Another brother reaches for my remaining hand. After living largely apart from the rest of the family since I left him at Amboise, Fran?ois arrived yesterday. I had not seen him since Charles’ “Assembly of Notables” in the winter of 1566, when he was invested as Duc d’Alen?on. Fran?ois seemed a stranger as he climbed from his horse rather awkwardly. Then his eyes met mine and he gave a little smile. Whatever else had changed about him over the intervening years, that smile had not. He was the little boy who played with me in the nursery, and I sensed we would be friends as we were then.
Filing from the chapel, we proceed to our waiting horses. Mother, in her grief, needs to see the son absent from this morning’s ceremony, so we are setting out for the army’s winter quarters at Saumur. Watching Her Majesty climb into her saddle, I wonder how it is that Anjou alone should have the power to console where the rest of us do not. I love my brother, but the unevenness of our mother’s affection rankles. He is first among her children. And I … I fear I am last. And now I have been given an opportunity to raise myself in her estimation by a prestigious marriage. Yet I find myself balking.
In the days since Mother laid her matrimonial hopes for me before the council, her plan has seldom been from my mind. Time and again I have told myself Philip is the most powerful king in Christendom and therefore the most desirable husband. But such bright thoughts are haunted by the shadows of every mocking story I have ever heard from Her Majesty’s ladies about the elderly gentlemen they have been obliged to seduce. And I have been having nightmares about King Philip—or, rather, the same nightmare over and over. In the dream I am in the Salle des Caryatides. Henriette stands guard as she did on the night the Duc and I first kissed. A gentleman holds me in his arms, but I know by the way he does so that he is not my Duc. Pushing back, I look up and I am horrified to see Don Carlos of Spain—or rather a gray-haired man with Don Carlos’ jutting chin and haughty eyes. He must be Philip. As he stoops to kiss me, I struggle. But he only laughs and says, “Be still, girl, your sister never made such a fuss.” I always wake shaking and utterly repulsed. But when I related the dream to Henriette and Charlotte, neither showed any sympathy.
“You cannot blame the real King of Spain for the behavior of the incarnation of him that your imagination creates,” Charlotte said.
“I know,” I replied, “but I fear my mind creates him as it does because it seems wrong to take my sister’s place.”
“Do not be silly,” Henriette admonished. “I would lie with my sister’s husband even as he molders in his grave if I thought by doing so I could wear the crown of Spain. This nightmare is not the result of anything substantial. In all likelihood it comes from your silly fancy that you are in love with Guise.”
Silly fancy! I think as my horse moves along beside Fran?ois’ in the late autumn sun. What I feel for Henri is more than fancy. But I will concede this much: it does not follow it is wise to allow my amour with Guise to keep me from doing my duty to the King and my mother.
“You are very pensive,” Fran?ois says. “Are you thinking about the Queen of Spain?”
“Yes.” I lower my voice. “I am thinking about whether I would like to be the next queen of Spain.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” my brother asks. “A crown—what is better in all the world?” There is absolutely no doubt in his voice. “If I were a king, no one would shy away when they saw me. No one would talk behind their hands about my scars or the fact I do not seem to be getting any taller. Or if they did”—his face is suddenly vicious—“I could order them killed.”
I am sure he jests, and I am about to reply that a queen does not have such power, but Mother does; Elizabeth of England too. This realization gives me pause. Could I have influence as Queen of Spain? I cannot say for certain, but Mother more than once remarked that Elisabeth held sway with her sovereign husband. At very least, as a married woman I would be my own mistress. That would be something—something marvelous. A wife must be obedient to her husband. But Philip would be only one master. Presently I am under the thumb and the eyes of so many more.
I smile at Fran?ois. He may be younger than I, but he speaks wisdom. I have made up my mind. I will be the Queen of Spain. If I must kiss King Philip, so be it. After all, I may surely kiss others as well. Both Henriette and Charlotte indulge in romances with men who please them more than their husbands. Perhaps a Spanish lover is in my future.
*
The Queen’s secretary bustles into Her Majesty’s apartment at Metz. “A letter from Madrid.” He holds out the sealed packet. Like the Queen’s other ladies, I rise, but Mother puts out a hand to stop me.
“You may stay,” she says with a slight smile. “I hope for good news in a matter that concerns you.”
My stomach feels odd. For more than four months, whatever Mother may have heard about my prospective marriage, I have heard precious little. Left in ignorance of the negotiations, I have done what I can to prepare myself to be a Spanish queen—working diligently on learning the history of the House of Habsburg and the language. Now perhaps the moment has come for me to know my future. As I watch Mother open the ambassador’s dispatch, I try to remember the Spanish word for seal.