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January 1559

Palace of Fontainebleau, France

“But I hate him!”

Marguerite watched as the young Henri threw himself back dramatically on her bed, one arm flung out at his side and the other draped over his head.

She smiled and shook her head, amused at his antics. She would forever be amused by the foppish child. “Henri, love, you hate most everyone.”

“No, I do not.” He pondered the thought for a moment. “All right, perhaps I do, but not you, Marguerite. You, I can tolerate.”

“I appreciate that.” She chuckled as she turned back to her writing table. “And you do not hate Francis. You are just annoyed by him. It is very different.”

“He keeps calling me Henrietta. But if I go to strike him, I am scolded for hitting someone with ‘such a weak constitution.’” He mocked their nurse, doing a fairly adept imitation of the older woman. “It is not fair!”

“Well, you should not let his name-calling trouble you so. He only likes to needle you because you are the queen’s favorite, and she has no qualms about making that known.” She set down her quill. There would be no writing done with Henri in the room.

The young boy jumped from the bed. “I suppose.” He headed to her wardrobe and, throwing open the doors, began to play with a few of Marguerite’s scarves, tying them around his head and posing in the mirror.

There were many in the palace who would have likely wished to slap the boy silly for such effeminate behavior. Marguerite allowed it for several reasons. First and most importantly, it was not her place to judge who the boy was or how he would wish to live his life. She was eighteen and had met many a young man in the court who acted quite like her younger half-brother. Many of those men had sought her hand in marriage, recognizing in her behavior an acceptance for their proclivities. As it was generally those men who preferred the company of each other over those of women.

She might not suffer the same condition, but she, too, found herself in the strange world of being both accepted and yet distinctly “other.”

“He thinks just because he got married, he can boss me around.” Henri huffed, now having moved on to her modest jewelry collection to play with.

“I suppose it is a rite that makes one an adult in the eyes of most.”

“Can you imagine it? Being married to Francis?” He let out a loud and dramatic sound of disgust.

She made a face. “No, gladly, I cannot imagine it.”

“Why aren’t you married yet, Marguerite?” Henri swirled in front of the mirror. “You’re awfully old. Is it because you’re ugly?”

She barked a laugh. “Well, excuse me, my prince!” Shaking her head, she smiled at him. There was a fiendishness to him that she could not deny she enjoyed. “Yes, that must be why. And here I had been taking my father’s word on the matter this whole time. Yet no one had the strength of character to tell me I was entirely hideous. Thank you for your honesty.”

Henri grinned from ear to ear. He loved these kinds of games, and she was one of the few who had come to not only tolerate but encourage them. “Oh? What has father told you?”

“I do not think I am now able to say. I am too overwrought with grief, finally knowing the truth of my revolting appearance.” She put the back of her hand to her forehead and draped back against her desk, feigning sorrow.

“Oh, come on!” He ran up to her, ditching his costume on the floor wherever it lay, and nearly threw himself at her, climbing into her lap. “You must tell me.”

“Must I?” She sat back up and hugged the boy. Picking up one of her hairbrushes, she began to comb some of the snarls out of his hair. For someone seemingly obsessed with his appearance, he was still a young boy. “I do not know as I must do anything.”

“But I am a prince.”

“Yes, but you are not the prince, are you? Francis will be king when our father is taken by God. I do not believe you outrank me.” Oh, he did. But she was not about to tell him that.

“But—but—” He pouted. “I want to know.”

“It is a secret.”

“Now I want to know even more.” He whined comically and slumped against her. “Margueriiiiite!”

“Say please.”

“No. I am a prince. I don’t have to say please.”