I’d managed to spirit them away following the executions, but only after the smell of the rotting heads garlanding Amboise’s balustrades had caused Mary to faint and crowds of angry citizens clamored at the gates, flinging a dead dog at the cardinal’s carriage when he attempted to leave the palace. As I’d hoped, with one act the Guises had unmasked themselves as tyrants, turning all but our most conservative Catholics against them; for if Monsignor and his brother could slaughter fifty-two men without even a trial, it did not bode well for anyone else who might think to oppose them.
And so Monsignor conceded to my request that a change in scenery was in order. He and le Balafré had to remain behind to restore some semblance of order, but he didn’t want his precious Stuart niece or François falling ill; and I seized full advantage to divest ourselves of most of the court, as my château was too small. As soon as we reached Chenonceau I sent out my invitation. I now had the advantage and I stood at the window, watching my son and his queen sail past.
A knock came at my study door. Lucrezia said, “He’s here.” She paused. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course. Don’t fret.” I gave her a smile as I gathered the portfolio containing the document that I’d drafted with Birago. “I’ll be there in a minute. See that our meal is readied.”
She snorted and retreated. I eyed myself in the mirror. I’d donned a new black damask gown with a high collar. Pearls adorned my ears; rinses of walnut juice and henna had restored the auburn in my hair, now coiled in a gilded net at my nape. I’d shed pounds by riding for an hour every morning and cutting back on my penchant for bread. In all, my reflection assured that I’d succeeded in resurrecting something of the girl he’d met in Fontainebleau. It was vital I appear vibrant and strong.
Taking up the portfolio, I pushed open the door between my study and the adjacent room.
Birago and Coligny stood by the hearth, goblets in hand. He had accepted my wine and removed his cloak: good signs. At the sound of my entrance, he turned. In the flickering of the candlelight, he didn’t seem to have aged a day.
“Welcome,” I said, as he set aside his goblet and bowed over my hand. Birago excused himself, leaving us alone. Coligny had about him the aroma of horses and sweat, for he’d ridden several hours to get here. Abruptly nervous, I motioned him to the table.
I’d chosen this chamber because of its intimacy and saw that despite her reservations Lucrezia had outdone herself. The sideboard shimmered with polished gold platters; a vase of lilies sat on the mantel, while the central table was set with my Limoges porcelain and Murano glass goblets.
A frown crossed Coligny’s brow as he stood by his chair. His beard was fuller, its brassy color radiant, as if he’d combed pomade into it. However, the candlelight deceived: I could see new harsh lines scoring the corners of his eyes and he was much thinner.
“My lord,” I said, “you must be hungry. Please, sit.”
“Before I do, I must ask you about what happened at Amboise. The Huguenot pastors are horrified, as is our brethren. I … I need to know.”
I faced him. “What? If I sat there like Jezebel while innocent blood was spilled? Is that what you think?”
To my relief, he did not hesitate. “No. I think that you did everything you could to stop it.”
“I did. Birago must have also assured you that I protested the warrant for your arrest. Fortunately, they’ll not dare issue it now that Monsignor has seen the enormity of their error.”
“Too late,” he said in a low voice, and I assented.
“For those poor souls, yes; but I trust, not too late for us. Now, will you dine with me?”
We sat opposite each other. Lucrezia entered with our first course of roast goose garnished with artichoke hearts from my gardens. He looked surprised; I told him, “I brought the seeds from Tuscany myself. There is no artichoke superior to the Florentine.”
“It’s … delicious,” he marveled, tasting it. “I’d expect such fare in a country home.”
“This is a country house.” I reached over to pour claret into his glass. “I loathe meals at court. The food arrives cold from its long trek from the kitchens and is so spiced or drowned in sauce you don’t know what it is. When I’m not at court, I eat what my gardens can produce. The goose was born and slaughtered here; even this wine is made from my harvest of grapes.”
He raised his goblet. “To Your Grace’s health.”
“Catherine,” I said, as our goblets clinked together. “You must call me Catherine.”
We fell into silence as we received next a course of chicken basted in fennel. He ate with gusto; I was pleased to note he had rough table manners, a country boy at heart. It was one of the reasons I liked him. After years of mincing courtiers and backstabbing mistresses, conniving churchmen and arrogant nobles, to me he personified all that was still gallant in France.
I breached the quiet. “I want you to know that my son regrets the events at Amboise. He did not realize how terrible a retribution the Guises would enact.”
He considered me. “Was His Majesty’s signature not on the warrant of execution?”
I swallowed. “It was. But François has been ill and the Guises forced his hand. He didn’t understand what he was doing. I saw how awful he felt as he watched those men die.”
“Not as awful as their widows and children.” He sat back in his chair as Lucrezia came in to remove our plates. “Your Grace—I mean, Catherine … I’m afraid that one deed has caused grave mistrust among the Huguenot leaders. They deem the king as bloodthirsty a tyrant as Philip of Spain, who slaughters Protestants by the thousands in his dominions.”
He couldn’t contain the anger that crept into his voice. His trust in me was betrayed and I found as I drank down my wine and poured another glass, my hands trembled.
“I am aware of how low my son’s reputation has fallen,” I said, “and that it will worsen unless something is done. But I take some comfort in the fact that the Guises confront equal calumny.” I reached to my side and slid the portfolio across the table to him. “You will find here an edict I intend to see ratified by parlement, allowing the Huguenots liberty of conscience. We can overthrow the Guises and safeguard your brethren, but I will need your help.”
His silence weighed as he read my edict, which I’d spent days preparing. An eternity seemed to pass. Then he said, “What do you mean by ‘liberty of conscience’? This says Huguenots won’t be disturbed if they abide by the law. But the law currently forbids all gatherings for worship.”
“What I mean is that the law will change. By my edict, Huguenots will be able to petition the king when wronged and hold services in sanctioned temples designated for that use.”
He nodded. “A shrewd move. It invalidates the Guises’ edict of persecution.” He set the paper aside. “And you believe the king will sign it?”
“François is under my care now. He understands the urgency of our situation.”
Coligny took up his goblet. The candlelight fractured on the beveled crystal, shedding gilded fragments over the blond hairs on his hands. “Are you considering legalizing the Huguenot faith?” he asked, as he lifted his eyes to mine. “If so, you’ll find opposition from many Catholic lords, as well as Rome and Spain. None wishes to sanction coexistence of our two religions.”
I started to evade the question, for I hadn’t thought that far ahead; then I decided it was best to begin this venture with full honesty. “I cannot say when, or even if, I’ll be able to legalize your faith. As you’ve said, there are many obstacles and I cannot make a foe of either Spain or Rome. But peace in this kingdom is paramount to me. We’ve too much to lose otherwise.”
He sipped his wine, without taking his eyes from me. He did not speak and I thought perhaps I had disclosed too much. After all, he was still a stranger to me.
“How can I help?” he finally said.
I allowed myself a smile. “You speak with the Huguenot pastors and other leaders, yes? Tel
l them of my edict. Let them preach to their congregations and counsel restraint, so there are no disturbances while I work with parlement.” My voice took strength, envisioning the country liberated at last from the Guises’ terror. “I do not blame the Huguenots for wanting revenge, but there must be tolerance if we are to survive.”
“And the Guises? The leaders want them removed from the government. They see the Guises as cold-blooded killers, who must pay for what they’ve done.”
“I agree. However, I cannot remove them by force, not yet. But I believe in this new enterprise as I’ve believed in nothing else, and I know that in the end France will have no peace while the Guises hold power.”
He leaned back, raking his hand over his close-cropped hair. “I think I can speak for most of the leaders when I say peace is also our desire. But not everyone will bow to reason.”
“Oh? Explain.” I knew I wouldn’t like it, but I needed to hear it. I must recognize and overcome all obstacles, no matter where they came from.
“Put simply, the deaths at Amboise have divided my brethren into two factions. One side wishes to live their lives without fear. The other wants the same, plus the removal of the Guises and a role in the government. This is not simple: some men will switch sides, depending on their circumstances. If you seek to worship freely, but then your house is burned, your crop razed, and your daughters raped by a Guise patrol, you’re likely to change your stance.”
“So, we have religious and political issues to address.” I caught a shift in his eyes and added, “I would seek to place Huguenots of influence on the Council. I do not believe our differences mean we cannot find common ground.”
He cupped his hand at his chin. “When that time comes,” he said, “I would welcome a place at court. We need to work together if we are to return France to her former glory.” And a genuine smile brightened his face, the first I’d seen all night. “I believe you have our best interests at heart. I will therefore speak with the leaders and the pastors and see that no one acts in retaliation for Amboise. It will take time, though. They are scattered; no one dares congregate in these dangerous times. I’ll have to meet with them one by one.”
“I ask for nothing more.” For the first time in weeks, I felt I might actually succeed in bringing down the Guises for good. I reached for the decanter, saying, “I hope you’ll like the chamber I’ve prepared for you. It’s small but I’ve little extra room, as my children are here.”
“I’m sure it would be fine,” he replied, “though I must decline your hospitality.”
The air in the room shifted. I bit back my protest. Of course he couldn’t stay. I might see Chenonceau as my refuge, but neither of us could be sure there weren’t Guise spies lurking about. And he had his own family to consider, whom he’d left to see me.
“Naturally,” I said, hiding my disappointment. “I was thoughtless to assume otherwise.”
“No,” he said. “I would stay, if I could. But my wife … she has been ill.”
“Oh, no. I hope it’s not serious.”
“I’m afraid it is.” He averted his eyes from me. “Charlotte is dying. She gave birth a few months ago to a daughter,” he said, his voice so low I had to lean to him to hear. “The labor was hard but the child sound. Then Charlotte lost her milk; she couldn’t feed the babe. Her appetite deserted her and at first we thought she had milk fever, but as time went on she did not improve. We hired a doctor and he found …” He swallowed. “She has a lump in her breast. She wastes away before my eyes and I can do nothing.”
I knew all too well the helplessness of watching a spouse die, of praying for a miracle you fear will never come. I reached over, set my hand on his where it rested on the table. “I will send to court for our royal physician, Dr. Paré. If anyone can heal her, he can.”
He went still. Then he withdrew his hand and stood. “No. It is too late.”
That brief touch of his skin burned in me. I followed him to the bay window overlooking the night-shrouded gardens, where mummers entertained Mary and François in a spangled pavilion. “She might yet be saved. While there is a chance, we must never lose hope.”
He turned so quickly we found ourselves face-to-face. I could discern darker flecks in his pale blue eyes, the supple lines at their corners, and slash of cheekbones above his lustrous beard. He was a few inches taller than me; his wine-tinged breath blew warm on my brow. “You remind me of her,” he said. “She too is brave and bold.”
Under my bodice, my heart started to pound. “I … I am not her,” I whispered.
His hand slid downward, to my waist. “No, you’re not. She doesn’t have your strength. You are the strongest woman I know, Catherine de Medici.”
The sound of my name on his lips sent heat rushing through me. No one had looked at me like this; no man had ever seen the strength in me as he did. I felt as though I might dissolve in his gaze, as if he had opened that place inside me where I’d locked the wreckage of my youth and my dreams—everything that life and time had made me surrender.
And I knew then that I wanted this man. I had wanted him all along.
Desire flared in me like a newborn sun, so overpowering that I tried to pull away. He didn’t let me go. He brought me to him, his lips closing on mine, quenching my breath. I lost all sense of reason, of myself, drowning in the heat of being wanted for myself, for the very first time.
I heard him murmur, “Just for tonight,” and it was enough. It was everything.
I led him through the darkened château to the staircase. Through the open windows that let in the soft evening air, the sound of music and laughter drifted to me. My children and Mary Stuart were enjoying their revel; they sounded for once like the young people they were.
Lucrezia rose from her stool, her eyes sharp in the moonlight sliding like silk through the mullioned window. I gestured. She gathered Muet in her arms and retreated without a word.
My bedchamber awaited; sun-dried linen sheets drawn back, the satin coverlet I’d embroidered by hand folded over. Anna-Maria was with the children; hearing the door click shut behind me, I moved as if in a dream to the candle in its sconce on my dressing table.
“No,” he said, “leave it. Let me look at you.”
I felt as I had the night I first bedded Henri, at a loss as to how to act. I almost laughed aloud. I was forty-one. I’d been with a man before. I knew what couples did.
With that uncanny way he had of sensing my thoughts, Coligny said, “Don’t be afraid.” He untied my sleeves, removed my stomacher, bodice, and skirts, until my clothing lay strewn like foam at my feet and I stood in my shift, trembling, but not with cold.
In an instinct born of years as a wife, I turned to climb into bed. Then I heard clothing slide to the floor, the single clank of a metallic buckle. When I looked around, he stood naked, a taut silhouette of pallid skin.
I stared. He was beautiful but his body was nothing like Henri’s, not that broad hirsute frame I’d known. This was a small wiry man, his muscles melded to the bone, standing with utter confidence and a wry smile that made my knees turn to water. His manhood rose upright from its thatch of bronze hair; his ribs showed under his flesh as he drew quick breaths. Lifting his corded arms to undo the gilded net at my nape, he released my hair and it tumbled over my shoulders.
“Like a dark sea,” he whispered and he melded his body to mine, laying me on the bed as with one hand he slipped my shift upward, over my head. All doubt evaporated when I felt his touch, transformed by some alchemy into exquisite, near-unbearable pleasure. He teased me with his lips and his tongue, and when I began to shudder and he entered me, I let out a cry I’d never made before: a spontaneous celebration of uninhibited joy that released my very soul.
• • •
I awoke before dawn. He was at the window, dressed. He turned as the sky unfurled behind him. “I must go,” he said and he sat beside me, caressing tangled hair from my face. He looked into my eyes with sadness and I said softly, “No apolog
ies.”
His expression was gentle yet grave, once again the reserved courtier.
“We must never speak of it,” I said, and I touched his cheek. “They would not understand. We have so much to fight for and they … they would say I seek peace with the Huguenots because I took you to my bed.” As I spoke I trembled with the first chill I’d felt since our night together and I had a fleeting fear that I might have surrendered something I’d come to regret.
“I will not tell a soul,” he said. “Never forget that God has a plan for you. Without you, this realm will fall apart. You can save France, but never underestimate them. Remember, while you think you hold them at bay, they are still tigers and tigers know when to attack.”
He kissed me. “I’ll send word as soon as I can. Until then, do not risk yourself, even for me.”
I cradled his face, engraving it in my memory. “Godspeed, Gaspard,” I whispered.
He gathered his cloak and left.
As I brought my hands to my face, his scent clung like rain to my fingers.
TWENTY-ONE
WE LEFT CHENONCEAU IN LATE AUTUMN, AS THE CHESTNUTS changed colors and wild swans flocked to the Cher in search of last-minute food. I’d had time to bask in my secret, to relive it in my mind every night; I’d ridden with Mary and overseen François’s health. I spent time with Charles, Henri, Margot, and Hercule, governing their lessons and their well-being.
At ten, Charles bore a startling resemblance to his father. He was tall as Henri had been, with the hooded Valois eyes and aquiline nose. He liked the same activities: riding, hunting, fencing, and hawking, and I had a special bow made for him so he could practice. Seven-year-old Margot was budding into a precocious beauty with her mass of red-streaked hair and feline eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She was indolent, however, preferring to preen before the mirror, and I put her on a strict diet, for like me she easily gained weight. In contrast, nine-year-old Henri was slim as a blade, with my olive skin and long-lashed dark eyes that contained a prescient light. Of all of them, Henri alone seemed to sense the change in me.
The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Page 18