carnal appreciation as she studied Lignerolles. He was clean-shaven, the better to show off his fine, high cheekbones, flawless complexion, and the handsome cleft in his chin. He genuflected to Edouard and Margot in a manner as spare and elegant as his dress.
The same could not be said for Robert-Louis, whose blond hair was almost white. His nose was small and round, his lips coarse; he wore a white satin doublet with a rose velvet mantle. His bow was swift and cursory, and he grabbed Anjou’s arm and told some joke that made the Cardinal of Lorraine lift his grey eyebrows in disapproval. But Edouard laughed and slapped Robert-Louis on the back. The latter smiled at the others with smugness that verged on mockery.
After hours of socializing, I encountered Edouard alone near one of the fountains. I sidled next to him and was nearly overpowered by the fragrance of orange blossom.
“You smell better, thank God,” I teased.
He smiled at me, preoccupied as he stared at Charles and Margot, who paraded through the chamber arm in arm. “It seems my sister has her hands full these days.”
“Charles says he will not marry,” I said softly. “He says I must rely on you for heirs.” I paused. “I’ve thought a great deal about the right woman for you. I’ve written Elizabeth of England, and she’s responded with interest.”
He emerged from his reverie with a start. “That cow? If it’s heirs you want, you’ll have to do better than a balding hag with a bad leg.”
“Edouard,” I admonished, “you would be King of England.”
He let go a long sigh. “I would do anything for you, and for France,
I scowled. “If not Elizabeth, then who?”
“No one at all,” he said quickly and returned to Guise and Lignerolles, both of whom were still fawning over Margot.
I dismissed Edouard’s refusal as impudence and resolved to speak to him again that night, but guests interrupted me at every turn. It grew late, and revelers-including Edouard-still lingered. So did I, for I wanted him to hear me out.
Our victory at Jarnac had eventually led to promising negotiations with the Huguenots. I had welcomed the detente joyfully, believing that the war was truly over.
Yet the night before, I had fallen into a dream filled with thousands of innocent screams. I woke terrified and spent the rest of the night in feverish thought: How was I to avert more war between Huguenots and Catholics?
Reason brought the solution: My daughter Elisabeth’s marriage to Philip of Spain had ended a war lasting two generations. Marriages of diplomacy were often used to make friends of former enemies. But Charles, with his surly temperament, was likely to insult or even harm a Protestant bride. Edouard had the mental suppleness to woo such a woman and win her. And Elizabeth of England seemed the only candidate worthy of him.
Henri and I had married when we were both fourteen: Charles was now twenty, and Edouard nearly nineteen. As a mother and a queen, I had been patient, but I could wait no longer.
I wandered out onto the balcony. Below, the courtyard was dappled by fireflies and a hundred lamps nestled in the boxwood mazes; moonlight glinted off the spray from the fountain. I closed my eyes and thought suddenly of my husband-how handsome he had looked when he had stood beside that very fountain, a young soldier returned from war.
A rustle below prompted me to open my eyes. In front of a low hedge, two dark masculine forms moved stealthily toward each other. Their fingers touched, and one man pulled the other into a hard embrace. Their faces merged for a lingering kiss. The smaller man pushed himself free and began to whisper-too faintly for me to hear, but the cadence held shame and sorrow.
The other listened, then spoke his piece, low, reasonable, yearning. He fell silent, and the pair stood still as statues-only to lunge at each other in the next instant.
The tall man led his fellow to a low hedge and swung him about so they faced the same direction. The smaller looked over his shoulder to protest but, at his lover’s touch, bent forward at the waist, his cap tumbling onto the lawn as he rested his elbows upon the clipped hedge.
The tall man slipped behind him and fumbled with clothing. A thrust of the hips, and the shadowed forms merged again into a single, many-limbed silhouette. The bent man let go a sharp sensual cry of pain; his partner clapped a hand over his mouth. As the bent man clawed at the hedge, the taller rode him.
I should have left them to their passion, but I was frankly curious. Viewed from the outside, their encounter seemed no different from that between a man and a woman. The rhythm of the act was the same: a trot, then a canter, then full gallop. At the end, the rider gripped his mount’s hips and reared back, his face inclined toward the moon, and let go a ragged gasp.
The tall rider staggered backward; his paramour straightened and covered his face with his hands.
The tall man took him in his arms and spoke gently until the shorter had composed himself. They parted with a kiss before walking briskly back toward the building.
I retreated into the shadows as the smaller man neared. The torchlight by the entrance glinted off his face-his fine, smooth, clean-shaven face with its dimpled chin. Lignerolles put a hand to his dark hair, realized that he had forgotten his cap, and sprinted back toward the hedge to fetch it.
The taller man continued on. As he passed by the torches, I saw his face quite clearly, with its long, straight nose and black eyes that glittered like the diamond pendants hanging from his ears.
My Edouard, my precious eyes. I was not scandalized, only sad to know that the royal House of Valois was in danger of dying.
Hours before dawn, a guttural roar expelled me from my bed. Madame Gondi heard it, too, and came rushing out from the closet. The shouting grew closer, and soon I recognized the King’s voice.
“Bitch! Whore! How could you have betrayed me?”
A thud and a woman’s incoherent screams followed. By the time I peered out my antechamber door, Charles was in the corridor, dressed in silk leggings and an undershirt. He clutched Margot’s arm, and when I opened the door wider, he flung her at me.
“Go to your mother, whore!” he screamed. “Tell her how you have shamed us!”
Margot fell to her knees and grabbed my hands. She wore only her cotton nightgown, her hair falling down her back in unfettered waves. “He has finally gone crazy,
I smoothed back a dark, errant lock at her cheek and saw that the shoulder of her gown had been torn. Beneath, the red, swelling skin bore marks in the shape of my son’s upper jaw.
I glared at Charles. “You have hurt her!”
“Tell her why!” he commanded her, and when she remained silent, he struck the back of her skull.
She let go a wail; I put an arresting palm in the King’s face.
Margot wept into her hands, utterly undone. “He spies on me,
“Because you are a whore!” Charles roared. “Because there was a man in your bed, and you were fucking him!”
He grabbed the hair at the nape of Margot’s neck and pulled her head backward to expose her throat. Lightning fast, he reached for a slender, gleaming object at his waist. His eyes shone with the same inhuman light I had seen at the hunt, when the entrails of the hare had dangled from his teeth.
“You don’t understand-I love her.” He waved the dagger a finger’s breadth above Margot’s tender skin. “At least, I did-until she betrayed me! Was it your first time with a cock between your legs, my sister? Did it hurt? Or did you revel in it, like a whore? Tell the truth! It was Henri of Guise, wasn’t it?”
“It was no one,” Margot sobbed.
As Charles lifted the dagger, I shielded Margot with my body and struck his arm. The dagger clattered to the marble floor and skittered toward the doorway.
He twisted Margot’s hair tightly and jerked her backward; she screamed and hit the floor. Charles raised the
