*
We are waiting for the Swiss. That is all I know. All anyone knows. Well, that is not precisely true. Those important enough to be on His Majesty’s council doubtless know much more, but as they remain closeted with Charles, they are not to be seen or heard from. Last night I waited up for Mother, hoping to learn something. Day turned to night and still she remained absent from our room. Tucked in our bed, I left my light burning and tried to stay awake. Tried and failed.
As I pace the Bishop’s great hall on this, the morning after our arrival, I wonder: Did she even come to bed? The hall is full. There was a certain excitement, albeit driven by fear, in our rapid ride here yesterday. Now there is nothing but overcrowding, boredom, and the disagreements that arise from those conditions.
I am sitting, made silent, stupid, and irritable by ennui, when I glimpse Anjou. I have not seen my brother since Mother parted us yesterday. He will have news. He always does. I jump to my feet but Henri moves through the crowd and is lost to my eye. Frantically, I search for him, spotting his back as he exits by another door. By the time I reach the next chamber, Henri has disappeared. I press on, in each room disappointed, until I reach what appears to be the Bishop’s library. I could swear I hear Henri’s voice as I enter, but I do not see him. Stopping, I listen closely. I hear whispering and breathing other than my own. The draperies by one of the long windows twitch. Why would my brother hide from me? This is no time for games. Walking to the curtains, I pull them aside. Renée de Rieux is against the wall, her legs wrapped around my brother, who pushes himself against her again and again. It takes me a moment to realize what I am seeing, and when I do I turn and run, the sound of Renée’s laughter pursuing me long after heavy oaken doors should have killed it. I go straight to my room.
I am so angry. After the episode at Montceaux I had reason to know that my brother was involved with Renée, but knowing is far different than seeing. I close my eyes trying to banish the horrible proof that I have just had of their intimacy. It is no use—the image will not be banished.
Why her? Why? There are a dozen ladies in Her Majesty’s household more refined, prettier, and less annoying. Nay, two dozen. I tell myself that I would be more sanguine had Henri chosen any of those, but I am not sure it is true. In verity I think of my brother as mine—my confidant, my dance partner—and it bothers me that he needs any other woman.
For hours I hope that Anjou will seek me out and apologize for what I stumbled upon. But by the time I send Gillone for a cold supper, I have given up. Unable to cheer myself, I retire. I dream of Henri and Renée. He is kissing the side of her neck as I saw him do and she is laughing—laughing at me. I call out to him and the next instant, in that strange way that only happens in dreams, it is I who leans against the wall. My neck he kisses. I wake with a start and sit up to find my flesh tingling strangely. Mother is at the dressing table brushing her hair in preparation for bed. I am glad to be in shadow, I would be mortified if she could see the excitement in my body. Thank God, neither she nor anyone else can see the content of my mind. Yet, even as I am mortified by my dream, I am also angry—angry at Henri.
“Anjou has taken up with Mademoiselle de Rieux,” I blurt out.
Mother stops brushing and looks at my reflection—pale and wide-eyed—in the glass.
“I have remarked upon it,” she replies.
Good. “And what will you do?”
She regards me curiously. “Nothing. Your brother is a man now and will behave as one.”
“I do not understand.”
Mother sighs. “And I wish you did not have to. This is an uncomfortable subject, but I will press it because a woman who does not understand men’s needs will find herself a disadvantaged, heartbroken wife.” For a moment her eyes lose their focus. Then, squaring her shoulders, her gaze sharpens again. “You will seldom be the only woman in the lives of those men most important to you. Whether you have only a husband or, one day, God willing, sons, you must reconcile yourself to sharing them with mistresses.”
I swallow hard.
“You do not have to like this,” Mother says. “You may even take revenge. Do you remember when you were a little girl how I took the Chateau de Chenonceau from Diane de Poitiers?” She smiles. “That was my revenge. But notice, I waited until your father was in his grave.”