1
July 1551
Palace of Fontainebleau, France
“Father!”
Marguerite ran to him as fast as she could, although the tears stung her eyes. She flew into his arms, burying her head in the rich fabric of the king’s robes.
“Oh, my dear heart. Whatever is wrong?” Henri hugged her tight, stroking a hand over her hair.
Throwing her arms around his neck, she sniffled. “Why are they so mean to me?”
“They are but children, Marguerite. They know not what they do. Come, come.” He brought her over to a bench by the wall and sat, patting the spot next to him.
She nearly collapsed next to him, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “Francis said I did not matter. Said that nobody loves me. Called me a bastard.”
“That is not true, and you are well aware of that fact.” Henri placed an arm around her and hugged her close to his side, kissing the top of her head. “I love you more than the stars. You are my gift from God.”
“But…I…I am not really your daughter.”
“Oh? How strange. I had thought you were. What a terrible misunderstanding.” He chuckled, and then let out a sigh. “No, my beloved, you are my daughter. But you are not the daughter of my wife, and therein lies the rub, I am afraid.”
Marguerite nodded weakly. She knew she was not Catherine de Medici’s daughter. That fact was made painfully clear to her from the first day she was old enough to comprehend the thought. It was a fact the queen herself enjoyed reminding her of at every opportunity.
She was not really a princess. She was not really the daughter of Henri II, King of France. She sniffled and wiped her eyes again. “I know.”
“They are just jealous of you.”
“Father, now you jest.”
“No, I am quite serious. You are older, smarter, more talented—and indeed, I think if you were allowed to train in the art, you would be a better fencer. I have seen you in the yard playing with young de Lorges. What is his name again?”
“Leopold.” She paused. “You are not mad at me?”
“Hm, no. I think it will be a long time before I allow you to enter the knighthood, however. But I see no harm in picking up a wooden sword and playing at children’s games.” He hummed as a thought clearly came to him. “Ah, see? There is the benefit to your condition.”
“How so?”
“If you were heir to the throne or a titled princess, you would not be able to sneak off so.” He tapped her on the end of her nose and smiled wryly. “With your little pad of paper and pilfered charcoal to sketch the fountains in the gardens. Or to fence with your companion by the woods.”
Marguerite pouted. “I thought I was hiding that.”
“You were, but there is much that a father sees that others do not. Even I, as king, as busy as I may be.” He kissed the top of her head again. “The children are simply jealous of you, and for more than just the freedom your heritage allows. No, they are jealous because you were born of true love, my dear heart.”
“What do you mean?”
He smiled sadly as he gazed out the window into the gardens and yards outside the palace. “You are too young to understand, I fear. There is a simple rule in the world around us, one that is as inescapable for kings as it is peasants, if not more so. A marriage of love is mournfully often the exception, not the rule.”
“You do not love the queen?” She frowned. How sad for both of them if that were true.
“Our relationship is…not meant to be about such matters. We were wed by arrangement. I had barely even met her before we were bound. I do love her, but it is not the kind of love that one aspires to own.”
“I still do not understand.”
“I hope you never will. If I have my say, my dear heart, yours will be a life of love. I will give you that which I never had the opportunity to achieve.” He pulled his arm from around her shoulders. “Now, dry your tears and off you go, dear heart. Ignore the callousness of the children. They play at cruelty to test the limits of their bonds.”
“Thank you, Father.” Standing, she turned back to lean down and kiss his cheek. She curtsied before she left his side, feeling much better than she had moments before.