“No, I guess not. Or at least, people here tell me that I am not—often. I wish I could go back to Béarn.” He shuffles his feet again. “My manners were fine there. And I was outside all the time—climbing, swimming, hunting.”
I remember hearing that his mother, Jeanne d’Albret, Queen of Navarre, returned to Béarn after his father died of wounds suffered in the Siege of Rouen. I never gave any thought to where my cousin was. Or even, truth be told, to his continued existence since last we met as very young children. I wonder why he is here rather than at the court of his mother? But, more pressingly I wish him gone. He is singularly irritating.
“Why not go to Béarn, then?”
“Oh, I am going, if I have to slip away from the progress to do it. But I don’t think it will come to that.” He lifts his chin and looks me directly in the eye. “My mother will meet His Majesty during his travels, and I will go home with her then.”
He reaches out a hand. “Would you like help down?”
I am not eager to accept his assistance, but jumping would be undignified, so I take his proffered hand and gingerly lower one foot to the floor.
“You are very pretty.” The words are delivered more as a statement than a compliment.
“Thank you,” I reply stiffly.
“I think I will kiss you.”
“You will not!” I drop his hand and take a step backwards.
He shrugs. I swear, if I never see his shoulders rise and fall again, that will suit me very well. “Later, then.”
“What?” I sputter. “I have no intention of ever permitting you to kiss me!”
“Not even if you marry me?” He tilts his head to one side and looks down his long, thin nose at me.
“Why would I marry you? You cannot even put your hose on straight.” I point accusingly to his right ankle, where his hose is badly twisted. He does not seem at all discomforted.
“When I was little, His Majesty King Henri told me I was to be your husband.”
I have no idea if he is telling the truth, nor do I care. “My father is dead,” I say matter-of-factly. “And my brother, King Charles, would never make me marry a boy who runs in the grand gallery and would rather play with frogs than dance.” Turning on my heels, I walk away. I hope I have left my cousin mortified, staring at my back. But when I turn at the end of the gallery to see what effect my pronouncement had upon him, the Prince of Navarre is gone.
*
It is Shrove Tuesday. We will have one final magnificent entertainment before such things give way to the solemnity of Lent. The meadow beside the lagoon looks like an ancient world. Delicate white columns—some standing, others purposefully lying in pieces—are scattered among the tables. It is as if we dine amidst the ruins of Ancient Greece.
Mother has outdone herself and she knows it. I can tell by the way her cheeks color and her eyes shine. “The House of Valois,” she declares, one hand on Henri’s shoulder and the other on mine as we ascend to the King’s table, “arrayed in splendor to remind all that we are the sole authority in France, and His Majesty will tolerate none who seek to undermine him or to undo the peace he has brought to his kingdom.”
Taking my seat, my eyes are drawn to the island at the center of the lagoon where a hundred torches illuminate a slender tower and its surroundings. “Regardez!” I say to Henri, clapping my hands. “Look who guards the tower.”
Henri laughs, for the pair are odd. While both are men, and both are dressed in white flowing tunics topped by glowing golden armor, one is enormous, a veritable giant, while the other is Mother’s favorite dwarf. I can hardly wait to discover what story will play out on the well-lit scene.
The House of Guise makes its entrance, the Duc at its head. His uncle the Cardinal of Lorraine walks with one arm draped possessively around the young man’s shoulder. They are followed by the House of Montmorency, doubtless awarded precedence owing to the fact that the constable is charged with managing the royal progress. Finally it is time for the Princes of the Blood—the Bourbons. Louis, Prince de Condé, having bowed graciously to Charles, moves toward the table immediately to my right and nearly abutting our own and takes his seat at its center. A host of others connected to the Bourbons follow, my cousin, the Prince of Navarre, among them. I have not spoken to him since our encounter in the gallery, and that is just as well. Every glimpse of him since has reminded me of the moment he impudently threatened to kiss me. I pray he will not be seated near, but he is pushed down the table to be at my side.
I intend to ignore him, an effort that should be assisted by the fact that the riser supporting the Bourbon table is lower than the royal dais.
“Hello,” he says, looking up at me.
I angle my body toward my brother as if I have not heard.
Despite the distance between us, I feel a tug on my sleeve. I cannot afford to be entirely rude while on display, and so, turning with an icy smile, I say, “Good evening.”
Undaunted, he continues, “Are you performing?”
“My brothers and I have a pastoral later, after the sweets.”