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

by Gortner, C. W.

  He recoiled. “Almonds.” He dropped the goblet, lifting his eyes to me in horror. “It’s some type of arsenic! It was in his draft. Dear God, the king has been poisoned.”

  “That’s impossible,” I whispered, but I recognized that amulet. It was the one Cosimo had given me; the last time I’d seen it was at Chenonceau on the day I’d cast my only spell. I’d put it in the box with the wax figures and never worn it again, bringing the box with me from one palace to another, lost among my other belongings.

  Paré collapsed to his knees. “I didn’t do it. I swear to Your Grace, it wasn’t me.” And as I heard his abject terror, when his composure had never wavered even when overseeing my husband and eldest son in their final hours, everything around me started to keel, as if the room slowly capsized under a dark roaring ocean.

  “Margot,” I whispered, and I stumbled from the room.

  I barged into my apartments, startling my women as I moved into my bedchamber and searched my cluttered dressing table. The box was gone. Whirling about, I stormed to Margot’s chambers. She sat on the window seat with Hercule; as she stood in a flurry of skirts, I took in her startled expression, which after weeks of flinty indifference was an admission in and of itself. I eyed her white satin gown, the grape-sized pearls in her hair, and thought she dressed as if for a celebration. Then I looked at Hercule. He recoiled, his face blanching.

  And I knew.

  “Where is it?” I said. I didn’t take a step to her, thinking I might kill her with my bare hands.

  She turned to a nearby coffer and removed the box, bringing it to me on extended hands. Inside, I found the wax dolls lying in dishevelment; as I heard my heart pounding, I sprung the latch under the lining, opening the secret compartment to reveal the vial Cosimo had given me. It was empty; a tentative sniff summoned the terrifying scent of almonds.

  “How … how could you do this?” My voice was a mere whisper.

  “Cosimo,” she said, and there wasn’t a hint of fear or regret in her voice.

  “You … you had Cosimo …?”

  “I wrote to him. He told me to look for the box. It wasn’t hard. You didn’t exactly hide it.”

  I couldn’t move, the box heavy as marble in my hands. “Why?” I heard myself say.

  Her eyes gleamed. “Charles wants to die because of what you’ve done. You killed his subjects, set all of the Huguenots against him.” She paused, for effect. “But most important, you killed Coligny, whom he loved like a father.”

  “That is a lie!” I hissed. “This has nothing to do with Charles. You did this because you loved Guise and I forced you to wed Navarre, and now you think that I …” I cut myself short, meeting her knowing gaze in stunned realization.

  “What, Maman?” she purred. “Because you plan to kill Navarre next? That’s why you sent him hunting with Henri, isn’t it, so you can do away with him in the forest and say it was a hunting accident? There’ll be no chance of him becoming a Huguenot leader then. You will usurp his realm, rid yourself of the rest of the Huguenots, and wed me again where you please.”

  “She hates us,” muttered Hercule under his breath, as if I weren’t in the room. “Maman hates us and didn’t warn us about the massacre. She wants us all dead.”

  I stared at my daughter in horrified disbelief. What had I done to create such a twisted being? I loved all of my children as best as I could; I’d fought to keep them safe. I’d been distant as a mother during much of their infancy, yes, but only because Diane stole them from me. But after my husband died, they were mine again and I never wavered in my defense of them. How could Margot, so full of beauty and promise, have become this vile stranger? I tried to summon my rage, to blast her into humiliation, but the truth coiled inside me and I could not evade it.

  She would do anything for revenge. She was a Medici; her curse was my blood.

  “I gave Charles the amulet and the poison,” Margot went on, as though she could read my thoughts. “It’s what Cosimo advised: earn his trust by showing him what you are capable of.”

  I felt the box drop from my hands but didn’t hear it hit the floor.

  “And that’s not all,” she said, with a slow malicious smile. “Charles was going to let Navarre escape at Vincennes. But then you came and took away his last hope for redemption. Now he thinks Navarre will die. That’s why he took the poison. He can’t bear his own guilt anymore.”

  I looked at her face, at those remorseless eyes, and I grabbed her with my fists, shaking her until the pearls unraveled from her hair and pebbled across the floor. “He thinks Navarre will die because you filled his head with deceit! Do you know what you’ve done? Do you? Your brother is dying because of you.”

  She laughed in my face. “It’s your poison, your amulet. Everyone will say you did it, just like you killed Queen Jeanne, just like you used me to wed Navarre so you could lure the Huguenots to Paris to kill them. They’ll say you poisoned your son and no one will ever trust you again!”

  Hercule cowered. “Not me,” he blubbered. “I didn’t do it. It wasn’t me.”

  I pushed Margot aside, took a deliberate step back. “As soon as I see to your brother,” I said to her, “I’ll deal with you as you deserve.”

  I put my youngest children under guard and sent soldiers to Chaumont to arrest Cosimo, who was apprehended and brought to the Bastille.

  At nightfall, I went with Birago to see him. As I entered his slimy cell, deep in the fortress, I shuddered to see my astrologer bound to a chair, nude save for a tattered loincloth. In the shadows on the wall hung an array of prongs and other instruments of torture.

  Cosimo looked like a cadaver, bruises marring his sallow skin. All the life inside him seemed to rush into his eyes at the sight of me, bringing back the memory of the little boy I’d met outside his father’s house. I had known him since childhood; we weren’t far apart in age. He was a fellow Italian, a Florentine. I had a moment of paralyzing doubt. What if this was part of Margot’s vengeance? What if she’d found the box on her own, spewed her venom in Charles’s ears to tip an already unstable mind into insanity, and then schemed to accuse Cosimo?

  Birago murmured, “Madama, we must proceed. His Majesty’s life depends on it.”

  I nodded and Birago took his seat at a small table, removing from his satchel the paper and quill he would use to record the session. Cosimo stared at me, unblinking, searing me with all the memories between us, even as Birago’s resonant voice filled the small cold room.

  “Cosimo Ruggieri, you are accused of conspiring to effect His Majesty’s death by poison. Her Grace is here to determine the recipe for the antidote. If you provide it, she promises that you will leave here with your life.”

  Cosimo did not move, did not indicate he’d heard anything.

  “Cosimo,” I added, “you know I’ve no wish to harm you. Just tell me what I have to do to save my son. You know the poison’s ingredients. What is its antidote?”

  His cheek twitched. Birago made a brusque motion to the table. “If you do not speak, the truth will be forced out of you. Every poison has its cure. You know it and you will tell us.”

  Cosimo’s mouth twisted. His laughter cracked forth like shards of metal. “You still don’t understand, do you? The gift you’ve refused to acknowledge in yourself, I devoted my entire being to attaining. And everything I learned, everything I discovered, I put to your service. I did what you did not have the strength to do. I am your instrument.”

  My skin crawled. “You … you are deluded. How dare you set claim to my life?”

  “Because I am yours!” His ribs protruded as he strained against his bindings. “You never thought of me; you left me alone and ignored me, but I … I was always yours. While you paid heed to your fool Nostradamus, who only gave you poems and rhymes, I probed the darkest realms to bring you your heart’s desire. But you disdained me. You forsook me and now—”

  “Enough!” I struck him with all my might, rocking him back in his chair. I saw his eyes
snap wide, blood spurting from his broken lip. “Did you tell my daughter about the box? Did you set her to destroying my son’s trust in me by making him think I’d murder Navarre?”

  His laugh came again, high-pitched and taunting, spraying blood. “Yes! I did it all! And now you can vent your fury on me; now you can become the queen you were born to be: so powerful and fearsome you’ll be remembered forever. I have always known who you are, though you never loved or believed in me.” He thrust his face at me. “Or do you believe the lance that took your husband’s life was an accident?”

  I froze. “No. That’s … it cannot be true.”

  His smile was macabre. “Can’t you feel it? It’s all around us, every moment; it binds us forever. Every step you’ve taken since that fateful day was foretold. You will be queen until your death; you will save France from destruction; but the bloodline you fight with every breath to save, the barren seed that is your family—they are damned.”

  Birago stood, trembling with fury. “He is mad. We must bring in the torturer.”

  I remembered the warning issued by Nostradamus years ago outside Chaumont: He plays with evil. And evil he will wreak. It is his fate. I met Cosimo’s eyes. “Either you tell me how to save my son or I promise before this day is done you will beg for my mercy.”

  He whispered, “I do not need mercy anymore. And there is nothing you can do. It is too late.”

  “Then,” I said, “it is too late for you.” I turned to Birago. “Cut off his tongue and hands, so he can never practice his foul art again. If he survives, put him on a galley to Italy.”

  I went to the door. Cosimo screamed, “No! Don’t leave me, my duchessina!”

  This time, I did not look back.

  At midnight Birago came to my rooms to report that Cosimo had perished during the ordeal, his body dumped in one of the pits outside the city, with nothing left to mark his passage.

  He then asked of Charles. From my chair at the hearth, I said emotionlessly, “Paré attends him. There is nothing more we can do. Go rest. You look tired. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

  “Madama,” he said softly, “you cannot believe the ravings of that wretch. Your husband’s death was an accident. You were there. You saw it.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “I can hear no more. Go now, please.”

  He retreated, leaving me to stare into flames that whispered secrets.

  You will save France from destruction; but the bloodline you fight with every breath to save, the barren seed that is your family—they are damned.

  Cosimo had never been a seer, but in that moment I believed him. None of my sons had children. Though Charles had been married for over two years, his queen showed no sign of fertility. And when Charles died, only Henri would be left to safeguard the throne, for it was painfully clear the pox had corrupted Hercule and he could never rule. Like an animal in a maze, my mind kept returning to the day in Provence when Nostradamus told me each of my sons would reach adulthood. He had not said they’d die childless, and yet now that threat was before me, an inescapable reality I could not ignore.

  If Henri failed to sire a son, Navarre would inherit. The future would hinge on a Huguenot prince who believed I was his foe, whose mother I was accused of poisoning, whose friends had been butchered in my palace, and whose conversion I had forced. Everything I had fought for, the legacy of peace I sought for France and my bloodline, would be crushed under his heel.

  Forcing myself to my feet, I walked to the window to stare into the night. The windswept trees in the gardens wavered against a sable sky blurred by a thousand stars. Looking at the distant constellations, sparkling like ice, I wondered if I had struggled, plundered, and clawed my way through a labyrinth of my own making, when all along my future had been preordained.

  I turned to my desk, gazed for what seemed an eternity at the sheaf of paper and quills.

  You need each other to fulfill your destiny.

  Then I sat down and wrote out my instructions.

  Henri arrived two days later, dressed in dirty hunting gear.

  “It’s done.” He yanked off his gauntlets. “I took him to where we’d sighted a stag in the forest the day before. I sent our men away to surround it, and once we were alone I turned to him and said, ‘Go. Before one of us decides to kill you.’”

  He stalked to my sideboard to pour a goblet of wine, downing it in a single gulp. “No doubt he’s halfway to his kingdom by now.” He set his goblet down, spun back to me. “If you wanted to let him go free, why didn’t you just send him away with Margot?”

  “It had to look as if he fled. The Catholics, Guise: it’s the only thing they’d accept.”

  “Yes, and now I’m the fool who let him escape.” Henri stared at me. “Why did you do this?”

  I lifted my eyes. He knew me so well. Of all my children, he saw into me as none had. I fought against the urge to tell him everything, reminded myself why I had to deceive him. Charles was bedridden with fever, but the convulsions were abating; Paré thought he might yet live and frantically sought an antidote. Cosimo was dead; Margot locked in her rooms. I had to bury the truth. Henri must never know what Margot had done; he must be kept ignorant, free of all blame. And while I was so angry at Margot I could barely look at her, she was still Navarre’s wife. She must be protected. If anyone was accused of poisoning Charles, let it be me.

  “All you need to know,” I said carefully, “is that you must leave France.”

  He went pale. “You … you want me to leave? Why?”

  “Because Birago tells me many of the Huguenots who fled to Geneva after the massacre are now plotting to return and move against us. They blame you for the massacre as much as they do me and Guise. I want you out of harm’s way. I shall write to your aunt Marguerite in Savoy; she’ll be delighted to receive you. It’s not only your welfare I’m concerned for; I’m sending Hercule away as well, as soon as I secure Elizabeth Tudor’s agreement to receive him as her suitor.”

  Henri grimaced. “That’ll be a sight to see, our Hercule pawing Elizabeth Tudor.” He looked at me intently. “This is rather sudden. First, you have me shut up Navarre in Vincennes and then you tell me I must threaten his life to force his escape; now I hear Charles is gravely ill.” His eyes glinted. “Why would you send me away when I might soon be king?”

  I met his eyes. “Charles is ill, yes, but he may have many years yet to live. You must heed me. You must go and wait for me to summon you. I beg you.” My voice caught. “You … you cannot stay. If you do, you risk your life.”

  His eyes narrowed. “My life? How? And don’t tell me again it’s those damn Huguenots.”

  “Not the Huguenots.” I lowered my gaze. “It’s your brother. Charles has more than a fever. Paré says he suffers from a derangement and thinks the dead haunt him for what we did.”

  “Then let me talk to him. He’s my brother. He must know I could hardly stop Guise and several thousand of his own Catholics hell-bent on slaughter.”

  “No, you can’t try to talk sense to him right now. He’s not himself. He’s threatening to send you to England instead of Hercule. I’d rather die than see you in that heretic isle. Elizabeth has opened her ports to our Huguenot refugees; her realm seethes with them. Any malcontent could do you harm.”

  A frown creased his brow, to my relief. Much as he might feign otherwise, Henri was fully aware of the consequences of the massacre and I knew he was still furious at himself for ceding to Guise that night, for it made him look as if he’d willingly allowed thousands to die.

  “Hercule had no part in it,” I continued, “and so Elizabeth will play her usual coy game with him. But not with you; she has been told that you were at Coligny’s house that night.”

  “And that’s all? There’s nothing else?”

  “No.” I forced out a smile. “It’ll only be for a short time, I promise. We can write every day.”

  He hesitated a moment before he nodded. “I suppose I could use some time away.” He c
huckled. “No doubt Savoy will be less funereal.” He kissed my cheek. “I hope you know what you’re doing with Navarre. God knows what he’ll do once he feels safe again.”

  “Indeed,” I said under my breath, and I watched him saunter out.

  Left alone I sank into my chair. I did not think. I simply put my face in my hands and wept as I hadn’t in years. I mourned a thousand losses: for the child I’d been and the family I’d left behind, for the country I barely recalled anymore and the country I now fought to save. I wept for my dead children and my living ones, who’d grown up infected by the poisonous hatred of our religious wars. I wept for my friends and my enemies; for all the lost hopes and illusions.

  But most of all, I wept for myself and the woman I had become.

  Two months later I sat at Charles’s bedside as he coughed up pieces of his lungs. He had not yet turned twenty-four, but Cosimo’s poison had slowly done its work, rotting him from the inside out so that he lay drenched in sweat tinged with his own blood.

  His fingers clutched mine. His eyes were closed, his chest barely lifting with each shallow breath. Earlier he’d signed a document bestowing on me the regency until Henri returned. His wife, Isabel, was already in mourning, anchored at her prie-dieu; only Birago and I, and his faithful hound at his feet, attended him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

  A little after four in the afternoon, his fever abated. As fitful rain pattered against the château walls, he opened his eyes and looked at me.

  He whispered, “Forgive me.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  I PACED MY CHAMBER IN THE PALACE AT LYONS, KICKING AGAINST the gem-encrusted hem of my burgundy velvet gown, turning back to the window every time I heard clamor in the courtyard.

  Autumn had come to France. Burnished leaves hung on the oaks and opal splendor bathed the hills. Four months had passed since Charles’s death—four long and difficult months, during which I’d buried him, sent his widow to Chenonceau, and labored to secure the realm. Now I had received word that Henri had passed through Avignon and moved up the Rhône, escorted by Hercule, whose importance had grown since becoming our new heir.