History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by Gortner, C. W.

  Nevertheless, I was astonished by the sheer breadth and beauty of the landscape, with its seemingly endless vales and silken forests, its radiant skies, prosperous hamlets, and luxuriant vineyards. I had never thought any realm could equal the inviolate majesty of Spain and could not resist a thrill of involuntary excitement when I caught sight of Paris in a haze of mist.

  Above the labyrinthine streets, the spire of Notre Dame spiked the fading sun. Bells pealed from every church, a deafening clangor that summoned the Parisians to swarm out and welcome us, shouting and tossing bouquets of autumn flowers until the air shimmered like copper.

  We were taken to the old palace of the Louvre, where we were told Louis and his queen had traveled to the Val du Loire to prepare Château de Blois for us. In their place, the princes of Bourbon acted as hosts, and while Philip toured the city with his men, I had an unexpected visit from the count Don de Cabra, my mother’s ambassador to the Tudor court, who’d heard of my stop in France and had come to see me on his way to England. I received him with some reserve, thinking he might bring my mother’s rebuke of my travels here. Instead, he told me my sister Catalina had arrived in England and related her entry into London, during which she’d shown impeccable dignity even in the face of unfamiliar surroundings and King Henry VII’s brusque entry into her rooms one night to order her to remove her veil.

  “She was of course most taken aback and her duenna outraged,” the count said, “but the king insisted he must see if she was deformed in some way before he could let her marry his heir. She graciously complied. Naturally, then he was the one to be taken aback when he saw her beauty and he proceeded to introduce her to his court as though she were a prized jewel.”

  I recalled my own unveiling before Besançon and thought with a pang of how bewildered Catalina must feel, alone among strangers and so far from home.

  “And her betrothed, Prince Arthur?” I asked anxiously. “Did they appear to like each other?”

  The count smiled. “Ah, yes. They are like two angels. Prince Arthur is very slim and shy, but he seemed enamored of Her Highness. So did his younger brother, Prince Henry, who threw off his doublet during their nuptial feast to cavort before her in his chemise and breeches like a pagan. Those English are barbarians, uncouth and loud. They’re fortunate indeed to have the infanta Catalina as their future queen. They call her Catherine of Aragón since her marriage.”

  “I must write to her,” I murmured, ashamed that in the upheaval of my own life I had forgotten to mark the day of her departure. It saddened me that I would not see her on my arrival in Spain. I wrote her a long letter that very day, entrusting it to the count, who assured me he would see it safely to England. In it, I promised to be a sister to her no matter what and implored her to write to me anytime, for I knew what it was like to do our duty for our country.

  The following afternoon, we left for the Loire Valley. We arrived in Blois on the eve of December 7, under an icy rain. Through the main gateway covered in friezes, I rode into the courtyard, drenched to my skin. Philip had gone ahead with his entourage; the moment I dismounted, a young woman of no more than seventeen years with sloe-black eyes and an unattractive, pursed mouth hustled up to me, accompanied by a clutch of stiff-faced companions.

  She curtsied. “Madame Archduchess, I am Mademoiselle Germaine de Foix, niece to His Majesty King Louis. I have the honor of being your escort and lady of honor during your visit.”

  She spoke as though nothing could have been less appealing to her. I signaled to Beatriz and Soraya, started to inform Mlle de Foix I hardly required more attendants when she seized me by my arm and literally swept me off into the redbrick château. My women hastened to follow, but before I knew it I found myself within the palace, led down stone corridors hung with enormous tapestries, the posse of French ladies hemming me in.

  They might have succeeded in bypassing the hall completely had I not spied the open double doors to my left and forcibly pulled back.

  The enormous room glowed under the lit tapers of huge silver candelabra suspended on chains from a rich paneled ceiling. I stepped forth. Behind me, Mlle de Foix hissed, “Madame, c’est le chambre du roi!”

  I fixed my gaze on the dais at the far end, where Philip stood with Besançon, their backs to me. Scores of men filled the hall—the musky smell of their damp capes and perfumes turning sour in the heat of the scented smoke rising from the braziers.

  I lifted my chin and entered. They turned to stare.

  In the silence, the wet dragging of my skirts across the tiled floor sounded loud as spurred boots. I heard outraged male gasps. Philip spun about, white-faced, revealing the king on a dais.

  I paused. Despite his fearsome reputation, Louis XII cut an unprepossessing figure. In his early forties, having inherited his crown late in life, he had lank graying hair cut bluntly above his protruding ears, his narrow face overpowered by the hooked Valois nose. His shoulders lacked breadth, even though they were draped in cloth of silver, and his shanks were spindly in their black hose. Only his narrow metallic eyes betrayed the cunning that had made him my father’s avowed foe—his eyes, and his fingers, which were thin, tapering, and spidery.

  I stood still. I did not curtsy. His blood was no more royal than mine. Indeed, one might argue his was rather less.

  His thin lips curved. “Madame Archduchess, welcome to France.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty.” I could feel the French courtiers staring, infuriated by my refusal to acknowledge their king’s superiority. Philip came to me. His face was stony, his hand hard where he gripped my sleeve. “What are you doing?” he said between his teeth.

  I could see in his expression and the archbishop’s baleful stare that they hadn’t intended to see me here at all, but I couldn’t for the life of me understand why not. Was there some ancient custom in France that prohibited a woman from entering the king’s presence without prior leave? It wouldn’t have surprised me: France was one of the few kingdoms that still barred female succession. But I was not just any woman. I was the heiress of Castile.

  “I am greeting His Majesty,” I replied clearly. I even managed a smile and a brief half-curtsy. “That is why we are here, is it not?”

  Philip’s face turned bright red. Besançon looked fit to burst. Louis chuckled from his throne. “Mon ami,” he said to Philip, “your wife is as enchanting as I imagined. But she must be très fatigue, oui?” He returned his gaze to me. Though his smile did not waver, his eyes were like onyx. “No doubt she’d benefit from time alone with those of her own sex. She should proceed to her visit with my wife, la reine, and leave us bereft of her presence.”

  I shot a look at Philip. He avoided my stare. Visit with the queen? Resentment and suspicion surged in me. What was this? Before I could find a way to counter this obvious dismissal, I heard heels clack to me. Once again, the insufferable Mlle de Foix snatched me by the arm and steered me from the hall, past my stricken women, who it seemed were to be left in their sodden cloaks here in the passageway like penitents, with my baggage piled at their feet.

  “Milady, if you please, I must attend to my women.” I plucked at the viselike fingers, trying to extricate my arm without resorting to force, even as Mlle de Foix propelled me into an adjoining room. I steeled myself when I saw the walls hung with white velvet, emblazoned with the ermines of Brittany and Valois fleur-de-lis.

  This time, rapacious female stares greeted me. They parted to reveal Queen Anne on an upholstered chair before a massive marble fireplace, an embroidery hoop in her hands as though this were but another afternoon to fill with pastime.

  “Her Highness the archduchess of Burgundy and Flanders,” Mlle de Foix announced.

  Anne of Brittany looked up. She had a silk skein raveled about her fat bejeweled neck, her face as round and pasty as the white cheese for which her duchy was famous. “Ah, mais oui. Entré.” She waved her hand, ensconced on her chair, her plump body squeezed into an ornate ivory damask gown inlaid with pearls.

>   I knew she was lame in one leg and assumed at first her infirmity prevented her from rising. But as the seconds passed and she sat there smiling, without even a semblance of effort on her part, it became clear that Anne of Brittany had no intention of rising at all, infirmity or no.

  It was a deliberate insult. Descended from eleventh-century merchant stock that had clawed its way to respectability, her blood could not compare to mine. She might be twice queen, having had the good fortune to wed Louis’ predecessor before she wed Louis, but I was of an ancient royal lineage and it was on the tip of my tongue to inform her as much. I resisted the urge, thinking it wouldn’t bode well for the rest of our visit.

  I gritted my teeth, started to give her the same stiff half-curtsy I’d accorded Louis. She motioned. Before I knew it, Mlle de Foix stepped to me and gripped my arm. Her fingers dug into my elbow like talons, sending a shooting pain through my shoulder and, to my horror, propelling me farther to the floor than I had intended.

  The queen’s smile widened. “Mais non, madame. We are among friends here.”

  I stood, quivering with rage, my fists clenched at my sides.

  Anne of Brittany savored her victory for a few seconds. Then she motioned again. “They will see you to your apartments. We shall dine together later, yes?”

  Mlle de Foix and her ladies closed in around me.

  SO IT WENT FOR FOUR INTERMINABLE DAYS.

  The rain turned to sleet, limiting any escape to the gardens. Trapped indoors with nothing to do, I could not even wander the palace, forced to attend the queen in her apartments and endure her four daily masses and hours of acidic appraisal, while Philip roistered with Louis and his nobles and Besançon cooked up God knew what with the French council.

  By the fifth day, I was beside myself. Philip stayed away from me at night, enjoying long banquets with the men in this court where the sexes never seemed to mingle except by prior arrangement, and his absence only added to my suspicion and distress. I stormed about my lavish hated rooms, declaring I would not be further insulted, but Lopez kept advising caution, patience, though his kindly face began to look as strained as mine.

  On the sixth morning of our visit, I entered Anne of Brittany’s chambers to find her surrounded by her illustrious collection of ladies; a large upholstered and gilded cradle sat prominently before her like a centerpiece.

  “My daughter, Claude of France,” she informed me.

  I stepped to the cradle. I’d wondered why this trophy of her womb, the only child she’d borne to survive infancy, hadn’t been touted out before now. I reasoned it was because in this matter Anne was clearly my inferior. I’d already borne three children, one of whom was a son and heir for Philip, while she’d failed thus far to give Louis the prince he needed to succeed him. If she did not, he’d be obliged to hand over France through marriage to his daughter. Claude could never rule as queen regnant, as France prohibited a female to take the throne.

  Under lace coverlets, I saw a wan face and sad big eyes, a glittering cap on the still sparsely haired head. I was wickedly pleased to discover the French princess looked half of my Isabella’s weight and had none of her charms; when the little princess then screwed up her mouth in a pained grimace and let out an astonishingly loud fart, I smiled.

  I turned to the queen. “Her Highness Claude sounds indisposed. You might consider adding some more fruit to her diet and less cheese.”

  Anne of Brittany’s face turned cold. “She’s had some colic. It will pass. I do hope you do not recommend fruit for your son, madame. It is known that such can affect a boy’s maturity, and my lord archbishop Besançon assured me he would grow up to be a strong, healthy husband.”

  I froze. I could not take my eyes from her. The room went completely still, the women’s stares boring into me. The queen said, “Will you not kiss your daughter-in-law, madame?”

  I felt as if she’d spewed filth on me. I could scarcely turn as, with a smirk, Mlle de Foix extracted the babe from her cradle, rousing an instant burst of wailing. I touched my lips to the little head, then turned and swept from the chamber without a word.

  Behind me, I heard the queen and her ladies begin to laugh.

  I banged into my chambers. Lopez sat at the table penning one of his dispatches; Beatriz and Soraya looked up in alarm.

  “We are deceived!” My breath came in stifled gasps. “Besançon has betrothed my son to that mewling daughter of theirs. This visit is but a ruse!”

  “Your Highness, please. Calm yourself.” Lopez rose hastily. “Are you sure of this?”

  “Yes. The queen just told me; she practically rubbed my face in it.” I felt sick. I went to the nearest chair and sat. Beatriz immediately poured me a goblet of the fresh water I insisted on having in my rooms at all times, for I disliked drinking wine in the day.

  She pressed the goblet into my hand. I drank. Then I looked at Lopez. He passed his ink-stained hand over his balding pate. “Her Majesty your mother feared something of this nature,” he said at length, and I could tell that while he sought to ease my distress, he was as shocked as I. “This is indeed the archbishop’s doing.”

  “And he shall answer for it,” I declared hotly. “He’ll not get away with it, so help me God. I’ll never agree to his devil’s marriage and will tell it to Louis himself, if need be.”

  “Your Highness, that wouldn’t be wise. The archduke your husband, he must know of this.”

  I went still. “You think he…?” I swallowed. “He wouldn’t. He would have consulted with me at the very least before he agreed.”

  “Yet, he must know. Arrangements for a royal betrothal do not happen overnight.” He paused. “Perhaps you should speak with him directly. He surely will explain why he didn’t inform you beforehand. Perhaps he feared your reaction. After all, no Spanish princess would welcome a French daughter for her son, but they are children, princesa, and much can occur between betrothal and marriage. It may be a political move, to bind Louis of France to peace. If so, your protest might cause undue concern and delay our departure for Spain.”

  I nodded. I was horrified by the thought that Philip had had a part in this. I couldn’t ignore the wisdom in Lopez’s words, however, and I shared his desire to leave this treacherous land as soon as possible, before some other wretched surprise was sprung on me.

  “Very well,” I said. “I’ll speak with him. I’ll send word this very hour.”

  HE CAME TO ME THAT AFTERNOON. I saw at once he’d heard about my encounter with the queen, and he entered my rooms with a defensive, slightly drunken swagger that made me want to throw something at him. It was evident he’d been carousing with the French court, though it was not midday, and that he had known all along about the betrothal.

  He leaned to me, his breath reeking of claret. I turned from him, paced to the other side of the chamber. I’d prepared to be cool and composed. The moment he sought to kiss me, however, my anger flared. “Why did you bring me to this nest of vipers?” I asked, without preamble.

  “God’s teeth,” he growled. “Not this again.”

  “Would you take me for a fool? I know very well what you and Besançon plan.”

  His face turned red. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”

  I lifted my chin. “You would give our son to France, though it’s an insult to our blood.”

  My declaration had its desired effect. He stared in astonishment at me. A shudder rippled through his voice. “I warn you, don’t think to meddle in this matter. It’s not your concern.”

  “It certainly is. Let Besançon wed Claude if he so wishes, but he’ll not use my son.”

  “Your son? He is also my son. Blessed Christ, Besançon was right! You are a Spaniard through and through! You cannot see through that thick pride of yours that by wedding Louis’ daughter, our son stands to inherit the greatest realm this world has seen. He’ll sit on the thrones of Spain, the Habsburg states, and France. He’ll rule an empire to rival ancient Rome.”

  �
�Yes, at Spain’s expense!” I could not stop myself now. Something fierce and cold rose in me, fed by these weeks of feigned obedience and years of swallowing my hatred of the archbishop. “I will not submit to this betrothal,” I said. “You will inform Louis as much, and we shall leave this accursed place. I command it.”

  “You command it?” he repeated, incredulously. “Who are you to command anything?”

  “The heiress to Spain. Without me, this alliance means nothing.”

  I knew at once I had hit the mark. He looked as if he might yell. His cap crunched in his fist, and then he whirled about and strode from the room, slamming the door with such force it must have resounded throughout the château, with the result that the following morning when I entered the chapel for matins, the queen’s ladies nudged each other as I passed.

  I sat on my pew, stone-faced, scarcely hearing Besançon as he intoned Mass. I had realized in the middle of the night that this was Philip’s and my first quarrel since his infidelity, and I blamed the archbishop all the more for it. The bell announcing the end of Mass rang and I heard the tromping of footsteps behind me. I resisted the urge to swivel in my pew; then Louis and Philip clad in ermine-collared mantles and escorted by an entourage of gentlemen filed down the aisle, past me. To the altar.

  “Behold how joyous it is when kings and princes live in harmony,” Besançon declared, with a beaming smile he aimed straight at me. Before my incredulous eyes, Philip and Louis embraced, took up quills, and signed their alliance on a desk balanced on the backs of two kneeling pages.

  My son had been betrothed to Claude of France.

  My nails dug into my palms. The men walked out, leaving Anne and her ladies to gloat. The king’s confessor rang the offertory bell. Beside me, Beatriz started to fumble in her purse for the traditional coin when the odious Mlle de Foix leaned to me from the queen’s pew. “Her Majesty bids me to tell Madame it is customary in France to offer alms. She sends you this.”