“If you know so much about securing a husband,” Fleurie challenges, “why do you not have one?”
“I am a different case. I have a title and wealth of my own. Those bring freedom. I must marry to be sure, and mean to do so before we return to Paris if I can.”
“And what shall you look for in a husband?” Charlotte asks.
“A man of the Court who understands it thoroughly. Someone of importance. Oh”—she winks—“and a man without any gray in his beard, so that when I lie beneath him I am not kept awake by the creaking of his knees.”
I give a little laugh, hoping that it sounds worldly. I am quite sure I have a far less complete understanding of what goes on when a man and woman perform the act of love than my companions, but would prefer not to seem the na?f.
After a cold dinner, the members of the Court begin to doze. Though my stomach is full and my head buzzing with all the wonderful if sometimes wicked things I heard at the Duchesse de Nevers’ elbow, I have no intention of napping. Unlike Her Grace, I find the scenery we pass entirely engaging. Leaving my sleeping companions, I go to the rail for a better view.
My eyes are on a group of people on the bank elaborately saluting the King—little knowing that he dozes in his lavish chair—when my cousin joins me. I know it is him by the state of his hose and shoes, which I glance at surreptitiously. I have no intention of turning noticeably in his direction and engaging him.
“Shall I tell you a secret?” he asks without preamble.
“What makes you think I would keep it?” The last thing I want is to be the Prince of Navarre’s confidante.
“I would not assume as much, but if you gave me your word I would trust it.” I am considering my response but my cousin does not wait. “You are the only lady who does not find the sun too strong.” He gestures to those under the elaborate canopy. “They are being silly because travel continues all summer and they are sure to get browned by the sun on horseback. They might as well enjoy the view as we do.”
I was enjoying the view. I bite my tongue to keep from saying this. I know from past experience that, though my cousin provokes my incivility, I am never happy with myself once I have been rude to him. I begin to feel bad for even thinking such a harsh thing.
“What is your secret?” I ask, turning to look him in the face. The question is my penance.
He looks at me expectantly.
“I give you my word I will keep it.”
“You know my mother meets us at Macon.”
I do, and I have apprehended how excited my cousin is for this event. Henri and some of his friends have laughed over it, but, much as I do not like the Prince of Navarre, I could not join them. My cousin has not seen his mother in nearly two years. I know well how this feels.
He moves closer. “I will be going back to Gascony with her.”
“I am happy for you.” I am. My cousin, despite his long residence with it, seems continually out of place in my brother’s Court. He fits in better on the road where he can ride all day. I’ve even observed him on foot, running in the dust with some of the pages. And he appears to enjoy adventure more than many in the train. Another thing we have in common. The thought of having multiple things in common with the Prince of Navarre is unsettling. Still, it cannot be denied. I simply do not understand the complaining that some do about the inconveniences of travel. They are, to my mind, entirely outweighed by the novelty of new places.
Yet even on tour the Prince of Navarre remains distinctly “other.” Odd, I think: it is not his religion that makes him so—many Protestants travel with us and blend in until a Sabbath or holy day presents itself and they separate themselves for their odd worship. The Prince de Condé, who recently departed the train, never sticks out so, and he is a great leader of the Huguenots—something it is hard for me to imagine my cousin will ever be.
*
We dock close to Macon in ample time before Charles’ planned Entrée joyeuse. As they are positioning the plank, I notice a woman with hair the color of Elizabeth of England’s waiting, surrounded by half a dozen richly clad gentlemen. Their deference to her is clear. And her identity is made obvious to me by the agitation of my cousin, who nearly jostles the King in his attempts to move closer to where the plank meets the deck. This must be Jeanne d’Albret, come to receive us. A little forward of her, a young man in clerical robes also waits. The moment the plank is secured, he strides up it. On deck he kneels before Her Majesty, pressing a message upon her. Her face clouds as she reads it.
“Your Majesty, what is it?” the chancellor asks.
“Some of His Majesty’s subjects insulted the host at the Corpus Christi procession.”
I feel unsteady on my feet and not from the sway of the boat. Mother does not say the word Protestant, but what other sort of subjects could behave in such an abominable manner?