“The Duchesse de Nevers.” The Baronne’s tone is resigned. She knows, of course, that much of whatever passed between the Duc and me beyond the eyes of the Court must have been managed with Henriette’s help. She has for some time viewed the Duchesse as her adversary and my corruptor. How I love her for putting aside her personal feelings. I only hope Henriette will do likewise. It has been a month since we argued, and though, on the surface, we appear to be as we were, there remains a reticence between us.
“They will be watching for the Duchesse at the wicket,” I say. “If my mother has not thought of this precaution, Anjou will have.”
I send Gillone to the H?tel de Nevers to tell Her Grace that, if she loves me still, she must put a man in the saddle on his way to where Guise hunts. A man she can trust who will warn my Duc that there is more of danger in the woods than the chance he will be thrown from his horse, and that he would be better returned to Paris and safe behind the gates of his h?tel.
I watch my shadow go, then sit down and put my head in my hands and cry. If Charles has fixed on my beloved’s death, surviving his hunting excursion is only a first step. Must Henri live always looking over his shoulder for Angoulême? One attempt, even more, may be survived. But where my family is determined to be rid of someone …
After a few moments of sobbing I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Is the crown of Portugal such a terrible fate?” the Baronne asks softly. “You fell in love with the Duc because he is handsome and brave. We have it on good authority that the King of Portugal is both. Allow yourself to be guided by duty and all will be well.”
I look up at her, incredulous. How am I to stop loving Henri and begin loving a man I have never met? A man with the red hair of a devil? “If I am forbidden to marry where I love, I would rather not marry at all.”
“Those are very dangerous words—particularly for the Duc de Guise.”
CHAPTER 13
Summer 1570, Paris
Three days later I hear that Henri has returned to the city. Word comes first from Henriette, who in light of my situation has forgiven all, and who has even refrained from reminding me that she warned it would be so. She mumbles “He is “en ville” as she breezes into Mother’s apartments. And her information is soon confirmed by the gossip of a hundred tongues as well as by the black looks of my brothers.
In the afternoon, while the King and his gentlemen are playing at tennis, Angoulême arrives. I see him pass the wicket from my seat in an open window. He moves with hesitancy and I delight in that. You failed, I think. I wonder what Charles will say. I must know. Folding my hand of cards, I look across at Charlotte. “I am bored; let us go and see who has beaten whom upon the court.”
My friend springs up eagerly. Baronne de Retz, who has been at my side nearly every waking moment since the fateful night on which I was beaten, begins to rise as well; then perhaps recollecting that I will be going to the very place Her Majesty is, she settles back with her embroidery.
As soon as we are out of Mother’s apartment, I take Charlotte’s hand and begin to run. We arrive breathless and giggling, looking like two young women eager to be entertained. Mother, after shaking her head at our frivolity, pays us no mind. Anjou is seated beside her, in the King’s usual place, dripping with perspiration. Charles is playing Bussy d’Amboise. Monsieur de Carandas, the most tennis-mad of the King’s gentlemen, yells advice to each in turn from the sidelines, but most other spectators appear more interested in their private conversations. Henriette waves from the other side of the court, where she is consuming grapes from the outstretched fingers of her latest conquest, Charles d’Entragues, or “le bel Entraguet,” as most of the Court calls him. Though I am sure she expects me to join her, I take a seat near my family.
“Come to cheer your brother?” Mother asks.
“Who else should I cheer?”
“Indeed,” Anjou snipes, “Guise is absent.”
“Let that be, now, Henri,” Mother says. “Margot knows it is finished.”
“Not quite, apparently,” he says. “The Duc has returned to Paris, or am I misinformed?”
Mother gives him a stern look.
“Hardly surprising, considering that he lives here,” I reply, with a shrug.
“For the moment.” Anjou gives a wicked smile. “But I suspect him to be keeping company with his father before too long.”
“Henri!” Mother’s voice has none of its customary fondness. “Enough.”
I long to snap that the day Anjou tries to put my beloved in a grave will likely be the day my brother finds himself mortally wounded, either at Guise’s hands or at mine.
Bussy misses a return, giving Charles the victory. Racket over his head, Charles turns to one gallery and then the next to receive the cheers of his courtiers. Charlotte and I rise and shout like the rest. Mother applauds. Anjou alone does not stir himself until, as everyone is returning to their seats, he raises a hand to point down the gallery. “Look who has come to make excuses.”
Angoulême moves through the young men who roughhouse good-naturedly courtside. They have no reason to be sobered by my half brother’s arrival and so slap him on the back and jostle him, but the sight of Angoulême alters His Majesty’s expression. The light of triumph disappears, replaced by a flush caused by a less pleasant emotion.