I feel my face color, and make a low curtsy by way of reply—far easier than finding my voice.
“It pleases me to see both children in health.” Mother offers the Baronne an approving nod. “The thought of them here, safe, where the air is pure and free from both the infection of war and the creeping illness of heresy, was a great consolation to me while I attempted to talk peace with the Prince de Condé.”
At Mother’s mention of the notorious heretic commander Madame crosses herself. I mimic her gesture.
“I trust there are no French prayers here,” Mother continues.
“No indeed, Your Majesty!”
“Good. I have rooted out whatever there was of that nonsense in my Henri.” Her eyes shift back to me. “Does it please you to know that, when you see your brother next, there will be no need for you to hide your Book of Hours?”
I nod. I am pleased. Pleased to have Mother’s attention, and pleased that my brother will no longer be inclined to cast my books on the fire. While we were living in company, he burned more than one. He gave me a book of Huguenot prayers to replace them, but I gave that to Madame and prayed daily that he would turn away from heresy. I was not sorry when his transgressions came to Mother’s attention, though I was sorry for the beating he got as a result.
“The Lady Marguerite is very pious,” Madame says. These are surely meant to be words of praise; why, then, does she shift from foot to foot? “But…” Her voice trails off and she clasps and unclasps her hands.
“Yes,” Mother urges. The eyes upon me harden.
“Your Majesty,” Madame’s voice drops as if she will tell something very secret, “the Lady Marguerite knew you were coming. Knew it before the courier arrived.” She crosses herself again.
“She knew?”
“Yes…” Madame’s voice fades. I can hear her swallow. “During our morning lessons she told me she was waiting for you.”
Mother’s eyes sparkle. “So, Margot, it seems you are a daughter of the Médicis as well as the Valois.”
I do not understand. Nor, it appears, does Madame. She looks entirely bewildered.
“I foresaw your father’s death,” Mother says, looking me in the eye. “I dreamt of his face covered with blood. I begged him not to enter the lists on the day he was mortally wounded. He would not listen.” There is tremendous sadness in her voice, but then the corners of her mouth creep upward, almost slyly. “Some fear the gift of premonition. But I tell you, daughter, never fear what is useful to you.” Mother intertwines her fingers before her and her smile grows.
“Mark my words, Baronne, I will find a crown for this one, as I did for her sister the Queen of Spain. There will be no need to settle for a Duc as we did for Claude.”
I have but imperfect memories of my sister the Duchesse de Lorraine, but I know that she had a sweet temper and a deformed leg. Apparently the former mattered less than the latter when it came to making a match for her. I find this both surprising and interesting.
I wonder if this talk of my future means I will be allowed to return to Court with Mother. I am too young to be married, but surely I could learn many things—both from observing Her Majesty and from her retinue of great ladies. Henri is at Court; why not me? I open my mouth to ask, then close it again.
“Have you something to say, child?” The question stuns me. Nothing, not a breath, not a twitch, escapes Mother’s attention.
“I…” The permission I would seek lies on the tip of my tongue. Instead I hear my voice say, “I have prepared a recitation for Your Majesty’s pleasure.”
“Well then, go on.”
Frustrated by my own timidity, I will myself to ask the question, but the moment has passed. I have been bid recite. Obedience and training take over. Almost without volition, the well-rehearsed Plutarch pours smoothly from me like wine from a cask. My mother’s glance never leaves my face. When I am finished, I stand, hands clasped, waiting for her verdict. Perhaps if she praises me I might raise the topic of Court.
But no words of praise come, at least not for me. Instead, the Queen’s attention turns to Madame. “The effects of your tutelage show well in the Princess. I think, perhaps, she may be ready for more rigorous study.”
“A tutor at her age, Your Majesty?” Madame seems mildly shocked, and her reaction rankles me. I know that I am clever.
“Yes. To secure a crown Margot’s looks and family name may be enough, but to be useful to us once she is crowned, more will be required. To be a queen, a disciplined and developed mind is essential.”
And like that our audience is over. Mother merely waves her hand by way of dismissal and, as Madame shepherds us toward the door, picks up a piece of fruit from a bowl on her table.
Well, I console myself as I am tucked into my bed, perhaps I will manage to find the courage to ask about Court tomorrow. When I awake in the morning and learn the Queen has gone—departed without taking leave of Fran?ois or me—I hide and cry bitter tears.
CHAPTER 1