The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  He regarded me as if I’d lost my senses. “Send for a book? In less than three hours we are holding a joust to celebrate our daughter’s union with the king of Spain.”

  “We can still hold it. Just send someone we trust to the Loire to—”

  “Catherine.” He did not lift his voice, but I could hear his impatience. “Blois is closed for the season, as you know. My chamberlain holds the keys to our apartments and he has far too much to do without my dispatching him on this fool’s errand.”

  “It’s not a—”

  He held up his hand. “You’re asking me to send a trusted servant to Blois, a day’s ride at best, to fetch a book he’s never seen. You have hundreds of books in your cabinet. How on earth is he supposed to locate the one you want?”

  I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t stopped to think about any of this, but I wasn’t going to admit that to him. I squared my shoulders, fighting back a wave of inexplicable desperation. “Then, I will go myself. Get me the keys and I’ll take Lucrezia and a guard. I’ll be back by nightfall.”

  “And miss the tournament, where I’m scheduled to challenge the winner?” He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “You can’t be serious. It was a dream, Catherine. Nothing bad is going to happen if you don’t get that book.”

  Suddenly, I doubted myself. He was right: it had been a dream. A dream and a cryptic letter from a man I hardly knew, whose prophecies were thus far unproven.

  And still, I knew. “I realize it sounds mad, but I can feel it, Henri, in my heart. What if it’s Elisabeth? We’ve asked so much of her and she’s been so tired. What if she falls ill?”

  “We’re all tired. We’re tired of England and Spain, of heretics demanding the right to worship, and bad harvests and poverty. We each have our burdens to bear. Elisabeth will bear hers as best she can. I’m not sending her away because I want to but because I must.”

  “I know that. No one is faulting you. It might not be her. It might be a warning about someone else, one of our other children.”

  “Catherine, there is no warning, no prophecy. You’re overwhelmed like the rest of us, though you hate to admit it. You worry for Elisabeth, for you are a good mother.” He paused, softened his voice. “Philip wants her in Madrid by November so he can present her at his Christmas court. You should use this time to give her support, not to rush off to the Loire because of something that man said to you years ago.”

  “Henri, please.” I gazed at him, my tears breaking free.

  He stood and took me in his arms. Against his chest, the chill gold of the breastplate pressed to my ear, he caressed my hair. “There, now,” he murmured. He cupped my chin, lifted my face to his. “It is no sin to weep.” He gave me a resigned smile as voices came from the antechamber, indicating his horde had returned. “Let’s get through the blasted tournament and if you feel like this tomorrow, we’ll see what to do, yes? We’ll go to Blois together, if need be.”

  I exhaled in relief. “Thank you. I … I love you.”

  The words were out before I could stop them and he went still. Then he closed his arms around me. “I love you too,” he whispered.

  He didn’t speak again as his servants erupted into the room. But as I departed I realized that I finally had from him what I’d always wanted.

  • • •

  No truth can be determined that concerns the future.

  Hurrying to my apartments, I repeated old Maestro Ruggieri’s adage, interpreting it as a sign that there was time to avert calamity if we were forewarned. Tomorrow, I’d send for Nostradamus’s book, and the seer himself if need be, to explain it. One day wouldn’t make a difference.

  It was already midmorning and I dressed in my court gown and jewels, gathered up my other children and my entourage. We entered the rue de St. Quentin to the blast of trumpets. My ladies and I mounted the dais to join Elisabeth, Mary, and François under the canopy. Charles, Henri, and Margot sat below us on cushioned tiers. I sat on my chair, took a goblet of wine from a page, and settled in for a long afternoon. I’d always found the thundering of steeds down the lines, the breaking of lances, and the shouting of the crowds overly boisterous.

  Four competitors were scheduled to joust today, with Henri engaging the winner. The crowd roared as Henri’s boon companion, the scarred le Balafré, galloped onto the field on a massive white destrier. As he swiftly proceeded to unseat his first opponent, Mary leapt to her feet. “Crack open his head, Uncle!”

  I yanked at her skirts. “Sit down! Are you a heathen to display yourself thus?”

  She tossed her head; her Guise uncle won three more rounds. Le Balafré then challenged the duc de Nemours, who lost. I didn’t even bother to try and restrain Mary as she shrieked her delight along with everyone else as Guise cantered about the arena, his scarred face flushed.

  “Who will challenge me?” le Balafré cried, his gauntlet lifted. “Who dares fight the victor?”

  Montgomery, a captain of the Scottish guard, stepped forth. “I will.”

  There was uproar. Montgomery might be part of the privileged corps that protected my husband’s person, but he was still a Scotsman. Le Balafré eyed him and nodded. He wouldn’t show himself a coward even before an inferior’s challenge.

  Montgomery mounted a white steed. Guise and he positioned themselves at opposite ends of the list and charged. With a deft upswing of his lance, Montgomery slammed Guise’s shield, throwing the duke from his horse and onto the field. “Foul!” cried the spectators. “Again!”

  But there could be no repeat. Le Balafré had been routed and the subsequent blast of trumpets proclaimed that now my husband, the king, would challenge the victor.

  I sat upright. Had this been a coliseum, they’d have unleashed lions on Montgomery. But Henri was a staunch champion and indicated he would joust against the captain.

  Clad in his gold armor, he galloped forth on his dappled charger. He looked fit, younger than his forty years as he rode to his end of the list and dropped his visor. Silence fell. The heralds sounded, and king and captain leapt forward.

  In that instant, I recalled words spoken at Blois over four years ago.

  The young lion shall overcome the old in single combat.

  I started to rise. Everything slowed around me, so that I could distinguish the clumps of earth torn up by the horses’ hooves, hear the creaking of armor, and smell the anticipation in the air. I opened my mouth. A crash shattered my cry as lance struck metal in a deafening explosion.

  The applause cut short. Henri was lifted from his saddle, his lance clattering to the ground. As grooms raced to him, I saw his foot tangle in his stirrup as he slid from his saddle. The men caught him in their arms. There was a stricken pause.

  The first scream came from Mary—a petrified wail that seemed to echo for hours. I stumbled from the dais, shoving past gaping courtiers frozen on their tiers. When I reached the arena, breathless and panting, the nobles were bringing Henri toward me. His helmet was still on, the visor dented beneath his brow. They laid him on a bench, began to remove the helmet. I glanced at the field. Montgomery stood frozen, his splintered lance still in his hand.

  Henri let out a moan as the helmet was pried from his head. I covered my mouth with my hands to stop my own terrible cry.

  He will pierce his eye in a cage of gold.

  My husband’s face was white; there was very little blood.

  From his right eye protruded the shards of Montgomery’s lance.

  SEVENTEEN

  WE BROUGHT HIM BACK TO THE PALACE, WHERE I STOOD AT his bedside as Dr. Paré examined the wound. Henri had slipped into unconsciousness, his pallor so pronounced that blue veins could be seen under his skin. Paré prepared a poppy seed plaster and applied it to the injured eye before carefully wrapping gauze about the protruding shard. He then motioned Monsignor the Cardinal and me into the antechamber.

  “Well?” barked Monsignor, his usually moderate voice shrill. “Will he live?”

  I spun to him. “How d
are you? You speak treason!”

  He eyed me in disdain, dispelling any doubts I might have had about his nature. “Madame,” he said, “we have the realm’s welfare to consider. His Majesty’s wound could be mortal.” He spoke without any discernible emotion, as though Henri were some cur trampled by his coach.

  My rage, never far from the surface where the Guises were concerned, rose to suffocate me. I was about to order him away when Paré said, “Monsignor, the wound is grave, yes, but not necessarily mortal. We must first remove the shard before we can determine the exact damage.”

  Cold spread through me. I had foreseen peril but had never imagined it would touch Henri. I turned away from Monsignor’s calculating stare. “We must do everything we can,” I said to Paré and I could not keep the panic from my voice. “His Majesty’s life is in our hands. Perhaps I should summon Nostradamus. He helped heal my husband before.”

  “That was a flesh wound on his leg,” Paré said gently. “Skilled as he is, Nostradamus is not a surgeon. Moreover, it would take too much time for him to get here and the shard must be extracted as soon as possible, before corruption sets in. I’ve operated before on the battlefield, but I’ll need a model first, to experiment on.” He paused. “I need heads, Your Grace. As many as can be gotten.”

  “Execute ten prisoners and bring the doctor their heads,” I barked at Monsignor.

  The cardinal drawled, “May I suggest that one of those heads be Captain Montgomery’s?”

  I rounded on him. “It was an accident. We don’t kill men for accidents.”

  “Montgomery is a Huguenot. It’s no coincidence that he challenged my brother first. His Majesty has been a foe of the heretics; this was an act of Huguenot revenge.”

  I stepped so close to him I could smell the expensive musk on his robes. He disgusted me with his limpid air and manicured hands, the ease with which he clothed his monstrous heart. “Don’t try me again,” I warned. “Go. Do as I bid. Now.”

  I didn’t give a fig for Montgomery, but he would not die to suit Monsignor. As the cardinal swept out into the gallery, where I heard courtiers clamoring for news, Paré gave me a sad look. I couldn’t bear to see the doubt on his face; so I left him and went into Henri’s chamber. Pulling a stool by the bed, I sat and took my husband’s hand.

  He would live. He must.

  The disembodied heads yielded no definitive answers, and Paré decided to trim the shard first, to facilitate curing the wound. The flesh about the injured eye was ugly, inflamed, and fearing the onset of corruption I sent a letter by urgent courier to Nostradamus’s home in Salon, begging for assistance. While I waited for his response, I anchored myself at Henri’s bedside, accompanied by my sister-in-law Marguerite and my Elisabeth. He drifted in and out of awareness; every time he woke, he found me there. I bathed his face and throat with rosemary water; I smiled and spoke in a cheerful tone. I never let him sense my dread or the fear that tightened about me like a noose.

  By the third day, he was feverish and restless, his skin the color of sand. Nostradamus had returned word that he’d come at once if I needed him, but to his great sorrow, as Paré claimed, he was not a surgeon and could only offer his advice. In his letter he enclosed a recipe for a poultice he thought might help. Henri’s eye was now a swollen morass and his attendants had to forcibly hold him down so Paré could change the soiled dressings and apply the poultice. Despite her resolve to stay with me, Elisabeth looked faint, so I sent her away with Marguerite, insisting they both rest.

  Marguerite returned as soon as she’d seen my daughter to bed. Paré had finished and coils of fetid gauze sat in a basin at his feet. I smelled a rank odor that raised the hairs of my nape—the smell of pus, hallmark of a rancid wound. Icy sweat beaded Henri’s brow. He’d thrashed like an animal, bellowing in pain; now he lay so still I feared the worst.

  I whispered to Paré, “He’s barely moving. Isn’t there something else we can do?”

  He murmured, “I fear the shard may have penetrated His Majesty’s eye and pierced the protective membrane of his brain. The poultice may help with the outside corruption, but if the shard goes any deeper …” His voice faded into a laden silence.

  “What about the operation?” I said. “As soon as the swelling goes down, you can remove the shard, yes?”

  He shook his head. “It would require trepanning the skull and at the moment His Majesty is too weak. Perhaps after we’ve seen some improvement from the poultice, or perhaps it might not be necessary at all. He might recover on his own.”

  “With a shard in his eye?” I stared at him. “Are you telling me this is all we can do?”

  Paré gave a forlorn nod. I turned to my husband. Blood and pus had already started to seep through the new bandage. As I reached for his hand, his uninjured eye opened, with a startling suddenness. I leaned close to his parched lips.

  “Marguerite,” he whispered, “her … wedding … See to it.”

  Behind me, I heard a desperate sob escape Marguerite. I didn’t need to look at her to know that she too had succumbed to despair.

  At midnight, Monsignor married Filbert of Savoy and Marguerite. There was no celebration. I embraced each of them, my voice as weary as my appearance, and returned to Henri.

  Outside his doors, the struggle for power commenced. I knew it was happening. I knew the Guises and their sycophants met in closed rooms, drawing up alliances to safeguard their power. I paid their machinations no mind, not because I didn’t care or rail within at their cruelty, but because I couldn’t do anything to stop it, even if I’d had the strength.

  My husband, with whom I’d lived for twenty-six years, was slipping away from me. All I could do was watch, helpless to defend him from the enemies within and without.

  One by one, they came to say farewell. Our son François entered the room clutching Mary’s hand, an immature fifteen-year-old boy and seventeen-year-old girl, whose sheltered existence had been shattered. With tears coursing down his face, François babbled that he didn’t want to be king; he didn’t want his father to die. Mary took him in her arms, meeting my eyes in silent fear. I wondered if the Guises had been at her already, terrifying her with a list of her future responsibilities as queen, to ensure she’d look first to them for counsel, before me.

  Pale but composed, Elisabeth kissed Henri farewell and went to be with my younger children, whom I’d ordered to the Louvre. Charles wept that he wanted to see Papa and rejected all consolation, clinging to the hunting hound puppy that Henri had given him. I refused to let any of them be subjected to the sight of their father crying out in agony; I shrieked at Paré and he dosed Henri with enough opiate to fell a horse.

  Still, he did not die.

  He fought like the soldier he’d always been, even as the fever escalated. He did, at times, rally, gasping that a proclamation announcing his son François II’s accession be sent out. I loved him then more than I ever had before. He had lived like a king and would die like a king, ensuring as best he could that France did not perish with him.

  I was with him at the end, on a July afternoon of savage beauty. He’d been delirious, muttering incoherent words. As I knelt beside him, he turned his head and gazed at me with lucidity, the fever releasing his body so he might return to it one last time.

  His cracked lips opened. He mouthed one word: “Catherine.”

  Then he closed his eyes. And he left me.

  I surrendered his corpse to the embalmers, who would remove his heart and seal it in the alabaster casket by our unfinished tomb in St. Denis. I gave him up to the lamenting servants who’d attended him for years, to Constable Montmorency, who stood guard at his deathbed, and to the overseers of his funeral, the Guises, who donned white with premeditated haste.

  I returned to my rooms through corridors that still rang with his footstep. My women rose in unison, eyes red from weeping. Lucrezia reached out. Something in my gaze stopped her. She must have seen that if I felt her touch, if I felt any touch, I would crumble.r />
  I moved alone into my bedchamber. It seemed as if I’d been gone a hundred years. All my possessions were here: my Venetian silver brushes with the entwined HC on their handles, vials of perfume and unguents, my children’s portraits on the walls. I saw it all, registered it in my mind, and still I felt like I’d stumbled into a foreign place.

  Blinded by tears, I pressed my hand to my mouth.

  Then I heard a rustle, the clack of heel, and turned to see her emerge from the shadows by the bed. Had she thrown a dagger, I couldn’t have moved. Diane returned my stare. A ruby throbbed at her chest, affixing her long black cloak to her shoulders. In her hands was a silver casket.

  “I’ve brought you these.” She set the casket on my dressing table, opened the lid with a flourish. Nestled within on crimson velvet were diamond pendants and rings, pearl earrings, ruby brooches, and emerald necklaces. “I return these for delivery to the queen of France.”

  “Puttana!” I struck her with all my might. She staggered back, my imprint livid on her cheek.

  She lifted her chin. “You’ve no doubt dreamed of doing that for years. I’m honored I can provide you with this final service.”

  My breath came in bursts, my hands clenching again as I prepared to do what I’d indeed always dreamed of—rip apart that unearthly mask and see if she bled like everyone else.

  “You could have me arrested,” she said, “but I don’t think His Majesty would approve.”

  “You’re not fit to speak his name!”

  “I do not speak of Henri. I speak of our new king, François II. I’ve been a mother to him. If need be, he’ll protect me.”

  Henri’s body was being desecrated at that very moment by embalmers and she stood here declaring her immunity as if it were a virtue. I knew then that she’d never loved him. She was incapable of it. She was as lifeless as her pantheon at Anet.