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The bride is beautiful. Philippe doesn't remember his cousin well, but however she looked like as a child she has flowered into a gorgeous woman, it is plain for all to see, and she will be the greatest beauty at court. The ceremony is regal. They are wed by the Archbishop of Paris himself, half of Europe's nobility is present to marvel at the Bourbon opulence, and even his brother applauds as they sit down for the feast in the palace's banqueting hall afterwards. The food is delicious. There is tender honeyed chicken breast, a strange kind of thin and sour fish Philippe has never seen before, exotic dates covered in caramel, crabs roasted in Southern spices and a thousand other courses that have every courtier's mouth watering. The entertainment is glorious. The best musicians of France play sweet and fast melodies, acrobats are replaced by fire-breathers as dusk descends, a Mediterranean prince has brought a queer white doe with sleek black horns that dances on its hind legs, and the stars are joined by fireworks late in the evening. The bride is beautiful, the ceremony is regal, the food is delicious and the entertainment is glorious: the perfect royal wedding, both a generous gift bestowed to him by his brother and a proof of the crown's gold for all the guests to see.
Philippe hates every second. The bride in all her splendor, with her bright gold wedding dress slashed with velvet and embroidered with sweetwater pearls, with her hair as golden as her dress woven in a most intricate form, is nothing but a pretty façade. The ceremony is dull and overly long. The food tastes stale on his tongue, and the entertainment elicits nothing but a forced smile from him when his King asks if he enjoys it. Everything is tinged grey with the lack of what – or whom – he truly desires.
His new wife, seated next to him, is obviously uncomfortable. Philippe reminds himself that none of this is her fault; this doomed marriage was arranged by powers far above them, and neither he nor she could have protested against it. This thought – that she wants to be here as little as he does – is the sole reason he doesn't resent her, this fragile thing smiling sweetly at whichever courtier comes up to congratulate the couple. Philippe doesn't speak to her throughout this particularly boring tradition. For once in Philippe's life, he is at the center; his brother, next to the bride, sits slightly apart, with their mother next to him. The Queen sits on Philippe's other side, looking decidedly bored and faintly unwell, while the long line before them thins. Philippe barely listens to the courtiers and acknowledges most with only a nod. He feels his inattention is vindicated, though, as they all say the same: 'congratulations' and 'may you be gifted with many sons' and 'all of France rejoices with you' and 'our beloved countries are now bonded by blood', the same song sung in many melodies: you are wed now, and that is a song Philippe does not like to hear.
He tries to guess how many pearls are woven into his bride's dress – his current estimation is at around three thousand and five hundred, but he knows he is nowhere near close to the total number – when a familiar voice attracts his attention. As is proper, the Chevalier de Lorraine has come to wish the couple well. Philippe flushes slightly; he has tried hard to not think of him the whole day, but his thoughts always trail back to the lithe youth who now stands before him.
“Philippe de Lorraine,” the King whispers into Henriette's ear by way of introduction, his tone derisive, but Philippe doesn't take notice. “Monsieur,” the Chevalier says, followed by a “Madame,” and a small bow – much smaller than is appropriate for a man of his standing speaking to the King's brother, but Philippe gladly forgives such trivialities. “These are most extravagant festivities; should they be an omen for your years together, I foresee a great splendor of this match.” As Philippe listens to him, he tries in vain to wrangle down his fluttering heart. The Chevalier is clothed in dark red, his cravat a froth of lace, his pants shiny and tight, and his eyes are animated as they look only at Philippe and stray not once to his bride. Still, she smiles gracefully and thanks him. “It shall be an honor to share it with you.” he adds, and the way he pronounces 'share' instantly makes a shiver run down Philippe's spine. He wets his lips. The Chevalier's eyes dart to the bride, and his gaze darkens, but Philippe pretends not to see. Then, regrettably, he is gone too soon, and another lowly courtier comes to repeat phrases he has heard a thousand times this day.
Philippe only speaks to his new bride when night has fallen and they have gone from the hall to the gardens and have sat down there, at the head of one of many long tables richly laid with desserts.
“Do the sights please you,” he asks her when they are watching the fireworks, each of them with a glass of red wine in their hands: the first words he has spoken to her that day apart from “Yes”, “Thank you” and “I do”. She looks almost surprised when he talks to her, but composes herself quickly enough.
“They do, my husband,” she attempts, and Philippe presses his lips together at her high-pitched voice. It is not her fault, he reminds himself.
“That is well,” he replies, and turns his head away from her, hoping she'll get the hint that this conversation is over for now. He doesn't doubt she hears the word that's missing from his phrase, a word that could make all the difference in this marriage, small and inconsequential on its own – a small wife, acknowledging who they are for each other now. He tears his gaze from the bright lights illuminating the night sky in gold and white and blue and searches the crowd for one particular face. He is not disappointed; the Chevalier de Lorraine, seated far away from the couple at the end of a long table seating unimportant courtiers, does not watch the fireworks either, and their gazes meet. Philippe smiles at him, but de Lorraine does not; his gaze is hard and inscrutable. Philippe rolls his eyes and turns his head away, but that has him looking at Henriette again. She watches him curiously. Philippe glances back towards de Lorraine, whose expression takes on a tinge of anger, and cups her face with one hand.
“We will talk when we are alone,” he promises her. His eyes begin to search the crowd again while hers rest on him. He's more satisfied than for the entirety of the day when he sees that de Lorraine actually scowls at them, and kisses his new wife, quick and dry, on the mouth. He regrets the kiss instantly when a second later, de Lorraine stands and excuses himself to his neighbors to leave the table. Philippe wishes there was a way for him to follow him then.
There is not, though, and when the time comes for the bedding, de Lorraine still hasn't returned. Is he mad with Philippe, then? But for what reason? For kissing his wife? Ridiculous. Unbelievable. He should be angry with de Lorraine for his absence, and rightfully so, but instead Philippe frets. If the Chevalier is seriously mispleased with him, maybe he will not kiss him again? Maybe he will order him away, and Philippe won't get to touch him? But he couldn't do that, he tries to reassure himself; he couldn't order the King's brother to do anything. But what if he does, a part of him stubbornly insists, because they both know Philippe would obey. He tries to force worries about the Chevalier from his head when he and his bride are accompanied by a chosen dozen courtiers, his brother and his mother among them, to their marriage bed; but that attempt remains unsuccessful. He frets for the whole way from the gardens to his – now their – chambers, and it must show on his face: before they lie down, his brother grabs his shoulders. Louis is obviously drunk, his cheeks red and his wig frayed at the ends, and his gaze can't seem to leave Henriette's form, but he speaks to Philippe and no-one else.
“You know your duty, brother,” he says, but his voice and soft and fond, taking any kind of harshness out of his words. “Give us a nephew; that is all that is required of you. You need not give anything else.” A royal kiss to his forehead follows. Philippe looks into his brother's eyes, tries to detect any hint of hidden meaning, but finds nothing but genuine reassurance. He tries to smile in response, but Louis' gaze has already drifted to Henriette again.
They are stripped to their undergarments while half the court watches. Philippe watches some of the men's gazes flitting over his wife's body, but it is well hidden behind her nightgown. There is a fire burning low in a corner and a new white linen stretching over the bed beneath them. Philippe doesn't waste another word, lies down under the covers and waves for them all to leave.
Philippe has always known he would need to perform this specific duty, it is only – – he thought it could wait another few years. The court whispers that the Queen is pregnant, and she is young and healthy besides, with wide hips; Louis' lack of heirs is not of immediate concern in Philippe's opinion. And without the need for heirs, a second brother might never need to marry. Henriette lies still beside him, staring straight ahead. Philippe regards her and realizes that she must be afraid. She likely has never lain with a man before. He takes her hand beneath the sheets and together, they wait until half the court has left the room and the thick oaken door falls closed. His rooms are splendid, his bed wide and soft, a scent of lavender drifting in the air, gold thread in the sheets and silver engravings covering the bedposts – it makes for a comfortable and impressive sight. He looks at her to gauge her reaction.
She is smiling at him. It is a shy smile, half-hidden behind single strands of hair that have fought for freedom, and ever so sweet.
“You need not be worried,” he tells her, completely out of the blue and without knowing if he is right – he doesn't know if what they are about to do will pain her; he knows so little of women. “I am your husband now and I will protect you.” Words that are blunt lies – Philippe knows better than anyone of his own impuissance. “Nothing bad will happen.” He realizes he's starting to ramble, to draw this out and postpone the consummation; he is not certain the thought of bedding a woman pleases him. But she leans over and places her lips on his cheeks, first the right one, then the left.
“It is quite well,” she says in her melodious voice, “I trust you, Monsieur.”
“Philippe,” Philippe corrects her. “It's just Philippe.” He can give her that much at least, if he cannot give her anything else. Then he decides to be brave and slides his unoccupied hand down her thigh; the other stays clasping Henriette's hand with all his might. Her smile doesn't waver, but then she gasps as his hand dips deeper, and just maybe, the task before them will not prove to be an impossibility.
Before too long, he calls in a servant to bring out the bloodied sheet and present it to the court the next day. Henriette looks exhausted but as pleased with the result as Philippe. He's proud of this, he realizes; she's his wife now, his woman, the most beautiful woman at court, maybe already bearing his child, and she's all his, and not even his brother will be able to lay claim to her or their child. The thought makes him kiss her forehead and it's almost heartfelt; she smiles tiredly and takes his hand, and he lets her hold it for a while until he's sure she's dozed off.
He's almost out the door when she speaks. “You're leaving?” she asks with fatigue and worry both coloring her voice. Philippe thinks that's a relatively idiotic question: it's obvious he's leaving. What does she expect him to reply to that, apart from 'yes'?
He hesitates at the door, one hand on the knob. “Get some sleep. I need to take care of something. I'll be back.” He doesn't look at her again until he has left the room. It's a promise he intends to keep, but only in the morning – until then, he plans to spend the night elsewhere.
The scent of expensive food and too much wine is still wavering through the corridor. One of his guardsmen is trailing behind Philippe. They must make a funny sight, he thinks; he in his nightgown, pale and ethereal, like a shimmering apparition wavering through the palace, and a few steps behind him, in heavy blue, white and grey, without name, face and meaning, a guard, shadow-like, to ensure nothing happens to the King's heir. A funny sight; but nobody is outside of their rooms anymore, not this time of the night, not when the day's festivities have officially ended. It takes him a while to arrive where he wants to be, but when he does, he enters without knocking and leaves his shadow to wait outside.
The rooms of the Chevalier de Lorraine, though appropriately remote from the palace's heart, are nevertheless furnished splendidly. Red velvet covers the chairs, there's a tall mirror bordered with gold in the corner, and the fireplace is adorned with countless engravings. It's pleasantly warm too, the fire sorely needed still in this cold March, and Philippe knows how soft the down-filled spread covering the bed is. However, his path to the bed is blocked by the room's inhabitant, who stood up the instant Philippe entered, but has not moved since, with his arms crossed in front of his chest.
Philippe takes in the sight in front of him. The firelight makes the Chevalier glow softer than he is, with his body's sharp lines and his mind's sharp tongue; his hair looks like molten gold. A bit like Henriette's, Philippe can't help but think, and scolds himself for the thought. No more wife, not in here.
They stand there, staring at each other and not saying a word, for quite longer than Philippe would like, but he is not about to lose this particular battle, and a battle it is, he realizes: who speaks first cares; who speaks first loses.
“So,” the Chevalier states after an eternity.
“So.” Philippe replies.
The only sound is the fire's crackling, and Philippe can't stand it anymore. He approaches the other man quietly. The Chevalier remains stock still, only a few worried lines appearing over his eyes as he draws his eyebrows together. Philippe reaches out and takes his arm, and suddenly there's a mouth on his, and he kisses him back, and everything's quite alright for a short moment. His lips begin to ache when the Chevalier lets go again. There is a pair of warm hands on his neck, keeping him close, and Philippe's own hands loosely hold the other man's hips, but the tension in the air is still palpable.
“So you're married,” the Chevalier says quietly. His breath grazes Philippe's lips, and as much as he loves that voice, he wishes it to be quiet for now. “And to a princess of England. Impressive.” Philippe hears himself snorting, but before he gets in a word, the other continues. “You looked quite happy with her, I wish you two all the best.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm, a grotesque charade of felicitations.
“My dear-” Philippe tries to get in, to defuse the situation, but the Chevalier won't let him. His voice grows sharper still.
“Were you happy because of her? Because she smiled at you?”
This is my wife you're speaking of, Philippe tries to protest, adopt a more respectful tone, you ingrate, but somehow the words don't leave his mouth, and his throat grows parched.
“Or, I wonder...” Philippe feels one hand leaving his neck. It soon finds his body again, sliding up his thigh beneath his nightgown. “Did you imagine yourself in her place? In that beautiful tight golden dress choking the air out of you, with all the eyes of the court on you, whispering how lovely and graceful you look?” The Chevalier's voice has devolved into a purr, but there's a furious spark gleaming in his eyes. His fingertips dig into Philippe's skin, and Philippe is flushing bright red. “You would have looked far lovelier than that poufiasse–”
Ah, Philippe thinks, it is not tension in the air; it is pure, unbridled rage. He lifts a hand, sets it on the Chevalier's shoulder, and pushes him away with all his might. The other man stumbles back and doesn't dare coming close again when he sees Philippe's expression.
“Don't speak of her like that.” Philippe hopes his voice comes out as adamantine as he wants it to sound. “She is just a girl. And she's nice.”
The Chevalier scoffs at that. “A nice girl? How romantic.”
“Stop it,” Philippe is starting to get angry. What does he want from him? One moment he's insulting her, the next he's saying Philippe's not affectionate enough – what is he expected to do, to say? “She is my wife. That is the end of it. I will make a child with her, or two, and that is that. She is not important.” Not as important as you, is what Philippe really wants to say.
And, surprisingly, that seems to have been just the right thing to say, because the Chevalier's features soften. Philippe sits down on the end of the bed, his muscles relaxing, and it doesn't take long until he is joined by the other man.
“You're jealous,” Philippe states with such an overwhelming sense of wonder as if he just discovered the telescope. “You're jealous of her.”
“I am not,” the Chevalier objects and makes a little displeased noise while swinging a loose strand of hair back over his shoulder, and that gives Philippe all the certainty he needs.
He starts to laugh.
The Chevalier de Lorraine, understandably, is not amused; he is not used to jokes on his expense, and this one, he probably doesn't even understand.
“Don't be jealous. You knew I would have had to marry, sooner or later makes no matter. A wife shall not be a cause for anything to change between you and me.” Does the Chevalier really think it would change anything between them? If so, the high regard Philippe has for the other man's intelligence is wholly misplaced.
“You're in my room,” the Chevalier mumbles. Philippe does not understand his meaning. “That has changed, for one. We have almost always met in your chambers, yet now that is where she is.”
Philippe thinks of the frail woman; she's thin and so quiet she seems to melt into the background, though admittedly he does not know her much. He can't imagine any opposition from that woman. “Just this night,” he assures de Lorraine and leans over; the other grants him the freedom to place his head on his shoulder without recoiling. Philippe kisses his neck. “She's just a woman. She can't object to anything I want, and if I want you in my rooms, so be it.”
The Chevalier looks as if he wants to ask him something, but instead merely says “All right,” and wraps one arm around his back. They stay like this for a while; Philippe laps at the other's skin lazily and the Chevalier stares at the fire opposite of them. “I will not marry,” he proclaims then, breaking the silence that has become far more comfortable than before. “Not while you are yet drawing breath in this world.”
Philippe's breath catches in his throat upon hearing those words. If he were to tell anyone of this, he is sure they would not believe him. The glib, hedonistic, superficial Chevalier would never vow to abstain from a marriage's joys; oh, they would believe he would say anthing to further his own cause, that these words just spoke are a lie, and that he merely tries to gain the favor of the King's brother, like the arriviste he is. But they do not know him; do not know them. Philippe feels happiness flutter in his heart like an overzealous bird. Those words are too sweet, and he wishes the other would repeat the promise lying within. A marriage, in the worst case, would mean his absence from court; and if not, would definitely mean far less time to spend at his leisure. But without a wife, without duties, there is nothing in their way, and he can have the Chevalier at his beck and call day and night.
'I will not marry' is, perhaps, the greatest promise the Chevalier can make him.
He turns until he straddles the other man's lap. The Chevalier's hands come to rest on his spine and travel slowly upwards; Philippe arches under the touch. He should protest and convince the other of the countless advantages a good match holds, as a true friend would. But he cannot bring himself to say such hollow phrases. He wants him to never take on any other duties than to anticipate Philippe's every wish. Philippe does not dwell on the fact that, although the Chevalier does anticipate Philippe's every wish, his readiness to act upon these wishes is another thing entirely.
“I would not have you marry,” he admits quietly, and knows in his heart it is not only for practical reasons of conflicting duties. The mental image of his favorite lover in the arms of an ugly whore, promising her he will always stay with her, protect her, and love her, has bile rising in his throat. Maybe de Lorraine's jealousy at Philippe taking a wife is not so misplaced as it seemed to him, if he feels the same bile whenever Philippe kisses her.
“I would have you with me always,” he adds, takes one hand of de Lorraine in his, and threads their fingers together.
The Chevalier's smile is soft and affectionate.
“And I you,” he replies.
To Philippe's ears, that sounds truer and far more magnificent than the vows he exchanged earlier that day.
Philippe wants to keep this moment in his memory forever, but there are more pressing concerns that prohibit drawing it out for too long. “Now,” he asks, his voice an octave lower, “tell me true, if I had worn her gown, would you not have ripped it off me long before the bedding?”
The Chevalier's soft smile grows into a feral grin.
The sun has long since risen when Philippe extracts himself from the other's arms, leaves him behind, the very picture of peace in his sleep, and starts his long march back to his own chambers. This distance will not do, he tells himself; he wants de Lorraine by his side. He could ease Henriette into the other man's presence, and she need not even know of their nightly endeavors for a long time. That plan burns away beneath the fire of her steely gaze when she spots him, right after he has closed the doors of his rooms behind him.
“You could not have waited one single night,” she says and her voice is like poison. It takes Philippe by surprise; how can such a faerie-like creature speak with such venom? Where does it come from? Her hair is wild, her nightgown rumpled – undoubtedly from their earlier activities – and she has her hands on her hips. “Monsieur did not respect me enough to abstain from his maîtresse for one single night, our wedding night?” The anger has her flushed a healthy shade of red – she looks really pretty like this, Philippe thinks dazedly, helpless in the face of such sudden fury. “Is the French court really so depraved? If that is so, I regret my mother's decision to leave me to you vultures wholeheartedly.”
“Stop this at once!” Philippe orders. She does stop speaking, but her gaze is as strong as before. He steps closer, vaguely afraid, and grasps both of her shoulders. “There is no maîtresse,” he says, and the genuine conviction in his voice serves to make the steel in her gaze melt. “I merely visited my friend. You met him at the reception; he was concerned for my well-being. I assured him I could not be better.”
“Is it the truth? Swear to me you do not have a lover,” Henriette says, and there's hope blooming in her voice.
Philippe swallows thickly. Before he can decide if he should lie to his wife's face, the decision is taken from him by the doors opening and de Lorraine stumbling in, though he regains his composure immediately. He stands proud and almost haughty, even though he has obviously quite literally fallen out of the bed.
“The friend I told you about,” Philippe introduces them with lips pressed tightly together. “Philippe de Lorraine, or the Chevalier de Lorraine as he is known at court, in case you have forgotten his name. My wife need not be introduced, I am certain. As my beloved friend and my beloved wife, you shall become good friends, and– ”
Perhaps they can talk about this, he hopes, but before Philippe can say another word, the Chevalier has pressed him against a wall and claimed his mouth in a ferocious kiss. Philippe blinks, but it's over as quick as it has begun, and the Chevalier looks at Henriette like a wolf at a hare. Her face is as white as ivory and her eyes are as big as a doe's, darting between Philippe and de Lorraine.
“Oh, yes,” the Chevalier hisses, his face warped into a wide smile and his grip around Philippe so tight and flatteringly possessive that Philippe doesn't find the will to stop him, “we shall be the very best of friends.”