Mortified, I cast Henri a longing look and then let the curtains fall.
“Your Grace, if you will be so kind.” The Baronne inclines her head in the direction of the uncovered window beside the Duchesse de Nevers at the opposite side of the coach.
The Duchesse looses the curtains with a murmur of “Bien s?r.” But I do believe her eyes, which seek mine, give just the slightest roll. I am shocked but that is not my only feeling. Her Grace and the Baronne de Retz are the same age but they are so different, and that difference intrigues me. Whereas the Baronne is steady and without question a paragon of female propriety, the Duchesse is all daring and dazzle. I know my duty is to allow my gouvernante to direct my behavior, but a little daring is surely not dangerous.
*
“Why do you pout?” My brother sidles up to me where I stand, watching Charles and Mother receive basins and ewers from the Cardinal de Bourbon. Nearby, a collection of Troyes’ paupers—mostly women and children—sit on a long bench, prepared to be the objects of royal Lenten piety.
“I did not realize I would be left out of some of the grandest ceremonies of the journey.”
Yesterday the King made a magnificent Entry into Troyes—riding beneath a canopy supported by dignitaries past elaborate set pieces and stopping to hear recitations of poetry written for the occasion. The residents of the city, from the wealthiest to the urchins roaming its streets, were permitted to witness it all. I was not. It seems the women of the Court, even the Valois women, are not included in the proceedings that constitute a Royal Entry.
“You did not miss anything worth seeing,” Henri whispers. I know he is lying to make me feel better, and this pleases me. “Jean Passerate may be considered a great poet by the standards of Champagne,” he continues, “but I was not the only one who snickered at some of his forced verses. I thought Ronsard would have a fit.”
I blush at the word, knowing that Ronsard has better self-control than I. I threw an actual fit when I learned that the sights I was missing included a collection of exotic savages from the New World. I am very, very glad that Henri has not heard about my tantrum. The Baronne de Retz was aghast. “If this is how you will behave when disappointed,” she said, “you will spend a great portion of your life stamping and scowling. To be a woman is to wait, to stand in the background, to accept that your life is governed by others.”
When she was done with her reprimand, I cried and said I was sorry. But, watching my mother washing the feet of those selected for the honor, I am not certain being always in the shadows is a situation I wish to accept. It is not how she lives. Nor how the Duchesse de Nevers does. Then again, they are extraordinary women and I cannot fool myself into thinking I am that. Perhaps if I were a queen. Mother promised me I would be, back before France had peace. I must trust her, I must be patient.
Beside me, my brother shifts from foot to foot. He is never patient. When Henri wants something, he pursues it boldly, badgering Mother shockingly. “I cannot wait for Lent to be over,” he mutters. “My stomach aches. It wants to feast, not fast. Let’s go see the gift the city made to Charles.”
“You saw it yesterday.”
“But you did not and it’s magnificent.”
It turns out my brother’s idea of magnificent is the stuffed body of an animal I do not recognize. It is like a salamander only much, much bigger, with a square snout containing fearsome teeth.
“It came back with one of the gentlemen who traveled with Admiral Coligny.” Henri defies the warning look of one of the Swiss guards and reaches out a finger to stroke the beast’s snout. “Feel the skin.”
I ignore his instruction. “It does not look valuable,” I remark. “Monsieur de L’H?pital must be disappointed.” L’H?pital, Charles’ chancellor, was assigned the first gift of the journey, doubtless because he gave Mother support for declaring the King of age a little early.
“Are you mad? This is far better than some golden statue! If I were Charles, I would not give it to L’H?pital. I would pay him off instead.”
“So would I.” The voice from behind startles me.
Henri turns. “Cousin.” His voice contains enthusiasm—something I certainly do not feel upon recognizing the Prince of Navarre.
“I wish I could have gone to the New World with Coligny. Or at least that they would make the savages stand here on display,” my cousin says.
“Never mind,” Henri replies. “We will soon have the English to gawk at. They have let Ambassador Throckmorton out of prison to sign the treaty. I guess I will have to keep an eye on you, Cousin. Was Throckmorton not arrested for conspiring with Huguenots against the crown?”