“I never can deny you anything.”
“Nor can Mother, and you know it. Besides, we go to Montceaux. That chateau always softens her heart by putting her in mind of Father. Just this morning she was remarking how much like him I have grown.”
I think of the only portrait I have seen of my father as a young man—the one with him seated on a white horse, by Clouet. My brother has our father’s nose and his mouth. But Henri’s dark eyes and rich, dark hair make him altogether more pleasing to look at. “Duc d’Anjou, you are far more handsome.” The appellation is a private joke. When Henri was invested last year, he became obsessed with being called by his new title—though why “Anjou” sounded so much better to him than “Orléans,” I cannot say. I still poke fun at him for his vanity on the subject.
“Oh, to be thought handsome by the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.” Henri tucks my hand over his arm. “How very politic of you to flatter me, Margot. Now, if Her Majesty says there can be no women at my boar hunt, I must choose some other type of game. For I would not hunt without you for anything.”
*
“Is that the Duc de Guise?” I ask Charlotte. We are in the grotto at Montceaux, watching Anjou make quick work of several other gentlemen at a game of paille-maille.
“Where?”
Leaning forward, I point to the end of Monsieur de l’Orme’s fanciful setting, where rocks built to look as if they were molded by nature cease, giving way to flat lawn bathed in strong autumn sunlight. A young man pauses at the entrance, half in light, half in shadow. It seems to me he would be the Duc de Guise’s elder brother if His Grace had one, for he is far taller than the Duc was when last I saw him.
“Oh, goodness! I think it is!”
“Hearing he was back from Austria is not quite the same as seeing, is it, ladies?” Henriette gives one of her wicked smiles. “Regard how my sister looks at him! Her husband had best take care before he is cuckolded again.”
I look for the Princesse de Porcien and find her farther up the court, turned entirely in the direction that I just pointed.
“Shocking!” Charlotte whispers. “She is too old for him.”
“I see,” Henriette responds. “But you are not. Perhaps it is the Baron de Sauve who needs warning. Poor man, in danger of being given a pair of horns when he has not been married half a year.”
Charlotte, who long pined for a husband, was given one this spring—Simon de Fizes, former secretary to the King, and currently a secretary of state. He was not what she expected and she shed many tears thinking, with good reason, the gentleman beneath her. For though he is a baron, Fizes bought his land and title not five years ago from the Bishop of Montpellier and by birth he is a peasant’s son.
“No, indeed,” Charlotte says. “Guise is not for me. Not because I fear the Baron, but I know my duty as a lady of the robes and maid of honor.” My friend folds her hands primly and compresses her mouth into a dour expression—for a moment. Then, ceasing to play act, she smiles deviously. “When I cuckold my husband, it is with gentlemen of Her Majesty’s choosing.”
All three of us collapse into fits of laughter.
When I have enough breath to speak, I say, “Henriette, the Duc deserves better than to be painted in your sister’s Book of Hours hanging from a cross.” The Princesse has the odd habit of having former lovers thus portrayed, and every lady at the Court knows it, even as her husband seems pointedly to ignore the rumor.
“Does he?” Henriette looks at me sharply. “Could it be that you have an interest?”
“Why not?” Glancing back down the court, I observe that the Duc has taken a seat among the King’s gentlemen and Charles turns to greet him. Guise is undeniably more handsome than when he left to fight the Turks, and when he smiles in response to some words of the King’s, his face gains a liveliness that makes it more attractive still. As I am staring—and, yes, I must admit I am—the Duc’s glance shifts and his eyes, unexpectedly, meet mine. My stomach trembles. He tilts his head slightly as if questioning me or perhaps taking my measure. Then a burst of applause breaks our gaze. The match is over. Anjou has won. My companions rise and the face and figure of the Duc are lost in a sea of skirts. By the time I reach my own feet and look again in his direction, he is gone.
I feel a certain disappointment, but it is swept away as Henri leaps the low wall dividing the alley from the gallery to be with me. “Ah, the day’s victor!” I give a small curtsy.
“It takes very little effort to beat that lot,” Henri replies. “Thank heavens, Guise has come. There will be decent tennis at last.”