Free Médicis Daughter by Sophie Perinot

cover of the music to allow me to speak frankly, “I think there is something wrong with the Prince of Asturias.”
    “You mean other than his table manners?” My brother laughs. “How he ate. Good Lord! I felt sorry for you, truly I did. Food was flying everywhere. It seemed a thing certain that your lovely gown would be spoiled.”
    He laughs again. I fear I will find no consolation with him in his present mood. Where can I seek it, then? I would not breathe a word of my concern to Mother. I may fear there is something odd about the Prince, but I fear Mother’s displeasure more and she has made her desire very clear. She wants Don Carlos for a son. Besides, I tell myself, as I twirl in my somber black gown, Mother would not solicit his hand for me if there was truly something wrong with him.
    *   *   *
    “I cannot understand it!” Mother is frantic and she frightens me. We are alone in her apartment. It is Saint John’s Eve. It has been more than a week since the Spanish arrived, and things are not proceeding in the manner Mother envisioned. It seems Alba came with a list of complaints as to how Mother and Charles rule France, and a list of demands—chief among them the repeal of the Edict of Amboise and all-out war to eliminate heretics. King Philip does not appear to care how that is done, by conversion or by death.
    “Cosimo Ruggieri saw a crown in your stars,” Mother says, pacing. I know that she has a great faith in her elderly astrologer. “But the Duc cannot be persuaded to discuss the match. He would rather complain about His Majesty’s dining with the Turkish ambassador! And your sister—your sister says she sounded Don Carlos on the subject of your wit and beauty and he declared that he has hardly noticed you.”
    “Hardly noticed me,” I stammer, “but I say something to him whenever we are in company. He even danced with me at the masquerade.” My memories of that event are not pleasant. Don Carlos is no better dancer than he is company. He clutched my arm so tightly in the lifts that he left a bruise. The only time he smiled was when I cried out as he trod on my foot. I entertain a growing certainty that there is something very wrong with the Prince. At the feux d’allegresse on the evening of Charles’ investiture into the Order of the Golden Fleece, I thought I saw him trying to urge one of the King’s young spaniels into the fire. At this point, no one can be oblivious to his erratic behavior. Elisabeth clearly is not—I have seen her intervene to soothe him. Yet Mother mentions none of this, and her desire that I should marry him is unchanged.
    “You will have to do better,” she admonishes. “The Prince is the key. If he desires you, Alba will be forced to discuss the subject.”
    “Desires me? He told me I am ‘a little girl.’”
    “Show him differently. Flirt with him. Your beauty is the envy of my ladies. Use it. Today’s entertainment will offer you opportunity to be apart with the Prince. I will keep the Duc d’Alba occupied on the barge.” She stops walking and looks at me intently. “And I will instruct the Baronne de Retz not to chaperone you too closely. Perhaps when the Whale makes his appearance, you might grab Don Carlos’ arm in your fright.”
    I shiver slightly. Am I to behave as Mademoiselle de Rieux and the others after all? And if so, I hope that Mother will at least tell the Baronne in advance so I am not chastised afterwards.
    “Go and get dressed.”
    Charlotte and Henriette are waiting to ready me for the festivities. I need their advice, but I am less than delighted by Charlotte’s first response to my entreaty.
    “I do not envy you the task of bewitching Don Carlos,” she says, rolling her eyes.
    The image of the Prince hunched over his food, with some of it running down his chin, overwhelms me.
    “It is hopeless,” I groan.
    “Not so,” Henriette admonishes. “He is a man, and men are, for the most part, subject to seduction.”
    I