Of course I have heard this story—everyone has. Just as everyone, even his children, knows that my father kept Diane de Poitiers as his mistress. Still, to hear my mother state as much out loud is a difficult thing. I draw up my knees and wrap my arms about them in discomfort.
“I was polite to Madame while His Majesty lived, for the King’s sake,” Mother continues, “but also for my own. Had I harangued your father, pressing him to be rid of the lady, all I would have done was anger him and extinguish the power and influence I sought to cultivate.
“But I get ahead of myself. I would not merely tell you a story but give you a lesson—something you can use to manage your own future.”
Coming to the bed, she sits and lays a hand upon my arm where it wraps around my knees. “It is to your advantage to permit and ignore those women who are least dangerous—those less clever than you, lacking connections, or with personal attributes which presage a short tenure. A woman who a man will soon tire of is no serious threat. In the case of your father, I did not have the opportunity to suborn such a liaison. Diane de Poitiers was in the King’s heart before I came to France. Had I arrived and found His Majesty without a mistress, I would have made it my business to steer him toward a woman loyal to myself. One must be clever where there is a husband to be managed.”
“But Anjou is not a husband. He is your son. If you chastise him, surely he will cast off Mademoiselle de Rieux.”
“You fixate too much on the present situation,” she replies with exasperation. “You are correct that the power of a woman over her child exceeds that of a wife over her husband. Sons are still men, however. They may be led from reason—from the good guidance of those who care for them most—by pretty eyes and easily opened thighs.”
I look away. Thinking of Renée’s thighs, which I so recently glimpsed, makes me feel sick.
Ignoring my discomfort, Mother proceeds. “Your brother is in the first flush of his manhood, and a glorious manhood it will be. He has been tutored in languages, in diplomacy, in combat. His education will not be complete until he is tutored in the ways of the flesh. I have weighed the Mademoiselle and think she will do quite well for that task. She will satisfy his desire for carnal pleasure, but I need not fear he will become so entangled as to be dangerously influenced.”
Curious, I turn my gaze back to Mother’s face.
She smiles. “Renée is not intelligent enough to entertain Henri’s mind, nor graceful enough to please his aesthetic eye for long. He may lust for her but he will never love her. And he will never credit her counsel in place of mine.”
I sense that she wants me to acknowledge her lesson. Not wishing to disappoint, I say, “Madame, I understand.”
If she senses that I lie, she does not betray as much.
“Good,” she says, patting my knee and then climbing into bed. “Now to sleep. When the Swiss arrive, we depart.”
*
The sound is like thunder. Someone pounds upon the door. Gillone springs from her pallet, eyes wild like an animal’s in the low light cast by the embers of a nearly dead fire.
“Hand me my surcote.” Mother’s voice is strong and clear. As she rises and pulls on the garment she calls, “Enter.”
I have just enough time to pull the covers to my chin before the door swings wide.
The Duc de Nevers and Baron de Retz stand wreathed in light from lanterns they carry.
“The gates of the city have opened for the Swiss,” Nevers says.
“What is the hour?” Mother asks, continuing to fasten her surcote.
“Just past three.”
“I will rouse the King, you the Court. We depart as soon as horses can be saddled.”
There is no panic in her voice. I wish I could say the same for my breast! To ride out of Meaux in darkness—never as I was drifting to sleep did I interpret Mother’s words that we would depart at the arrival of the Swiss to mean a nighttime flight!
At the door Mother turns, claps her hands, and says, “Get dressed.”
I scramble out of bed. Gillone hunts for a clean chemise. “Never mind,” I tell her. “Help me into what I took off last night and have done with it.”
Taking the steps two at a time, I arrive in the torchlit courtyard to find that the unseasonably warm weather has flown. The air is chill and moist. A stiff breeze off the river rattles shutters. My riding cloak is too light for such conditions but I do not have another. Climbing into the saddle, I lean over my horse’s neck and say a little prayer of thanksgiving for the warmth of its body. I look for Mother, but see neither her nor the King. I do spot Anjou beside a sleepy-eyed Mademoiselle de Rieux. He abandons her and rides toward me.
“Stay with me that I may keep you safe,” he says.
“I am frightened.”