The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  My hands were numb in their lynx-lined gloves. A few steps away Margot stood in a primrose satin gown, her sable hood crumpled about her head like a ruined veil. The bruises had faded, but she was not speaking to us, her face a mask of stony indifference.

  Heralds blew a shrill note. Moments later, the entourage from Navarre straggled toward us. I surveyed the ranks, a small collection of black-clad lords on horseback escorting a coach. I stepped forth to open the door. “Madame, I am so pleased to—”

  My greeting died in my throat.

  Queen Jeanne sat sunken among her pillows, wrapped in a fur mantle; she was mere flesh pasted over bones, her coppery hair lank and eyes ringed in shadows.

  One of her men eased me aside to help her out. She leaned on his arm as she faced me, so frail it seemed she’d be carried away by the wind. But even in her weakness she had not lost her impudence; she gave me a ghastly smile and whispered, “In case you’re wondering, Madame de Medici, the answer is no: my son is not coming.”

  • • •

  Jeanne sat erect in the airy blue-satin suite I’d appointed for her. She’d not left the room in weeks; I was terrified she would die before we’d reached an accord and I’d had my own physicians attend her. She looked better, frail color in her pale cheeks, though her hacking cough and her infuriating obstinacy persisted.

  “I said no. I’ll not bring my son here until I am completely satisfied.”

  I lost all patience. “What more do you want of me?” I cried, pacing the chamber. “First, you insist on a ceremony that will be neither Catholic in appearance or ritual and I assured you they can wed outside Notre Dame, after which your son and his entourage can attend a Huguenot service while we hear mass. Then you asked that if Spain makes a threat against Navarre, I must pledge my surety of troops and I agreed. Finally, you requested Coligny’s support of the marriage and I told you he does, as you yourself saw by his letter.”

  “I saw his signature on a letter, yes. But how do I know the letter was his?”

  “Of course it was his!” I paused, lowering my voice. “I wouldn’t play you false. I’ve told you before: our children must wed. They are ideal for each other and together will show the world that while we may not worship the same way, we need not go to war over our differences.”

  “When did you decide we can live in peace?” she said tartly. “After or before you put a price on Coligny’s head and destroyed the Huguenot stronghold of La Rochelle? Or was it when you brought in Spaniards to fight against us?”

  I clenched my hands at my sides. “Did you come all this way to remonstrate with me?”

  Phlegmy laughter rattled her chest. She gasped, pressed a handkerchief to her mouth. The cloth came away stained with blood. She tucked it into her cuff as if it meant nothing.

  “I wanted to see you again,” she said. “I wanted to lay eyes on the infamous Catherine de Medici and find out if everything they say is true, if they call you Madame la Serpente because, like a snake, your bite kills your enemies.”

  Red heat overcame me. How dare she sit there in her Huguenot weeds and accuse me, when she’d abetted our enemies? I took a step forward, not caring in that moment if she consented to the marriage or dropped dead at my feet. She flattened against her chair.

  I paused. I did not expect this recoil or the frantic clutch of her hands at her skirts. As her dilated gaze met mine, I realized she was afraid. Afraid of me. She actually believed I was as monstrous as the Huguenot pamphleteers claimed. She’d heeded innuendo and rumor, though she knew what it meant to be a woman alone, with a realm and children to protect.

  My mordant sense of humor got the better of me. With a chuckle, I said, “Well, now you’ve seen me. Do I look as evil as they say?”

  “The fact that you make light of it confirms everything,” she replied.

  “Then think what you like; it makes no difference to me. I offer your son a royal bride and your realm protection from Spain. No other will give you as much.”

  She eyed me in silence. Then she thrust out her chin. “You can’t manipulate me. I’ll not call for my son nor give you an answer unless I am allowed to meet with your daughter—alone.”

  I considered. Margot was here, of course. But could I trust her? I rued the hour I’d admitted my plans to her, for now I must rely on her. Jeanne wouldn’t budge; she’d write another batch of sepulchral warnings to her son and he’d lock himself up in her castle. My hope for ending our religious dissent would fall apart. War would erupt, as it inevitably did, and I’d again be at the helm of a realm devouring itself whole.

  Unless … The idea crept through me like a cat. I still had Cosimo’s gifts.

  “Fine,” I said to Jeanne. “I’ll send Margot to you this afternoon.”

  I went downstairs to my study. Once inside, I locked the door and removed the box from a hidden cabinet in the wall. Opening the lid, I found the dolls resting on their velvet bed.

  I lifted the female form.

  You must first personify them by attaching an article from the person.

  All I needed was a wisp of Margot’s hair.

  Despite her anger with me and her habitual melancholic drifting about the palace, Margot radiated health, her color high from days in the gardens, her hair a mass of sun-lightened curls.

  “You look lovely,” I told her, and her turquoise eyes narrowed as I reached out to tuck a stray ringlet of hair over her shoulder. “Now, remember to answer her questions, but don’t reveal too much. We mustn’t overtax her.” I cupped her chin. “Do you understand?”

  She scowled. “Yes. I’ll be the perfect, dutiful daughter-in-law and say as little as possible.”

  “Exactly.” I propelled her to the staircase. “I’ll await you in my study.” As she lifted her skirts to mount the stairs, I closed my fingers about a strand of her hair.

  In the study, I pulled the curtains across the windows, set two candles and the doll on my desk. I felt ludicrous, standing there about to coil my daughter’s hair about a wax figurine in the hope of compelling her to fulfill my will. I steeled myself and took up the doll. I lit the candles and paused. What now? I had the pins. Should I press one into the doll to enforce my desire? No, that might hurt. I could see Margot talking to Jeanne and crying out in sudden pain.

  What if I knelt? Would that be sacrilegious? It must be. Best not.

  I extended my hands over the candles. Closing my eyes, I whispered, “I, Catherine de Medici, invoke upon thee, Marguerite de Valois, my sole desire. You have no other will than mine. You will tell Jeanne de Navarre everything she wants to hear and nothing to cause doubt.”

  I opened an eye. I felt no brooding presence, no subtle thickening in the air or ripple along my skin, as I’d felt every time my gift had stirred or I’d met with Nostradamus. If I had a facility for magic, it wasn’t revealing itself. I picked up the doll again, cradled it in my hands, and repeated my chant. I recalled reading somewhere that blood was essential to spells. I opened the box, retrieved a pin and jabbed my finger. A dark red bead welled. I watched it seep over my nail to spatter the doll’s face. I went still, straining to hear the thump overhead that would herald Margot’s precipitous drop onto the floor.

  Nothing.

  I again whispered my chant, removed the amulet from inside my bodice, and pressed it on the doll. Evil against evil, Cosimo had said. Then I waited, reasoning that spells, like scents and potions, needed time to brew, to blend and create the desired result. After what I hoped was sufficient time, I blew out the candles, gathered the objects, and returned them to hiding. At the last minute, a twinge of guilt caused me to unravel the amulet from my neck and also hide it in the box, next to Maestro Ruggieri’s old vial. Then I whisked back the curtains, propped the window open. Sitting at my desk, I smoothed out a fresh sheet of parchment and inked my quill.

  That was the moment I began these confessions.

  Hours fled by as I revisited the past, filling page after page with memories. When Margot knocked at my
door, I looked up in a daze. She entered. “The queen wishes to see you.”

  I tucked the pages into a portfolio. A strange calm stayed with me as I went to Jeanne’s rooms. I found her at the gilded desk, a quill in hand. She’d donned a blue gown and pearls—unusual extravagance. She turned in her chair. She looked serene, as if she’d taken a rejuvenating tonic. If this was due to my magic, it had imparted unexpected consequences.

  “Madame, I don’t know how you managed it, but your daughter is as virtuous a princess as I’ve had the privilege to meet.” She extended the page to me. “Here is my consent. Providing you fulfill the terms we discussed, I believe she’ll make an excellent wife for my son. She says she can think of no greater privilege than to be Navarre’s queen and live in our realm.”

  I hadn’t believed the spell would work. How could such an insipid ritual bring about the impossible? Yet it seemed it had, though I’d not been specific enough. I needed Margot and Navarre to live in France; under no circumstance could he return to his country, where he’d be surrounded by Protestants warning him against us.

  “She says she cannot embrace my faith,” Jeanne went on, “but when I told her my son would want their children raised Protestant, she replied that as his wife, she owes him her obedience.”

  I had to bite my lip lest I burst into caustic laughter. Margot was truly my daughter! She’d refrained from rousing Jeanne’s suspicion yet had managed to promise something she knew I would never allow. The loss of Guise still burned inside her; she would do anything to thwart me, it seemed, but the marriage would proceed and soon Navarre would be under my control.

  “I’ll come with you to Paris,” Jeanne added, to my disbelief. “Margot has asked me to help with her trousseau. I’ll also write to my son. You did say you’d like them to wed in August?”

  I nodded, searching her face for a sign of deceit. I found none. She’d never been good at concealing her feelings. “Yes, in August,” I said, and I exhaled in relief. “We’ll arrange the most glorious wedding France has ever seen.”

  “Not too glorious,” she chided. “My faith is a simple one. Now I must rest. We’ll meet tomorrow to plan the details. We can share lunch, al—What do you Italians call it?”

  “Alfresco,” I said. “Yes, that would be nice.”

  As I left her, I couldn’t help but marvel that fate, the supreme joker, had thrown together such a pair of mothers-in-law.

  THIRTY

  UPON TAKING UP RESIDENCE IN MY NEWLY COMPLETED HÔTEL de la Reine, Jeanne dove into the wedding arrangements as though she’d never been ill, dragging me around Paris to view this bolt of fabric, that pair of candlesticks or piece of cutlery. In a store on the Left Bank, she so admired a pair of supple Italian gloves fringed in gold that I bought them for her. She accepted them in childish delight, proof she wasn’t immune to vanity. I found it fascinating to watch her become the woman she might have been if her religious devotion hadn’t shackled her heart.

  The moment word came that her son had departed Nérac, I ordered banns posted, inviting everyone in the realm to Paris to partake of the grand event. Everything was going as planned until I received word one evening that Jeanne had collapsed.

  I hurried with Margot to the hôtel through a dank mist. We found the downstairs hall filled with men in dark clothing, all Huguenots. They turned toward us as if on cue, bowing stiffly.

  From among them stepped Coligny.

  He looked healthier than the last time I’d seen him, his face more rounded and rested, his spare frame heavier and his eyes alert, piercing. Time in Châtillon with his new wife had done him wonders, and as he bowed before us a surge of dread iced my veins.

  “I didn’t know you were back,” I said. “You should have sent word, my lord.”

  “Forgive me. I’d only just arrived and taken residence in my town house when I heard Her Grace of Navarre was ill. I thought it best to come here first, to offer my services.”

  I detected an undertone in his voice, something I couldn’t quite place. How serious was this collapse of Jeanne’s? Were we to be plunged into mourning before her son arrived?

  As if he read my thoughts, Coligny said, “She is too weak to come downstairs.”

  “Then we’ll go to her.” I motioned to Margot. Coligny led us through the Huguenots, all of whom drew back in marked silence. My nervousness grew. Jeanne was my guest. Did they think I’d do her harm?

  In the bedroom, Jeanne lay propped on pillows, her face paler than her sheets. That flare of life that had sent her racing through Paris had consumed her.

  She murmured, “Madame, my hour draws near.”

  “Nonsense.” I patted her hand. It felt cold and brittle. “You’ve overextended yourself. You’ll be back on your feet soon. We have a wedding to plan, remember?”

  Her gaze shifted to Margot. “Come closer, my dear. There’s something I must say to you.”

  Margot leaned to her colorless lips. I heard her whisper. My daughter nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I will. I promise.”

  Jeanne sighed. As her eyes closed in exhaustion, her pastors emerged from the alcove. Turning to the bedroom door to leave, I caught sight of the gold-fringed gloves I’d given her, flung on a table near the hearth. They were turned inside out, the fingertips cut off.

  “I’ll send our court physician Dr. Paré to attend her,” I said to Coligny outside the room. “She’ll need expert care and—”

  “By your leave, that won’t be necessary.” His voice was aloof, as if he spoke to a meddling stranger. “I have already called for an experienced doctor; he’ll be here by nightfall.”

  Taken aback by his tone, I nodded curtly and left. On our return to the Louvre, I queried Margot. “She asked me to protect her son,” she replied.

  “Protect him?” I frowned, recalling Nostradamus had uttered the same words to me. “Why?”

  Her eyes lifted to me. “Didn’t you see it on their faces, in the way Coligny spoke to you?”

  I froze. That was what I’d heard in Coligny’s voice but failed to place: suspicion. Suspicion of me. “You can’t be serious,” I said with a brittle chuckle. “Jeanne has been sick for years; everyone knows it. Coligny himself has mentioned it.”

  “She seemed well enough the past few days.” Margot’s stare bored into me. “You bought those gloves for her, didn’t you? Why did they cut out the fingertips?”

  I knew why. It was an old trick devised by the Borgias: poison was applied to the inside of a glove and the wearer never knew until it was too late. They’d cut out the tips to examine them.

  My voice faltered. “Dio Mio, they’re mad. How could they think I’d harm her?”

  “You are a Medici; they have always doubted your sincerity.”

  “Do you doubt?” I asked, and I held my breath, dreading her reply.

  “No,” she said quietly. “But I am not a Huguenot.”

  Jeanne de Navarre died the following afternoon. I took Margot’s advice and sent Paré to perform the dissection of Jeanne’s corpse, which revealed extensive corruption in her lungs, confirming she’d perished of her ailment. After some hesitation—for I feared he’d cite her death as reason to cancel our arrangements—I wrote a letter of condolence to her son and had her body embalmed and dispatched to Navarre for entombment.

  To my relief, Navarre returned word that he would not delay his departure, and in mid-July he entered Paris under a sky scorched white by the sun.

  Unrelenting heat had descended upon us; people slept on rooftops and crammed the banks of the Seine seeking relief, while cutthroats, beggars, and thieves abounded in the near-anarchic atmosphere of a city crammed to overflowing with thousands of Huguenots and Catholics who’d come from all over France to witness the wedding. As Navarre rode in with his Huguenot suite, those of his faith lifted a cheer loud enough to drown out the few Catholics who dared shout derogatory epithets, so that it seemed all Paris reverberated with acclaim for him.

  I watched his approach from my balcony. I w
as eager to behold him again, to see with my own eyes if he’d grown into the proud man of my long-ago vision. As he dismounted in the courtyard, a short, compact figure dressed in black, I beckoned Margot, who looked pristine as a cloud in light blue silk, pearls roped through her tresses and coiled about her collar.

  We descended into the hall. It was filled with courtiers, a gaudy menagerie interspersed with the black mourning of Navarre’s entourage. Scanning the Huguenot nobles, I saw no sign of Coligny. I was relieved. The last thing I wanted was his dour visage spoiling the occasion.

  Navarre stood by the dais with Charles and Hercule, the former in a bright gold doublet and plumed hat, the latter in carnelian satin. Charles spoke fervently to his Bourbon cousin, while seventeen-year-old Hercule, looking overdressed and dwarfish, gazed at Navarre curiously.

  I heard Charles exclaim, “I tell you, it was the best hunt ever. I killed the boar with one shot. One shot! Coligny said he’d never seen the like. Didn’t he, Hercule?”

  My youngest son shrugged. I saw Navarre toss back his head and laugh, his unruly flame-red hair spiked round his sun-reddened face. As I approached with Margot, he turned to us.

  I almost came to a halt.

  He looked exactly like the man I’d envisioned from the boy, all those years ago, down to the laughter shining in his close-set green eyes.

  His gentlemen shifted closer to him. Just beyond their circle I glimpsed my Henri, resplendent in mauve velvet, his mane flowing to his shoulders and a pearl dangling from one ear. A sardonic smile curved his lips, his arm resting casually on his friend Guast’s shoulder.

  I held out my arms to Navarre. “My child, how you’ve grown.”

  “Tante Catherine,” he said, inclining his head. “It’s been a long time.”

  I pulled him into my embrace. His compact body was hard; he reeked of sweat. His black doublet was faded and unfashionable, without adornment or slashings of any kind; but as I drew back and assessed his eyes with their thick, almost girlish, lashes, his strong jaw and clever mouth, that unruly thicket of hair and impressive breadth of his shoulders, I thought he had a bucolic masculinity rarely seen in our French dandies.