Winter 1564—Fontainebleau, France
“Dear God, the cold!”
It must be the hundredth time my gouvernante has uttered these words, or something very like, in the last three days.
“It was also cold in Amboise,” I reply, trying to keep my voice cheerful while repressing an urge to kick Madame in the shins as she sits across from me in the coach. How can she think of the cold at a time like this?
“There were fires at Amboise, Your Highness, and chimneys that drew properly.”
When we stopped at Nemours last evening, Madame was nearly smothered, thanks to an ill-maintained flue. Well, she can hardly blame me: I wanted to continue on to Fontainebleau, as it could not be more than another two hours’ ride. Madame, however, insisted we stop. She wanted me freshly dressed and looking my best for our arrival at the chateau, for my arrival at Court.
Court—since word came a fortnight ago that I was summoned, I have thought of nothing else. I am going to join the Court, and the Court ensemble will depart upon the largest royal progress ever undertaken.
Drawing back a tiny corner of the heavy drapes that cover the window, so as not to seem disrespectful of Madame’s comfort, I devour the landscape. The views on our trip have been dominated by rivers—first the Loire and then the Loing—but we are surrounded by woods now, the royal forest of Fontainebleau. Most of the trees are leafless in the gray winter light, but I can imagine them clothed in green, just as I can imagine a royal hunting party like those my brother Henri and I used to watch at Vincennes. I can almost see the riders in their dazzling attire moving between the trees; hear the snorts and pawings of the horses, and the barking of the dogs. I do not need to imagine the stag, for suddenly, juste à c?té the road, a magnificent animal appears.
“Look!” I cry. But Madame and the other ladies are too slow. Before their heads turn, the stag is gone. Never mind—there will be more of interest to be seen, much more. I remain eyes out the window and mute, letting the conversation of my companions flow over me like water over stone. For a time I forget the scenery and think of my younger brother. How Fran?ois cried when he discovered that he would not make the progress. He was told he is too young for such exhausting travel and too imperfectly recovered from a bout of smallpox that nearly killed him just short of a year ago. He insisted he was neither. Then, late on the night before he left for Vincennes, where he will stay, he woke me to say he thought the pox was to blame for his exclusion.
“It is because I do not look right,” he said, tears streaming down his scarred face. “They are afraid I will scare the horses and ruin the pageants.”
I told him not to cry, that no one would be frightened of him. To lie in such a situation cannot be a sin. In truth, the damage illness did to my once comely brother is shocking. Deep pits mark his face, and his nose remains misshapen. And part of me wonders, and feels guilty for doing so: Is he right? Has Mother left him behind because he would spoil the tableau that all murmur she wishes this progress to paint—a picture of the House of Valois triumphant and firmly in command of a France at last at peace? Surely one scarred little boy would not be the ruination of all her plans. No, I must believe he was left for his own good.
My sadness over separation from Fran?ois cannot dampen my excitement for long. The trees give way to a more cultivated landscape. I spot a magnificent lagoon with an island in its center, then a portion of a chateau of white stone piped with delicate rose brick. It is long where Amboise was tall. I feel the wheels touch stone and my excitement surges. I am not alone: curtains on both sides of our conveyance are pushed open despite the rush of frigid air. The Baronne smooths her gown and then, reaching across, pinches both my cheeks.
We pass through a magnificent gate, stopping in an oval courtyard ringed by a delicate colonnade. Everywhere my grandfather’s salamander greets us—carved in stone or worked in gold. Liveried figures and lackeys of all sorts swarm toward our coaches. Among the moving bodies and jumble of faces, I spy one I have been longing to see.
Without waiting for assistance, I reach out and fling the coach door wide. “Henri!” I hear Madame’s gasp—a mingling of fear and disapproval—as I spring down, but I do not care. I haven’t seen my thirteen-year-old brother in nearly two years. “You’ve grown so tall!”