The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  “You’re the very image of a king,” I said. “It does my heart good to see you.”

  “I’d rather be a prince and have my mother alive,” he replied.

  “Yes, of course. The poor dear, she was so proud of you. I’m sure she smiles down on us at this very moment. Come, greet Margot.”

  I stepped aside. Margot stumbled on her hem as she came face-to-face with Navarre. I saw color flush her cheeks as she muttered, “Cousin,” and leaned to kiss his stubbled cheek.

  “It’s Margot, right? Not Marguerite,” he said softly, with a grin. “Or have things changed since the last time I saw you? Best let me know now, eh? We’ve a lifetime together ahead of us.”

  She hesitated. She’d clearly not expected his sense of humor. “Margot is fine,” she said stiffly. “Or call me whatever you like. It’s not as though I’ve a choice.”

  I laughed loudly. “Aren’t they charming?” and looked about at the watchful courtiers.

  Everyone broke into applause. Charles cried, “A toast!” He snatched two goblets from a page, sloshing claret to the floor as he thrust one at Navarre. He extended the other to Margot, leaving me to reach for my own. Hercule skittered forth and almost overturned tray and page in his lunge for the last goblet. Henri’s smile widened; he did not move from his spot.

  Charles raised his goblet. “To my cousin Navarre and my sister Margot!” He downed the wine; everyone followed suit. “Now, let’s eat!” With a flare of his coat, Charles turned to lead the court into the banqueting chamber. As I reached for Navarre’s hand, for I intended to sit him next to me, Margot said, “Forgive me, my lord, but my head aches. I shall retire.”

  I glared at her. She ignored me, curtsying to Navarre and crossing the hall with her disgruntled women, who were obliged to attend her. Navarre arched his brow; I chuckled. “A new bride’s nerves: nothing to worry about. She’s overwhelmed.”

  The moment the feast ended, Charles got up and left, as usual. Navarre and I had barely spoken, for Charles monopolized the conversation, asking Navarre about everything from the weather in his realm to his preferred ways of hunting. I noticed Navarre answered amiably but never revealed more than what he’d been asked; and while he’d drunk more than seemed humanly possible he still appeared sober as he lounged in his chair, regarding the court’s antics with interest. At his seat beside Charles’s empty throne Henri picked his teeth with a silver utensil, while Hercule set himself to consuming an entire platter of sugared almonds.

  The dancing was about to start; courtiers lined up for the saltorello, an exuberant dance that allowed our ladies to show off their legs and our men their agility. A group of painted women—professional courtesans with plunging cleavage and rouged lips—sauntered in front of the dais; one brazen beauty sporting a diamond glued to her cheek winked.

  Navarre sat upright from his slouch; even Hercule stopped stuffing himself with almonds.

  “Who are those ladies?” Navarre asked me, his voice thick with indolence and wine.

  “They are members of our court,” I said.

  “Are they, by chance, ladies of your household? I’ve heard it said you hire the most accomplished women to serve you; they’re called the Flying Squadron because they ride the hunt like amazons.” His eyes glittered. “I do like to hunt. I like it very much.”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Henri press a hand to his mouth in stifled mirth.

  In truth, I’d never heard of this so-called Flying Squadron; but plenty of women at court made a living off men, so if the name fit, why dissuade him? I wanted our guest to feel at home.

  “You should go to them,” I said. “They’re always eager for new companions to hunt with.”

  He stood, passing his hands over his rumpled doublet. I met Henri’s eyes and almost burst out laughing. Jeanne may have regaled her son with sordid tales of our licentiousness, but it seemed she’d only piqued his interest, for he now regarded our lacquered whores as if they were choice haunches of venison he couldn’t wait to taste.

  I snapped my fingers at Hercule. “Accompany your cousin.”

  Hercule darted to his side. The instant they left the dais, the prostitutes enveloped them, red-nailed hands everywhere as they guided them away.

  I leaned back in my chair. Henri sidled beside me. “Flying Squadron? That is rather quaint. Your idea, I suppose?”

  “Hardly.” I pinched his cheek. “Who knows what monstrosities Jeanne told him about me? But he’s just lost his mother and if he has need of feminine comfort, who are we to deny it?”

  “Those sluts are no doubt up to the task, but I wonder what Margot will think.”

  “I doubt she’ll care,” I confided, taking up my goblet. “Did you see her leave the hall as if she wore a crown of thorns? You’d think I was marrying her to Satan himself.”

  “She pines for Guise.” He turned his hooded eyes to the hall. “And he apparently pines for her. I’ve heard he’s outraged we’d dare marry Margot to a heretic and will protest the wedding.”

  I shot him a look. “He’d best not. I’ve forbidden him from coming to court until he’s sent for. If he continues to cause mischief, he’ll find himself confined to his estate for the rest of his life.”

  “When has that ever stopped a Guise?” he replied. “They’re as bad as Coligny.”

  I felt disquiet as I saw his expression darken. His sudden aversion to Guise unnerved me, for until the altercation over Margot they’d been friends. I preferred it that way; Guise was not somebody I wanted left on his own, considering his father had been le Balafré.

  I said, “Well, I’ll not have Guise or anyone ruin this for us. Look, isn’t that your friend Guast over there with those young men? Why don’t you join him?”

  “I’m tired of Guast. He’s greedy; he’s always asking me for something. Now he wants a monkey, as if I bred them in my chamber on trees.”

  “Give him your brother Hercule,” I quipped, and Henri let out a laugh. “Maman, you are too wicked!” He leaned over to kiss me and sauntered off to his covetous friend.

  I sighed. My leg hurt. I wanted my bed. I rose, moved through the court, and up the staircase. At the last minute, I decided to check on Margot. I knocked on her door; one of her ladies admitted me.

  Moonlight slivered through the casement. My daughter sat before it, still in her gown, the ghostly light haloing the pearls in her hair. My heart softened at the sight of her. She looked small and alone. I remembered she was only nineteen, still a girl in many ways …

  “You’ll look tired tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep,” I said.

  “Who cares how I look? If I want to stay awake, I will. Or do you deny me that, as well?”

  I stepped to her. “My child, you’ve so much life ahead of you. Try not to grow bitter before your time. These first pains of love: they go away in time. They fade and we forget.”

  “How would you know? You’ve never loved anyone.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, and all of a sudden I felt so old, so tired. “You think you know me, but you don’t. I have learned that we either accept what life gives us or we die. It’s that simple.”

  “Then I’d rather die.”

  “But you won’t.” I leaned over her immobile form, set my lips on her dry cheek. “You will live. You can do nothing else. You are my daughter.”

  The wedding day approached. I kept watch over Navarre through Birago’s spies, pleased to hear he’d taken to the divertissements of Paris with gusto. If he was bereaved over his mother, he made a fine show of hiding it, drinking in our taverns with his Huguenot comrades until all hours and bedding every whore in sight. He wasn’t seen anywhere near Coligny—which pleased me more than anything else, until Birago came to me.

  “It’s His Majesty,” he said as I sat in my study attending to my endless correspondence. “One of my informants saw him slip out through the servants’ quarters, dressed in a hooded cloak. As he often goes out like that for his own amusements, no one thought to me
ntion it at the time. It was only after he was seen again, just two days ago, that the man came to tell me.”

  “Did he follow him?” I asked.

  “Yes. His Majesty met up with Navarre and they …” He coughed into his hand awkwardly.

  “I can imagine,” I said drily. “I hope it was an expensive brothel, at least.”

  “No, madama,” Birago lifted troubled eyes to me. “They did not go to a brothel. They went to Coligny’s town house on the rue de Béthisy.”

  I sat in utter silence. Then I said, “Do you know what they did there?”

  “I’m afraid not. My spies are diligent, but I’ve not succeeded in penetrating Coligny’s personal rooms. I did manage to bribe a cook in the kitchens, but of course he’s heard nothing.”

  I felt as if I couldn’t draw enough air into my lungs. “How many times have they met?”

  He blinked his watery eyes. “At least two. Charles elected to go to him, after Coligny declined the offer of his old apartments at court. Coligny said he was more comfortable at his town house, as he brought guests to the wedding he could better accommodate there.”

  “Guests …” I echoed. I recalled the faces of the men I’d seen when I went to visit Jeanne on her deathbed. I had recognized several prominent Huguenot nobles but at the time, given the circumstance, thought nothing of it.

  “Find out everything you can,” I said. “I need to know how many of these friends of his are lodged in that house and what they plot. For they plot something, I have no doubt.”

  “Yes, madama. What about Charles? Should I speak to him?”

  “No. Leave that to me.”

  Birago nodded and walked out. Feeling a sharp pain in my hand, I looked down.

  I had crushed my writing quill to splinters.

  I went straight to my son’s apartments. I found his room in chaos, clothing and hunting paraphernalia strewn about, his hound gnawing on a meat bone while Charles stood poised near the door, hurriedly donning a cloak. If I’d come a minute later, I’d have found him gone.

  He spun to me. His face blanched. “What … what are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you. Do I intrude? Are you going somewhere?”

  “I … I was … There’s a new pack of deer near Vincennes, and Navarre and I …”

  I planted myself at the door. “Don’t lie to me. You’re going to see Coligny, aren’t you?”

  He shrank back, his expression one of utter stupefaction. Then he said nervously, “Coligny? Why would you think that? I’m not going to see him. He doesn’t like to hunt anymore.”

  “Perhaps not deer,” I replied. “I know about your meetings with him. I know you’ve been going to his house in secret with Navarre.” I paused. His eyes had grown wide, his mouth working as he struggled for an excuse. “There’s no need to hide it from me,” I added. “You’ve made it clear you mean to rule as you see fit. Just tell me the truth and I will leave court today.”

  “You … you cannot leave,” he stammered. “We’ve Margot and Navarre’s wedding to attend.”

  I let out a taut laugh. “What wedding? If you want to go make pacts with Coligny, you risk everything. At least grant me the mercy of not having to bear witness to it.”

  His expression unraveled. “But I didn’t agree to anything! I just listened. I swear it.”

  “Listened to what?”

  I watched the color seep from his face. He regarded me with such a terrible mixture of bewilderment and fear for a moment I wondered where I had erred, how I’d failed to recognize that my constant care of him would never defeat the influence of a man like Coligny. My son was vulnerable; he’d lost his father at an early age, watched his elder brother suffer under the Guises, and endured years of warfare; since he’d taken a whip to Margot I’d sensed something broken inside him. Now Coligny preyed on his weakness, on his desperate desire for lasting peace and his struggle to be seen as a king not dependent on his mother for guidance.

  “What does he want of you?” I said. “I’ll not fault you, I promise. I know how you feel: I know how he can convince us to believe almost anything. Just tell me.”

  He kneaded his cloak, his gaze darting about as if he might find an escape. “He … he …” I saw him swallow. “He wants me to exile you from France,” he burst. “He says you’ll bring more destruction on us, that you may have poisoned Jeanne of Navarre and you’ll force Navarre to convert. If that happens, he says the Huguenots will have to go to war in Navarre’s defense.”

  I felt rage boil up and forced it back, keeping my voice inflectionless, as though what he had just confided came as no surprise. “He said all that, did he?”

  “Yes! But we didn’t believe him. Navarre told him so. He said, ‘I will marry Margot and I swear to you nothing on this earth will persuade me to convert.’” Charles flung himself at me, clutching at my hands. “Forgive me. He asked to see me and I couldn’t say no. But I know I was wrong to let him say those things to me.”

  I looked down at his fingers entwined with mine. “Yet you were going to see him again,” I heard myself say, and I marveled at my ability to conceal the fury and fear building inside me.

  “To tell him no. I was going to tell him that I will never send you away.”

  I pulled my hands away, took a deliberate step back. He gasped as though I had struck him.

  “No, don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Maman, please. I … I fear him. He tells me I mustn’t listen to you, that you lead me astray.” He shuddered. “I want so much to believe him when he says I can be a great king, but he looks at me strangely, as if he doesn’t see me. He promised he’ll help me bring France peace and glory, but I don’t think it’s me he wants to guide.”

  My poor son. Coligny had hypnotized him, twisted him up in lies and deceit. But Charles was more perceptive than I’d been. He already sensed he was just a means to an end. Coligny did not care about my son. He wanted Navarre, his champion prince, the heir of his dead queen; Navarre, who had a blood-right to the succession. He wanted Navarre to inherit France. It was why he’d signed the letter to Jeanne, why he sought to undermine me. If he could push me aside, the Huguenots could wage war until no one was left to challenge Navarre’s right to the throne.

  “Charles.” I touched his shoulder. “You must promise never to see him again. He cares nothing for you. He is a liar. He has always been a liar and a traitor.”

  His mouth quivered. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I promise,” he whispered. “I do.”

  I pulled him close. “Don’t cry,” I murmured. “I am here. I will keep you safe, always.”

  I called for Birago and left Charles under his supervision, with guards at the door. I then returned to my study, where Lucrezia had closed the shutters to block the worst of the heat.

  I sat for a long time in silence, reliving the past.

  I saw him again as he’d been at my nuptial banquet, a solemn youth in ivory, with beautiful eyes. I remembered the dusk of St. Germain, when I sought his help against the Guises; and later, at Chenonceau, when his body entered mine. Every word that went between us, every touch, passed through me. And when I was done and the memories lay at my feet like crumpled papers, I realized there weren’t many, only a few in fact, though it was enough to fill a lifetime.

  Night descended. Lucrezia slipped in to light the candles and inquire about my supper. Nothing formal was planned tonight, so I had her serve me in my rooms. I didn’t eat much. With concern she asked if I needed anything else.

  “Yes,” I said to her. “Tell Henri I must see him.”

  He came soon after, clad in loose crimson pantaloons and an unlaced chemise that revealed the curls on his sculpted chest. His hair tumbled like a dark mane to his shoulders; his eyes were bright from the evening’s wine, reminding me of his grandfather François.

  “It’s like Hades in here,” he said. “Do you have a ribbon?”

  I undid a lace from my sleeve. He tied back his hair, roving to the table. He picked at the r
emains of my roast pheasant with his long fingers. “Margot is being impossible. I asked her to dine with me tonight and she sent back word that her head ached. Does she take me for an idiot? She never has headaches. All she wants to do anymore is sit in her rooms and mope.”

  I watched him take up the crystal decanter and pour wine into a goblet. He drank, eyeing me. “Well?” he said, and calmly, without any anger, I relayed everything I had discovered. When I was done, he sighed. “My, my: what a tangled web.”

  I shifted on my chair. “He’s determined to destroy us so he can—”

  “Turn his heretic devils on us.” Henri smiled. “Well, if Charles missed their meeting today, we can assume he’s been forewarned.”

  “For now. But it’s not enough. He’ll find another way. He always does.”

  I unfastened my ruff and tossed it aside. My son was right; the room was stifling. I wanted to crack open the casement, but my apartments sat on the first floor over the gardens and I couldn’t risk being overheard by courtiers who took to the shadows to make love or spin intrigue.

  “You could kill him,” Henri said, and I glanced sharply at him. He returned to the decanter. “There is a way. No one would suspect you had a hand in it.”

  The room went still—that kind of stillness like the gathering of clouds before a tempest.

  “What way?” I asked quietly.

  “Guise. He blames Coligny for murdering his father. He’d bathe in his blood given the chance. Of course, he’ll need direction. We don’t want him knifing Coligny at court.”

  “And you could …?”

  “Persuade him?” He traced his finger around the goblet rim. “Of course. Guise and I may have our differences, but when it comes to Coligny we understand each other.”

  I looked about my room. It was full of familiar objects, my children’s portraits on the walls among the most cherished. I paused on the painting of my Elisabeth, so lifelike it seemed she was here. Something ominous grew in the back of my mind, a terrible force.