“You have forgotten to say dignified.” He takes my hand and makes a show of bowing over it. Then, pinching my arm, he turns and runs. I pursue as he weaves through the crowd in the courtyard and darts into the chateau.
Henri has the advantage. Not just because he is older and taller, but because he knows Fontainebleau. I pass through several rooms heedless of my surroundings, intent solely on closing the gap between myself and my brother. Then, suddenly, I am in a vast space. Winter light spills through enormous windows, causing the parquet floor to shine like ice, and swimming in this glossy surface I see my father’s emblem. I stop and look upward, searching for the source of the illusion. There, among elaborately carved panels of wood touched with blue paint and gilt, I spy my father’s device. Now that I have stopped, Henri stops as well.
“What is this place?” I ask.
“The salle des fêtes, you goose.”
Ignoring the jibe, I turn slowly, admiring the room. Just behind my brother, frescos show hunting scenes like those I imagined this morning, only the figures are clothed in the ancient garb of myth rather than the grandiose fashions of the Court. I want to dance here. It is a ballroom after all. Without another thought, I begin an almain. As I rise to balance on the ball of one foot for the fourth time, Henri joins me. Humming beneath his breath, he catches up my hands and begins to lead me in a circle. I realize that we are no longer alone. A small dark figure stands just inside the door by which we entered. Mother! I pause, arresting Henri’s motion, but not before he steps on my foot.
“Why do you stop?” Mother’s voice is clear despite the considerable distance. “Come, let me see how you manage a gaillarde.”
My brother does not hesitate. “We will do the eleven-step pattern,” he whispers, and then begins to hum the more rapid music the dance demands. My brother is a natural athlete. And I, I am the stag, prancing and full of high spirits. As we execute the cadence and come to rest, Mother applauds.
“Henri my heart, you put gentlemen twice your age to shame! So elegant! It is pleasant to see you partnered by one whose looks and grace match your own. We must have a ballet featuring you both, now that Margot has come.” Mother walks forward as she speaks, stopping just before us.
“As part of the Shrove Tuesday festivities?” my brother asks eagerly.
Mother smiles indulgently, offering her hand. “Ambition too,” she says, stroking Henri’s hair with her free hand as he bends over her other. “You are God’s most perfect gift.” Then, turning in my direction, her eyes harden and her lips compress. “Your gouvernante was at a loss to explain your whereabouts when I arrived in the Cour Ovale.”
I feel myself blushing.
“It is my fault.” Henri’s voice surprises me. “I was waiting for Margot and whisked her away.”
Mother’s expression softens. Putting an arm around my shoulders, she says, “The King waits to receive you.”
I imagined meeting Charles in his apartments—a gathering of family. So I am awed when a door opens to reveal His Majesty seated on a dais with dozens of courtiers in attendance.
A woman and a young man stand before him. I can see neither of their faces. Charles looks away from them at the sound of our entrance. He has become a man! A slight mustache darkens his lip. His face is not as handsome as Henri’s, but it is kind. Does the King smile at the sight of me? If so, the smile is fleeting. Standing beside me, Mother gives a sharp nod and Charles’ eyes return to the pair before him.
Taking advantage of his attention, the lady, who is exquisitely dressed, says, “Your Majesty, I appeal to your sense of justice. Surely a woman deprived of her husband by an assassin’s hand is entitled to pursue his killer.”
“Duchesse de Guise, Jean de Poltrot was put to death a year ago. Is that not justice?”
Charles’ voice has deepened. If it is Anne d’Este who petitions, then the sandy-haired young man at her side must be her son Henri, Duc de Guise.
“Your Majesty, Poltrot may have struck the blow, but he was merely an instrument.”
Mother sweeps forward. “Your Grace knows,” she says, brushing past the Dowager Duchesse and ascending the dais to stand at Charles’ side, “how dear justice and your persons are to His Majesty. But you must also know, Duchesse, how dear to His Majesty, indeed to all who care for France, is the present tenuous peace. It is not a year old. Would Your Grace kill it in its infancy with this lawsuit against Gaspard de Coligny?”
Mother’s eyes are piercing. They seek an answer while making quite clear that only one answer will do. “His Majesty does not dismiss your suit, he merely suspends it,” she presses.
“Three years is a very long time to wait for justice.” The Duc speaks, drawing himself up. He is very tall for a young man Charles’ age.