I wondered what Madeleine thought of my gowns and hoped I wouldn’t earn her sharp-tongued criticism.
“I’d heard that Italian women also didn’t have much taste in clothes,” Madeleine said. “But yours are nice, Catherine. The fabrics are of excellent quality, I’ve noticed, and the workmanship is very fine.”
“Merci,” I said. “Thank you.” Her comment seemed lukewarm at best, but I had to be satisfied with it.
Also during the journey to Fontainebleau I became acquainted with the king’s older sister, Queen Marguerite of Navarre, who traveled with her five-year-old daughter, Jeanne. Queen Marguerite’s intelligence and good humor made her an excellent companion. Little Jeanne was a happy child who chattered merrily. By the time we reached Fontainebleau, I’d begun to look more favorably on my new life and my new family.
As our large party swept through the south gate, Porte d’Orée, a thin winter sun broke through dark clouds, bathing the towers of the château in a pale golden light. The sight stunned me. Fontainebleau was far grander than anything I had imagined. It in no way resembled the rugged stone palazzos of Florence. Formal gardens, carp pools, and deep forests surrounded the château, and its grace and elegance were reflected in the calm waters of the Loire.
My two sisters-in-law rode up beside me. “Welcome to your new home, Catherine!” said Madeleine.
“We’re to share the same household,” Marguerite added. “And we’ll have good times together, won’t we?”
My heart lifting, I assured her that we would. If only Henri shared their warm feelings!
The girls showed me to a large bedchamber with high ceilings and tall windows overlooking gardens laid out in complex geometric patterns. The maidservants had unpacked the panniers delivered from Florence, although my gowns and petticoats and robes were still in the unopened cassoni. The silk hangings ordered by the Duchess of Mantua were in place around the matrimonial bed. A small fire burned in the ceramic stove, taking the chill off the room.
The maidservants withdrew; everyone had gone. Beyond the tall windows a light snow was falling. I watched the sky darken until a servant came to close the heavy draperies and light the candles in the wall sconces and disappeared again. After weeks of being surrounded during nearly every waking hour by members of the royal household and their servants, suddenly I was alone.
I sat down to wait, believing that someone would soon summon me. No one did. Had they all forgotten me? Tiring of this, I set out to explore some part of the vast château, wandering through long galleries lined with glowing frescoes of allegorical subjects. Servants hurried about, but I saw no one I recognized. And although I tried to be careful to remember how I had come, I soon became lost in a labyrinth of galleries and connecting chambers.
Rounding another corner, I heard the murmur of voices and caught the faint odor of cooking. I followed the tantalizing smell until I reached an enormous kitchen. A pair of boys turned a large piece of meat on a spit. Wisps of steam rose from a huge iron kettle stirred by two cooks. A baker slid pies from a long-handled peel into an oven, and his helpers kneaded dough in a great wooden trough. A few of the workers glanced at me curiously and then went on with their chores. Most ignored me.
I wondered if I should introduce myself and was rehearsing a few French phrases in my head—Je suis Catherine, Duchesse d’Orléans—when a clamor outside caught our attention. The door swung open wide, letting in a blast of cold air and a swirl of snow. Men in heavy boots and leather coats carried in the carcass of a deer and dropped it on the stone floor. Someone else dumped a sack of pheasants and several hares.
One of the cooks stepped forward and addressed the tallest of the men, congratulating him on taking such a large buck. I realized then that the hunter was King François.
King and cook discussed how the venison should be prepared and when it was to be served. When the king seemed about to leave, I stepped boldly out of the shadows. “Excellency!” I said in the best French I could manage. “Have you slain this fine beast in honor of your new daughter-in-law?”
King François stopped, turned, and frowned. I dropped a curtsy. Recognizing me, he laughed, then bowed and kissed my hand. “Ah, my dear little Catherine! I have indeed, for none deserves it more than you.”
François invited me to dine that evening with him and his family; I accepted gratefully—otherwise I’m not sure when someone would have remembered me. I managed to find my way back to my apartment. Later, a page came to escort me to the dining room in the king’s chambers. I expected that Henri would be there, too, and I waited for my husband to send me word that he had returned. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t. No one offered any explanation for his absence.
“And Henri?” I inquired at last. “Was the son as successful in the hunt as his father the king?”
The king glanced at me and speared another chunk of meat with his knife. “He didn’t hunt with me,” he said shortly.
I couldn’t think what to say next. Then where is he? When will he he here with me?
Little Marguerite spoke up. “He’s at Château d’Anet.”
Madeleine shot her sister a warning glance. The king’s sister frowned. I stared at my plate, unable to swallow another bite. Château d’Anet? Who lives there?
HENRI FINALLY APPEARED at Fontainebleau on Christmas Eve in time for Mass in the private chapel. The next day he joined in the feasting. He scarcely looked at me, barely spoke to me. He did not visit my bedchamber that night or on any of the nights that followed. On the first of January the family exchanged gifts. I’d brought with me a number of rosaries, wrought in silver or gold with precious stones and blessed by His Holiness Pope Clement. I’d spent considerable time deciding which ones should be given to each member of the royal family, finally choosing gold with sapphires for the king, silver and rubies for Queen Eleanor and Queen Marguerite, pearls for the two sisters and little Jeanne. For my husband I chose the most dramatic piece, a rosary made of ivory, each large bead carved with a biblical scene. In return I received from him a gold bracelet and—more important to me—a pretty speech of thanks.
Still he didn’t come to my bedchamber. I must not please him at all, I thought, and I ached at my own ignorance in not knowing how. Akasma was the only person I knew who might have helped me, and I missed her more than I missed anyone.
On Twelfth Night the king and queen entertained a number of guests at a banquet. I pretended to enjoy myself, engaging the haughty French noblewoman, seated on my left, who made it plain that she was another who thought of me as “the Italian merchant’s daughter.” But then I was distracted by a scene that I could not ignore.
In the center of the banquet hall sat the mysterious woman always gowned in black and white. She was smiling at Henri. Henri returned her smile with one that was ten times brighter. He rushed to her side and knelt before her. I could read every expression on his face, although I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. I didn’t have to. I understood it all.
I turned away from the smirking noblewoman and whispered to little Marguerite, on my right, “Who’s the lady talking to your brother?”
“Oh, that’s Diane de Poitiers, widow of the Grand Sénéchal. She lives at Château d’Anet. Henri loves to go there,” she prattled innocently. “She’s old, though—nineteen years older than Henri! You should have seen the Grand Sénéchal. Everyone said he was the ugliest man in France!” Marguerite laughed merrily. “I love gossip, don’t you? Everyone thinks I’m too young to understand, but I do. For instance, I know that Madame d’Étampes hates Diane. They’re great rivals, because they’re both vain about their beauty, but they have to pretend to get along or Father gets angry.”
“I see,” I murmured distractedly as Marguerite chattered, because I could see the truth written plainly on Henri’s attractive young face. It’s not the château he loves, I thought; it’s the lady. I pressed my lips together to stop the trembling.
TWELFTH NIGHT HAD scarcely passed when the king ordered the househo
ld to move to Château de Chambord, a castle even more impressive than Fontainebleau: six immense towers, hundreds of rooms, and eighty-four staircases, including a pair that formed an intertwining double spiral.
King François was a restless man; we moved several more times during the first winter of my marriage. Every night, no matter where we were, I retired to my bedchamber to prepare for my husband to visit me. Every night, after a servant banked the fire in the stove and withdrew, leaving a single candle burning, I lay in the great matrimonial bed and watched the flickering shadows dance against the wall while I waited for Henri’s knock. Night after night I waited in vain.
Whenever I sat near him at dinner or passed by him in one of the corridors of one château or another, Henri greeted me politely. He always behaved correctly toward me, but it was clear that he had no interest in me. When I tried to talk to him, he listened with half an ear, his thoughts elsewhere. I asked him questions, which he answered in as few words as possible. As hard as I tried, I could not engage him. I was prepared to open my heart to Henri, but he treated me as if I were a complete stranger. He did not desire me.
Give him time, I cautioned myself. He’s shy and withdrawn. He’ll get over it.
But I could not help noticing that he wasn’t shy or withdrawn in the presence of Diane de Poitiers.
One night, as the maidservant was trimming the wick on the candle, we heard a knock. The servant and I exchanged glances, and she scurried away as the door opened and Henri entered as though someone had shoved him. “My father the king sent me,” he muttered.
“Henri, I’m happy to see you,” I said, “no matter if you were sent or if you’ve come of your own will.”
Henri attended to the matter at hand quickly and without tenderness. “I trust I didn’t disturb you, madame,” he said, and left abruptly.
Weeping will do you no good at all, I reminded myself as I lay there alone, and gave myself over to weeping anyway. My husband did not love me. He did not care for me at all. I doubt that he ever gave me even a single thought.
15
Wife and Mistress
AS WINTER WORE ON and the first signs of spring appeared, Queen Marguerite and her little daughter, Jeanne, prepared to return home to Navarre, a small kingdom in the Pyrenees between France and Spain. I was sad to see them go, for the queen had been very kind to me. I attended the customary formal farewell banquets, but before her regal procession left on the long journey south, Queen Marguerite invited me to dine with her privately, with only one or two servants present.
“Well, Catherine, my dear,” she began, “I shall miss you, for I’ve become fond of you. You’re a practical young woman, as intelligent as you are sensible, and I trust that you’ll know how to use the advice I’m about to give you.”
She dismissed the servants and poured more wine for both of us. “First, I’m sure you understand that your best friend at court is my brother the king. Certainly you’ve had plenty of opportunity to perceive that François loves beauty above all else, and feminine beauty more than any other kind.”
“Yes, madame, I have observed that,” I said.
“In fact, I once heard one of his ministers say, ‘Alexander the Great attended to women when there were no affairs of state to attend to; François attends to affairs of state when there are no women.’” The king’s sister smiled wryly, and I suppose I appeared shocked. But I had been observing the king and his court for long enough to know that what she said was true.
“François loves to be surrounded by beautiful women—not just beauty of face and form but of brains and wit and courage. Perhaps you’ve already heard of ‘La Petite Bande’?”
I had not.
“These twenty-seven young women are the king’s favorites. They hunt with him, dine with him, amuse him. He chooses their gowns and pays for them himself. Inclusion in La Petite Bande depends on the qualities I’ve just mentioned. I recommend it to you.”
“I don’t meet the basic qualification,” I said flatly. “I’m quite aware of my lack of beauty.”
Queen Marguerite waved away my objection. “But you do have the bold wit and the quick intellect that appeal to the king. And I have also heard that you are an expert horsewoman. Is this so?”
“Oui, madame. I am very fond of riding.”
“Good. Then I shall say a word or two to Madame d’Étampes. No one is admitted to La Petite Bande without Anne’s approval.” The queen summoned her servant, signaling that the meal was over. “One more thing,” she said as we rose from the table. “It will be a help to you if you have a tolerance for ribald humor. My brother enjoys nothing more than a dirty joke, and the ladies of La Petite Bande are expected to join in the laughter. Don’t let it show if you’re offended.”
Then she kissed me on both cheeks in the French manner and bid me adieu.
ONLY DAYS AFTER I had watched Queen Marguerite’s departure for Navarre, Anne d’Heilly, Duchess d’Étampes, had herself announced in my apartment. I was writing letters to my friends at Le Murate, begging for news of Akasma.
“Come riding with us!” the duchess cried gaily, snatching the quill out of my hand. “The king will be there, too!”
I sent word down to the groom to equip a horse with the sidesaddle I’d brought from Florence. In minutes my maidservant had found my riding clothes, which included the short linen underbreeches Maria Salviati had given me to wear beneath my petticoat.
When I reached the stable I found the Icing’s stallion restlessly pawing the muddy ground and a few of the court ladies already sitting sideways on their awkward saddles. They watched curiously as the groom helped me mount and I hooked my leg around the pommel.
The king arrived, greeted us all, and leaped on his horse. When he rode off, I followed closely. The other ladies—the Duchess d’Étampes among them—fell in behind us at a decorous pace. The king seemed surprised to find me at his side. He spurred his horse into a gallop; I urged mine as well. He headed for a tall, thick hedge; I kept pace with him. His horse cleared the hedge in a smooth arc. I closed my eyes and braced myself, hoping my mare would know how to take this jump. Over we went.
Hedges, fences, stone walls were no barrier at all. The wind in my face made my eyes stream with tears. We galloped at full speed toward a wide creek. The stallion took it easily, but at the last moment my mare balked. I flew out of the saddle and over her head, landing in the soft mud of the creek bank, my petticoats up around my ears.
The fall knocked me breathless. Before I could cover myself properly and scramble to my feet, the king had circled back and dismounted and now bent over me. “Catherine, my dear, are you all right?”
“I am. Your Majesty,” I gasped. “Or I will be in a moment.”
Gallantly the king lifted me to my feet. I saw him glancing curiously at my underbreeches, now plastered with mud. “Designed to deprive a gallant gentleman of a glimpse of heaven,” I explained, smoothing my petticoats and taking a quick look at the king to see if he’d caught my little joke.
The king stared at me for a moment and then threw back his head and burst into unrestrained laughter. Hearing the hilarity, the rest of La Petite Bande rode up and surrounded me, asking eager questions about my sidesaddle.
“Show them what’s beneath your petticoat, Catherine,” ordered the king.
I felt myself blush, but I realized that this was no time to lose courage. Slowly I raised my skirt, higher and higher, revealing my lower legs until the linen underbreeches appeared. The ladies drew surprised breaths, and King François loudly proclaimed, “‘Designed to deprive a gallant gentleman of a glimpse of heaven.’”
I curtsied, letting my skirts fall to their proper place, and remounted without assistance. “Shall we continue, my lord?” I asked.
The next day I was told that I was now a member of La Petite Bande, by order of Anne, Duchess d’Étampes. The ladies ordered their saddlers to copy the unusual Italian sidesaddle and their seamstresses to stitch them short underbreeches gathered
at the knee. From then on, wherever La Petite Bande went, so did I. The king clearly enjoyed my company. And if there were still members of the court who would rather have their legs broken than to bend their knees to the Italian merchant’s daughter, so be it—I didn’t care.
THE KING AND HIS court moved from chateau to chateau, never staying in one place more than fifteen days. Up and down we went through the lovely Loire Valley, now bursting with the colors of spring. No sooner had I learned my way around one beautiful chateau than it was time to move to another. Most often we returned to Fontainebleau, the king’s favorite.
I might have been satisfied with this life, but I was not. All the wild rides and intellectual conversation and feigned appreciation of bawdy tales didn’t make up for the fact that providing an heir was my principal duty and my biggest challenge, and I had not yet conceived a child. My husband was in love with a woman old enough to be his mother and rarely came to my bed. In public Henri continued to ignore me; I simply didn’t exist. Yet, in spite of his neglect and indifference, something deep inside me responded to something I sensed in Henri, and I found myself falling in love with the man I imagined him to be beneath his cold exterior. I had known only two other young men in my fifteen years: Alessandro, who was cruel and loutish and treated me badly, and Ippolito, tender and loving but beyond my reach. Henri was different from both of them in a singularly important way: He was my husband, and I wanted him to care for me. I prayed that he would someday find some small thing in me to love.
Duchessina - A Novel of Catherine de' Medici Page 17