Heedless of the pain, I press farther back into the bushes. “Sir, my chastity is meant for the King of Portugal. If I am found not to be virginal on my wedding night and accuse you—”
“No one will believe I, rather than Guise, took your maidenhead, except the gentleman himself. And I shall enjoy lording that over him. Just as I shall enjoy having what is meant for a king.” His voice is thick with lust. Grabbing me by both shoulders, he swings me away from the bushes. I know instinctively he means to push me to the ground. If he succeeds, I am lost. With all my might I throw my weight toward him, pushing against his breast with the palms of my hands. He is thrown off balance, releasing me as he struggles to remain on his feet. It seems that he will, and then a miracle happens. The Seigneur’s foot, touching a patch of damp and matted autumn leaves, slips and is lost from under him.
As he falls to one knee I turn and run like an animal pursued by the pack toward the gap in the hedge. I am through it, scrambling across the parterre. I dare not look back. Such a glance would steal precious moments. Holy Mary, mother of God, give my feet wings. And then, oh, second miracle, I am inside the palace. My immediate, urgent need to escape the Seigneur gives way to a need to reach my chamber without attracting attention. For the plain fact is I did slip out unaccompanied, and to be seen returning with my clothing asunder and my face white as ashes could be the start of damaging rumors.
At last I slip into my chamber. I want to weep. Indeed, the first tears of what would be a torrent slip down my cheek. But, turning from fastening the door, I find Gillone looking at me.
“Your Highness, what has happened? Are you crying?” She hurries forward.
“Help me undress.” I seldom use a tone of command but I employ one now, hoping to arrest further questions. I turn so that Gillone can unfasten my bodice.
She gasps. “Your Highness, your dress! It is slit and torn as if by animals.”
“You imagine things, silly girl. I only slipped trying to return from the gardens and fell against a hedge.”
“Slipped?” Gillone does not sound convinced. She removes my overskirt and fingers a gash in the silk.
“Yes. If the dress cannot be discreetly mended, destroy it.” Then, seeing that her look has become even more incredulous, I add, “Her Majesty had little tolerance for spoiled gowns when I was a child. Do you imagine my age would spare me from a tongue-lashing now?”
Dipping her head, Gillone gathers the ruined gown into her arms. “Perhaps you should tell Her Majesty what happened.” We both know she does not mean the story I just told her. She senses that was a lie and urges me to tell another the truth if I will not tell her. Admittedly, she appears to do this out of kindness, but my temper flares.
“Out!” I order. Tell Mother what? She would think me both disobedient and a fool for going to meet Guast. And she might think worse. She might think me lascivious. Guast certainly did. I thought my conduct toward the Duc de Guise innocent—or, if not precisely innocent, harmless. What were a few stolen kisses? I see now that they were sin.
Going to my prie-dieu, I kneel and allow myself to weep—swept with both relief and guilt. Oh, Holy Virgin, it is clear to me that I am lust-filled, and that my wicked desires were plain enough that the Seigneur du Guast perceived them. Help me to purge myself of my sinful thoughts and feelings. Give me the resolve to keep the Duc at arm’s length and accept only such attentions as might be paid me before a chaperone.
The moments in the garden come rushing back to me. Even as my lips burn and my skin crawls at the thought of Guast’s hands on me, I cannot help concluding that I brought his attentions upon myself when I let the Duc touch me in similar ways. I must, therefore, be forever silent about what has happened, not only because I might not be believed, but because my silence is my penance for past transgressions.
*
Saint-Jean-d’Angély is on the horizon at last. The past six days have been a misery. The Seigneur du Guast lingered with the Court after our encounter. Though he spoke not one word to me, his insouciance and the bold way he looked at me added to my mortification. His departure should have been a blessed release. But those moments in the garden are never long from my mind. I am having nightmares. I cannot eat.
I’ve ignored Henriette’s pointed questions and Gillone’s looks. Faithful to my self-imposed pledge, I’ve told no one what passed. Praise heaven, Mother attributes my lack of appetite and the circles beneath my eyes to concern over Anjou. After all, she also looks haggard, and Anjou’s unhorsing is the cause.