Médicis Daughter: A Novel of Marguerite de Valois

Henri laughs, waving his companions on and picking me up from the ground. “What is this? You like me better when I win battles, eh?”


And Henri did win. Monsieur de Losses brought that news as well—how, at a place called Jarnac, Anjou and Marshal de Tavannes surprised the Huguenots; how the Huguenots were defeated; how Condé was killed. Mother, awakened from a sleep far less troubled than the night before, had no patience for the tale, merely declaring, “Did I not know of this victory yesterday?” But I listened to every word.

“I love you always!” I declare.

“I know, I know.” He embraces me again. “What were those lines Ronsard wrote for you?”

I finger the buttons on the front of his doublet. “‘My sweet affection, my garden-pink and rose, thou canst take all my flock away, and of myself dispose.’” The words, last delivered in performance at the army’s camp, seem entirely different spoken softly looking up into my brother’s face.

There is something odd about the moment, but it passes as Henri releases me and asks, “Where is Mother?”

“Sick. Did Charles not tell you?”

A flash of anger moves across Anjou’s face. “He did not.”

“Perhaps his message did not reach you. You were on the move.”

“Perhaps.” He does not look appeased. “Is she very ill?”

“She had a fever but it is gone. Yet she is very weak. She cannot hold a pen to write—she tried this morning.”

“She tried to write? Then her mind is clear.”

“Yes, and her opinions as strong as ever.”

“Take me to her.”

Charles is beside Mother as we enter. At the sight of Anjou, Her Majesty’s face is transfigured.

“My Alexander!” she cries, extending trembling hands.

They are the same words she said the night of her fever. This is more than coincidence! I believe that she did see the victory as she insisted to Losses last evening.

Anjou moves forward, drawing me along. After taking Mother’s hands and kissing each, he turns to Charles and says, “Your Majesty, we have crushed your enemies.”

Charles looks less than enthusiastic.

“I would have brought you Condé’s head, but the whole of that gentleman’s remains are being paraded around Jarnac, tied to the back of an ass while your loyal Catholic subjects cheer.”

“Is it true Condé surrendered before he was killed?” Charles asks.

I had not heard this.

“A nicety.” Henri does not flinch. “I assumed you wanted him dead.”

“I did.” The admission sounds grudging. “But I wonder: If you are captured, will you consider such honorable traditions niceties?”

“I will not be captured.”

The two regard each other with animosity, then Anjou turns back to Mother.

“Are you pleased with me, Madame?”

Tears well in Mother’s eyes. “You know that I am. All of France will be when news of the victory spreads. Your brother is gratified as well, just as he would be by the success of any of his commanders.” She looks meaningfully at Charles. “Anjou rode from the field of battle to offer you his victory. Will you not extend to him your approbation?”

Charles rises. “We are pleased with your victory at Jarnac.”

Anjou bows.

As he is straightening, Charles adds, “But it would have been better still had you not allowed Coligny to escape with a large part of the Huguenot forces.”

This is another fact of which I was unaware.

Anjou attempts to look uncaring, but one corner of his mouth twitches.

“Your brother will pursue Coligny when he leaves us,” Mother says.

Charles tilts his head. “Perhaps I will go after the admiral myself. Now the fighting has begun in earnest, I would not mind some field experience. I had no desire to live in a tent all winter, but spring in the saddle—yes, I believe that would suit.”

Anjou darts a glance at Mother. She offers him a look of warning in return.

Neither is lost upon Charles. He smiles. “I leave you, Madame, to be entertained by our brother’s stories of the fray. I myself will await Marshal Tavannes’ account. He is the more senior military man.”

Anjou’s face is livid. As the door closes behind the King, Mother’s voice is soft. “Calmly, calmly.”

Henri is not soothed. “I would rather die cruelly and be tied to an ass myself than cede my command to my brother,” he says with vehemence.

“There is no question of that,” Mother replies. She closes her eyes. “I wish you and Charles would not provoke each other so. It has been thus since you were but babes.”

I find Mother’s wish odd. Whatever rivalry there is between my beloved brothers, she planted its seeds.

Anjou’s face is all concern. “You are ill and we have tired you.”

“I am not too tired to hear all you have to tell of the battle.”

“Soon.”

I am surprised to hear my brother deferring. There is nothing he loves better than to entertain Mother; nothing he enjoys more than basking in her admiration.

“I am hungry, and dirty,” he says. “You know that I do not like to be dirty.”

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