as her daughter and my rank surely warrant a royal escort. She herself was brought to her marriage bed by Queen Eleanor. Then I remember: I have the Queen of France with me, at least in name—my sister-in-law, Elisabeth. She walks on one side of me and Henriette on the other, each woman with her arm linked through mine. Henriette knows my mind and by her arm supports my resolve. Elisabeth on the other hand seeks, by her arm and by her gentle hands as I am undressed, to quiet my virginal nerves. I am grateful to her, for I am nervous, even if she is mistaken as to the cause.
I still have every intention of saying no to my cousin, but whether he will respect my refusal has never been certain. As I am tucked into bed, I remember how boisterous he was at this evening’s celebrations. My husband may not be tall, but he is, as Charlotte pointed out only this afternoon, an avid sportsman and therefore strong. If my words do not stop him from pursuing consummation of our marriage, I have little hope of fighting him off.
“You are pale.” Elisabeth leans in kindly and tries to hand me a glass of wine, which I wave away. I believe I have drunk less than anyone else during the course of the day. If my wits are to be my only defense, then they must be sharp.
“I am only tired.”
“Too bad you will likely get little sleep tonight,” Fleurie de Saussauy quips.
The ladies around my bed laugh, and that laughter is joined by some from beyond my door. My cousin and a handful of his gentlemen have arrived, talking and laughing as they jostle each other. The sight of my lighted room full of lovely women momentarily silences them. Then a gentleman behind my cousin gives the King a shove across the threshold, saying, “Go on, she may be Catholic but she is pretty.”
Drunk, I think. The speaker’s face is flushed and the top buttons of his doublet are undone. Definitely drunk. I look more closely at my cousin, blushing as my ladies stream past him. His ruff is missing and sweat beads his face. Are these merely signs of the day’s heat, or is he as inebriated as his friend?
I jump from my bed as if it were on fire, forgetting how sheer my night dress is.
The King of Navarre stares at me openly as his companions lurch away.
Henriette gives me a look for courage then she too is gone. The King of Navarre turns at the sound of the closing door, giving me time to snatch up my surcote.
“Madame.” My husband tilts his head slightly to acknowledge me. The surprising grace of the movement and the clarity of his speech suggest that however drunk his friends, he is in control of all his faculties. Thank God.
Sitting on the nearest chair, he removes his boots. I seem unable to find my voice and am reminded of how tongue-tied I used to feel when called before my mother as a girl. Rising, my cousin begins unbuttoning his doublet. The sight of his flesh at the open neck of his shirt jolts me to action.
“Stop.”
His fingers pause.
“Madame?”