Jeanne strode to us and removed him with a jerk from my embrace. “That is quite enough, madame,” she said, her eyes flashing as she took in the ruby and pearl crucifix pinned to my bodice, a recent gift from my son’s bride.
“She didn’t hurt me,” said little Navarre. “She smells nice.”
“She smells of idolatry,” retorted Jeanne.
Despite the fatigue that always accompanied my gift, I had the stamina to chuckle. “I see some things never change. I wanted to welcome the boy and ask him if he might like to sit with the other children. He is half Valois, lest you’ve forgotten; he shares their blood through you.” Ignoring her scowl, I said to him, “Would you like to meet your cousins?”
Navarre looked toward the children’s table. I thought he would refuse, cling to his mother, who obviously guarded his every move. To my surprise, he stuck out his chin. “Yes. Can I, Maman?” he asked, raising his gaze to Jeanne.
What could she do? With a frigid nod, she watched as I took his little hand in mine—he had small hands for such a robust boy—and brought him to the table, where I presented him to young Guise, who yawned, and to my own children. “This is your cousin of Navarre,” I told them. “He’s new to court. Please make him feel welcome.”
Margot smiled. “You are Marguerite,” Navarre blurted, and she tossed her ringlets. “I’m no daisy, cousin. Everyone calls me Margot.”
Henri thrust his chin out. “And I am Henri, duc d’Anjou.”
“Now, now,” I chided. “Be nice. Later, once the adults have finished, you can dance together, yes?” I looked into Navarre’s upturned eyes. “I hope you enjoy your time here with us,” I said, and again I felt my inexplicable kinship with him tug at my heart.
He gave me a smile, prompting my Henri to scowl. I inclined my head to Jeanne, who retreated to her seat like a thwarted lioness deprived of her cub.
The lingering effects of my vision started to fade, but I sat on my dais in quiet contemplation for the rest of the night, observing young Navarre awkwardly brave the dance floor while Margot spun like a pixie about him. Here, I thought, was a prince worth watching.
After the marriage, we retreated to the placid charms of Fontainebleau. The world may have seemed to pause for my son’s wedding, but it had not, as the cardinal’s latest reports confirmed.
Henri summoned me to his study. I found him at his desk, bruised shadows under his eyes. “Mary Tudor is dying,” he said. “Our English ambassador reports this child she claims to carry is a tumor. She’ll not heed her physicians and spends her days weeping over Philip, as he left her to return to Spain as soon as he heard she was pregnant.”
“Poor woman. She’s not had an easy life.”
“No, and when she dies neither shall we.” He scanned the dispatch in hand. “The English favor her sister, Elizabeth, to be queen, though Mary holds her under house arrest.” He smiled sourly. “Elizabeth has eluded incrimination in every plot against Mary, though all know she’s an avowed heretic. If she claims the throne, she’ll move against us.” He thrust the dispatch aside, looking at me with somber eyes. “Monsignor says we must offer Philip a new bride as soon as Mary Tudor is dead.”
Everything faded around me. All I could hear was one word. “Bride?” I echoed.
“Yes. With Elizabeth set to be England’s queen, we must ally ourselves with Spain.”
The golden light swirled with motes, terribly bright. Henri sighed. “Catherine, if there were another way, I’d take it. But there isn’t. Only one of our daughters is of age to wed.”
“But Elisabeth is only fourteen, and Spain is so far away.”
“She’s a princess. She must do her duty, as we did.” He took my hand. “You do understand?”
I nodded. “I do. But promise me I’ll be the one to tell her. She should hear it from me.”
“You have my word,” he said, kissing my cheek.
The remainder of that year passed like a flurry of leaves before the first winter storm. The constable and his nephew Coligny, whom I’d not seen in years, were sent to Philip II’s court in Brussels to negotiate the terms of the marriage treaty. Soon after, I heard rumors that while traveling through the Low Countries, Coligny had become interested in the Protestant faith.
I didn’t heed the talk. I was too immersed in the impending loss of not one, but two of my children, for upon hearing Henri’s approval of a match between Elisabeth with Philip of Spain, the cardinal wasted no time in suggesting my daughter Claude for the Duke of Lorraine, a Guise relative. I raised vigorous protest, citing Claude’s age, for she was just eleven. But to everyone’s surprise, Claude displayed unexpected spirit. Plump and short, having inherited the less attractive aspects of our combined bloods, she came to me and declared, “My lord of Lorraine and I have known each other since childhood. He is all I require in a husband.”
“But, my child, how can you know at your age?” I regarded her with a combination of awe and sorrow. I hadn’t paid much attention to this daughter of mine, and I was taken aback to find she was almost a woman in thoughts and words, if not yet in body.
“I do,” she said. “I see no reason to delay my betrothal. I don’t want to end up like my cousin Jeanne of Navarre, married to some prince I care nothing for.”
I couldn’t argue with her logic. Her reasons were sound and so I agreed to her betrothal, providing Lorraine agreed not to bed her until her fourteenth year.
Mary Tudor died in November. The half sister she’d kept under guard and almost beheaded for treason ascended to the throne of England as Queen Elizabeth I.
Within days, Philip of Spain accepted our offer of marriage.
In January 1559 Claude wed the duc de Lorraine. By February, Admiral de Coligny and the constable had hammered out our treaty, in which Henri gave Elisabeth to Philip II in marriage, as well as his surviving sister, my dear Marguerite, to Filbert of Savoy, one of Philip’s principal royal allies. Peace with Spain was achieved after decades of strife; and as promised, Henri let me break the news of her nuptials to our daughter.
I found Elisabeth in the nurseries, seated by the casement.
Outside, the day was bright. Voices carried to us on the breeze. I moved to Elisabeth’s side and caught sight of the group of figures in the gardens. One was unmistakable, a lyric of a girl tossing her mane much like the prancing palfrey whose reins she held. With a jolt, I saw my son François on the beast, clinging to the saddle pommel while Mary guided the horse about in circles. I was relieved to see an army of grooms close by.
“It appears Mary Stuart has taken it upon herself to help François overcome his fear of horses,” I remarked, with some asperity.
“He’s improving,” said Elisabeth. “He’ll soon be ready for his first hunt.”
I turned my attention to the old notebooks piled by Elisabeth. She must have scavenged the coffers to unearth these childhood artifacts.
“Why aren’t you with them?” I asked, shifting the articles aside so I could sit.
She raised solemn eyes, a book open in her shapely hands. Her fingers were bare, though she was of age to adorn them; her dark hair framing a face upon which life had yet to inscribe its harshest lessons. “I wanted to see if I remembered my Latin.”
“Remember?” My laugh sounded too hearty to my ears. “How could you not, my child? You always excelled in Latin. No one could best you.”
“I wanted to be sure.” She lifted her eyes. “I’ll have need of it in the Spanish court. It’s why you are here, isn’t it? To tell me I will marry Philip II?”
Raw pain went through me. “Who told you?”
“Madame la Sénéchale. But don’t be cross with her; I’ve suspected for some time. I realize how much pain she has cost you, Maman, but she isn’t to blame for this. It is my duty to wed where I am told and she confirmed what I already knew.”
She understood; she knew how much Diane had cost me, though my rival had been like a second mother, always at her father’s side. Her awareness that I’d s
uffered in the shadow cast by my husband’s mistress made me feel as though I’d been hiding behind clear glass, my secrets in plain sight for all to see.
Her next words were spoken with equal calm. “Will Philip take a mistress?”
“No,” I said at once. “He’s renowned for his rectitude.”
“He’s still a king. He’s much older, already a widower. And he has a son already, by his first wife.” I stared, dumbfounded, as she added, “I ask because under the circumstances I wish to comport myself with dignity, as you have.”
A hollow opened inside me. I clasped her hand. “He will love you. How could he not? You are young, beautiful; you are everything a king could want.” I couldn’t tell if I spoke to her in that moment or to the dream I’d never had, but she smiled and closed the notebook, as if my words had brought her comfort. “Will I marry here or in Spain?” she said.
“Here.” I felt as if someone else spoke through me. “We will plan everything.”
“Good. I want my sisters and Mary to be my maids of honor.” She leaned to me. “I know Philip won’t come to fetch me, but I wish to greet his proxy as the queen I will be.”
“You will.” My voice splintered. “I promise.”
She reached out and embraced me, a child of my Medici blood.
“Thank you, Maman,” she whispered.
SIXTEEN
ELISABETH’S WEDDING WAS SET FOR JUNE, TO COINCIDE WITH that of Henri’s sister Marguerite to Filbert of Savoy, who, unlike Philip II, would come to Paris. Philip sent word that he would dispatch his premier general, the formidable Duke of Alba, to act as his proxy.
To prepare a daughter’s trousseau should be cause for rejoicing, but as I supervised the seamstresses, mercers, and shoemakers charged with outfitting her, and the packing of gowns, cloaks, shoes, and muffs (for winters in Castile, I’d heard, were brutal), I felt as though each article set another stone in the road that would soon take her away from me.
Philip had stated his desire for Elisabeth to depart as soon as possible. At thirty-two, he was anxious to beget another heir. The thought of my child in his austere realm haunted my nights. Adding to my dolor was the impending loss of my sister-in-law, who’d been my most constant companion after my ladies, though Marguerite expressed resignation to her union with Filbert. At thirty-six, the independent streak of her youth had mellowed and she yearned for permanency after a life of royal spinsterhood.
“Defiance cannot feed the heart forever,” she said to me. “I must admit, I’m looking forward to my life in Savoy, where at least I’ll be a woman in my own right.”
I wished her the best, for at her age it was unlikely she’d bear a child. When Filbert arrived, he expressed satisfaction with his bride-to-be. They made an odd pair, and I smiled at the thought of François’s sardonic reaction at the sight of his bony daughter beside her portly betrothed.
Then, without warning, June was upon us, bringing with it the Spanish retinue.
Tall and gaunt, the dead lamb of the Order of the Fleece slung in gold about his neck, the Duke of Alba met Elisabeth in the Louvre’s great hall. I noted at once the surprise on his jaundiced face. My daughter wore pale rose banded with gems; she recited her welcoming speech in perfect Spanish, and at its conclusion Alba graced her with a stiff smile that caused the Spanish entourage to exclaim, “Hermosa! Beautiful!” and explode into applause.
Festivities ensued. Though we were bankrupt, paying for the clothes on our backs through loans, we made certain no one would return to Spain complaining of their reception. The night before the wedding, I accompanied Elisabeth to her room and brushed out her hair. We didn’t speak. There was nothing we could say anymore to breach the sorrow between us.
She reached up and took my hand in silence.
Two days later, I watched her kneel beside Alba in Notre Dame and marry Philip II. As Alba slipped the band over her finger, I closed my eyes. She was still in France and would always be my daughter, but in that moment she had ceased to be mine.
She belonged to Spain now.
We had the celebration jousts and marriage between Filbert and Marguerite to endure. Royal weddings are protracted affairs and Henri decided it would be best not to overtire everyone by having one marriage follow the next. Instead, we’d hold a celebratory joust for Elisabeth; clad in a new suit of gold-embossed armor, Henri would engage the winner.
I, in turn, tended to my children. I had to mollify François, who’d taken it into his head that as his father would joust, so must he. The idea of him in armor and bouncing around on a horse under the noonday sun was unthinkable; he had just had an earache and was still recovering, and I had to dissuade him of his foolishness. Then I marched off to see to Elisabeth, whose scarlet brocade required last-minute adjustments, and on to Margot, Charles, Henri, and little Hercule. By midnight, I was exhausted. I staggered into my rooms, undressed in a numb haze, and fell into bed. That night, I dreamed.
I float through a black tunnel. I cannot feel anything solid, and it is dark, so very dark, like the awful finality of a tomb. The lack of sensation suffocates me; I want to cry out but I have no voice with which to utter a sound. A flame flares in the distance. It draws me toward it, burning higher, closer and closer, warning me of something inescapable, something—
I was awoken by Lucrezia shaking me. “My lady!”
Struggling out of my tangled, sweat-soaked sheets, I was overcome by a sickening dizziness. I knew this feeling; I’d last felt it when I embraced the little prince of Navarre. It was my gift. And then I heard Nostradamus’s voice, as though he were in the room with me: I will never withhold the truth …
I pushed past my anxious lady. “I must see my letters.”
The pile reproached me on my desk. I’d neglected my correspondence these busy past weeks. As Lucrezia lit the candles, I yanked up a chair, glancing at and discarding papers at my bare feet. It was here: I could feel it. I ignored messages from provincial governors and petitions from charities; missives from Venice and Florence were pushed aside as I searched, my anxiety increasing until I could hardly breathe.
Then I saw it. An envelope sealed with my ring’s ensign. This was his letter.
I opened it. His words were concise: Your Grace must take heed. Remember the prophecy.
He had sent me a warning.
“Dio Mio.” I looked at Lucrezia. “Something terrible is going to happen.” The letter slipped from my fingers. “But I don’t remember the prophecy. Nostradamus recited several to me when we first met. I don’t even have the book he gave me. It’s in Blois, in my cabinet. I left it there.”
I didn’t sleep the rest of the night, pacing while my women sat in bleary-eyed attention. The moment dawn broke, I took to the corridors. Minor courtiers sprawled on the floors and in the alcoves, while our palace cats prowled for rodents.
Henri and I lived in separate wings. Diane still attended him on occasion in his chambers, and I never went to see him without sending word in advance. But she wouldn’t be there this morning. She always kept her distance when we assumed center stage, still the hypocrite after all these years. Nevertheless, I found my husband amid a crowd of secretaries and pages, standing on a footstool in his linen drawers, the breastplate of his new armor fastened to his chest as his wardrobe master fitted the leggings. Le Balafré lounged in a chair nearby, long legs stretched out before him. When he saw me, the scar on his gaunt face twitched. There was no love lost between us; from the day I’d first arrived in France he’d treated me with disdain.
I ignored him, forcing him to rise and make his obeisance.
Henri looked fatigued, his beard hugging the sunken length of his cheeks. “Yes, Catherine?” he said, as if my appearing unannounced in his rooms were a daily occurrence.
“My lord,” I said, “might we have a moment in private?”
He motioned about him. “As you can see, I’m rather busy. Can’t it wait until later?”
“No.” I felt Guise’s stare. “I fear it is of th
e utmost importance.”
“So is everything.” Henri sighed, waving his wardrobe master aside. One of the leggings didn’t quite fit. He got off the stool.
“Besides being fitted for the umpteenth time,” he said, as his attendants left us, “I’ve a mountain of papers to sign, the English ambassador to meet, Alba to see, not to mention inspecting the lists before the joust. Is this so important?”
“It is. I am here because … I think we’re in danger.”
He frowned. “Danger? How?”
“I don’t know.” I clasped my hands, hearing myself and knowing how I must sound to him. “I had a dream last night and …” My voice caught. I could see the disbelief in his eyes. I went to him. “Please, just listen to me. I fear for someone dear to us, perhaps in our own family.”
He dropped onto the chair by his desk, reaching down to unlock the bindings of the legging. It fell with a clank to the floor. He couldn’t recline because of the breastplate and so he sat in erect discomfort. “Very well, I’m listening. But that secretary of mine will be back any moment and I’ll not be able to send him away a second time. He’s been at me all morning.”
I told him about the dream and the letter from Nostradamus. I had to stop myself from blurting out the truth about my own past premonitions, as I’d never mentioned my gift to him and suspected he’d not appreciate hearing his wife declare she possessed occult powers.
When I finished, he folded his hands at his chin. “And you think your dream and this prophecy of Nostradamus’s portend some peril to us?”
“Yes.” I was relieved by the lack of derision in his tone. “If you recall, he did cure your leg. And he told me he would contact me should the need arise.”
“Catherine,” he said, without a trace of mockery, “this is absurd. You are overwrought because of Elisabeth. She must soon leave for Spain and you worry for her.”
“No, you don’t understand. His letter was dated weeks ago. I only looked for it because of my dream. It’s a warning. He wrote his prophecies down for me in a book, which he gave to me when he first came to Blois. But I left it there, in my cabinet. We must send for it.”
The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Page 14