Free Médicis Daughter by Sophie Perinot Page B

come close to discussing Don Carlos’ oddity, so I remain where I sit without chastising him.
    “Yes. I could never trust him after that. He did bad things. Worried the other dogs. Snapped without warning. His eyes were never the same after the accident, and I should have known from that that he was not the same dog. They had to put him down. I cried, but afterwards I was relieved.” He pauses for a minute, thinking. “That is a major difference between people and dogs. I do not know what precisely you do when you look in a man’s eyes and see he has changed … see he is not right.”
    Finally, someone has said it out loud, or nearly—Don Carlos is not right. The fact that it should be my cousin leaves me with mixed feelings. Mostly I am relieved, but my duty to my mother rises up behind that relief, so I say, “The Prince of Asturias is an important personage and will be King of Spain one day.”
    My cousin shrugs. “Will that make him well? I do not think so.” He stands up. “I am going to the front so I do not miss the Whale. Have you heard? He will spout wine.”
    I have heard. I am eager to see. More than that, I ought to pursue Don Carlos so that I can clutch his arm at the right moment. Yet, when my cousin offers his hand, I decline. He shrugs again. “Your mother has made a bad choice. I think your father made a better one.” And then he winks—he winks —before walking away. The nerve! If there is anyone I would less like to have as my groom than Don Carlos of Spain, it is the Prince of Navarre.
    I creep along the other side of the barge and arrive near the prow in time to see the Whale. Though Don Carlos is plainly visible, I take a place next to my brother Henri, leaning upon the rail. While the beast is being attacked by courtiers playing the part of fishermen, Henri covers one of my hands with his. “That gown is marvelous,” he whispers. “Not even a bevy of golden shepherdesses will be able to eclipse you.”
    The shepherdesses Henri alluded to greet us as we land, dancing gaily, each according to the portion of France she represents. On my brother’s arm I sweep into a meadow such as I have never seen—a perfect oval framed by massive trees and punctuated with niches containing tables sufficiently large to seat a dozen courtiers each. Everything is decorated lavishly, particularly the dais where Charles, Elisabeth, and Mother will sit. If the feast is as splendid as the decorations, we will rise from the tables groaning. Or everyone but me will.
    I am, of course, seated alongside Don Carlos, a situation which destroys my appetite. Even after so many meals, I have not become oblivious to the way he displays the contents of his mouth when chewing. I cannot look in his direction. And though I think of Charlotte’s admonition about letting my knee touch his, I cannot do so, particularly because my brother Henri sits just to my other side. I should be ashamed for him to see me do such a thing.
    By the time the last course is cleared, dusk is lengthening into darkness. Musicians enter, led by dozens of men costumed as satyrs. A hundred torches blaze at the large grotto meant to provide a stage. The light glints off the jewels studding the satyrs’ horns and off their bare chests, which have been oiled. Looking at Don Carlos sitting perfectly still, the light reflecting from his eyes, I can clearly see that whatever he said about showing off earlier, he is impressed.
    Henri perceives this as well, for he leans toward me and, putting his hand over mine where it lays in my lap, whispers, “I will wager the petulant Spanish prince has never seen the likes of this at his father’s court.”
    The music begins. As if by magic a group of nymphs descends from the upper edge of the grotto while still more appear around its lip. They wear such an abundance of precious stones that they seem to light the night as surely as the torches do. “Look at his eyes bulge,” Henri continues. “He is dazzled by