I resisted rolling my eyes. We were off to a fine start. “You don’t see Nostradamus here, do you? Come, did you bring the chart? What does it say?”
I peered at the complex diagram he unrolled from a leather tube and set before me. He traced a line. “See here: this eclipse in Leo means war.”
“War?” I looked up, startled by the certainty in his voice. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. War is imminent. The stars do not lie.”
I swallowed the retort that his father would have disagreed. The Maestro had said nothing can be predicated for certain which concerns the future. And if nothing is certain, surely we can gain the knowledge to avert calamity.
“As soon as you take your rest, you must return to Chaumont,” I said. “I must know how this war will come about. I need names, dates, places.” I was about to wave him out when I recalled the reason I’d summoned him. “Did you see anything in the stars for Mary Stuart?”
He nodded, his intense black eyes unblinking, overpowering his gaunt face. “I saw a marriage in her future that will bring about great misfortune.” He paused. “I assume the name Don Carlos means something to you?”
I went still. Don Carlos was the prince of Spain, Philip II’s son.
I went to Mary’s apartments the next day. She looked better, with color in her cheeks and a new sheen in her hair. She’d even put on some much needed weight.
“I wanted to see how you fared, my dear,” I said as we kissed each other’s cheeks. “The cloister can be so difficult, but you seem to have survived well enough.”
“They insisted I could be carrying a child.” She smiled; we both knew, without having admitted it out loud, that my son never consummated their union. “They also tell me I can rejoin the court, but François is gone. I feel as if I don’t belong here anymore.”
I fell silent. I realized a transformation had taken place: our pampered queen had taken stock of her life in her widowhood, much as I had. I understood how trying this time of reflection was and resisted my sympathy for her. I had to do what I’d come here for, come what may.
“My dear,” I said gently. “I’m afraid I’ve bad news to impart. Your Guise uncles … I’ve reason to believe they seek to wed you to Don Carlos, Philip of Spain’s heir.”
She blinked. “But he’s mad. He’s not fit for public life. Everyone knows that.”
“I fear his lack of reason poses no impediment as far as your uncles are concerned.”
Anger sparked in her eyes. “I’ve just lost my François. They cannot think I’ll consent!” We both glanced to the door, half-expecting her women to rush in. When they did not, she added in a taut voice, “What can I do to stop it?”
I was again taken by surprise. The last time we’d had an actual conversation, she accused me of heresy. I twined my hands. “You are still queen of Scotland, yes?”
She nodded, frowning. Then she froze. “You think I should …?”
I met her eyes, difficult as it was. I had fought with everything I had to stay in France; I connived to save myself. I expected the same from her; in fact, I anticipated it, for unlike me she had options. If she refused Don Carlos, her Guise uncles could offer her as a bride for Charles and I’d find myself trapped. This was why I couldn’t falter. There was no other way.
“I don’t remember Scotland,” she said, and it was as though she spoke to herself, to the curtains fluttering in the air coming through the casement. “But it is my realm.” She lifted a hand to her face, her slim white finger now bare of a wedding ring. She turned to me. “Maybe in Scotland, I will be happy again.”
I could have wept, for I knew that the loss of her prince had left a hollow in her that would never be filled. Despite all his faults, François’s death had heralded the end of her innocence.
“You will,” I said, “if that is your desire.”
Her smile was heartrending. “I’ve had what I desired. Now I must do my duty.”
I took her in my arms. We had never been close, but I prayed for her safety.
For she was right: we both must do our duty. It was the price of privilege, of our roles as royal women. Before comfort, before hopes and dreams, our countries must come first.
Summer faded into autumn.
I wasn’t present when Mary informed her Guise relatives of her decision, but I could imagine the uproar. Whatever transpired, however, was masked by stiff familial unity when she received the Scottish lords sent to escort her home.
On the day of her departure, mist floated over the landscape, veiling the drays and coaches of her entourage. To the cracking of whips, the assembly lumbered onto the road to Calais, where galleons waited to convey her to Scotland.
As her coach disappeared, Mary leaned from her window, her white-gloved hand raised in a final farewell.
TWENTY-THREE
A MONTH LATER, I RECEIVED WORD FROM COLIGNY, A BRIEF note requesting I meet him in a small town called Vassy. “It’s near Guise territory,” Birago told me, “a four- or five-day ride east from Paris. Why would he want you to go there?”
“I don’t know.” I looked again at the paper in my hand before I met his worried eyes. “But no doubt he has something important to tell me.”
“Then he can come here. It’s not safe or wise for you to go to him. What if someone hears of it? He hasn’t yet presented himself at court, and many of our Catholics still believe he had a hand in that Amboise affair.”
I couldn’t tell him that the last time I’d seen Coligny he told me not to risk myself and would therefore not have asked this of me unless it was safe.
“He had nothing to do with Amboise,” I said. “And I hardly think I’ll be in any danger. But just in case I’ll go in secret; we can say I’m visiting my daughter Claude in Lorraine. She is after all pregnant with her first child and it stands to reason that I’d wish to see her.”
“Madama, think about what you’re doing,” he implored, but nothing he said could dissuade me. I was desperate to get away from the court, from the constant struggle and intrigues. I wanted to be a woman again, free of the entanglements of power.
Birago grumbled but ensured I had a strong guard; and on a chilly spring dawn I left the Louvre in a hooded cloak, a valise with my belongings packed behind my saddle.
I rode a sure-footed mare, my days of riding the hunt long past. As we cantered out the gates of Paris onto a wide stretch of road still paved with a few ancient cobblestones left by the Romans, I reveled in the snow-bitten air on my face; the vast land lying fallow around me and the azure dome of the sky, so unique to France. I’d been holed up in chambers for so long I’d forgotten the simple pleasure of being outdoors. Yet as we progressed, stopping at predetermined inns along the way, I also saw stark evidence of the havoc wrought by our religious discord. In one township, I saw a charred Catholic church, its relics and bell smashed on the ground; in another, a Huguenot temple—identifiable by its strange cross-armed crucifix, a resting dove at its base—had been defaced, the word HERETIC splashed in red over its splintered doors. The smell of blood and smoke hung in the air, like an echo.
There was famine too, especially outside towns, where the peasantry was isolated and left to scavenge in sodden fields; emaciated livestock stood hock-deep in mud and gaunt-cheeked children in rags, with sores on their legs, rummaged through trash heaps. It reminded me of the siege on Florence, of the senseless devastation of war, and, recalling Cosimo’s unsettling words I regretted not having sent for him before I left, to demand that chart I’d asked from him.
By the time we reached the walls of Vassy under a drenching rain, I was saddened and more resolved than ever to ensure nothing like what the Guises had wrought during my son François’s reign ever happened again.
I lodged in a house commandeered by Birago’s network of informants; that night, I had my own large room, cleansed and readied only for me, and I sat in an upholstered chair before a stone-surround hearth when Coligny arrived.
He stood on the threshold,
dripping water. As he cast back the hood of his dark cloak and revealed his bright eyes, I laughed. “You didn’t think I’d come!”
“No, I knew you would.” He strode to me, enveloping me in the scent of wet wool. His arms were around me in a minute, his mouth crushing mine with a hunger that incinerated my fatigue. Without words he undressed me, took me to the bed, and made love to me with a fervor that left us gasping, entangled like waves in a rough sea.
When we were done, I took the last of my cheese, figs, and bread from my valise and brought them back to bed, where we ate with our fingers, cross-legged and touching each other. I traced his beard, thicker now and more unkempt, marveling at its wiry feel; and finally, as he lay back on the pillows with his hands crossed behind his head, I said, “So, why did you bring me here? What is so important that you couldn’t come to court to tell me?”
He held out his hand. “Come.” As I nestled in the crook of his arm, drinking in his musky scent, he whispered, “I wanted you to see what you have done, the marvel of it.” His voice was passionate; I could feel joy emanating from him, a palpable heat.
“What?” I poked his ribs. “Tell me!”
“No.” He threw his bony shanks over me. “Wait. Tomorrow, you’ll see.”
“I want to know now—” I started to protest, but then his lips covered mine and I forgot what I wanted. I forgot everything but the feel of him, moving inside me.
The next morning he took me outside Vassy to a barn in a forest clearing; as we approached, I heard song coming from within. I turned to him. “It’s … they’re at worship.”
He nodded, leading me into the musty interior, where I came to a halt behind rows of women, men, and children, singing with their heads lifted. I’d only heard psalms in Latin before; only seen the bejeweled ostentation of our churches. I stood transfixed by the simplicity of this gathering: the odor of barn animals and straw in the air, the rafters where pigeons perched; and the singing in French, so exuberant and alive, so different from the stately inaccessible Latin chants I had grown up with.
Coligny smiled. “This is a Huguenot temple. We worship where we can; we seek God not in ritual and incense, but in celebration of his Word. You made this possible. Your edict has brought us peace.”
I pressed my hands to my mouth, tears starting in my eyes.
“After the service,” he said, “the people will want to meet you. They’ll want to thank you.”
“They … they know I’m here?”
“They will, if you wish it so.” He grinned. “There is nothing to fear. You can see for yourself we are not devils or traitors seeking to tear this kingdom apart. We are just ordinary subjects, beholden to you and to your son King Charles for bringing us—”
The thunder of hooves outside spun us around. The worshippers did not hear, engrossed in their song, but Coligny gripped my arm and pulled me to a nearby side door.
“Go,” he whispered. “Now! Get away as fast as you can.”
As he pushed me from the barn I found my guard waiting, holding my horse by its reins. “Your Grace must leave now.”
With my heart racing, I scrambled into the saddle, looking to the barn where I could hear Coligny’s voice ring out. A woman wailed. The guard still had my reins; as he yanked my horse toward a thicket where he’d tethered his mount, I glimpsed men in chain mail galloping around the barn from the other side.
“Wait,” I said, and though I meant to sound imperious, my voice was a mere whisper.
“They’re Guise retainers,” my guard said. “Your Grace, please; I have sworn to protect you.”
“No!” I snatched at my reins; as I did, I saw the people pouring from the barn, Coligny’s black-cloaked figure among them. Some ran into the surrounding trees, seeking refuge; others came to a terrified halt before the men on horses now circling the barn, pikes lowered as they began to strike. One flung a lit torch through the door and flames caught hold at once; I heard shrieking and knew there were still people within, now burning alive. In horrified disbelief I watched as the Huguenots outside fell, sharp pike blades scything off heads, limbs, spraying blood. Screams and futile pleas for mercy assaulted my ears; and when I saw that unmistakable figure on his huge white destrier, the ragged scar visible even under the shadow of his helmet, his arm flung out like an avenging devil’s, I kicked furiously at my horse with my heels.
My gentle mare reared, almost throwing me. I whirled in my saddle to my guard to find Coligny on his horse; his gloved hand held fast to my mare’s braided tail.
“I promised you would be safe.” He met my eyes; as I saw the pain and sorrow in his expression, I wanted to yell in despair. He motioned to my guard. “Take her back to Paris,” and then he threw up his hood and spurred off, racing past the retainers and le Balafré, who continued the slaughter, their laughter defiling the air.
No one saw me as I fled with my guard through the trees.
“How many?” I stood in my apartments in the Louvre, still wearing the soiled gown I’d ridden in without stopping. My hair hung tangled about my face; Lucrezia pressed a goblet of mulled cider into my rein-chafed hands.
Birago looked at the dispatch he’d received from his informants while I was still on the road. “At least one hundred, maybe more. Every Catholic in Vassy has risen up at le Balafré’s command. They hang pastors from the trees and torch Huguenot homes and businesses.” He lifted his somber regard to me. “It’s what we feared. The duc de Guise has declared war on the Huguenots and on you. Forgive me. I have failed. My spies had no indication he planned this.”
“No, it’s not your fault. How were you to know?” I moved with slow, heavy steps to my chair. “No one could have foreseen this.” I started to drink from my goblet and then flung it across the chamber. It clattered against the wainscoting. “There were women and children there,” I whispered, my voice shuddering, “innocents who’d done no wrong. If he gets his way, not a single Huguenot will be left alive. I passed an edict granting them the right to worship in peace and he has broken it. I want him arrested. He will pay for this, by God.”
Birago said quietly, “If you issue the warrant for his arrest, he could set all France aflame.”
“Then let him.” I met Birago’s eyes without flinching. “He is a traitor. He must answer these charges before the king—alone and unarmed. Prepare the warrant. It is time these Guises learned I am not to be trifled with.”
To the chorus of “Vive le Balafré!” an endless line of soldiers carrying pikes and armed retainers entered the courtyard; at their head rode their leader in silver-chased armor.
Standing at my balcony I gazed upon the mass of armed soldiers and retainers filling the courtyard below. Even if I summoned our entire royal guard, I wouldn’t command half these men. Through my teeth I said to Birago, “Where is Constable Montmorency? We sent him with the warrant. Where are he and the lords who went with him?”
Birago pointed. “There.”
I followed to where he indicated. The constable in his battered armor rode with the other Catholic peers. On one of their pikes dangled a shredded parchment: my warrant.
“I sat that old man Montmorency in Council,” I fumed. “I gave him a place of honor at our table after the Guises deprived him of it. How can he turn on us like this?”
“We knew the risks,” said Birago, calm as ever now that the crisis was upon us. “Now we must negotiate. Charles is your son and their sovereign. Le Balafré must have terms we can use to our advantage.”
“Yes, fetch Charles at once.” As Birago left, I hurried with my women downstairs to the great hall. I’d just reached the dais with the thrones under the canopy when Birago brought in Charles. My son looked frightened and pale; his personal guard flanked him—insignificant defense compared to the horde of insurgent Catholics that came tramping into the hall moments later. They parted to reveal le Balafré, striding toward us with unmistakable purpose.
I took one look at his scarred countenance and braced myself.
Birago nudged my son. I watched with a knot in my throat as Charles squared his thin shoulders and said with a surprising, hard clarity: “My lord duke, you were ordered to come to us unarmed. You will send these men away.”
Le Balafré executed a mocking bow. He didn’t glance at me, his eyes fixed on my eleven-year-old son. “Your Majesty, I fear I cannot. Heresy overtakes France; it is my sworn duty as a Catholic to defend us from its corruption, with an army if need be.” He spread his arms; from among his officers, the constable stepped forth. I couldn’t contain my gasp when I saw the disheveled figure beside him—a mop of dirty-gold hair atop his leering saturnine face.
It was Jeanne of Navarre’s husband, Antoine of Bourbon. As I met his smug eyes, I realized I’d made a terrible mistake. Birago had warned me this lout could pose a threat; now he was before me: a Catholic prince wielded by the Guises to wrest the regency from me.
I clenched my fists. How could I have been so stupid as to think Jeanne could keep her wayward husband at home, under her skirts?
As if he could read my thoughts, le Balafré gave me a cold stare. Then he said, “I hereby announce the Holy Triumvirate, dedicated to upholding the Roman Catholic faith. I, my lord the constable, and Antoine of Bourbon will now see to our realm’s defense. Anyone who is not with us is against us and will suffer accordingly.”
Antoine thumped his fist against his chest. “The regency is mine! You stole it from me, but it is mine and I will have it.”
Beside me, I felt Charles tense. I’d promised to him to keep him safe from the Guises, and before I knew what I was doing, I retorted, “We do not take advice from drunken fools.”
Le Balafré’s voice was like a blade. “You misunderstand. The prince of Bourbon doesn’t need your permission to be named regent. Now, madame, shall you honor him and send the heretics to their just fate, or shall I?”
Charles made a strangled sound; without warning he screamed his response. “I’ll kill you for this! I’ll hang you from a gibbet and cut you down while you still breathe. I’ll rip out your guts!”
The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Page 20