The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  There will never be peace while he and his kind live.

  “What do you suggest?” I said, and I was surprised at how easily I accepted it, how I felt as though a great burden I hadn’t realized I carried had been lifted from me.

  He braced one leg behind him, the goblet balanced on his knee. “It must be done anonymously, so Guise will need a time and place. Coligny has some sort of routine, I assume?”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t know. Birago can find out, but we cannot risk an uproar before the wedding next week. Afterward …” I considered. “What if I summon him?”

  Henri arched a brow. “Do you think he’ll come?”

  “I do,” I said, and I could already envision him before me, unyielding in his black doublet. I wanted to confront him, I realized. I wanted to hear him admit the truth to my face, for once in his life. “He suspects me of killing Jeanne and is anxious for Navarre. Without Charles’s support he’ll fear he’s losing his influence. Yes, I think he’ll see me. He can’t do anything else.”

  Henri’s eyes glittered, like serrated jewels. “When?”

  “I’ll send word. Tell Guise I’ll pay whomever he hires for the deed but make sure he understands he undertakes it of his own accord. If it comes to it, I’ll deny all complicity.”

  Henri quaffed his goblet. He leaned down to kiss my cheek, enveloping me in his musky scent of claret, salt and sweat, and the jasmine essence he used to perfume his throat and wrists. “Trust me to take care of Guise,” he said and he untied his hair, dropping the ribbon in my lap.

  Left alone, I finally undid my own hair. Light flickered in my bedchamber; the candles were lit, the covers turned down. Lucrezia and Anna-Maria waited.

  But I knew sleep wouldn’t give me solace this night.

  To the clamor of bells, we assembled on the dais outside Notre Dame’s doors rather than in its cool interior, suffocating in our finery. An ocean of people converged around the platform, Huguenot and Catholic together, united for the moment by the event. My daughter and her groom knelt on cushions before the makeshift and secular altar. Margot wore violet; Navarre had opted for complementary mauve, his copper hair springing up about his matching cap.

  Monsignor intoned the oratory. It was designed for brevity, so we might escape as soon as possible, but halfway through Charles started to shift in his throne, his spidery fingers tapping his chair arm. “On, on,” he muttered. “Can’t he just bless them and be done? It’s infernal out here.”

  I agreed. Perspiration dripped under my coif and my purple damask. Everyone else was equally sick with heat; even young Guise—seated opposite us in a tier with his mother the duchess, his uncles, my daughter Claude, and her husband of Lorraine—seemed relieved when Monsignor finally asked, “Do you, Marguerite de Valois, princess of France, take Henri de Bourbon, king of Navarre, as your lawful husband, to cherish so long as you both shall live?”

  I held my breath. Margot did not move. The silence lengthened.

  Charles spat, “Damn her!” and leapt up to push Margot from behind, forcing her head forward and upsetting her diadem, which slid precariously from her brow. Her cheeks turned scalding red as she righted herself. “She agrees,” crowed Charles, and Monsignor repeated the question to Navarre, who laconically assented. “I do.”

  It was over. As the populace threw wilted flowers into the air, we assembled behind Margot and proceeded into Notre Dame. During the stampede to the pews, I felt a touch on my arm and turned to find Henri. “Congratulations, Maman. Coligny didn’t stop the wedding.”

  “Shh!” I rebuked as trumpets sounded a ponderous note. “What of the other matter?”

  “He agrees.” My son leaned close. “There’s someone in his employ—Maurevert, I believe he’s called. You might be interested to know he once served in the Huguenot army, a turncoat like the man who shot le Balafré. Ironic, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, yes. But remember: not until I send word.”

  I sat beside my daughter-in-law, who looked drawn from the heat. She’d thus far shown no signs of fertility, though Birago had assured me that Charles did not neglect his spousal duty. I had begun to worry over her constitution; I needed her to bear a son that would put Navarre at even greater distance from the throne.

  “After mass, you should retire,” I advised. “There’s no need for you to overtire yourself.”

  She nodded in weary gratitude, turning her gaze back to the altar. Margot knelt alone. Navarre attended a Huguenot service in a nearby temple.

  Isabel sighed. “Such a beautiful bride, but so sad.”

  “Let her get with child,” I retorted, impatient with her moods, “and she’ll know happiness soon enough.”

  Two days later, I summoned Coligny.

  THIRTY-ONE

  HE ENTERED MY STUDY AND BOWED, AS IF THE HEAT DIDN’T AFFECT him at all, a black ruff cradling his bearded chin, every button of his doublet fastened and his cloak draped over his shoulders. I’d always appreciated his magnetic attraction; now I felt it aimed at me like a curse.

  I motioned. “Sit, my lord. There’s no need for ceremony.”

  “If Your Grace doesn’t mind, I would prefer to stand.”

  “Very well.” I felt his gaze follow me as I paced to my desk. I let the silence build, until he said, “I assume I’ve been called here to some purpose?”

  I turned to face him. The corners of his mouth twitched, as if he subdued one of his rare smiles. Was he amused?

  “Yes,” I said. “I have called you for a reason and I believe you know what it is.” I paused, watching him. His face was immutable, like stone. And he wasn’t sweating. The morning sun already broiled Paris but he didn’t shed a drop.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Oh? Are you telling me you have not been meeting with my son and Navarre, counseling them on how to best rule this realm?”

  He frowned. “Are you accusing me of disloyalty? If so, you are mistaken. I did meet with His Majesty and Navarre but only to discuss issues concerning the defense of France.”

  “We are at peace. Who are we supposed to be defending ourselves against?”

  “Spain,” he said, and I laughed aloud. “Not that again!”

  He met my eyes. “You may not think Spain worthy of fear, but you have not heard from the countless refugees fleeing Philip’s massacres in Flanders and the Netherlands.”

  I stared at him, forgetting in that instant that I’d decided his fate. I felt almost pity for him, wondering how he could remain mired in fear of a menace that had failed to materialize.

  “You surprise me,” I said. “I’d have thought that after all these years you’d have seen through Philip of Spain’s threats by now. He likes to pretend he’ll fall upon us at any moment, but he hasn’t so far and I, for one, doubt he ever will. He has more pressing concerns.”

  “And you always underestimate your foes,” he replied, with unexpected intimacy. “You made the same mistake with the Guises, I believe.”

  I refused to let the gentle rebuke in his tone affect me. “You are right: I have underestimated you.” Before he could react, I added, “I know you didn’t advise Charles against Spain. You advised him against me.”

  I watched his expression falter. It was astonishing. He’d lured my child to his house to turn him against me and yet he looked as if he’d never thought I might find out.

  “I fear you misunderstand,” he said. “The king and I did speak but I never counseled him against you. I merely told him—”

  “That I might have poisoned Jeanne and will make Navarre convert.” I smiled as I saw the impact of my words drain the color from his face. “Oh, and I must be exiled from France, because I’ll bring the realm to ruin. Is that all, my lord? Or did I miss something?”

  He didn’t shift a muscle. He met my stare and said in a low voice, “I loved you once. Yet now you accuse me of conspiring against you?”

  It felt as though my heart twisted in my chest. “How can you say
that? You deceived me, believed lies told of me, waged war against me. You never loved me.”

  “Oh, I did. I loved you so badly I did what I never thought I could.” The sadness that rose in his eyes riveted me. “Or have you forgotten how I saved you from le Balafré?”

  “Le Balafré? What … what has he to do with this?”

  “Everything. I had him killed, you see. I did it for you.”

  I stood as if melded to my spot. “You declared yourself innocent of the charge. I ordered an investigation. You swore you had nothing to do with it.”

  “I lied.” His voice quavered, as if he held back a near-overwhelming emotion. “I lied because I thought … I believed at the time we would find our way back to each other, once it was over. But I was wrong. You went on progress and when you came back, everything had changed.”

  I did not feel my hand rise, not until I was pressing it to my lips.

  “I am to blame,” he said. “I know that now. I never let you know how I felt. When I saw you again, two years had passed and my wife was dead. I felt such guilt at her passing. I watched her agonize for months and all I could do was long to be free of her. But when she finally went, I was so alone. I had nothing but my children and my faith. Then you summoned me to Blois and I saw we would never be who we were, and it was as if something died inside me, forever.”

  “Dear God.” I turned away. Even as I fought against it, a terrifying hope began to rise in me. “You never said a word—not even then, at Blois, when it might have made a difference …”

  “I know. What good would it have done? You had changed. I thought it best to let you go.”

  His words shuddered through me. I whirled around, stabbed my finger at him. “I did not change,” I said, my voice trembling. “You did. You believed I’d agreed with Philip to persecute your faith and you went to war. It wasn’t me who did this to us: it was you. It was always you!”

  He bowed his head. He looked as if he might weep. I thought that if he did, if he begged my forgiveness for what he’d done, for the betrayal and the pain he’d caused, I would let him live. I would send him back to Châtillon and his children, deprived of all power but unharmed.

  I would not stain my conscience with his blood.

  Then I heard him say, “Sometimes we must strike first, before we are struck in turn,” and I froze, meeting his eyes. In them, I saw what I had for so long anticipated—and dreaded.

  Silence fell between us, taut like the pull on fabric before it shreds.

  “You admit it,” I breathed. “You admit everything.”

  “I do. I fought for the only thing I had left: my faith. You and I had reached an impasse. Where you saw compromise, I did not. But believe me, I never meant to become your enemy.”

  “And yet,” I said, “here we are.” I drew back, lifting my chin. “You will resign from the Council and leave Paris. You are unfit. Be grateful that I spare your life, for no other monarch would.”

  “If His Majesty commands it, I will submit.” He stepped close to me, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. “You make a mistake if you think I am of any account. My faith will prevail, with or without me. We will fight for Navarre and a Huguenot France. Nothing you do can change that.”

  “You … you think you can threaten me?” I whispered. “If so, then you are the one who is mistaken, for come what may, I will prevail.” I took one last look at him, engraving this moment in my memory so I would never be tempted to rue this day. “We are done here, my lord.”

  He bowed and walked out, without a single glance back.

  A cold pit opened in my stomach. I turned to my desk, retrieved the sealed note I had written that morning. I called for a page. “Bring this to my son, Prince Henri.”

  After that, I went about my business. I wrote my letters, bathed, changed one black gown for another, and sat down to dine. At one in the afternoon as my supper was being served, in the street winding from the Louvre to the rue de Béthisy a shot rang out.

  Lucrezia was clearing the table when Henri came to me. Leaning to my ear he whispered, “They got him. But he’s not dead. He had men with him; they saw the house from where the shot was fired. When they broke in, a harquebus was on the table. It had Guise’s insignia on it.”

  I looked at Lucrezia, standing still with the water pitcher in hand. I waved her out, shoving back my chair angrily to stand. “He’s a fool! I told you, I wanted it done anonymously.”

  Henri heaved an exasperated breath. “He wanted them to know who had avenged his father.”

  “Then he’s put us all in danger. Coligny threatened me; he said he’d fight for Navarre. Now, instead of a corpse, we have a wounded leader who’ll demand justice.”

  Henri frowned. “They say the shot went through his shoulder. Maybe he’ll die.”

  “Not soon enough.” I struggled for calm, for control, even as I felt myself tumbling into an abyss. “We must send our Dr. Paré to him. Then I’ll take Charles and visit.”

  Henri gaped at me. “But they’ll all be there, his men, the other Huguenot leaders …” His voice faded into understanding. “I see. We must act as if we had nothing to do with it.”

  Turning from him, I called for Birago. As he hustled away to get Charles, I said to Henri: “Keep Guise out of sight. At dusk, bring him to the oleander grotto in the Tuileries.”

  We went by coach to the rue de Béthisy, flanked by armed guards.

  A crowd of Huguenots already stood vigil outside Coligny’s house. In less than an hour, word had spread. By nightfall, I feared, all of Paris would be in tumult.

  As we descended from the coach, someone yelled, “Murderers! Papist fiends!” and Charles cringed. I raised my chin. No one dared forbid us entrance, and in the main hall of the house we found more Huguenots, all men who went silent at our appearance. To my disbelief, Navarre stepped forth, his hair disheveled and chemise unlaced, as if he’d just woken from a nap.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  Navarre searched my face. I almost looked away, wondering if he’d see the complicity etched on my features. “He was shot in the shoulder. It’s bad, but we’re told he’ll survive.” He glanced at Charles, then back at me. “You shouldn’t have come. It wasn’t necessary. They already know who did it. You should be issuing a warrant for Guise’s arrest.”

  “We will, when we know all the facts. Now, take us to him.”

  Navarre led us to the staircase. The Huguenots parted as we passed. No one said a word.

  Upstairs, Paré bustled to me, older now, but with the same brisk efficiency he’d shown when attending to my husband and eldest son in their death throes. “The wound is deep,” he said in a low voice. “I’ve extracted the bullet and set the bone. He lost a finger and his elbow is shattered, but if he rests and keeps the dressing clean, in time he will recover.”

  Charles had stepped to the bed where Coligny lay. Supine on the narrow mattress, he looked very small, almost insignificant.

  Until he raised his eyes to me and I saw them smolder with all the force of his will.

  Charles said softly, “My friend, I promise to find the culprit and exact full retribution.”

  Coligny did not take his stare from me. Everything around us faded. “Your Majesty,” I heard him whisper, “I suspect no other than Guise.”

  I moved to the bed. “Paré says you will recover. I am glad, for I remember when le Balafré was shot. The doctors said if the bullet could have been extracted, he might have lived.”

  Coligny smiled. “As I said once to you, my life is of no account.”

  As his smile knifed through me, I suddenly understood. It all came into monstrous focus. He wanted to die. He wanted to perish for his faith, for then he’d wield greater power than he ever had alive. He too had learned his lesson from the murder of le Balafré.

  He had seen the devotion martyrs could engender.

  I met his burning stare. “My only regret,” he said, and he turned his eyes to Charles, “is that my wound prev
ents me from serving Your Majesty at this perilous time.” His hand reached up to grip Charles’s; even as I watched, horrified, Charles bent down and Coligny whispered, pressing as he did something into Charles’s palm.

  Then he collapsed upon his pillows, his face ashen.

  Charles turned to me and held out his hand. “Here is the bullet.”

  I glanced at the shredded nub. “We must let the admiral rest,” I said, and I could feel Coligny watching us as I took Charles by the hand and guided him to the door.

  Our guards surrounded us. In the coach, seated opposite each other while we lurched over cobblestones, I asked, “What did he say to you?”

  Tears swam in Charles’s eyes. “Nothing,” he murmured, and the moment we reached the Louvre, he rushed past Birago into the palace. Birago met my stare.

  “Come with me,” I said to him.

  • • •

  In the oleander grotto, delicate bushes transported from Florence sat in tubs filled with native soil, waiting to be replanted. Their red and white blossoms were brazen, their scent as overpowering as their distilled essence could be lethal. Hedges ringed beds of rosemary and marjoram; scattered throughout were enamel salamanders, frogs, snakes, and grinning satyrs.

  Two men approached us. One moved with a grace I recognized at once; the other was taller, broader. My throat tightened when he swept back his cloak’s hood. With his handsome, chiseled features, white-gold hair, and those deep blue eyes he had the beauty of a young lion.

  Beside him, Henri was a dark panther, rubies glimmering about his bare throat, his hair loose about his shoulders and the beginnings of a goatee sharpening his chin.

  “You are in grave danger,” I told Guise. “You should not have failed me.”

  His eyes met mine. His voice when he spoke was husky, made for the bedroom. “I know. Already the heretics surround my hôtel. They wave cudgels and knives, and scream for my head. I’m fortunate His Highness was with me or they’d have fallen on me like locusts.” His full lips parted in a disdainful smile. “I hope there are no heretics hiding in the bushes here.”