The Duc looks him straight in the eye. “I am sorry, I cannot. The victory is yours.” He bows and begins to leave the court.
Henri takes a step to follow, his face livid. Guast catches him by the arm. “Come, there are better ways to celebrate victory than chasing after a man who cannot be bothered to properly finish a game.”
“You are right. Let him go, the poor sport.”
Does my brother not realize that he is the one who appears less than sportsmanlike? Or am I the only one who sees what the Duc has done: he refused to replay the point because to do so would be to admit his fair shot foul. He knew he had won the game and knowing was enough. He needed no further recognition. Or perhaps he did … perhaps he wanted mine and said as much with his last look.
Anjou’s friends crowd round him. He accepts their approbation and then heads toward the rail. He will expect my congratulations and I am prepared to give them, even if they feel hollow. Rising to embrace him, I am stunned when he quickly releases me and turns to Mademoiselle de Rieux.
She seems to make a point of breathing deeply before speaking. “You must be exhausted.”
“Indeed, not,” Henri replies. “I am barely winded.”
Renée leans across the rail and puts her lips beside Anjou’s ear. “I can remedy that.”
I wonder if I misheard, but the laughter and leering looks of my brother’s companions suggest not.
Anjou gives a nod and swaggers off, trailed by his friends. Before they reach the door, Mademoiselle de Rieux makes a hasty exit.
“Well, it seems Renée has succeeded at last,” Charlotte says.
“I do not understand,” I say. But I am afraid I do.
“Come, you are not a little girl,” Henriette chides. “Men your brother’s age have mistresses, and Renée has wanted to be a royal mistress since the moment your brother’s voice broke. What do you think His Majesty does with Mademoiselle Touchet?”
“But Charles loves Marie!” The comparison between Marie, all modesty and reserve, and Mademoiselle de Rieux angers me.
“It appears he does,” Henriette concedes. “What difference does that make?”
“A very great difference to the lady,” Charlotte says.
“I think not,” Henriette says. “In the end, both will be displaced, and will be left with whatever wealth and titles they manage to accrue during their tenure. If those be generous, the quality of their memories will be secondary. If those be deficient, then all past whispered words of affection will provide little consolation.”
“I cannot believe Henri would choose a lady of such little refinement,” I say, sticking out my chin.
“Do not believe it, then.” Henriette shrugs. “Whatever you choose to credit, do not let it spoil your mood.”
But my mood is spoiled. I break from my friends and head in the direction of my brother’s apartment, telling myself I will speak to him about the hunt, but knowing that I truly go in hopes of proving Henriette in error. I am accustomed to being received in Anjou’s rooms at all times. When I sweep into his antechamber, I breathe a sigh of relief. It is filled, as always, with a collection of gentlemen playing at dice, joking and drinking. Spotting Saint-Luc, I ask, “Where is Anjou?”
The others laugh, but Saint-Luc looks mortified. Leaping to his feet he says, “Resting.”
This remark brings another burst of laughter.
“I wish I were resting as he is,” Saint-Mégrin says.
“With His Grace?” one of the others asks, earning himself a cuff on the ears.
I feel my face burn. Saint-Luc offers an arm. “Come, I will walk you back to Her Majesty’s apartment,” he says.
I know he means to be kind, but the thought of him walking beside me and seeing my embarrassment mortifies me. “Thank you, no,” I say, fleeing. Just outside, I lean my back against the wall and cover my face with my hands. I cannot tell which I am more, embarrassed or angry. One thing is certain: my desire to have the Duc de Guise’s attention is made stronger. If my brother thinks he can have Renée on one arm and me on the other, he is much mistaken!
*
The time to hunt arrives. As soon as I am in the saddle, I begin to look for Guise. The courtyard is crowded and every figure seems to be in motion. Mother, beside me with her favorite bird on her arm, is eager to begin. Falconry is a great passion, and when we go hawking, she sheds many years and many cares. As the gates open I spot the Duc, but I lose sight of him as we stream out. I see him next as we pause, and the men handling the dogs fan out across a meadow under direction of the Grand Fauconnier. The Duc sits with Charles, the tawny color of his doublet complementing his hair.