Today I am sixteen—sixteen, beautiful, and happy; utterly, blissfully happy. It is all as Anjou said it would be. Shortly after he rode away in March—gone to chase Coligny—Mother called me to her and said, “Your brother has related the conversation you and he had and how he wishes me to see you through his eyes. By his account you are a woman worthy of his trust and mine. And so you shall be treated. It will be a great comfort for me to converse with you as I would with him while he is away.”
How those words changed my life! All that was shrouded in mystery before—the business of the King’s council, Mother’s hopes for her sons and her fears for them, her dealings with diplomats from every land—is suddenly laid bare before me. I pass hours in Her Majesty’s company, listening and learning.
Generally, I am with Mother from the moment she awakes, but I took special care in dressing today, so by the time I slip into the room, her breakfast tray is being removed.
“Margot!” she says, looking at me with bright eyes. “Come sit beside me. I have been waiting for you.”
Mother’s ladies know of my elevation in importance, so a place is quickly made for me. Reaching beneath her pillow, Her Majesty draws out something small, wound in velvet. “I did not like to give you this until things were certain, but I heard yesterday that Fourquevaux was received with grace by the King of Spain.” She hands me the packet. “Joyeux anniversaire.”
Charlotte and the Baronne de Retz, who sit on either side of me, press in as I begin to unwind the velvet. A small, gold, heavily engraved oval is left in my hand. A necklace? No, the back of a miniature portrait. I turn it over in my palm. A young man gazes out with piercing eyes. He is clad in full armor of the finest sort.
“Il est beau!” Charlotte exclaims.
He is strikingly handsome—or he would be if he did not have hair as red as flame.
Carefully I lean forward to read the inscription: Sebastianus I Lusitanor Rex. “The King of Portugal?”
“Yes.” Mother smiles. “Portugal is not Spain, but it is a crown worth having. And it comes with a handsome groom near your own age.”
Can she mean … She must!
“Madame, I am delighted!”
“Ladies,” she says, “you may congratulate the Duchesse de Valois.”
I rise and the women surrounding me take turns offering embraces.
“And, ladies,” Mother continues, “you may gossip about this match as much as you like. King Philip will find it hard to disavow arrangements that are spoken of widely.”
“Why need the King of Spain be involved?” I ask. “The King of Portugal is a grown man and sovereign in his own right. Surely he can select his own bride.”
Once such a question might have gone unanswered, but no more. “All young monarchs have advisors,” Mother replies. “Dom Sébastien’s uncle, the Spanish king, takes a keen interest in him. So, I understand, do a pair of Theatine monks who Dom Sébastien’s grandfather, King John, charged with his upbringing. But as I have reason to believe that His Holiness Pope Pius will promote the match, I do not believe any of these men will be a serious impediment.”
Fingering the miniature, I look again into Dom Sébastien’s eyes, imagine calling him “husband,” and smile. “Your Majesty thinks of everything,” I say. I wish I might say more—might tell Mother that her care, her efforts to secure my future, constitute a birthday offering that moves me beyond any object she might have gifted me. But in front of so many—never. Leaning in, I kiss her on both cheeks.
Mother is flustered by this display. Perhaps I am her daughter in my reticence as much as in any other way.
“Go along. Go and show off your portrait to the Duchesse de Nevers.”
I do not wait to be urged twice: grabbing Charlotte’s hand, I nearly drag her from the room. Our friend is never an early riser unless called upon by duty, so she is not difficult to locate. She is in her room, though not in her chemise as I thought she would be when—upon hearing our knock—she called out, “A moment.” No, she is fully dressed and sitting, slightly flushed, quite at her ease.
“Ah, this is fortuitous. I have a gift for you!” she says as soon as she sees me.
“And I have news.”
“Gossip or news?”
“Both,” Charlotte teases. “Margot has news that will soon be the great gossip of the Court.”
“Well, then, she must go first.”
“His Majesty negotiates my marriage to the King of Portugal.”