“What will it take to move that man!” Mother looks up from the dispatch and slams her fist upon the table. The Baron de Retz, sitting opposite, jumps, but I am careful to hold still and stay quiet. Thanks to Anjou, I am hiding in a space I did not previously know existed, peering through a hole cleverly provided for such a purpose.
“More than a month has passed since we were driven hence in a frenzy by a galling act of treason,” Mother continues. “Protestant demands make negotiations a farce. His Majesty has ordered those in rebellion to lay down their arms. That order has been ignored. And still the constable dithers!”
“He is too old, Madame.” My brother Henri picks at something on his doublet sleeve and curls his lip disdainfully. “Montmorency thinks more upon his digestion than upon leading His Majesty’s troops.”
“The people grow hungry, thanks to the heretics’ blockade,” the Baron says. “You would not have them blame the King in their despair. Write to the constable. Press him to march to Saint-Denis and attack.”
“I will do better than write. Since he does so little where he sits, let him come here. We will see if he is willing to mumble pale reassurances like those on this paper when he must look me in the eye.” Mother crumples the page and casts it onto the table.
I cannot imagine anyone crossing Mother when she locks her eyes upon them. For a fleeting instant I feel as if she can see me, and I shiver.
“I will send for him.” The Baron rises.
“Will you take the constable’s command from him?” my brother asks the moment he and Mother are alone.
“Patience, son. You do not lack courage but could use more diplomacy. Constable Montmorency was your father’s good friend. More than that, he has served as a useful hedge against the houses of Lorraine and Guise since your brother Fran?ois died with their talons in his arm. Those who have served well cannot be lightly cast aside.”
“Ventre-Dieu!”
Mother holds up a hand. “When the constable sets out to do battle, I will surround him with younger, stronger men. You shall have a command and so shall others of your generation. I know war is a young man’s meat and a king in his prime needs warriors of a similar age.”
“I will make you proud, Madame.”
“You always do. Now go and find some entertainment.”
Moments later Anjou releases me from my hiding place.
“Happy?” he asks.
“Yes. And you must be too. You will command troops in battle.”
“It is a beginning, but I will hound Mother until I have the prize I seek: command of all the King’s armies.”
“Can you never be satisfied?” I try to sound exasperated but I am, in reality, pleased. Anjou’s ambition is laudable, and he knows I admire it. Perhaps that is why he stoops and kisses my cheek.
“I am satisfied when you are with me.”
“Well, then, how shall we amuse ourselves?”
“Do you not wish to run off and report to the Duchesse de Nevers and the Baronne de Sauve?”
I do, very much. But I continue to wage a campaign to keep Henri from Mademoiselle de Rieux. So telling tales of what I’ve heard will wait.
“If you would rather I ran off—”
“No, indeed!” Henri smiles again. “Come watch me take exercise with my new small sword.”
“All right.” I take his arm. Charles presently is much engaged with final details for his royal Académie des Ma?tres en faits d’armes. Anjou enthusiastically offers his ideas and support, swept up in the latest craze for sword work, but also trying to curry favor with the King to assist his ambitions.
We go first to my brother’s rooms. I watch as he strips off his doublet and searches for something more suitable for fencing, wondering, as I admire the muscles in his back, if the Duc de Guise will be among the young men exercising. I have seen very little of the Duc since our return to the Louvre, and I realize wistfully it is highly unlikely he will be playing at arms this afternoon, as his uncles made sure he was quickly sent to the defensive lines lest the constable get all the glory. A fear that now seems very foolish.
Anjou pulls on a new shirt. As his head emerges he says, “By the way, I have something of interest to tell. In the letter Mother received from Elisabeth yesterday, our sister complains Don Carlos becomes more and more irrational. He has been aggressively paying court to her. Elisabeth does her best to conceal this, and his other signs of madness, from the Prince’s father—out of what Mother calls a ‘misplaced affection for the useless boy’—but fears the King of Spain will soon have her stepson confined for his own good.”