“You do not believe me?” It is he who grabs my arm this time, dragging me back toward the door. “Go in and see for yourself. I left her crying.”
I have absolutely no desire to see Mother in such a state. Wrenching away, I run as hard as I can, not stopping until I gain my room. Charlotte is there. At the sight of her I forget Henri’s bad behavior.
“It is Her Majesty’s desire that I should marry the Prince of Asturias.”
“A royal marriage!” Charlotte shouts. The servants folding and packing my things look up.
“Hush, I am not supposed to speak of it widely.”
“Why not? If it is the Queen’s will, then surely it will happen—”
I must admit I feel the same. My mother’s will is strong, and, in all modesty I believe my personal appearance and attributes make me an attractive prospect as a bride.
“—and then I will be the only one of us without a husband.” Charlotte’s face falls. Henriette married Louis de Gonzague, Prince of Mantua, in March. She is not overly fond of the gentleman. But he is one of Charles’ secretaries of state and he is no graybeard, so, all in all, she declares him an unobjectionable husband.
“Not for long, I am sure. No woman as beautiful as you finds herself single at sixteen unless she wills it so,” I reply, hoping this consoles her.
It does. She smiles. “I would still rather have been married before my thirteenth birthday, as it appears you shall be. Promise that I can help carry your mantle at the Mass. Or do you think the ceremony will be in Spain? That would be too cruel. Next to a wedding of my own, I will enjoy yours more than anything.” She hugs me hard.
While she is squeezing the breath out of me, my sister Claude and the Baronne de Retz come in. Both are beaming.
“Here comes another bride to be,” Charlotte exclaims, releasing me. My gouvernante is betrothed to Albert de Gondi, Charles’ former tutor and a man much in favor with both the King and Mother. He has just been made Premier Gentilhomme de la chamber du Roi, but Henriette insists such titles can never erase the fact he was born a Florentine merchant’s son.
“Felicitations!” Claude cries, hugging me. “It seems, of three sisters, two were destined for Spanish climes, and I can hardly regret being left behind when I have my dear Duc de Lorraine.”
“And your pretty baby,” I say, kissing her. The image of my chubby, pink nephew, whose baptism we attended near the start of our journey, fills my mind. How I would like a pretty baby of my own. “Tell me everything about the Prince! Her Majesty told me nothing … not even his name.”
*
His name is Don Carlos. He is nearly twenty. They tell me he is tall. They say his father holds him in great esteem and that when he had an accident three years ago and all thought he would die, Philip asked for a miracle and promised to work one for God in return if the boy were spared.
My new gowns have been fitted. Today I wear the first. It is black, because, Mother assures me, that is the Spanish taste. It seems the wrong color for the weather. It is horribly hot. For this reason the Queen of Spain’s entry into Bayonne takes place in the evening. But even though the sun has set, I can feel perspiration beneath my chemise. I sway slightly where I stand with Their Majesties, surrounded by a glittering array of courtiers and a hundred torch bearers. Is my unsteadiness a result of the heat or my nerves? Although we met my sister Elisabeth yesterday—receiving her quietly at Saint Jean de Luz and enjoying a private dinner as if we were any family and not a family in possession of multiple crowns—I have good reason to be apprehensive. Today I will meet my future husband for the first time.
My dear Henri is charged with escorting our sister into Bayonne. He rides beside her, springing from his horse to help her down from her stunning jeweled saddle. When they are side by side, it is easy to see they are brother and sister. Elisabeth’s skin is pale, her cheeks are a delicate pink, and her eyes are dark. She is lovely. Everyone says so and I thrill at the thought that I have been told that I am better looking than she. I wonder if the Spanish prince will see this at once? I know my vanity is a sin, but can it really be wrong to wish my future husband to find me beautiful?