“Will you start rumors that you are a wanton at twelve and worse still that you sin with your own brother?”
Dear God, how could Mother think such a thing? How could she imagine that my behavior—motivated by the purest love and a desire to save my brother from suffering—is driven by impure thoughts? Or that being found with my brother could impute a damaging unchastity in any but the most twisted, unchristian of minds? I am horrified. I want to tell her she demeans me and herself by such inferences. But, of course, I have not the courage.
When I remain silent, Mother throws up her hands. “I have done with you. I am too tired to waste another breath on your stupidity. Go to your room. Tell no one of this. And let me be plain: if you repeat such behavior, your trip will be over and you will be sent back to Vincennes to join your brother Fran?ois.”
*
I am not allowed into Henri’s apartment again until he is declared out of danger—not even into the antechamber to keep a vigil. On the day I am admitted, Henri sits as he did when he was first ill, propped against a myriad of pillows. He holds out both arms to me and, when I stoop into his embrace, kisses each of my cheeks in turn.
“You may go,” he says to Charles’ nurse. She does not move from her place. “Do you not hear me, woman?” The tone of command in Henri’s voice does my heart good. He must truly be on the mend. It also has the desired effect on the nurse, who scuttles out.
“You do not look happy,” my brother observes.
“Oh, I am! Happy that you are past danger. I was so worried.”
“I do not doubt it.” He holds out a hand for mine. “You sang to me.”
He remembers! Suddenly how angry my actions made Mother—a thing that has bothered me continuously—seems less important. “I did.”
“And held me in your arms. Then you were gone. How I wanted you back. I asked Mother but she would not yield. She is angry at you. Why?”
I cannot say Mother is angry because I crawled into his bed. So I offer the easiest answer. “Don Carlos said he would not have me for a bride even if his father wished it. I have failed Mother and failed His Majesty.”
Henri squeezes my hand tight. His face, transformed by rage, looks a good deal more like Mother’s than it does under the influence of other expressions. Still, this rage does not frighten or chasten me: it pleases me, for I know it is directed at those who have slighted me.
“Devil take the Prince of Asturias! Devil take all the Spanish!” he exclaims. “They have offended the two most important ladies of the French court.”
I begin to cry, my tears occasioned not only by his recovery but by the fierce affection he shows me. No one loves me more.
Henri’s face grows gentle. He puts his left hand under my chin, tips it up, and wipes my tears. “Why should you care if you are rejected by a man whose head is full of trephination holes? You are my princess, not his, and I would not have you as far away as Spain however important the crown. Not even to please Mother.”
PART TWO
Amour de Seigneur est ombre de buisson …
(The love of a great man is either momentary or dangerous…)
CHAPTER 4
Late Summer, 1567—Montceaux, France
Henri sweeps into the room. “The Duc d’Alba has reached the Spanish Netherlands,” he declares. There is a collective expression of pleasure from the ladies present. I am pleased too, of course—pleased that the Spanish have not set foot in French territories. Beyond that, I hope that Prince Don Carlos is apoplectic. I heard that he wanted command of the King of Spain’s troops—that he had in fact been promised it—but Alba got it in the end, and the appointment as governor as well. It has been more than two years since I saw the Prince of Asturias, but I have not forgotten his disdain.
Henri pokes me where I stand lost in thought. He wants my attention and he shall have it. He is far more worthy of it than the Spanish prince. He is the center of my world.
“Her Majesty is on her knees giving thanks,” he continues. He is trying so hard to affect a solemn look that I know something pleasant is coming. “After which,” he pauses for effect, “she plans to shoot clay balls.” His smile can no longer be suppressed. “You know what that means.”
Of course I do. “Hunting! We are going hunting!” I dance about as I sing the words and end by throwing my arms around Henri’s neck. The other ladies laugh and clap.
Picking me up, my brother spins me. “For a month at least! I mean to demand a boar for my birthday.” Then, raising a hand to stop the objection he knows is on the tip of my tongue, he adds, “And I mean to demand you be permitted to join us in hunting it.”
“Her Majesty will never allow that.”
Henri’s back stiffens at the challenge. “She will. And she will agree to come herself. Would you deny me my heart’s desire for my natal day?”