carried away by the words that I did not hear the creak of the door, with the result that when the King himself appeared in the darkness-hair uncombed, nightshirt hid beneath a gold brocade dressing gown-I gasped as if I had seen a specter.
King Francois laughed; the yellow glow from the lamp in his hand had a ghoulish eff ect on his long face.
“Don’t be frightened, Catherine. My supper awakens me far too often now that I am grown old.”
“Your Majesty.” I shut the book and curtsied awkwardly. “I must compliment you on your library. I’m enormously impressed by your selection of titles. And I’ve barely begun to explore it.”
He lowered his lamp and grinned, pleased, then glanced at the books in my hand.
“Agrippa, eh? That manuscript is rare-it has yet to be formally published-but I was lucky enough to obtain one of the few copies in circulation. Quite esoteric choices, Neoplatonism and astrological magic, for a young lady. How do you find Agrippa?”
I paused. Many priests disapproved of such subjects; indeed, many argued that these topics were blasphemous. It occurred to me that, although the King might see fit to include such titles in the royal library, he might not necessarily approve of them-or of my taking them to read.
“I find it fascinating,” I said stoutly. “I am a student of astrology and related subjects, and fond of Ficino. In fact, I brought one of his works from Florence,
His eyes widened and lit up. “That would be the third volume-”
“Of
He lunged at me and kissed each of my cheeks in rapid turn. “My darling! I could ask for no better gift! But I cannot ask you to give away one of your own country’s national treasures.”
“I’m French now,” I said. To my mind, the House of Medici and the royal House of Valois were one and the same.
He embraced me with real warmth. “I will accept your generous gift, my daughter. But I would not see the books sent here, where we will be spending only a month or two. Have them sent to Fontainebleau, near Paris. You and I will be there by the time the books arrive, and thus will be able to enjoy them immediately.” He paused. “You needn’t read the books here, child; take them to your room and keep them as long as you’d like.” He moved back toward the shelves. “And now, some reading for me.”
Lifting the lamp, he squinted at the titles.
“Ah,” he said at last. “Here.” He drew a book from the shelf. The title was in French, the subject Italian architecture. “I’m of a mind to do more building at Fontainebleau.”
I moved to stand beside him and spied a treatise about Brunelleschi, who had designed the great dome for Florence’s cathedral. I retrieved the book from the shelf and opened it.
He turned his head sharply as he registered my interest. “So,” he asked, “you enjoy philosophy
I must have blushed, given the sudden rush of warmth to my neck and cheeks. “It is Brunelleschi, Sire, and I am from Florence. But I should think anyone would be curious to learn how such a huge cupola stands without any visible support.”
He gave a toothy grin of approval. “Tomorrow, the third hour after noon, go to the royal stables and join me for a ride in the countryside.”
“Your invitation honors me, Your Majesty,” I said and curtsied again. “I won’t be late.”
By the time I finally drifted off to sleep in my bed, Agrippa’s book open on my lap, I had made a decision: If I could not win Henri, then I would win his father, in the hope of reconciling them-and, of course, reconciling Henri to me.
As Madame Gondi directed my ladies in dressing me the next morning, I asked her to find a French hood for me. I had been wearing my hair in the fashion of an Italian married woman, up with brooches, but all the French women had shoulder-length hoods-veils actually, affixed to stiff, curved bands of velvet or brocade, worn at midcrown over smoothed-back hair. I had told King Francois that I was now French, and the hood was a physical reminder of my first loyalty.
In a matter of minutes, Madame Gondi appeared with a white veil attached to a dove grey band. I felt odd wearing it, as if I were wearing a disguise at a masque.
The days at Court fell into a predictable pattern based upon the King’s movements. After rising, the King met with his secretaries and councillors. At ten o’clock, he went to Mass, and at eleven, he ate lunch in his reception hall. He was the sole diner, with nobles, petitioners, and servants standing in solemn attendance. Often, a bishop would read aloud to him from a text of His Majesty’s choosing. Afterward, the King held audiences or heard complaints. In the afternoons, he would emerge for exercise-a ride, a hunt, a walk, a game of tennis.
I shadowed the King that day in the hope of encountering Henri, but he and his older brother were off elsewhere.
By afternoon, the November sky held grey clouds that promised drizzle. Even so, my mood had brightened. My favorite mount, Zeus, a black-maned chestnut gelding, had traveled with me to France. I missed him, and the exercise, terribly. I also hoped that my husband might be among the riders.
But when I arrived at the stables at the appointed hour, Henri was not there. Nor was the Dauphin, nor young Charles, nor any of the gentlemen of the court. With the exception of the grooms-one of whom stood holding the reins of the King’s restless, large black charger-His Majesty was the only man present.
He was quite distracted by the five lovely women who accompanied him, all laughing and chattering like bright, beautiful parrots-save one, who had just stepped onto a small stool set before her waiting mare with the intent of ascending the padded, thronelike perch that was a French ladies’ saddle. Her back was to the others-a fact that tempted the King. He wound his arm around the waist of a different woman standing beside him and pulled her body against his in lascivious fashion, then, with incriminating deftness, slipped his hand inside her bodice and squeezed her breast. She displayed no embarrassment, even when she lifted her gaze and saw me.
“Sire!” she exclaimed, with mock reproval, and coyly slapped his hand. She was dark-haired and stout, with prim lips braced by dimples. “Your Majesty, you are a wicked man!”
“I am,” the King admitted cheerfully, “and only the kiss of a good Christian woman can save me. Marie, my darling, rescue me!”
Eager not to be seen by the woman settling on the saddle, Marie gave him a swift kiss on the lips and glanced pointedly at me.
I curtsied. “Your Majesty,” I said loudly.
Instantly, five pairs of feminine eyes marked my French hood.
“Daughter!” the King exclaimed, smiling, and took my hand. “How fashionable you look, and how French! Welcome to our little band! Ladies, this is my darling daughter Catherine. And these, Catherine, are Madame de Massy, the Duchess de Montpensier, Madame Chabot, and Madame de Canaples.”
I nodded at each of them in turn. Madame de Massy, perhaps eighteen and the most hesitant of the group, had milky blond hair and eyebrows so fine and colorless as to be invisible. Beside her, already mounted, Madame de Montpensier-a handsome woman with a square, masculine jaw-bowed politely in the saddle but could not entirely repress her smirk at my discomfort over finding the King with his hand in a woman’s bodice. Madame Chabot, wife of an admiral, smiled faintly as though bored and beyond it all. Madame de Canaples-Marie, as the King had called her-looked on me with smug, heavy-lidded eyes.
The King gestured at the woman who had been mounting the grey mare when I arrived. “And this is my beloved Anne, also known as the Duchess d’Etampes.” He glanced at her with a foolish, lovesick grin.
All of the women’s glances followed his, looking to Anne for a cue. The Duchess sat upon her little riding throne, her feet on the high footrest, which forced her knees to bend so that her skirts spilled down to cover her legs. Thus situated, she could not reach the reins but folded her gloved hands while a mounted groom came alongside and took the reins for her.
She was a fragile creature, tiny, with large golden brown eyes and rouged lips that were full and astonishingly mobile, curving easily in sly amusement, or twisting in contempt, or pursing in disdain. Her copper hair was crimped into soft, frizzy clouds at her temples and parted severely down the middle; the band of her French hood was of gold filigree fashioned to resemble a tiara. From her chin to the tip of her riding boots, she was swallowed by a high-collared coat of the same cut and fur as the King’s. She accepted his adoration as her due, with no more
