Henri leads Elisabeth forward, followed by a pair of gentlemen. The first is old. The second must be Don Carlos. He is tall, just as I was told. I wish I could say he was handsome, which I was also promised, but there is something out of harmony in his face. His chin juts forward oddly. Yes, that must be it. It is not so bad, really. His nose is good and he has shapely calves; I can see them quite clearly as he makes his bow. I try to catch his eye, but he shows no interest in me, and little interest in Mother or my brothers. Mostly, his eyes are on Elisabeth.
Mother offers Don Carlos a smile but seems more interested in the second gentleman, the one announced as the Duc d’Alba. She holds out a hand for him to kiss. “Your Grace, we are pleased to see you. We know in what high esteem our son, His Majesty King Philip, holds you.” Her voice is pleasant, but every French courtier knows she is not pleased at all that Alba stands before her instead of Philip, and unless the Duc is an idiot he knows it as well.
“Your Majesty,” he replies in clipped tones, “it was my honor to be entrusted with the Queen of Spain’s safety, and it is my pleasure to reunite you with a beloved daughter.” He calls forward the new Spanish ambassador for introduction and I transfer my attention back to Don Carlos. His clothing, I cannot help but notice, while certainly not mean, is nowhere near as fine as that of my brothers. There is an air of shabbiness about it that puts me in mind of my cousin the Prince of Navarre—my cousin who, like the rest of his coreligionists, is absent at the King of Spain’s insistence. Periodically, Don Carlos’ head seems to jerk ever so slightly. I wonder if he is tired and having difficulty staying awake.
Mother has a lavish Collation planned, the first of many entertainments costing hundreds of thousands of écus, all intended to impress upon the Spanish that France is as great a power as Spain. Because it is a fast day, all the courses that are not sweet will be fish—each rarer than the last. I am seated beside the Prince of Asturias.
“How was Your Highness’s journey?” I start with the simplest of questions as the first dish—lamprey with white ginger and cinnamon—is brought. I am utterly ignored. The Prince simply attacks the food before him. It is as if he has not eaten in a fortnight! I am transfixed and horrified. All the more so in the next course when he slurps the broth accompanying his eels so loudly that persons seated at the tables below look up.
In a desperate attempt to make him stop, and to please Mother, who keeps casting me pointed looks, I try again. “Your Highness enjoys eel, I see.”
This time he raises his head and I expect an answer. Instead I get a belch. Then, without looking at me, he says, “Obviously.” A moment later he rises and disappears. He returns as the next course is brought. There is a fleck of something that looks like vomit in the fur at the front of his short cape.
Servants set down salmon from the Bidasoa river cooked with orange slices.
“I suppose Your Highness has seen oranges on the tree in Spain, but I had not before we visited Provence where these were picked.”
He looks at me from the corner of his eye, then takes a bite of fruit and fish together. He starts, clearly surprised. “They are sweet like those the Portuguese traders bring.” He takes another bite. “You say these were grown in France?” He appears incredulous, an expression that makes his large lower lip jut out even further.
“Yes, I saw them in fields on the Mediterranean.” Glad that I have finally managed to start a conversation, I am willing to overlook his sour expression. “Her Majesty was so delighted that she bought property near Hyères so that she may have her own park full of orange trees.”
“Such money would better be spent crushing heretics.”
“We do not need to crush anyone. France has peace.”
“Ha!” His laugh is loud and sharp. “Do not let the Duke of Alba hear you say that. His motto is Deo patrum Nostrorum and he is here to press the Tridentine decrees upon the King of France and La Serpente.”
“Who?”
He curls his upper lip back but says nothing.
He must mean my mother. A white-hot anger burns inside me, an anger hardly compatible with making myself agreeable. I am well content to let the rest of the meal pass without speaking to the Prince. I keep my gaze elsewhere as well, not so much to punish him as to avoid observing his manner of eating. As the remnants of an exquisite sugar porpoise are carried away, Mother catches my eye. She narrows her lips sternly. I know what she is saying, though she does not speak. I wish I were as skilled at conveying my thoughts by looks. I would ask her what I am to do when the Prince is boorish and unwilling to make polite conversation.
It is time for dancing. The King will open it with our honored sister. As Charles leads Elisabeth to the floor, the Prince of Asturias mumbles something under his breath. I seize upon the chance to begin again. “What was that, Your Highness?”
He stares at the dancing couple and I fear my latest effort will pass unheeded. Then he turns his eyes fully upon me and I am almost sorry. They hold enormous anger though, excepting his own behavior, nothing untoward has happened this evening. “She was supposed to marry me.”