The remaining gentlemen salute me, then turn back to each other. “Have you had enough?” the King’s partner asks the men across the net. “Or must you be beaten again?”
I rise, hoping to escape my embarrassment. My cousin, who has remained looking through the curtain of net that separates us, moves forward and laces his fingers in it. “You are going, Madame? I would be happy to have you cheer me in the next.” His eyes are entirely earnest, as if he senses that his companions made me feel ill at ease and regrets it.
“I fear I must, Your Majesty.” I give a slight curtsy. “Ladies need far longer for their toilette than gentlemen, and all eyes will be on us when we dine cette après-midi.”
“True. But as you, a renowned beauty, need fear no man’s eyes, I must suppose you urge me to greater exertions in my own toilette.” He smiles slightly. “So much wardrobe advice since we were wed.” He is clearly referring to our encounter last night. Why? To remind me of our bargain? Or maybe he merely wishes to re-create the ease we felt.
“I wear silver. You must suit yourself.” It strikes me forcibly that, though we may look like a pair at our nuptial festivities, it will take some time for us to be a pair—even a pair of allies. Giving another curtsy, I turn.
As I make my way down the gallery I hear one of the gentlemen on the court mutter, “Spy.”
My cheeks burn. It is an old charge, so it stings powerfully. My mother condemned me as a spy for the Duc. Perhaps that is whom my husband’s cohorts think I act for now. Or they think me a spy for that same mother who herself labeled me untrustworthy. I am tired of being every person’s pawn, trusted by no one. I resolve to prove myself my cousin’s ally, the more quickly the better.
*
I do not see my husband again until he climbs into a litter beside me for the short trip to the H?tel d’Anjou. Anjou is the host of this dinner and the ball at the Louvre that will follow. I find it both laughable and pleasing that etiquette should force my brother to celebrate my marriage. Laughable because he detests my husband. Pleasing because, given his pride and his elaborate tastes, the events likely cost him a fortune.
Having determined to be on good terms with my cousin, I offer him a smile. “How was the rest of your tennis?”
“Formidable. I won every game.”
“Truly?”
“No”—he smiles broadly—“but I hoped to get away with claiming as much, given you were not watching.”
“No one would ever guess you were a Gascon,” I tease.
“Oh, come. They would know it for certain—if not by my boasting, then certainly by my love of garlic. I hear there is much talk of that in Court, especially among the ladies.”
I blush, thinking of the myriad comments that have in fact been made suggesting an odor of garlic clings to the King of Navarre.
“What a pity we will all be off to Flanders. It will delay my taking you to the Navarre and introducing you to our cuisine.”
“Pray, Sir, do not speak of war with the Spanish tonight, at least not within the hearing of the Queen Mother.” My tone is serious but I keep a smile upon my lips for the spectators who line our way.
“I know Her Majesty is not in favor of the enterprise,” my cousin responds, adding one of his characteristic shrugs. “But it seems to me His Majesty and the admiral have made up their minds to go forward.”
“If they have, that will only make my mother more determined and more dangerous.” My voice is so low that the King of Navarre must lean toward me. “If you all go to Flanders and the errand is to your liking, there will be time enough to talk of it. You may even do some of your Gascon boasting, provided you acquit yourself well. But until then, take my advice and stay out of the debate.”
I can see he considers the point. “My gentlemen say the opposite. They urge me to support the King pointedly so that he will know we are his allies.”
“Are these the same gentlemen who called me ‘spy’?”
“They do not know you.”
“Neither do you, Sir.” I place a hand on his arm to show him that I do not say this in anger. “But I hope to illuminate my character by being true to our agreement and offering the best advice it is in my power to give. I tell you that being Her Majesty’s enemy—or even being imagined to be so—is far more dangerous than being thought by Charles to be lukewarm to his war.
“There are better ways to endear yourself to the King. As the weather cools, the gentlemen will ride to the chase. Like you, the King has a great passion for sport. Show yourself as mad for the hunt as he. Bring down a boar with him, and you will be brothers in a way you are not now. I assure you, such tactics will be far more efficacious than speaking of Spain, and far less hazardous.”
“Are you suggesting your mother is more dangerous than a cornered boar?”
“She is, though it is you and not I who articulates the thought.”