The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  “She makes you happy?”

  “She does. I’ve delayed returning to her because I wanted to see Your Grace.”

  “You should call me Catherine.” I met his eyes. They were so deep yet at the same time so impenetrable, like icebound lakes. He could be the ally I needed; he could help me overturn the Guises and regain the kingdom. But not now. I was still too weak and he too vulnerable.

  “You must know I do not go away by choice,” he added. “Nor will I stay away forever.”

  “I know.” I gave him a smile. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to get the edict rescinded and, as soon as I can, to seat you in Council. I believe we can accomplish much good together.”

  He took my hand and raised it to his lips. His kiss was dry. “Should you find need of me before then, for whatever reason, do not hesitate to send word. I’ll come at once.”

  I watched him stride back down the path and into the cluster of trees, swallowed by the night.

  Though my plan had not gone as expected, for the first time since Henri’s death, I felt hope.

  NINETEEN

  IN SEPTEMBER, MY SON AND HIS QUEEN RETURNED FROM THEIR hunting trip. I waited in the courtyard, flanked by Elisabeth and Claude, wearing the black gown that had become my armor.

  I was eager to see François. He must feel the loss of his father; he was the eldest, and Henri and Diane had often attended him. While he and I hadn’t forged a bond because of Diane’s constant vigil over him, I now had the opportunity to. At fifteen, my son might be a man by law, but emotionally he was much younger. He would need me to give him strength and steer him past those treacherous shoals that the Guises would dash him against.

  My delusion was dispelled at once. He entered in an upholstered litter, escorted by le Balafré and our new queen, Mary. “His Majesty is ill. Give way!” Le Balafré barked, and he led my son past us in a bundle of trailing furs, into the palace. Fluttering in distress, Mary started to follow. I snagged her by the arm. “What is wrong?” I asked, alarmed by her pallor.

  “My poor François,” she said, breathless. “His ear became inflamed and he collapsed with a fever.” She pulled from me. “I must be with him, madame,” and she left me standing there.

  Raindrops splattered the cobblestones. Elisabeth slipped her hand in mine. Claude looked at me awkwardly; as Lorraine’s wife, she was expected to attend Mary. “Go,” I said to her. “See to your duties. You’ll come to me later to report on your brother’s health. Is that understood?”

  Claude nodded and scampered off, sturdy as a hen in her white velvets.

  Elisabeth murmured: “Come, Maman, let’s go inside. It’s cold.”

  Following François’s coronation—which was a modest affair because of his frail health—the Spanish escort arrived to take Elisabeth to Spain.

  I insisted on riding with her all the way to snowbound Châtelherault. By the frozen river, she turned to her ladies, retrieving a squirming bundle and passing it gently to me. When I peeled back the ice-flecked wool, I encountered moist dark eyes staring at me from a fluffy white face.

  “I haven’t named her yet,” Elisabeth said. “She’s a puppy, but she won’t grow much bigger than she is now. I’m told the breed is very long-lived and cleaves to one master.”

  The little dog yipped, writhing in my embrace as she tried to get free of the wool long enough to lick my nose. I stared at Elisabeth in helpless silence.

  “She’s also rather noisy.” My daughter laughed. “She’ll bark at anyone she doesn’t know and will make an excellent guard for your door.”

  “She’s lovely,” I said. “I’ll call her Muet, silent one, because she’s so noisy.”

  Elisabeth whispered, “I love you, Maman. I’ll write to you every day.”

  I embraced her, Muet wiggling between us. Then I released her to her escort, standing on the riverbank as she embarked on her passage into the mountains. Countless people had crossed the Pyrenees; Spain was just across our border. We could visit every year if we liked.

  Still, I stood there long after she disappeared, smelling her scent on the dog’s soft fur.

  The court moved to Blois after François again took ill, no doubt from the strain of his crowning, during which he’d been forced to stand and kneel for hours in a freezing cathedral, his chest bared for anointing. He’d never been strong, but I barely recognized the dreadfully gaunt adolescent huddled in bed, his sunken eyes glittery with opiate and fever.

  I tried to reassure François and lend him encouragement. I brewed special herbal drafts of rhubarb and chamomile; I sat and read to him. But whenever I mentioned the Guises or the edict, he moaned and turned his face from me, muttering he had never wanted to be king.

  Mary didn’t appear to enjoy being queen either. She was thin and agitated, worrying over François until I insisted she partake of other diversions. We walked the walled gardens of Blois together, played the lute and embroidered, establishing a delicate rapport that was shattered one afternoon as we sat in my rooms.

  “Those Huguenots are vicious dogs,” she said without warning. “They defied my uncle Monsignor’s edict and ripped it from the town squares, though it is forbidden by law. Burning is too good for them. They should be drawn and quartered, their limbs left to rot on every city gate. My uncle says they cast spells on poor François to make him ill. He says they poison the wells and curse the harvests, so that our people thirst and starve.”

  I looked up from my sewing hoop. I had not heard this particular brand of venom from her before. “My dear, your uncle exaggerates. I assure you, they are not monsters. And I doubt there are so many as to bring about such calamity.”

  Her eyes grew huge in her drawn face. “You don’t think heretics dwell under this very roof? The entire court seethes with them!”

  In the corner on her cushions, Muet growled. Lucrezia came over to refill our goblets. I drank it in one gulp. “You should heed less rhetoric,” I said, more sharply than I intended. “François has always suffered from earaches and we’ve had bad harvests and too much rain for several years now. As a queen you must learn the value of tolerance with all your subjects.”

  She gasped. “You … you actually defend them …?”

  “I defend the innocent.” I fixed her with my stare. “I want peace in France and prosperity for all. This is not Spain: we do not burn people here for differences of opinion.” I stopped her protest. “Yes, it is a difference of opinion. Last I heard we worship the same Christ.”

  She stood, trembling, her embroidery falling in a tangle at her feet. “So it is true. You … you are …” She gulped, as if she were choking on the word.

  I shot a look at Lucrezia, who stood immobile, decanter in hand. I forced out a chuckle. “What? What am I? By God, you do not think that I, the king’s mother, am a heretic?”

  She didn’t move, didn’t meet my eyes. Her silence was answer enough.

  I sighed. “You disappoint me. I was born in the Roman faith and, I assure you, I will die in it. Just because I advocate tolerance doesn’t mean I share the credo. Like you, I know almost nothing of these Huguenots, but I am sure of this much: they do not persecute us.”

  “Yet you defend them!” Mary cried. She whirled about, marching away. I rolled my eyes in exasperation at Lucrezia. “Have you ever heard such nonsense? Now my own daughter-in-law thinks I’m in league with the Protestants. Where could she have gotten such a preposterous notion?” Even as I feigned dismay, I knew what she would say before she spoke.

  “Where else?” she said. “Take heed, my lady, lest Monsignor find a way to consign you to the flames. It seems he will stop at nothing to achieve his ends.”

  Five nights later, a pounding on my door awoke me. I fumbled for flint to light my candle when Lucrezia raced in. “My lady, you must rise! We must leave at once!”

  I slid from my bed; from her truckle bed at my side, Anna-Maria peered at me. Birago came in moments later. “Blessed Virgin, what is it?” I asked, throwing on a shaw
l.

  “The Guises say that Huguenot rebels march toward us. Monsignor orders our departure for Amboise. There is no time to pack. We must go as we are.”

  I recalled my confrontation with Mary and wanted to break something. I searched Birago’s face. “Is it true? What do you know?”

  He looked tired, his thin features drained from the long nights and days he spent acting as my spy in the galleries and passageways of the courts, trying to ferret out any useful information he could. “All I know is that a Guise scouting party came upon the rebels in the forest and captured one. This man confessed that the Huguenots plan to siege Blois and take Their Majesties captive.” His voice lowered. “The Guises have spies everywhere. I can’t imagine how they failed to uncover this before now. In any event, we’re expected in the courtyard. I wouldn’t tarry.”

  I dressed, grabbed my jewel coffer and sleepy Muet under my arms, and sped from my apartments. Courtiers were rushing from every direction, carrying half-packed valises as they stumbled down the tiered staircase in a panic. My women and I were swept along, staggering into the courtyard breathless and with our headdresses askew.

  A contingent of guards blocked the château’s iron gates. Grooms ran about with torches, casting a smoky glow over the women as they scrambled into carts normally reserved for transporting furniture. Men leapt onto horses; le Balafré’s retinue cantered around the courtyard, yelling and inciting more panic. Fear ripened in the midnight air.

  I caught sight of le Balafré herding Mary and François into a carriage. Thrusting my coffer and Muet at Lucrezia—“Find a wagon!”—I dashed across the courtyard. I reached le Balafré with my heart in my throat. He gave me a cruel smile from his white steed, his lean figure encased in armor. “I see Your Grace heeded our warning. You may ride with Their Majesties.”

  I scrambled into the upholstered interior. When I looked up, Mary seared me with her stare. Smothered in furs, François groaned, “What’s keeping them? Do they expect us to wait and be killed?” and I banged on the rooftop with my hand. “Go! Now! The king commands it!”

  The carriage lurched forward, descending the steep château road and careening into the night.

  “How can you call it a revolt?” I faced Monsignor and le Balafré in the lusterless light seeping through their study in Amboise, the sumptuous palace embellished by my father-in-law, where I had first struck my pact with Diane. Now I fought to strike another pact, having waited days for an audience, badgering Monsignor’s secretary until he agreed to see me. “You sent us racing from Blois when you know those men were disorganized and desperate. They let themselves be rounded up like lambs; they wanted to plead with the king and offer their grievances. They are starving, afraid; your edict has denied them the right to conduct business and they’ve lost their livelihoods. You can’t blame them for seeking justice.”

  Monsignor sat at his desk, his well-fed fleshy cheeks tinged red with anger. At his side, his brother, le Balafré, stood like a granite pillar, his unblinking gray-blue eyes fixed on me.

  “An example must be made,” repeated the cardinal. “Those poor men, as you call them, are traitors. They planned an attack on a royal château.” He raised his voice to cut short my protest. “We have the documents to prove they were both organized and willing to do harm to Their Majesties. They planned to take them captive and kill my brother and me.”

  “And they planned to legalize the Huguenot faith and sit their leaders on the Council,” intoned le Balafré, his voice inflexible as the gold-sheathed sword at his waist. He grimaced, his puckered scar distorting his lips. “We are the ones who seek justice, madame, and after we have had it, we will have their leaders—all of them, including Admiral de Coligny.”

  I returned his stare in silence, willing myself to stay seated, for now I knew that I fought for more than the lives of anonymous men ensnared by the Guises.

  “What … what does Coligny have to do with this?”

  “He is the mastermind,” replied Monsignor. “We found a letter on one of the prisoners, conveying Coligny’s order to capture the king. This was his plan. He is heretic as Satan.”

  “If that is true,” I countered, “then why send us such a pathetic lot?” I looked at le Balafré. “You are a soldier, my lord. You fought beside my husband and you know Geneva and the Low Countries are full of mercenaries for hire. Surely, Coligny could have hired some.”

  Le Balafré didn’t answer; the cardinal’s fist clenched on his desk. “Madame, we have heard you out in patience,” he said, “but I suggest you confine yourself to your household affairs. These men are rebels. They’ll be put to the death and a warrant will be issued for Coligny.”

  “Dear God,” I breathed. “You are mad. You cannot kill those men. It could mean war with the Huguenots. Coligny is a nobleman, nephew to the constable. You cannot—”

  “We can!” roared le Balafré. He took a step to me, his huge veined hand at his sword hilt. “Do not presume to tell us how to rule. We are Guises, descendants of a noble line that puts your merchant’s blood to shame. Our late king had no choice when they wed him to you, the niece of a false pope with nothing to commend her; but we do. Mother to His Majesty or not, one more word and we’ll see you exiled for life, Medici.”

  He spat my family name as if it were filth. For a heart-stopping instant, I couldn’t move. I met his malignant stare and saw the revulsion he’d never fully displayed until now—the contempt for my lineage, my gender, my very person. I was horrified by the thought that during the twenty-six years I’d been with Henri, this man had nurtured such loathing of me. But I was even more horrified by his omnipotence, his undoubting belief that he was in the right, always, because he was a Guise.

  Monsignor folded his supple hands at his mouth, in a vain attempt to disguise his smile. “Madame, you look pale. Perhaps you should retire.”

  I started to turn, not feeling the carpet underneath my feet.

  “You will attend the executions when a date is set,” I heard le Balafré clip. “The entire court is expected to attend. We will broach no absences save for the queen and Their Highnesses.”

  I looked back at him. “I wouldn’t miss it,” I said and I left them with their eyes narrowed, pondering my meaning. Only once I’d clicked the door shut on them did I let myself feel the horror and fury that ran like poison through my veins.

  We assembled in Amboise’s inner courtyard. I wore a veil to obscure my face and sat apart; I was the only one to don black, while the court assembled in their finery on tiers, as if for a tournament. In the background came the muted roars of Amboise’s caged lions in the menagerie.

  Monsignor brought forth François in his royal robes and coronet, sitting him on a chair under a canopy, his oversized cap shadowing his waxen face. He looked frailer than ever, but as I started to rise le Balafré stepped forth to stop me.

  “His Majesty is here because he will see the heretic traitors pay for their crimes.”

  “Then I should be with him,” I said. I saw Monsignor nod, a pomander held at his nose. I could barely look at him as I sat next to François and noticed how my son gripped his chair’s armrests, his knuckles drained to white.

  Guards hauled in the first ten prisoners, their hands roped behind their backs. Their features were indistinct from where I sat but I saw they were young. My stomach knotted as I wondered who they were: landowners, farmers, or merchants; if once they’d dwelled in safety in their townships, where they bedded their wives, loved their children, and sought meaning in an incomprehensible world through a new faith that promised what ours had failed to give.

  Condemned traitors weren’t allowed to speak, but when the first young man caught sight of us above him, a collection of shadows, he called out, “Mercy, Your Majesty! Have mercy—”

  He didn’t finish. The executioner swung his sword and sent the man’s head flying. The next victim staggered on his predecessor’s blood. He was forced to his knees. Leather-clad apprentices below the scaffold caught
his severed head.

  Another followed, and another. Blood flooded the scaffold, dripping to the cobblestones and snaking toward the keep, where the others sang as their comrades died—not somber Catholic prayers but the vibrant psalms of the Protestants. But as the pile of heads mounted and the air turned foul with the stench of urine, feces, and blood, their singing faltered and by dusk the guards were dragging the last of the fifty-two shouting and flailing to their deaths.

  I did not look away. I did not close my eyes. Though my heart quailed and bile rose in the pit of my being, I forced myself to bear witness to the madness unleashed by the Guises. It was in those hours, as night fell and the cardinal started to turn green about the mouth, as one by one the nobles staggered away while le Balafré remained obdurate, directing the executions with militant precision, that my own resolve turned to stone.

  I would destroy the Guises. I would not rest until I freed France of their menace. Forever.

  My son let out a moan as the last prisoner was hacked to pieces by the exhausted executioner. I felt his icy fingers grip mine and heard him whisper, “May God forgive them.”

  I knew he meant the Guises; but what God might forgive, I never would.

  And if I had my way, neither would the Huguenots.

  TWENTY

  FLAMBEAUX LIT THE NIGHT, SUMMONING CURIOUS FIREFLIES TO circle in the spring air. A pavane sounded in the distance, redolent of Florence. Canopied barges shaped in the fantastical images of proud swans and birds of prey glided past on the Cher, their painted oars stirring the river’s silvery surface. Mary and François sailed there with a select group of attendants, holding hands and finding solace in a make-believe refuge veiled by hangings of gossamer. My other children, Margot, Charles, and Henri, sat in another barge with their governors, without a care in the world.