The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  The distant blare of trumpets startled me to attention. Waving the court to its feet, I stepped out into the glaring afternoon. In the distance appeared the limp banners of a cavalcade. When I spied two figures riding at its head, I yanked up my skirts and dashed forward.

  The cavalcade halted. I saw the spectral figure of Alba dismount and help my daughter from her horse. She stood hesitant for a moment. From behind her, another figure appeared—a slight man clad in unrelieved black, wearing an odd high-browed hat with an ebony-colored plume.

  He took her by the hand and they began walking to me.

  Her red gown was in the Spanish fashion, stiff skirts draped over the narrow farthingale that had gone out of style in France years ago, her auburn tresses coiled under a diamond-spangled cap. As I neared, breathless from my run, I saw her eyes sunk in shadows, her mouth taut and cheeks hollow, as if she’d suffered an illness.

  The man beside her regarded me without expression. His skin was like polished ivory, a close-cut silver-blond beard covered his jutting jaw. I knew that jaw: I’d seen it countless times in portraits sent to our court by the Imperial Hapsburg family. I felt faint as I bent my knees in clumsy reverence. I was completely unprepared for this.

  Elisabeth said, “Mother, may I present His Majesty King Philip II, my husband.”

  Philip inclined his head. “Madame de Medici, a pleasure.” His greeting was spoken with perfect neutrality; as I met his gaze I glimpsed frigid pale gray eyes, shadowed by his hat’s rim.

  Elisabeth submitted to Charles’s embrace and Henri’s and Margot’s quizzical stares. They had been children when she left and seemed confused as to who this composed stranger was.

  We then attended an outdoor feast. As we dined, I gauged Philip’s response, watching the way his spidery fingers tapped on his thigh as each platter of roast pheasant, venison, and duck was set before him. He ate sparingly, without any indication that what he tasted was agreeable to him.

  The entire court stared. Here was the dreaded king of Spain, a legend among Catholics. He was frugal in both his speech and appearance, far smaller than my imagination had made him, with delicate hands and an almost feminine timidity, as if he were ill accustomed to attention. Still, I saw his gaze turn again and again to Elisabeth like a bird of prey’s and I had the disquieting sensation he had another motive besides a familial reunion.

  I knew it was customary for Spanish queens to remain quiescent in public, but I didn’t like the way my daughter’s eyes were muted, as if she were detached from everything around her. Our conversation was impersonal, without intimacy; as the festivities continued, a pageant and feast every night, a hunt or sail on the river every day, I managed to find time alone with her when Charles, Henri, and the other gentlemen invited Philip and his suite to go hawking.

  I summoned Elisabeth to the long gallery, with its mullioned bay windows overlooking the river. Behind us trailed our women, dogs, and Margot, who dragged her feet because I hadn’t allowed her to join the court in its blood sport.

  Before I had so much as inquired into her state of health, Elisabeth declared: “My husband demands that all edicts of toleration be rescinded and Catholicism asserted as France’s one true faith. All those who wish to convert must beg for absolution. Those who do not must die.”

  Still standing, I came to a halt and looked her up and down. “Why hasn’t he told me this himself? He’s been here for weeks, dining at my table. Are you to act as his ambassador?”

  “I am his wife and queen. It is my duty to speak to you.”

  “And so you presume to advise me, your mother, on how I should rule my realm?”

  “It is not your realm. My brother Charles is king of France.”

  I flicked my hand at Lucrezia, who herded Margot and the others out of earshot. I let a few moments pass before I said, “I’ve looked forward to our reunion every day since you left. It pains me to think I’ve done something to offend.”

  “You have let heresy take over France. That is what offends.”

  I stared at her, at a loss. “Blessed Virgin,” I said. “What has he done to you?”

  “If you refer to my husband, he’s utterly devoted.” She paused; I felt her hand slip into mine. Her fingers were cold. “You must listen to me.” She glanced over her shoulder to where the women gathered by the tapestries to play with the dogs. “Philip will not approve of any compromise. He believes you’ll never put an end to the Huguenot insurrection. If I hadn’t intervened when le Balafré seized you and Charles, he’d have sent an army to aid the Guises.”

  “You … you intervened?”

  “I didn’t want him to worsen the situation. But I may not be able to do so the next time.” She raised her eyes, looking to me for the first time since her arrival as I remembered her. “I miscarried six months ago. I almost died. That was why Philip delayed his response about our meeting with you. He feared I would not be well enough to travel.”

  I couldn’t move. My eyes filled with tears.

  “I realized then I may not live long,” she added. “I decided I had to do what I could to maintain the peace between our countries. Philip hears of everything that transpires here and he was not pleased that you let Coligny go free after he ordered le Balafré’s murder.” She led me unresisting to a nearby window alcove. I sat beside her on the cushioned seat, stunned.

  “Maman, please,” she said. “Are you listening?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I am. I’m so sorry. I wish you had told me. I would have come to you.”

  “The loss of my child was God’s will. I mean, about Coligny. He should have been put to death. Why did you not command it?”

  “He … he was acquitted.” I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I ordered an investigation, but no one could establish that he had any complicity.”

  “That doesn’t matter. There isn’t a Catholic in Europe who believes in his innocence. If he didn’t have le Balafré killed, he desired it, and he led a rebellion against his king.”

  “Not his king,” I protested. “He led it against the Guises. My child, you have no idea what they had done, what they would have done had le Balafré not died. Your brother and I would still be his captives while he and Monsignor ruled the country.”

  “Be that as it may, you cannot play both sides forever. In the end, you must choose.”

  In my mind, I saw him as he’d been in Chenonceau, chiseled sinew and bone, his breath warm as he bent over me … My voice caught in my throat. “Don’t you see? He did what he did for France. I cannot condemn him for what I myself would have done, given the chance.”

  “Then you risk everything. He raised an army. What makes you think he won’t do it again?” As she spoke, she did not take her eyes from me, as though she peeled back layers of my skin to expose the heart of my secret. She let out a gasp, rose swiftly to her feet.

  “Dear God, you love him.”

  I gripped her hand. “No,” I heard myself say, the lie keen as a blade on my tongue. “I care for him because in times of great trials with the Guises, he cared for me. It’s not what you think.”

  She went rigid. “He is a heretic. He’s not worthy of your care. There will never be peace while he and his kind live. You must rid France of them, once and for all.”

  “You think that because of their faith, I should see them dead? They are people, Elisabeth: people, not monsters. I cannot kill thousands of French subjects.”

  “They are damned.” She pulled her hand from me. “You must protect France from those who defile it. Philip is right: you have lost your faith. You must beg God for strength.”

  “And you have become too Spanish!” I said angrily. “You forget that in France, we do not put our subjects to death without cause.”

  “What more cause than heresy and revolt and the defense of our Holy Church? You must—”

  Her voice cut off. Turning about, I saw Philip coming down the gallery, alone.

  “It is too hot for hawking,” he said as
he came before us. “I thought I should return so we could converse. We haven’t had time to speak, madame, and we’ve important matters to discuss.”

  I caught a warning in Elisabeth’s eyes, but as I looked at his tidy figure and thought of the dogma he’d instilled in my daughter, I was beyond caring. “Your wife has said quite enough, my lord. Indeed, we should converse. I would hear your opinions from your own lips.”

  Rays of scorching midday sun fell through the windows at our feet. I stood and we began to walk down the gallery, our shadows blending on the polished wood floor.

  “You expect too much of me,” I began, without preamble.

  “Oh?” I heard a sarcastic surprise in his tone. “You’ve always declared yourself a devout Catholic. Now is the chance to make good on your words.”

  “I am devout,” I retorted. “But I never said I’d wage holy war on the Huguenots.”

  He came to a halt. I saw fire leap in his icy eyes. “The holy war has already begun. The question now is who shall win. It is in my interest that you do, given the alternative.”

  I regarded him. “I see you prefer candor.” I turned and resumed walking the way we’d come, forcing him to follow. The gallery stretched empty before us; my daughter and her women had left. “Let me elucidate the matter for you,” I said. “France is at peace. We’ve had our difficulties, but they are over, which I believe should be cause for rejoicing. After all, your concern is for our welfare, is it not?”

  “That is not an explanation, madame. It is an excuse. You have not earned peace as much as prolonged the inevitable.”

  I stopped in midstep. “My lord, tell me: What would you do, with half your nobility professed heretics and the other lusting for blood? It is not so easy a situation, I can assure you.”

  His smile was almost mechanical, an inflexible lift of his colorless lips. “You know what I would do.” He leaned to me, his breath tinged with garlic. “The heads of a few salmon are worth those of a thousand frogs. Exterminate the Huguenots and then you will have peace.”

  I stared. “Are you suggesting I should instigate a massacre?”

  “I am suggesting you utilize the tools every prince has at his disposal. You are a Medici. You must know of men who will do your bidding for a price?”

  I took a step back. “Is this how you would treat your subjects in Spain?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I would never let my subjects go as far as yours have. Now, I wish to discover how you intend to deal with them. It is the only reason I am here with my queen.”

  “Yes, I’ve seen how much influence you hold with my daughter,” I riposted before I could stop myself. “And I believe we’ve said all there is to say. Should the Huguenots betray us again, I’ll decide with my son, the king, what we shall do, for rest assured we’ll not tolerate further sedition. But what you propose is unconscionable.”

  I turned to leave. He gripped my arm. When I whirled to him, I saw the face I knew lurked under his impassive mask—the face of hatred and intolerance, like bones beneath his skin. “Take their heads,” he hissed, “and I’ll give my Austrian cousin as queen for your son, princesses for your other sons, and crowns for the lot. I am prepared to be generous. But if you fail me, Madame de Medici, you’ll reap the consequences.”

  I looked at his hand. He withdrew it, as if scalded. “Send your cousin first,” I said, “and I’ll consider the rest. Until then, I bid you good afternoon, my lord.”

  I proceeded down the gallery, feeling his eyes like arrows in my back.

  I’d met ruthless men in my time, men who killed and relished it, men whose taste for mayhem ran like venom in their blood, but none unnerved me like Philip II. He was everything I’d fought against. He was my uncle Clement, le Balafré, and Monsignor; he was all the destructive, dogmatic men who saw no other way but their own, who carried darkness in their souls and expected—no, demanded—that I do their bidding because I was a woman.

  Never, I vowed as I exited the gallery. I would never be a man’s pawn again.

  I would rule France as I saw fit, come what may.

  Once again we stood on the banks of the Bidassoa, a cruel wind razing the sky. Though it was late July, the heat had given way to gusting, premature autumn, and I embraced Elisabeth as she readied for departure. “You must take care,” I murmured, thinking back to when I had lost a child in secret. “Remember, many women who’ve suffered miscarriages go on to deliver healthy children.”

  “Yes, Maman.” She glanced at Philip, already mounted and surrounded by his men. Her mouth parted, but a harsh cawing drowned her voice. We both looked to a nearby linden tree. Two ravens perched on its lowest bough, releasing harsh cries.

  Then they went silent, regarding us with their black baleful eyes.

  She whispered, “An omen,” and as I started to protest, for I found her superstition yet another unwelcome legacy of Spain, the solemnity of her expression stopped me.

  “You will think about everything we discussed?” she asked.

  I resisted the urge to rebuke her. I didn’t want conflict to mar our parting. “I will.”

  She gave me then the first genuine smile of her entire visit. For a moment, the stern queen vanished and she was my child once more, the daughter who’d given me such comfort. “I love you, Elisabeth,” I said. “If you ever need me, I’ll walk across the Pyrenees to be with you.”

  We embraced and she turned to her horse, the wind clutching at her cloak.

  I remained at the river’s edge until the cavalcade vanished and Charles muttered, “They’re gone. Can we go inside? I’m famished.”

  I nodded and turned away, overcome by sorrow.

  Above me, the ravens took flight into the storm-chased sky.

  TWENTY-SIX

  WE EMBARKED ON THE LONG TRIP HOME, THE LUSTER OF OUR progress peeling away like the gilded Cs on my coach. As I stared out the window at the passing landscape I didn’t see the peasants laboring to reap the harvest or barefoot children and women, running to the sides of the road to cheer our passage. All I heard was my daughter’s voice, intractable in its conviction.

  You can’t play both sides forever. In the end, you must choose.

  I had already chosen. I’d chosen sacrifice over comfort, obligation over pleasure, duty over passion. What more must I choose?

  My hands bunched into fists in my lap. I would not accept Philip of Spain’s threats. I would not condone him dictating my affairs. I would continue to strive for peace, no matter the obstacles. I would not hand over chaos as legacy to my sons; I would not send legions of French men and women to the flames because of their religious beliefs.

  And I would not forsake Coligny. I had denied him, and myself, long enough.

  • • •

  We reached Blois under an early snowfall; after I saw the court established I issued a proclamation reaffirming my commitment to tolerance between the faiths and ordering the nobility to attend our Christmas court without fail.

  Among the invitations was one for Coligny.

  We greeted them in Blois’s painted hall, Charles and I on the dais as the lords and their wives queued up before us. The hall was hung with tapestries, lit with expensive scented candles; I sought to convey an air of festivity by slinging garlands and spangled boughs from the pilasters, but as each lord came and went, I felt increasing concern.

  “They’re all wearing white ribbons or gold crosses,” I hissed beneath my breath to Birago. “What is this new fashion?”

  “Huguenot for one, Catholic for the other,” he said, his brow furrowed.

  I remembered the night long ago in Fontainebleau, when I’d tried in vain to identify Huguenots among us. Then, I’d seen brilliant jewels and gorgeous clothes; I’d heard only laughter and wit. Now it felt as if the very air were about to tear apart, and the expressions before me were somber.

  “Since when has this court found it necessary to declare their religious affiliation?” I retorted, forgetting Charles sat right beside me. “It’s un
acceptable.”

  “Issue a decree against it.” Charles let out a terse laugh. “But best do it fast, before another war breaks out. For look: here come our Catholic peers.”

  I tensed in my chair. The Guise family entered. Le Balafré’s widow was veiled, while her fifteen-year-old son, the new duc de Guise, wore a pure white satin doublet. The other Guise relatives were headed by Monsignor the Cardinal. One look at his malicious smile assured me he was responsible for this theatrical scene, to remind us that they would never forget le Balafré.

  “I did not know you were back from Rome,” I said as the cardinal bowed before us and kissed Charles’s extended hand. “I trust the Holy Council went well?”

  “Splendid,” he replied. “His Holiness has pronounced anathema on all heretics.”

  Charles glowered. “Christ’s blood,” he said, without bothering to lower his voice, “why must you always ruin everything?”

  I gave a nervous chuckle, about to remind him the Guises were our guests, when I caught sight of a figure walking toward us.

  Silence plunged over the hall.

  He too wore white. Harsh lines cut into his brow and bracketed his once-supple mouth; silver threaded his thinning hair. And his eyes were enameled by reserve, rimmed in shadow.

  I said softly, “My lord Coligny, welcome. Are you in mourning?”

  “I am. My wife, Charlotte, has passed away after a long illness.”

  “God rest her soul,” I murmured. Even as I struggled against a guilt-ridden leap of hope, he turned to Charles. “My wife died before she could see me exonerated of the heinous charge leveled on me. Your Majesty does her memory honor by recalling me to court, where I can assume my rightful place and restore my name.”