Henri told me this morning that the Prince of Navarre would remain because His Majesty paid for the continued privilege of our cousin’s company.
“She took the gold because she is no fool,” Her Grace replies. “She would not have the boy in any event. Her Majesty made up her mind that his presence with the Court is necessary to the peace.”
“How? He does nothing but race, ride, and wrestle like the rest of the gentlemen his age.”
“Think, Your Highness. Think of the history of your own father. Did he not spend some years as a guest of the King of Spain?”
My cousin throws his arms about his mother, heedless of the snickers of some courtiers. My stomach tightens. My father was held hostage by the Spanish king—as a living guarantee that the French would give him no trouble. I do not believe I will ever like my cousin, but I cannot help feeling sorry for him.
“I should not like to be kept away from my family by politics,” I whisper to the Duchesse. She looks at me oddly.
My cousin’s tutor puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him toward the boat. The Prince of Navarre is not, I am relieved to see, crying. Charles and Mother move onto the deck with light steps, but my cousin, just behind them, trudges. Then he is lost to my view as the rest of the gentlemen and ladies in our party stream aboard.
*
The year is changing. Not from one to the next—that would be quite ordinary—but the very essence of what a year is. We are at Roussillon, and Charles has signed an ordinance proclaiming that henceforth each year will begin on the first of January instead of on Holy Saturday after vespers. This is monumental.
Something else monumental has occurred. This morning when I arose from my bed my linen and my shift were soiled. And though I was horribly embarrassed, and blushed throughout the Baronne de Retz’s earnest instructions on the finer points of managing what will henceforth be a monthly event, my delight outweighs my distress. I am, at last, a woman. The words fill my head, but I cannot imagine saying them to anyone—not even Charlotte or the Duchesse de Nevers. The latter has become as close a companion as the former during these travels, and now permits me to call her Henriette. Will my friends know by looking at me? Will Mother? Surely Her Majesty will be told, for this development makes me marriageable. Will she say something to me? Will a prospective groom be mentioned at once?
I examine myself in my glass. Other than my cheeks being a little pink with excitement, I can detect no overt change. Disappointing. Well, at the very least I can make an alteration myself. Sitting at my dressing table, I unfasten my partlet at the front and open it, pushing the fabric back beneath the edges of my kirtle as necessary to achieve the desired effect. That is better.
I often feel as if my life, the real living of it, began when I joined Mother’s household. I remarked as much to Henri the other day and he laughed. “By that calculation you are an infant too young even to walk,” he said. Perhaps he has been out of the nursery too long to remember its limits. I remember them well—remember when the most exciting thing was the arrival of Mother, or catching a glimpse of some other person of import. Now I see important people every day, and Mother too. Yet, despite being the Duchesse de Valois and sister of the King, I am not an important person myself.
That is what I crave next.
CHAPTER 3
May 1565—Bordeaux, France
Mother’s room is littered with things and with women packing them for tomorrow’s departure. I assume I have been summoned to assist, but at the sight of me she claps her hands. “Ladies,” she says, “the Duchesse de Valois and I have business.”
As the others depart, I contemplate her statement. Business? To my certain knowledge, my mother and I have never had “business.” As she passes me, my sister Claude, who recently arrived to join the royal train, offers me an excited smile.
When we are alone, there is no preamble. “You know we meet the Spanish next month.”
“Indeed, Madame, planning for the event is all anyone speaks of.” I might add: or has spoken of for at least three months. Unfortunately, the anticipated event is not as Mother envisioned it. Mother had been promised the attendance of King Philip, or so she thought. When she was told that the King refused to come—a show of his disapproval for the continuing peace with the Protestants—she went into a rage.
“May Henri and I dance in one of the entertainments?” I ask. “Our Spanish Pavane was much admired in Toulouse.”
“Yes, there will be balls, ballets, and every sort of grand entertainment,” Mother replies. “But, daughter, these are merely the trimmings, not the gown. When you are a queen, pray remember that agreements are more easily made in pleasant surroundings than in austere ones. And it is those agreements that truly matter.”
“Queen?”
“Have you forgotten I promised you a crown?” She lifts her right hand and strokes a bit of hair at my temple.