“Leave it. Some disarray in your dress will support the desired illusion.”
My husband laughs lightly. “So your first advice to me concerns how to look as if I have done the very thing that our bargain forbids?”
I laugh in response—not as hard as I did in the litter, but as sincerely. There is no attraction between us, but it seems we can be easy together. And that may be something far more valuable. The apprehension I felt before the King of Navarre’s arrival is whisked away. There is nothing menacing in my husband. How silly it seems that only a short while ago I feared he might take me by force.
CHAPTER 18
August 19, 1572—Paris, France
This time there are no tears when I wake. I feel more rested than I have in weeks. How amazing: the thing I dreaded most has come to pass and, far from being destroyed by it, I feel liberated. I am a queen and a married woman, with all the rights and status those things entail. And I am free, utterly free, to pursue my passion … until and unless my husband removes me to the Navarre or until both my beloved and my husband march off to a war with Spain.
I push these last thoughts from my mind and rise from bed. I will write to Henri bidding him to come to dinner at the H?tel d’Anjou with a light heart and a good appetite. His hunger for food and for me shall each be fully satiated in the course of the evening.
As I pad across the floor I remark that the room is stiflingly hot, so either I have slept long or this day will be even more oppressive than the last. I throw open the shutters at the nearest window. The sun is at its apex. The day half gone? Good heavens!
Gillone bustles in.
“Why did you not wake me when the Duchesse de Nevers called?” I ask.
“She has not called, Your Majesty.”
“Not called?”
“No one has. The palace was deserted all morning. Everyone rests after your wedding. I heard in the kitchens that even the Queen Mother slept late.”
Taking a seat at my escritoire, I uncover my ink.
“Your husband was up with the dawn, however, and is playing at tennis.”
Having neither asked nor thought about the whereabouts of the King of Navarre, her comment startles me. “In this heat? I cannot imagine who among his companions would be fit to play; they were all drunk last night.”
“As were we,” Gillone replies, clearly meaning the Catholic portion of the Court. “Perhaps it is a peculiarity of the Huguenots, rising early. They have many.” She retreats, doubtless to get my breakfast, and I busy myself with my note.
When the door opens next it is Henriette, not Gillone, who enters carrying my tray.
“Ah, the bride,” she says wryly. “Survived her wedding night, I see. Without incident?”
“Utterly.”
“Well, that would confirm the rumor I heard as soon as I passed the wicket.”
“Rumor?”
“That the King of Navarre was seen leaving the Baronne de Sauve’s chamber this morning, carrying his boots.”
“Poor Charlotte,” I quip. But, rather oddly, I feel less pity than I expected to.
“Indeed”—Henriette gives a vicious smile as she sets down my tray—“she will taste garlic for a week.” She gives an exaggerated shudder and laughs.
“I have a note for the Duc,” I say, holding it out.
“You mean you are sending me back into the hot dusty streets?” She tucks the note away deftly in her décolletage. Taking a berry from my tray she pops it into her mouth. “At least it will be a pleasant errand. I should fear to show myself at the H?tel de Guise had the King of Navarre been seen leaving your rooms boots in hand.”
I make short work of my breakfast. It is too early to dress for the day’s festivities, but, despite the heat, I have no desire to sit idly about in my chemise. I have Gillone dress me in something simple.
“Let us go and watch the King of Navarre at tennis.” I speak lightly but Gillone’s eyes widen nonetheless. “People will expect it.” It is a weak explanation. I hope that Gillone does not question it. I certainly don’t intend to.
My cousin is playing with the Marquis de Renel against the Comte de La Rochefoucauld and the Seigneur de Pardaillan. He runs full out, handling his racket with vigor. There is no one watching, so he plays for sport, not show. It is an illumination of his character, I think, tucking the fact away. In the shadows of the gallery I enjoy the game. My cousin has an easy, natural athleticism. Scoring the final point, he clasps Renel’s arm and congratulates his opponents on their efforts. Then his eyes stray and find me.
Racket in hand, he makes a bow. “Gentlemen,” he declares, “Her Majesty the Queen of Navarre honors us with her presence.” There is nothing mocking about the statement, but when the unfriendly eyes of his companions fix upon me, I feel awkward.