“We have something to discuss.”
“You have spoken very little to me today, and now you would talk? I am tired; talk can wait.”
“It cannot.”
“All right, then.” He crosses his arms.
“I do not want you here,” I declare, raising my chin.
“Is that all? You did not want me for a husband either, a fact you made clear on many occasions, but we are wed.”
I sense my open defiance is only making him equally defiant. I must try another tack. Remembering our shared moment of laughter in the litter, I realize I must behave as an ally even before an alliance is struck. Stepping forward, I gently place a hand on his arm.
“We are wed, so let us make the best of our union by starting it as friends.” It is hard to imagine myself my cousin’s friend but not as difficult as it was on the day he rode into Paris. “You are tired. I am tired. If we speak this evening, we will only bait each other. Leave me now and we will talk tomorrow.”
“Leave without taking you to bed?”
“Yes. And resolve to not even to think of such an act. My brother the King may have made you my husband in church, but I have no intention of letting you make me your wife in the carnal sense.”
I remove my hand from him and take a step back, girding myself for an outburst of anger.
But there is no fury. Instead my cousin looks puzzled. “But it is my right.”
“It is your right,” I concede. A painful admission, but concessions are key to bargaining. “But if you exercise it you will make an enemy of me. Do you not have enough enemies in Paris?”
He considers me for a few moments, then shrugs and begins to re-button his doublet. “Yours are not the only arms in which I may find pleasure. There is that pretty little Baronne friend of yours who makes eyes at me.”
“Pursue Charlotte, by all means,” I say, taking care to adopt the most indifferent tone possible. “Bed her. I shall never remark upon it. Bed every woman of the Court and cuckold every husband. I will not be provoked.”
“What is the price for all this forbearance?”
My husband is not stupid.
“I wish to be free as well.”
“In your affections, you mean.”
“Yes, and I shall expect you to be as blind as I.”
“Even if you embrace my sworn enemy?”
The taunt Which one? rises to my lips but dies, because we both know he means Guise.
“Yes.”
“Then you ask me not only to be blind but foolish.” My cousin shakes his head.
“No. You may well have been foolish not to turn round and ride back to the Navarre when you heard of your mother’s death. But having come to Paris and bound yourself to the House of Valois, it is time to be practical, a quality I believe comes naturally to you. Do you not wish to have one certain friend among the Valois? One dependable ally at the French court?”
“The King embraces me and calls me ‘brother.’”
“The King is as changeable as the wind.”
This time he nods in the affirmative. Yet I sense he is not entirely convinced. He stands, thinking. “If I lose the King’s love,” he says at last, “I shall not be without influence. Coligny has His Majesty’s ear and is my fixed friend. His friendship, being the result of years, is, if you will pardon me for saying so, more worthy of trust than the one you offer. As for allies, I brought them with me—eight hundred of them.”
“Protestant allies at a Catholic court.” I shrug, trying to sound as unconcerned as he. “They see only what my mother permits. There is not one among vos amis who knows the rooms and halls of this palace or the people who pass through them as I do. Not even the admiral.”
“And you would guide me?” He shifts his weight and looks at me intensely.
An easy, meaningless “Yes” dies on my lips. It is my turn to pause and think—to consider how far I am willing to commit myself, knowing that if I say I will be my cousin’s guide, I will not find it easy to renege.
I expect neither love nor happiness from my marriage but I do hope to improve my position by it—to be free from the domineering will of my mother, to have my own household. If anything good is to come from being Queen of Navarre, the King of Navarre must thrive. I regard my cousin, his lavish pale yellow doublet askew where he has misbuttoned it, the shadow of a moustache over his unsmiling mouth, his eyes examining my face with earnest concentration. He is out of place here. He is savvier than the others understand, but he will need guidance. I have little influence with Charles. With Anjou and my mother I have none at all. Perhaps I may have some with my husband by making myself useful from the beginning.
“I promise you my honest opinions and advice, so long as you do not impose yourself upon me.”
“Agreed.” His shoulders relax. It is the first indication I have had that he was nervous. Then, looking down and noticing the poor job he has done fastening his doublet, he begins to unbutton it once more to make it right.