Charles reemerges before long. He says nothing, but acknowledges me by stopping to kiss the top of my head. The Queen remains in her chapel. Slowly the sun moves through the sky, sweeping the scene outside the windows with warm autumn light, yet I feel cold. Mother and Elisabeth may have parted at Bayonne on less-than-perfect terms, but in the intervening three years that unpleasant meeting with the Spanish seemed to be forgotten between them. Watching a little bird pulling the seeds from a pod on the windowsill, I think of Mother’s last letter to my sister—gone no more than two days; of how Her Majesty worked on it, consulting with her physician and several cooks, trying to compose the best diet for Elisabeth, who was strangely large for her stage of pregnancy. This mark of caring made me envious. Now I feel guilty over my petty jealousy.
At last, when I begin to wonder if we will all sit through the dinner hour, the door opens. Mother steps into the room looking so composed that, had I not witnessed it, I would never guess at her earlier distress.
“Margot,” she says, “come with me.”
I follow as she moves briskly. By the time we arrive at our destination—His Majesty’s council chamber—I am out of breath. Without knocking, Mother walks in. Men all around the table rise. Charles alone remains seated, his face melancholy, his eyes swollen.
“Gentlemen”—Mother strides to where the King sits and puts a hand on his shoulder—“the house of Valois has suffered a loss. A personal tragedy, must not, however, be allowed to become a political one. The death of the Queen of Spain may, if we let it, impact our war against the Protestants—a holy war I have sworn to prosecute with vigor. I here declare that I will not let it.”
The men are utterly attentive. Mother looks about, meeting every eye.
“Make no mistake,” she continues, “the Protestant chiefs have heard of the death of my daughter, or soon will.” There is murmuring: clearly more than one man present has considered this point. “Doubtless they whisper that her death will loosen the ties between France and Spain. Such talk represents their wishes, not fact. Philip of Spain is bound to us by a shared devotion to the Holy Church in Rome.”
“Your Majesty,” René de Birague says, “the Spanish king thinks himself the better Catholic. His contempt for our efforts to suppress the heretics has been plain. If he has been so outspoken when ostensibly muted by ties of kinship, his language will doubtless be more strident absent such ties.”
Heads nod, including Mother’s. The Superintendent of Finances has always been a favorite.
“Indeed,” Mother says. “We must find a reason for Philip to be no worse a critic of French policy than he is. I have an idea on that score. Philip must marry again. That is certain. His only son is dead three months. If he loved one Valois princess, he ought to be eager for another. I wish the King of Spain’s fourth wife to be the Duchesse de Valois.”
I am not sure that I understood properly until every eye in the room turns to me.
“The Princess Marguerite is as pretty as her sister,” Mother continues, gesturing to me as if I were merchandise in a market stall. “She is young and her health has always been good, so she can be expected to bear sons.”
Mother means to send me to Spain to take Elisabeth’s place! Heads nod and men smile. I ought to feel the same pleasure I see on the councilors’ faces. I have often lamented my status as the longest unmarried of Mother’s daughters. But at the moment I can only think of two things: the face of the Duc de Guise, and the fact that I will be expected to kiss a man who begot children with my sister. Now that I know what kissing entails, the thought of tasting lips my sister has held between her own turns my stomach.
“We cannot openly propose a match while the Spanish king is in mourning,” Jean de Morvilliers says, letting his fingers tap idly on the table. “But we may make more subtle moves.”
Mother nods approvingly at the chancellor. “I wish Philip to know of our proffer within the month. And”—she looks around the table meaningfully—“I wish to hear no mention of this beyond those assembled here.” Moving back down the table, she takes my arm. “I will interrupt your business no further.”
As she draws me out of the room, I expect some discussion of the match. Instead, Mother moves off, leaving me standing outside the chamber door. I was a prop in the scene that just played out, nothing more.
“Madame, have you no instructions for me?” I call after her.
Without turning, she says, “Work on your Spanish.”
*
The service for Elisabeth draws to a close. Charles’ violet-clad shoulders shake as he cries. His attendance is a testament to how deeply he feels Elisabeth’s passing. As king, tradition dictated he absent himself, but as brother he could not bear to do so. Reaching out, I offer a hand, which he closes tightly in his. A lump rises in my throat, not for Elisabeth, for Charles. He has a tender heart.