Alas, my happiness in the Duc’s achievements is not perfect. I am not alone in my admiration of him. Nearly every lady at Court swoons over each arriving dispatch. Besides ordering masses, the Princesse de Porcien writes bad verse in the Duc’s honor. I have seen it.
Then there is my brother’s equally unsettling reaction. From the moment Anjou got word of the Duc’s doings, his letters to Mother have been filed with vituperative tirades against Guise. Anjou seems to believe everything that is done by the Duc is done to make him look less.
I sigh. “I would rather marry Guise than the King of Portugal.”
Henriette and Charlotte are immediately serious. “You had better not say that to anyone else—not even in jest,” the Duchesse says.
“I know. But there must be some way to defeat this match. I do not wish to be married to a man who will hate the sight of me. I will be unable to sway such a man, and if I am to be a queen I long for influence.”
Both ladies nod.
“The Monsignor mentioned that Dom Sébastien’s mother wishes him married to an Austrian archduchesse,” Henriette says. “So perhaps, if you can delay the match, fate will intervene.”
“I have very little faith in fate, at least where it comes to it obliging me.”
Henriette rolls her eyes. “Yes, your life is quite blighted. You have two gallant ducs twisted about your little finger—one of them royal. You are an extraordinary beauty. You possess a pair of friends as loyal as can be found anywhere and you have lately become exceedingly close to Her Majesty. Obviously fate and fortune hold you in low esteem.” Dropping her mocking expression she continues, “But, as you are in your mother’s favor, perhaps you may depend on your influence rather than fate, and speak with her about the Portuguese?”
“I will see how Poitiers goes. If Anjou has a victory, perhaps I will plead my case with him. For now I am tired of thinking of the matter. The sun at last shows itself. Let us go enjoy it in the gardens.”
“Not before I finish my wine,” Henriette says. She picks up the half-full glass and drains it.
My glass is on its way to my lips in imitation when Mother sweeps in, beaming.
“Anjou sends word. Coligny’s army has been reduced by disease and is in the direst condition. He expects victory at Poitiers any day and wishes, before the need to pursue those Protestants who flee is upon him, to hold counsel with the King and his advisors. We leave immediately!”
We. I am not being left behind!
We receive word as we ride that my brother, not wishing to tax Mother’s health, has come north as far as Plessis-les-Tours and waits for us there. By the time we see that comfortable old chateau on the horizon, all in our party are exhausted by the rapidity of our travel. Anjou runs from the building like a young boy to meet us—lifting Mother from her saddle and embracing her with vigor. I am the next to receive a welcome, and as I am clutched in his arms, a figure emerges from beneath an arch into the sunlight. It is Guise! Have the two of them made amends?
Charles comes forward to greet Anjou. While they pretend to be happy to see each other, I gaze at my Duc where he stands with a group of other officers. Even among such company—the flower of French manhood—he stands out, and not only on account of his height. There is something about the way he stands, grave, attentive, and yet entirely at ease, that draws the eye.
“Who are you looking for?” Henri’s voice surprises me.
I turn to him, smiling. “No one. I am only eager to be inside and take some refreshment.”
Anjou offers me one arm and Mother the other, drawing us past the assembled noblemen. As he does, Guise smiles—just that, nothing more, but the curve of his lips fills me with a rush of feeling that must show on my face, for the Duc’s smile grows. In the moment before we are past the gentlemen, I realize that Guise is not the only one to notice my reaction. The Seigneur du Guast peers at me thoughtfully.
Henri escorts us to Mother’s rooms. She brought so few ladies that I have no chance of sneaking away. Not that I would abandon my duty to Her Majesty. Henriette did not make the trip, but as Charlotte and I carry away some items of the Queen’s clothing I whisper, “I must see him.” She knows whom I mean.
We dine in the King’s apartment. Henri is in the highest of humors. Charles tries on several occasions to bring up plans for the conclusion of the siege and the war beyond it, but each time Anjou says, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow I shall lay all before you until you and your advisors can see it as clearly as Tavannes and I do.” And if turning His Majesty’s questions aside in such a manner is unseemly, who will upbraid Anjou? Certainly not Mother. She looks at Henri with such worship-filled eyes that, even without being thwarted, Charles would doubtless have fallen into the sulking expression he soon wears.
Mother is chary enough to remember she is only recently over a long illness. As we push back from the table, satiated, she says, “I will retire.”
“Shall I go along with you and lie at the foot of your bed?” Henri asks.