word will be sufficient.”
The Cardinal took his leave. When he had gone, the King turned to his son.
“I remember too well my wedding night with your mother, how young and frightened we both were,” Francois said. “The law requires me to witness the coupling, but the instant it’s done, I’ll leave you in peace. In the meantime…” His voice dropped. “Kiss her, boy, and forget I am here.”
Henri and I rolled onto our sides to face each other; he set his trembling hands upon the rounds of my shoulders and pressed his lips against mine-a perfunctory, passionless kiss. He was as trapped within his resentment as I was within mine, yet one of us was obliged to break free.
I closed my eyes and thought of Clarice’s mouth blooming upon Leda’s, of Ippolito’s skillful tongue and fingers. I cupped Henri’s face in my hands as Clarice had Leda’s and pushed my lips against his, then delicately parted them with my tongue. He tensed and would have recoiled had my touch faltered, but I persevered until he responded with kisses of his own. As his confidence and mine increased, I rolled him onto me, slipped a hand between his legs, and felt the flesh there stir.
I sensed nearby movement and opened my eyes to see King Francois looming; he drew the bedsheet down until his son’s buttocks were exposed.
When Henri and I both looked up at this intrusion, the King dropped the sheet and stepped back, mildly chagrined.
“Don’t stop! I’m only making sure it’s properly accomplished. I will disturb you no more.” He moved away toward the hearth.
Henri’s cheeks went mottled scarlet. Because I was obliged, I reached between his thighs and stroked him until he grew again; and he was obliged, when he was ready, to part my legs and settle himself between them, as Ippolito had done so long ago, but there was no sweetness, no heat, no yearning.
At the moment of penetration, my resolve wavered and my body tightened; I cried out at the pain. Henri must have feared losing his confidence, for he began to pump wildly. I held on, gritting my teeth. Within a minute, his passion crested and he reared his torso backward, his eyes rolling up against his fluttering lids. Simultaneously, something warm trickled between my legs.
Henri pulled away and lay on his back, gasping.
“Well done!” King Francois clapped his hands. “Both riders have shown valor in the joust!”
I pulled the sheets up and turned my face toward the distant wall. After an all-too-audible whisper to his son that virgins were prone to weep after such events, the King left.
In the silence that followed, I knew that I should falsely compliment Henri on his lovemaking, yet exhaustion so overwhelmed me I felt I could not move; it was accompanied by a painful constriction of the muscles in my throat, the certain precursor of the tears the King had mentioned.
I lay silent, hoping that Henri would leave me to my self-pity, but he said, very softly, his gaze directed at the ceiling, “I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t hurt me, Your Highness,” I lied, without turning to look at him. “I cried out only because I was startled.”
“I wasn’t speaking of that,” he said, “although I’m sorry for that, too.” He paused. “I’m sorry that I haven’t been more pleasant. You’ve been so kind. My brothers and sisters like you very much, and so does my father.”
I stared at the tapestry bed hanging in front of me, at the play of the firelight on the threads of shining gold woven in among those of burgundy and forest green. “And you?” I asked.
“You’re charming,” he answered shyly. “Dignified, yet cordial. Everyone at Court is very impressed. But… I know I’m not as cheerful as my brothers, a fact that annoys my father. I’ll try to do better.”
“You need not apologize,” I said. “I know you didn’t want this match. I’m a foreigner, a commoner, and ugly…”
“Don’t speak of yourself in such a manner!” he exclaimed indignantly. “I forbid it. Your looks are pleasing enough; one doesn’t need to be pretty to be handsome.” His words were so honest and guileless that I was moved to roll over and face him.
“Oh, Henri,” I said, reaching for him, but I had moved too quickly. He flinched and recoiled in such involuntary disgust that I withdrew at once. His gaze met mine, but he didn’t see me: instead, he stared at something beyond me, something hideous. I saw the poorly veiled loathing in his eye and shrank from it.
He dropped his gaze. “Please, I… I’m sorry, Catherine, truly I am. I’m just so very tired.”
“I’m tired, too,” I said tightly. “I think I would like to sleep.” I turned my back to him.
He hesitated-trying, perhaps, to think of the words to ease my hurt-then finally turned away. He lay awake for some time, but in the end, sleep took him.
Had there been a place within my new home to find solitude, I would have gone there; but the room where I had spent my last virginal days in the temporary palace was full of servants, the corridors full of revelers. Women stood watch in our antechamber; if I had risen, or stirred, they would have known. I remained all night where I least wanted to be-in Henri’s bed.
It was there, in the hours before dawn, that an ominous thought jerked me from a light doze.
Perhaps what Henri had seen, when he recoiled from me in disgust, was not his hated father or an unwanted marriage. Perhaps, with his innocence and sensitivity, he had looked beyond those things at the dark blot on my soul.
Seventeen
In the weeks that followed, Henri never came to my quarters or summoned me to his. He spent his time hunting, jousting, or playing tennis with his older brother. Many times I sat with the gentlemen of the chamber in the great indoor gallery and watched Henri and Francois. One brother would lift the ball high in his left hand and bellow: “
Young Francois, pale and golden in contrast to his dark brother, won the crowd’s affection and sympathies, grinning at his errors and bowing to the audience immediately after their commission. In his presence, Henri came alive. He was athletically gifted, while Francois was shorter, heavier, and not as lithe. Henri could easily have taken every game but often made intentional errors so that his brother could win.
When Henri was not engaged in sport, he spent a great deal of time with the blond widow from Queen Eleonore’s entourage. Young Francois, by contrast, liked to dine with his sisters and many days shared lunch with us.
On one such occasion, I asked him about the widow. She was Diane de Poitiers, wife of the late Louis de Breze, a very powerful old man who had been the Grand Seneschal of Normandy. Her grandmother had been a de La Tour d’Auvergne, which made us second cousins. At the age of fourteen, Madame de Poitiers had come to Court to attend the King’s first wife, Claude. In the twenty years since, she had earned a reputation for dignity and temperance, dressing modestly and eschewing the white face paint and rouge used by the other women. A pious Catholic, she was scandalized by the infiltration of Protestants into Court.
“In which subject does she instruct my husband?” I asked Francois.
I speared a piece of venison-I had brought my own fork from Italy and still suffered the bemused glances of the French for using such an exotic implement-and paused before taking a bite.
Young Francois held his meat in his fingers and bit off a large chunk before answering. “In protocol, comport, and politics,” he said, chewing, his words muffled. “She’s quite good at all three.” He swallowed and shot me a curious glance. “You needn’t be jealous. The lady is famous for her virtue. And she’s a good twenty years older than Henri.”
“Of course I’m not jealous,” I said, with a little laugh.
Francois dismissed the thought with an easy smile. “You must understand, Henri was only five when our mother died. He had always been very attached to her, so the loss was particularly hard on him. Madame de
