The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  “Cosimo,” I said, repressing my impatience, “Nostradamus claimed that chart contains ten years of my future; he told me I must protect Navarre. I already know about the Austrian. Don’t you see any other marriages there?”

  I looked at the chart, which swirled with intersecting colored lines and planetary illustrations I couldn’t have deciphered to save my life. I had the unbidden thought that perhaps I should not trust his judgment in this matter. After all, did he possess any real power beyond interpreting vague portents and devising appropriate days for coronations, or did he seize on opportunistic moments of lucidity, random occasions when he managed to pierce the veil between this world and the next? After knowing Nostradamus, I found Cosimo’s demeanor disconcerting, as if he sought to personify the shadowy character he thought a seer should be.

  He sniffed. “The chart is arcane. Nostradamus obviously didn’t study in Italy.”

  “Of course he didn’t. Do you see Margot’s sun sign, at least? She is a Taurus.”

  “Let’s see.” He traced a line. “Yes, her life passage moves through this quadrant.” He tapped the paper. “According to this, she will marry a Sagittarius.”

  I gasped. “Henri of Navarre is Sagittarius!”

  His cheek twitched. “I said passage, not union. And an eclipse in Scorpio here signals blight.”

  “Blight?” I paused. “What does that mean?”

  “It’s unclear.” His lips pursed. “As I said, this chart was devised by one unskilled in such matters. Perhaps if you tell me what you wish to know, I can better assist you.”

  I drew in a deep breath. I might as well tell him everything or we’d be here all night.

  “I want to know if I should arrange a marriage between Margot and Navarre. I need to find a way to bind Catholic and Huguenot in peace and I think this might be it.”

  Cosimo regarded me with one skeletal hand caressing the strange pendant at his chest. I’d noticed it when I arrived—a silver amulet depicting a horned creature, a hole piercing its middle.

  “You could marry Margot to this prince,” he said, “but peace will not come so easily.”

  “Of course not; I realize one marriage won’t solve everything. But if I can manage it, the Huguenots will have to lay down arms for the foreseeable future. Navarre will be one of us; they’ll have no prince to support their cause. All I need is Coligny and Jeanne’s consent.”

  “And do you think they’ll give it?” he asked.

  I snorted. “I think they’d rather die.”

  “Then perhaps they should.” He turned to a nearby cabinet, removing an oblong lacquer box. He set it before me. Inside, arranged like tiny corpses on black velvet, were two perfect mannequins: a man and a woman, genitals delineated. I lifted the male form with a mixture of awe and repulsion; it felt almost like living flesh.

  “One for him and one for her,” Cosimo said. “With these, you can bring Coligny and Jeanne of Navarre under your control and make them do whatever you desire.” He withdrew a cloth bag from the box, containing silver pins. He held one up. “You must first personify them by attaching an article from the person: a hair, a piece of clothing, anything that belongs to them. Then you invoke your will. It’s like prayer. You can light candles too, red for domination, white to purify, yellow to vanquish. When you wish to exert power, drive these pins into the limbs. You can cause pain, illness, and incapacitation. Even death.”

  With one long finger he pried back the velvet lining to reveal a secret compartment. Unhooking its tiny latch, he uncovered a small vial filled with white powder, much like the one his father had given me in Florence.

  The candlelight sent distorted shadows across his hollowed face. “They call it cantarella: a combination of arsenic and other secret ingredients. It was said to be the Borgias’ favorite poison. Few know how to create it. It can cause illness, madness, and death. Mixed in food or wine, it is untraceable. No one will ever know.”

  I met his unblinking stare. The male figure dropped from my hand into the box. It sprawled over the female, like macabre toys about to copulate. I snapped the lid closed, as though they might leap out.

  “Now,” Cosimo breathed, “you have everything you need. You cannot fail.” He took off his amulet, sidled close to slip it over my head. It hung against my breast, heavier than it appeared. “Evil against evil,” he said, “in case they seek to counter you.”

  I held back my smile at the thought of Coligny resorting to black magic. Cosimo’s stare unnerved me; he was quite serious in his suggestion that I invoke spells and poison my opponents, and I had the sense I’d best not refuse his bizarre gifts. Whatever he’d been doing in this château had addled his brain; he had crossed into a place where I did not wish to follow.

  “You should be careful,” I said, eager now to eat and depart. “If you were ever overheard, you’d risk arrest and prosecution for witchcraft.”

  His laugh was brittle and too high-pitched. “Who will ever hear me but you, my lady?”

  I nodded and took up the box. He led me onto the torchlit landing. “I leave tomorrow at first light,” I said. “If you divine anything else in the chart, you must send word.”

  His eyes seemed to go right through me, as if he intuited the unspoken rupture between us.

  “I’ll devote myself to it entirely.”

  I didn’t look back as I descended the stairs, but I felt his stare, stalking my heels.

  “You look splendid.” I stepped aside to allow my new daughter-in-law full view of herself in the mirror. Isabel of Austria had arrived a week before to a lavish reception, which she endured with stoic gratitude despite her swollen eyes and the handkerchief she clutched to her nose as she sneezed every few minutes. She’d caught a nasty cold during her travels, but when I suggested we postpone the wedding until she recovered, she shook her head.

  “No,” she stated in her accented French. “I must marry as planned. Then I bear a son.”

  She seemed confident and I now watched her scrutinize her reflection without vanity, her fair brows furrowed inward as she adjusted the coronet on her dark gold hair. She wasn’t as attractive as her portrait. Her oval face was marred by the jutting Hapsburg chin and her blue eyes were too small and serious. If she felt frightened or overwhelmed, she didn’t show it. Judging by her expression I’d have thought she was going to one of her three daily masses.

  Resplendent in crimson brocade, her bosom displayed to the limit of decency, and her gorgeous hair spangled with jeweled combs, Margot exclaimed, “Why, you look pretty!” as if it came as an unexpected surprise.

  I threw her a stony look. At eighteen my daughter had shed the last vestiges of her childhood to reveal a startling beauty; her slanted eyes seemed to absorb whatever color she wore and her naturally titian hair was the envy of every woman at court. She had become our official muse, to whom the poets dedicated reams of overblown verse. I’d perceived a predatory light in her eye as the gentlemen paraded before her in the hall, their muscled thighs in skin-tight hose, their oversized codpieces bobbing; and I did not like it. I needed her to remain a virgin and had insisted her women accompany her everywhere. I also received reports on her activities and knew she dutifully practiced her dancing, music, and poetry; sat for portraits and endless dress fittings—all the expected activities of a princess. Still, her passion for life reminded me of her grandfather François I, kindling my fear that despite my efforts she would find a way to whet her appetite, though I’d yet to discover any proof.

  “This dress”—Isabel plucked her overskirt—“it is not—how do you say it—too rich?”

  Margot giggled. My other daughter, Claude, squat and fat in violet velvet and pregnant with her second child, elbowed Margot.

  “It’s perfect.” I smoothed her cloth-of-silver skirt embroidered with pearl fleur-de-lis. “It suits your complexion. You have such nice skin, my dear. Doesn’t she, Margot?”

  Margot blew air out of the side of her mouth. “I suppose so,” she said, and fl
ounced to the dressing table to examine Isabel’s jewelry. “Oh. These are nice.” She snatched up a set of ruby earrings. “Look how well they go with my dress. Red is my best color. Everyone says so.”

  “Take them,” Isabel said, before I could protest.

  Margot plucked off her opals and clipped the rubies on her ears. As she gazed into the mirror, I thought there couldn’t have been more marked difference between her narcissistic adoration and Isabel’s indifference. As if a malign being whispered in my ear, I knew with absolute certainty that one particular admirer had told Margot to wear red.

  “Aren’t you going to thank her?” I said, and Margot kissed Isabel. “Thank you, dearest sister. I adore them.”

  As she skipped back to Claude to show off her trophies, I bent over to rub the stain left by her slipper on Isabel’s hem. Isabel touched my shoulder; I looked up. “That’s not important,” she said. “No one sees dirt on a bride, yes?”

  She won me over with those words, testament to the common sense she’d learned as merchandise on the royal marriage market. “Indeed,” I said, and I winced as I straightened up. My kirtle was laced too tight. I shouldn’t have asked Lucrezia to yank the stays an extra notch in the futile hope of restoring something of my vanquished figure.

  “You too look splendid,” she said, gesturing at my reflection.

  I had no choice but to turn to the mirror. I beheld a short, stout woman in an almost-black shade of violet, my hair covered by a peaked coif, my dark eyes pleated at the corners. I’d donned sedate emeralds for my ears, an onyx brooch beneath my ruff and my black pearls. But nothing in the world could restore my youth, and I turned away.

  Bells tolled. Isabel’s regal mask settled back over her face. “It is time,” I said, and I took her hand, leading her from the chamber to wed my son.

  Under the vaulted ceiling, we assumed seats in the royal pews: Henri and Hercule to my right, Margot and Claude and her husband to my left. Courtiers and nobles filled the chapel to capacity, the heady aroma of perfume mingling with the harsh smoke of the candelabrums and torches on the walls, and occasional whiff of horse droppings caught on some lord’s boots. Clad in his crown and royal robes, Charles knelt beside Isabel at the altar as Monsignor the Cardinal performed the interminable ceremony.

  I watched Margot out of the corner of my eye and caught her gaze straying to the pew occupied by the Guises. Young Guise certainly merited notice in his scarlet doublet, which highlighted his intense blue eyes and white-gold hair. He’d grown a mustache and beard that added gravity to his years: for a heart-stopping second, I saw the falconlike reflection of his dead father, le Balafré, and a tremor rippled through me.

  Both he and Margot wore red.

  All of a sudden Henri’s lips were at my ear. “There’s a ghost with us. Look. Coligny is here.”

  I froze. “He … he can’t be.”

  “Well, he is. Can’t you feel him? He stares at you even as we speak.”

  Blood rushed to my head. I couldn’t hear or see anything. This couldn’t be happening. I wasn’t ready. I’d known this day must come, but I wanted to orchestrate it at my convenience, after I’d set in motion my plan to wed Margot to Navarre. I didn’t have the players in place yet. Queen Jeanne still eluded me; I’d invited her to court to celebrate Charles’s marriage, but she’d sent her regrets, saying that she was ill. I’d assumed Coligny would also stay away, as I had not lifted my restriction on him. He would not risk his safety. Henri must be mistaken.

  I braved a glance over my shoulder, past the bored courtiers eager for the ceremony to conclude and festivities to begin, past the whispering ladies and matrons fanning themselves despite the chill, onward to the darkened recesses, where a collection of figures was standing.

  There in the shadows he stood, his eyes gleaming like arctic fire in his careworn face.

  “See?” said Henri.

  “I told you so. The dead are with us.”

  “How could you?” I remonstrated as Charles changed for the banquet.

  “He hasn’t been officially pardoned! How could you invite him here?”

  My son whirled to me, knocking aside the kneeling page who’d removed his gem-encrusted slippers. “You said our settlement pardoned all the Huguenot leaders!”

  “That’s different. They acted under his command; the leaders followed his direction.”

  “I don’t see a difference. A pardon is a pardon. I’ll not go back on my word as king. I invited him because it’s my wedding and I want him to know we bear him no ill will.”

  I stood open-mouthed, so taken aback I had no idea what to do. It was like that day in Blois: whenever Coligny appeared, my son transformed into someone else. I saw my own weakness in him, the trusting person I had once been. I knew Coligny’s lure, how he could attract and convince others, for I’d felt his power. I could still feel it. Only now, I knew better.

  “Did he write to you?” I asked, and Charles gave me a startled look. Then he spat, “Yes, he wrote to me. What of it? And I wrote back. I removed the price on his head and assured him he had my protection. I mean it too. The war is over. I want peace and I will have it.”

  “If you want peace, then you must be the one to send him away. Your bride is a Catholic princess, cousin to Philip of Spain. She cannot receive him.”

  “She’ll receive him if I say she will.” The page scrambled out of his way. “I’m sick to death of this enmity between the religions. Coligny is a peer of France; he deserves to be at court. It’s the perfect time for us to make a lasting peace.” He paused, looking at me through narrowed eyes that reminded me of his father. “You told me not to mention the marriage with Navarre and I agreed. Have you changed your mind? Would you rather we kept killing each other?”

  “Of course not,” I replied, and I couldn’t keep the anger from my voice. “But you know Coligny waged war against us. He refused all compromise until he had no other choice.”

  “He didn’t wage war against me. I didn’t make agreements with Spain.”

  I resisted the urge to grab him by his collar and shake some sense into him. I had no authority over him anymore; at twenty years of age, he was firmly our king. I’d kept him under my care as long as I could. I now saw that in doing so I’d inadvertently sowed his resentment.

  I softened my tone. “Mon fils, I agree with the sentiment, but this is neither the time nor the place. You must send him away for his protection. The Guises are here. You risk his life.”

  “If Guise or anyone else touches a hair on his head, they’ll answer to me.” He yanked his cap from the cowering page. “Coligny stays. In fact, I’ll reinstate him in Council. He can serve as a Huguenot adviser, as he used to before the damn war.”

  He stalked past me to the door. “I’ll see you in the hall.”

  Charles disappeared right after the feast, leaving Isabel and me to preside over the nuptial festivities. I reasoned he’d gone off to change his clothes, as he detested finery. Left on the dais with Isabel, I watched Margot, flushed by wine and the fawning compliments of the gentlemen. She seemed oblivious of Guise, who sat with Henri. If he in turn took notice of her, he had an expert facility for disguising it, smiling and nodding as Henri whispered in his ear and a court strumpet refilled their goblets every chance she got. Indeed, Guise appeared engrossed in whatever Henri was saying, unaware he was being watched by the handsome Spaniard Antonio de Guast, who’d served under Henri’s command during the war and now acted as his bodyguard.

  The Spaniard’s dark stare gave me pause. I’d seen that look before, countless times among the women at court who assessed each other like combatants in the arena: it was covetous and jealous, and it made me wonder at the depth of his relationship with my son.

  A high-pitched squeal wrenched my attention to Hercule, already bedraggled in his new clothes, snatching morsels from platters as a group of ladies—flown on wine—hastened after him, slapping his buttocks with their feathered fans. He was almost sixteen and a disaster. He’
d shown no improvement in his studies or deportment, despite Margot’s pains, and I winced as I caught Isabel watching his antics with a rigid frown.

  I couldn’t blame her. It was her nuptial feast, her introduction to our court, and all semblance of decency had degenerated the moment the tables were dismantled. Courtiers slipped into the shadows by the pilasters to nuzzle; the musicians’ kettledrums and pipes sounded in tandem to shrieks of drunken laughter as dancers swirled on the open floor. In my father-in-law’s time, such behavior was unheard of; as full of wit and hedonism as his court had been, the women never shoved their bodices past their shoulders to expose their nipples, nor had the men leered and cupped themselves as if in a brothel.

  I reached for the decanter to refill her goblet. “The court,” I started to explain. “We haven’t celebrated in some time. We’ve been at war and they’re overly exuberant …” My explanation faded as the sparse color drained from her face, her eyes fixed forward.

  I followed her stare. Around us, the court’s laughter sputtered and died.

  Charles marched to the dais, his long hair falling to his shoulders, his billowing chemise sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing sunburned forearms. At his side was Coligny.

  In a ringing voice my son said, “Admiral de Coligny wishes to greet my queen.”

  Coligny bowed. The last time we’d been this close was five years ago. To my surprise, he seemed smaller than I remembered, his chiseled features marked by deprivation. His eyes were still lucid, still penetrating, but he looked haunted by everything he’d seen and done in the name of his faith, a man compelled by doctrine to sacrifice his ideals.

  He’s getting old, I thought. He’s a weak and aging man. There’s nothing for me to fear.

  “Seigneur,” I said. “Welcome to court.”