“Daughter,” she says, “I’ve come to have a little talk.” Her smooth, unctuous tone turns the blood in my veins to ice, but I will not give her the pleasure of seeing me shiver in the summer heat and work hard to keep the hand holding the lamp from shaking as I place it back upon the table.
“What demons do you hope to banish with all this light?” Her question is oddly knowing, as if she could see into my soul. But, I try to assure myself, she cannot. Foresight she may have, but the power to see into hearts surely lies beyond her.
“I banish nothing,” I reply. “I would read and do not wish to do so in the next room where I might disturb my husband.” I pray she takes me at my word.
“Husband. Hm.” Without being invited to do so, she takes a seat at the table. Unwilling to stand before her like a naughty child, I too take a chair.
“Would it surprise you to know that I am sorry?”
The list of things my mother ought rightfully to be remorseful for is enormous. But I feel certain the greatest of her sins do not trouble her.
“Sorry?” I reply. “Madame, I can think of no apology you need make to me—at least, none which would be timely.”
“Ah, you still cleave to old grievances … to old loves…” She lets her voice trail off and turns her eyes to her own fingers, which trace the pearl pattern on the partlet that lies between us.
“You are mistaken. I do not dwell on the wrongs you have done me in the past. But nor can I forget them. Only a fool allows herself to be burned by the same candle twice. Surely you did not raise a fool.”
She smiles. Not one of her false or mocking expressions, but a genuine smile. “No, Margot, you are not a fool. Bravo. In this you achieve a great deal more than many. It is because you know how to weigh your own interests that we have something to speak of. I said I am sorry, and I am. Sorry that I forced you into a marriage with Navarre.”
She pauses to allow me to respond, but I cannot divine what is best to say, and even were I sure, my tongue cleaves to my mouth. Reaching out, she places her hand on top of mine where it rests. I cannot bear her touch. Drawing my hand away, I stand, walk to my fireplace, and turn to face her again.
“The King and I believed your marriage would bolster the Paix de Saint-Germain-en-Laye, so we urged you to overlook your qualms of conscience and your inclination. As you have ever been une fille de France and a dutiful daughter, you did so.”
I would laugh at this description of myself if the memories of how I implored Charles on my knees to give me a different husband did not pain me so.
“And now it seems your sacrifice was wasted.”
“Do you not mean my hand was wasted?” I snap. “The King and Your Majesty meant to benefit from my marriage. You needed to keep the King of Navarre close and to make it less likely he would lead troops against the crown. My marriage was intended to do that and might well have succeeded had you given the matter time. My hand could have soothed your enemies. But you were impatient and found other hands willing to slaughter them.” I stop, expecting Mother to lash out. Instead she shrugs. How very different her shrug is from the one I have become accustomed to seeing my cousin give—a shrug I used to hate but now understand. It seems to me that her gesture is uncaring and dismissive, while my cousin’s seeks to avoid disagreement or to show a brave indifference where he is anything but.
“Phrase it as you like. Yes, your hand was wasted. The question is: Will you allow it to remain so? This last week you have perceived your fortunes to be coupled to your cousin’s and acted accordingly.” She nods understandingly. Most alarming. “But look again. Now that your cousin is under the King’s thumb, held here as securely as if he were a boy once more, might you not prefer the freedom to make better, more beneficial allies?”
“You would have my marriage annulled.” Strangely, the image of my husband as a boy comes to me as I speak: he is in the Great Gallery at Fontainebleau, his hose are twisted, and he is speaking fiercely of his return to Béarn. I did not like him then. I like him now, but I do not love him.
“Yes. You can be free of Henri de Bourbon. But you must assist in your own case for the annulment.”
“Meaning?” My mother cannot need me to tell the Pope that I was married without dispensation. The Holy Father certainly knows this, even if a vast majority of the Court remains unaware of it. Therein, I suspect, lies the problem. Charles and Mother cannot be eager to trumpet the fact that they flouted papal authority just as they are being embraced as champions of the faith.
Raising her eyebrows, Mother leans forward, breaking her pose of studied nonchalance. “I spoke with Guise today. He tells me that perhaps you are not really the King of Navarre’s wife after all.”