“No. I should have been glad if he had been, vainglorious idiot! His disregard of my orders was the cause of my embarrassment. Wherever he has gone, I pray I do not see him. Should he cross my path, I have a mind to thrash him or worse.”
“If the Duc is to blame,” I say, seeking to soothe Henri but not willing to unequivocally admit my love’s fault, “then surely he will be branded with it. You will not be held culpable for the defeat.”
“Sister, I adore you, but you know very little of war if you believe that. I am lieutenant general; all that goes ill is laid at my feet. If by no one else, then by our dear brother.” He looks pointedly at Mother.
Moving forward, I reach up and push back the hair at his temple. “You must know that we never believe anything ill that is said of you, not even by Charles.”
He puts an arm around me and pulls me against him, burying his face in my hair.
Raising his head once more, he addresses Mother. “Do not worry, Madame, I did not lose more than the King could afford. But I was so disgusted with those who remained and felt so little chance of success that I decided to let the men wander away to their homes. Tavannes was of the opinion that this might be the best way to pull apart Coligny’s army. For if they do not have us to face across a field, they may well disband and give us time to think.”
“And if they do not?”
“Then I will be back in the saddle and headed south posthaste. But for now I am going to my rooms to get drunk.” He releases me.
“I will walk with you.” Mother rises.
I am left behind, but I do not begrudge Mother time with Henri. I find myself drawn to Her Majesty’s desk, wishing to see for myself the words of our ambassador in Madrid—hoping that Mother is more optimistic about the negotiations than he. But Fourquevaux appears to believe Dom Sébastien will accept my hand. I am about to lay the pages down when a passage catches my eye: “I would be deficient in my duty if I did not report that I have heard, and from more than one source, that Dom Sébastien may be of little use in fathering children. So while an alliance between Portugal and France may be effected by the marriage, it may well last only as long the Princess and her husband survive.”
Of little use in fathering children. I am not certain what that means, but it troubles me. I long to have children, and more than this, since I first kissed Guise, I have had undeniable urges to act in a manner that produces children.
*
“He has a perfect horror of women—that is what the nuncio’s secretary says.” Henriette keeps her voice low, though we are in my rooms. The Louvre is a place where anything one would keep confidential should be spoken softly.
“I cannot believe Mother would seek to wed me to a gentleman who prefers—”
“Boys?” Henriette offers.
“I cannot believe you seduced a priest!” Charlotte says.
“Why not?” Henriette replies. “I like novelty. And as His Holiness has been heavily involved in the negotiations for Margot’s marriage, I felt certain the nuncio’s secretary would be abreast of matters.” Turning to me she adds, “As for Dom Sébastien’s preferences, it is not entirely clear that he likes men any better than women when it comes to acts of love. What is clear is that he has been taught by the monks who have him in their thrall that every woman is unclean and the origin of sin. To such a man boys may be the lesser of two evils.” Refreshing my glass, Charlotte’s, and her own, she says, “Poor thing.”
I am not entirely sure who is the object of her pity, but I am feeling very sorry for myself at the moment.
“Thank heavens not every man feels as he does,” Her Grace continues, raising her glass. “Let us drink to men with a taste for women. Men we can enjoy and use to our own ends.”
What about love?
Charlotte sips, then smiles sweetly at me and says, “Men like the Duc de Guise, defender of Poitiers.”
My brother was not at Metz long when word came that the Huguenot army had gathered outside of Poitiers. A siege was anticipated. Henri rode off to reassemble the army. We returned to Paris, Mother being well enough to travel at last. And while we waited for word that Henri had reached Poitiers, other reports began to arrive—telling of the brave actions of the Comte de Lude and his garrison, and revealing that my beloved Duc and his brother Mayenne were within Poitiers, fighting to defend her. The Duc’s eagerness to build a soldier’s reputation may be gratified at last. If stories from that city continue to be so favorable to him, Poitiers will be his making.
I raise my glass, happy to acknowledge His Grace.
“When word arrived in the capital yesterday of the daring party Guise led to destroy the bridge over the Clain, my sister ordered a Mass to thank God for his safety and success,” Henriette says.