Médicis Daughter by Sophie Perinot

was not what she expected and she shed many tears thinking, with good reason, the gentleman beneath her. For though he is a baron, Fizes bought his land and title not five years ago from the Bishop of Montpellier and by birth he is a peasant’s son.
    “No, indeed,” Charlotte says. “Guise is not for me. Not because I fear the Baron, but I know my duty as a lady of the robes and maid of honor.” My friend folds her hands primly and compresses her mouth into a dour expression—for a moment. Then, ceasing to play act, she smiles deviously. “When I cuckold my husband, it is with gentlemen of Her Majesty’s choosing.”
    All three of us collapse into fits of laughter.
    When I have enough breath to speak, I say, “Henriette, the Duc deserves better than to be painted in your sister’s Book of Hours hanging from a cross.” The Princesse has the odd habit of having former lovers thus portrayed, and every lady at the Court knows it, even as her husband seems pointedly to ignore the rumor.
    “Does he?” Henriette looks at me sharply. “Could it be that you have an interest?”
    “Why not?” Glancing back down the court, I observe that the Duc has taken a seat among the King’s gentlemen and Charles turns to greet him. Guise is undeniably more handsome than when he left to fight the Turks, and when he smiles in response to some words of the King’s, his face gains a liveliness that makes it more attractive still. As I am staring—and, yes, I must admit I am—the Duc’s glance shifts and his eyes, unexpectedly, meet mine. My stomach trembles. He tilts his head slightly as if questioning me or perhaps taking my measure. Then a burst of applause breaks our gaze. The match is over. Anjou has won. My companions rise and the face and figure of the Duc are lost in a sea of skirts. By the time I reach my own feet and look again in his direction, he is gone.
    I feel a certain disappointment, but it is swept away as Henri leaps the low wall dividing the alley from the gallery to be with me. “Ah, the day’s victor!” I give a small curtsy.
    “It takes very little effort to beat that lot,” Henri replies. “Thank heavens, Guise has come. There will be decent tennis at last.”
    So Henri noticed the Duc. This should not surprise me: my brother has inherited Mother’s sharp eyes. “Walk with me.” He holds out a hand expectantly. “I have an idea for how we may bring all eyes to us at tomorrow’s ball and make Mother proud.”
    I allow him to draw me through the crowd and across the lawn, toward the garden.
    “It came to me last night in a dream,” Anjou says, looking over his shoulder to assure himself we are out of hearing of other courtiers. “We must play Artemis and Apollo.”
    “But Henri, my costume is finished. You know I am Terpsichore. What shall the other eight muses do if I abandon them?”
    “What care I for the other muses? And what should you? This is a sojourn dedicated to sport. We hunt nearly every day. Why, then, we must be the twins—the best pair of archers among the gods. Did you not tell me just the other morning how you thought you loved a hunt even better than a ball?”
    “Yes, but—”
    “But nothing. Are we not brother and sister as Artemis and Apollo were? And what brother and sister can be called more devoted to their mother’s honor than we—except, perhaps, that ancient pair? The analogy will please the Queen, and to make sure it is brought to her mind, I’ve written a little verse recounting the tale of Niobe.”
    “And whose progeny shall we be threatening to slay?”
    “Oh, I have kept it very general—nothing impolitic.” He waves one hand, swatting my question aside as if it were a fly. “I merely wish to make clear that ’twould be the height of foolishness for any house to claim themselves the equals of the Valois.”
    I throw up my hands, for I am clearly defeated. The image of my brother and me hand in hand, declaring our devotion to Mother, is too pleasing