“They refused to remove their hats as it passed. Some heckled and others shoved those accompanying the Blessed Sacrament.”
The Abbé de Brant?me, standing behind Her Majesty, mutters, “Heaven protect us from heretics.”
Amen.
Mother looks past the messenger and my gaze follows hers to where the Queen of Navarre stands.
She offers her hand to the young priest so he may kiss it, then takes Charles’ arm. “Let us not keep your cousin waiting. Where is the Prince of Navarre?” Spotting him, she says, “Come walk between my own son and daughter.” Perceiving a number of incredulous looks, she adds, “Those who did not respect the Eucharist wish to divide France once more, and the King will no more permit such a division than he will allow their abominable behavior to pass uncorrected.”
On shore the greetings between the Queen of Navarre, Charles, and Mother are gracious and formal. I swear I can feel every one of my cousin’s muscles straining where he stands beside me waiting for the pleasantries to be finished. More than once, I catch Jeanne d’Albret’s eyes wandering in his direction while others are speaking. The niceties at an end, Jeanne moves to stand before her son. He bows.
“My son, it has been too long. I have been glad of your letters.”
My cousin looks into her face with eyes that are nakedly eager. I have the feeling that were they in private he would throw his arms about his mother. I wish away the hundreds of souls who must perceive as I do, and not because I am embarrassed by his lack of fashionable detachment—well, not entirely. His pleasure at seeing his mother moves me and I wish he could indulge in his impulse.
“I hope, Madame, you did not mind my spelling errors too much.”
The Queen of Navarre smiles slightly. “We will talk of that later.” Turning to Mother, she says, “Thank you for your attention to the Prince’s studies and for your care of his person.”
“Ce n’était rien. You are family and therefore he is as precious to us as he is to you,” Mother replies without a hint of irony. “We endure this parting only because it is brief, and because we will see the both of you during the ceremonies that mark His Majesty’s time in Macon.” Mother watches as Jeanne puts her hand on my cousin’s shoulder; then, just as the Queen of Navarre is about to lead her son away, Mother says, “Apropos such ceremonies, you will join us on Thursday next, I am sure, for an additional event. His Majesty is ordering the Corpus Christi procession repeated. We understand that the original was marred by some unbecoming conduct that I must ask you, by your sway among certain communities, to help ensure is not repeated.”
It is clear that the Queen of Navarre knows what Mother refers to. Her lips compress. The gentlemen accompanying her murmur among themselves.
“Your Majesty knows that our faith will not permit us to walk in such procession,” Jeanne d’Albret replies.
“Ah, but as His Majesty insists respect be shown to your sect, surely you and its other adherents can vouchsafe your Catholic brethren the same by attending.”
“We will attend.”
Mother lays her hand on my cousin Henri’s other shoulder, closing her fingers. The boy is now between the two queens. There is an obvious tension and for one wild moment I nearly expect each to begin tugging upon him.
“Why, then you must sit beside me,” Mother says. “And as he is but a boy and so accustomed to being with his cousins, you must give the Prince of Navarre leave to dress as an angel with my own children.”
The two queens gaze into each other’s eyes. Neither smiles, though the image of my cousin costumed as an angel ought to seem humorous to anyone who knows him.
“I suppose there is no harm in that,” the Queen of Navarre replies at last. “It might do His Majesty’s Catholic subjects good to be reminded that there are Protestants in heaven.”
Heretics in heaven? Never!
“I hope such angels show better respect to their Catholic fellows than those of your sect in Macon.” Mother releases my cousin’s shoulder and the Queen of Navarre leads him away.
*
My cousin bore being an angel very well. He only stepped on his robe twice and on mine once. I tolerated being trod upon with equanimity because I knew that today we would return to our boat, while he would ride south with his mother. Twice in the course of the procession—which this time met with nothing from the Protestant inhabitants of the city but bowed and uncovered heads—he reminded me in a whisper that he would be back in the Pyrenees before long. It was not to be, however. Instead I stand watching Jeanne d’Albret take leave of her son.
There is pain in the Queen of Navarre’s eyes. But nothing compared to the agony that transfigures my cousin’s entire face.
“Why?” I whisper to the Duchesse de Nevers. “Why does he not go? Why would his mother take gold instead?”