The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  As Henri let out a laugh, I retorted, “It is no joking matter. If we don’t act quickly, we could face another war, only this time they’ll burn down Paris.” I motioned to Birago. “Tell them.”

  Birago was like a gnarled branch in his velvet robe, wisps of hair on his liver-spotted pate, yet he spoke with authority. “Over six thousand Huguenots are here; many came for the wedding but have yet to leave. Should they decide to seek retribution for the attempt on Coligny, they’ll do far more than wave cudgels and knives at our gates. They could storm the Louvre itself.”

  Guise stood silent. “Then let me make amends,” he said at length.

  I stared at him. “I gave you a time and place to do the deed, and you bungled it. What makes you think I’d entrust anything more to you save safe passage to your estate in Joinville?”

  “I don’t expect you to trust me,” he replied with surprising calm. “But I assure you that this time, I will not fail. Unlike Lazarus not even Coligny can rise from the grave.”

  Henri stepped to me. “Maman, I will go with him. We will kill everyone in the house.”

  Without warning, I heard my dead father-in-law’s voice in my head.

  That is the way of life, ma petite. Sometimes we must strike first …

  I pressed a hand to my chest, turning toward the Seine, its acrid stench intermingling with the sweetness of my garden. I couldn’t deny it anymore. If he recovered, Coligny would fight me—to the death. It was his life or mine.

  I turned back around. They shifted in the shadows: Guise a statue of ivory, Henri sleek and part of the night, Birago a wavering reflection of my own self.

  “All of them?” I whispered, and the faces of those I’d seen in the house flashed before me. They had wives, children. Could I live with their deaths?

  “All of them.” Guise recited the names impassively. “Coligny’s son-in-law Teligny, his captain Aubigne, the nobles Rochefoucauld, Souissy, and Armagnac: they are in that house and they must die. The Huguenot cause will never recover.” He paused, glancing at Henri, who made a deprecatory gesture. Guise returned his gaze to me. “You have Navarre. I suggest you keep him under guard until this is over. It goes without saying he can never return to his realm.”

  I hesitated, looking at each of them. My heart pounded in my ears. I thought of what they were asking of me, what I would set in motion if I agreed, and then, just as I began to doubt, I remembered Coligny’s words: We will fight for Navarre and a Huguenot France …

  It was him or me. It had always been him or me.

  I felt myself nod. “Tomorrow night,” I said quietly. “You can act then.”

  Guise bowed. With a wink at me, Henri pulled up his hood.

  “What day is tomorrow?” I asked, as they disappeared into the lengthening shadows.

  “Sunday the twenty-fifth,” said Birago. “The Eve of St. Bartholomew, patron of healers.”

  • • •

  The next day, at twelve o’clock of another scorching afternoon, I received word that Navarre had returned from his morning visit to Coligny. My son Hercule had joined him in his apartments and I dispatched our court prostitutes there, to ensure they had enough flesh and wine to lull them for hours, so they’d fail to notice the guards at their door. When Henri returned from his evening patrol to report that there had been no disturbances in Paris, though Huguenots still crammed the alleys and lanes around Coligny’s house, I went to see Charles.

  As I spoke to him, he sat on his bed with his hound beside him, juggling the shred of bullet back and forth in his hands. “So, it’s true,” he said when I finished. “Guise shot him.”

  “No.” I leaned forward in my chair. “I told Guise to do it. My only regret is that he failed. I met with Coligny in the morning; I had hoped to save his life, but he threatened me. After I pardoned him for acts no other would, he admitted he was responsible for le Balafré’s murder and he would fight to put Navarre on your throne. I decided I had no other choice.”

  Charles lowered his head; a low broken sound came from him. “Why do they hate us so much?” he whispered. “I don’t understand. Why, when all we ever wanted was peace?”

  “It’s not all of them. Charles, look at me.” I cupped his chin, raised his face to me. He had emulated Henri and started to grow a goatee, but in that instant all I saw was the boy he’d been when le Balafré and Coligny first went to war, with the same stricken bewilderment in his eyes. “It’s not all of them. There are many Huguenots who revere their king, who desire peace as much as we do. Do you understand? We must do this to save them.”

  A tear rolled down his pale cheek. The bullet slipped from his hand to the floor as he nodded, hugged his knees to his chest, and coiled up next to his dog.

  I left him in Birago’s care. In the corridor, I found Henri waiting. “There’s to be no change in our plans,” I told him. “Guise’s anger for Coligny still burns hot; I don’t want him going any further than the men in that house.”

  “I’ll oversee everything.” He gave me a reassuring smile. “Trust me, Maman. After tonight, you’ll never have to worry about the Huguenots again.”

  His words left me unsettled, though I didn’t know why. I could not turn back, I told myself as I returned to my rooms. I could not afford to indulge doubt or regret. I had to do whatever was necessary to preserve France. Other rulers before me had done away with their enemies; and Coligny was a traitor. He deserved to die for what he’d done.

  Still, I barely tasted my food, sitting in silence while my women moved about sorting odds and ends, until I thought to ask, “Has anyone seen Margot?”

  Anna-Maria shook her head. “No, my lady. She has been keeping to her rooms, but I heard that she planned to dine with Queen Isabel this evening in her apartments.”

  It sounded reasonable enough and yet I found myself thinking it would be better if Margot stayed with me tonight. Isabel retired early. Who knew where my daughter might stray? I didn’t want her going to see her husband or brother Hercule and finding guards at their door.

  “I’ll fetch her,” I said. “I feel the need for company. Lucrezia, come with me. Anna-Maria, stay here and ready a truckle bed for her in my room.”

  I pulled my velvet shawl about my shoulders, opened the door, and stepped with Lucrezia into the corridor. On the walls, the torches sizzled, casting more smoke than light. I glanced at Lucrezia; she returned my look with a wariness that made me again aware of what was happening beyond the palace walls. It was almost as if I could see the armed men following Guise and Henri as they galloped down Paris’s dark streets to the house on rue de Béthisy, where a gravely wounded man lay in his bed, unaware that death approached.

  “It’ll be fine,” I said to Lucrezia, and, I think, to myself. “You’ll see. It will all be fine …”

  As we wound through the long passages of the old palace, I was struck by the silence. There were no official entertainments planned tonight, so the court had no doubt scattered to its own diversions, yet the Louvre was preternaturally hushed. It disconcerted me; I was used to seeing groups of women swishing past in gem-spangled gowns and lithe men prowling the shadows. We were overcrowded with guests of rank invited to the wedding; yet now it seemed as if the entire palace stood empty.

  I glanced again at Lucrezia. “It’s like a tomb. Where is everyone?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.” Something in her tone, almost like an expectant fear, brought me to a halt. “Lucrezia, what is it?”

  “It’s nothing,” she began, and she paused, gazing at me from within the shawl she had pulled over her head. “I thought you knew. Rumor is, His Majesty is unwell and ordered an early curfew.”

  “Unwell?” I frowned. “But I left Charles only a few hours ago. He was upset but not …”

  Trust me, Maman. After tonight, you’ll never have to worry about the Huguenots again.

  As I recalled Henri’s cryptic words, a sudden gasp escaped me. I began walking, more quickly now, a hand at my throat. Lucrez
ia hastened after me. We traversed a courtyard littered with gravel and other refuse, the fountain in the center a mess of rubble, part of my ongoing renovations; I stumbled and felt Lucrezia grip my arm. She pointed at my feet. Looking down, I saw I still wore my soft-soled indoor slippers.

  “I should have changed my shoes,” I said. We skirted the fountain and moved toward an arcade illumined by sconces, where a staircase led up to Isabel’s apartments.

  It was then that I heard the mournful toll of a tocsin.

  “Saint Germain-l’Auxerrois,” Lucrezia explained, to my relief. It was the church across from the Louvre; at this hour, I was usually abed myself, writing or reading, so I’d failed to recognize it. But as the bell continued to ring, signaling an emergency, fear seized me. I went still, my shawl clutched about me, Lucrezia reaching for my hand when—

  A pistol shot exploded. I met Lucrezia’s stare. Another shot came and then a scream tore the silence, followed by another—anguished wails that reverberated into the night, punctuated by distant shouting, clanking steel, and the frantic pounding of footsteps.

  Then the unearthly silence fell anew.

  “Margot,” I whispered. “We must find Margot before—”

  A round of harquebus shots into what seemed the very space above our heads cut off my voice. Lucrezia gasped as I stood swaying, buffeted by the cacophony coming from the palace.

  In a flash at the corner of my vision, something streaked past us. I jerked around, grasping Lucrezia. A lone man raced through the arcade—a youth with tousled hair, in a black doublet and hose, his mouth wide in soundless terror, hands extended as if he pushed through glass. Behind him followed a group I recognized at once as men of our court, dressed in leather jerkins and black masks, carrying pistols and knives. I watched them gain on the youth as he darted about a column, skidding to a halt when he realized too late his mistake and doubling around the way he’d come. He sprinted into the courtyard, dodging one of the men who leapt at him, nearly colliding with the fountain as he came running, running—straight to me.

  His hands seemed to stretch out impossibly, fingers clawing at the air. I felt my own hand lift, reach for his. A splash of scarlet gushed from his mouth. He fell on his face inches from where I stood, a dagger stuck in his back.

  With lupine howls, two of the masked men kicked him faceup and plunged their daggers repeatedly into his chest. Then one looked up and saw me. He froze.

  “C’est la reine mère!” he exclaimed. I met his white-rimmed eyes through his mask; then he yanked out his blade and ran off with the group, laughing boisterously as if they were at a fete.

  I looked at the corpse at my feet, the stunned green eyes already glazing over. On his blood-soaked doublet was a red shield, embroidered with interlocked chains in silver thread.

  The shield of Navarre.

  You are two halves of a whole. You need each other to fulfill your destiny.

  I gasped. “No, not him.” A primal urge overcame me. I bolted to the staircase, Lucrezia behind. As we climbed the stone stairs, my lungs burned, my skirts catching wetly at my ankles. Glancing down I was horrified to see smears of blood in my wake; I had somehow trailed my skirt edges in that poor boy’s blood.

  I heard Lucrezia panting as we reached the third floor. Here there was unsettling stillness. Though I could hear rounds of shots in the distance, raucous yelling and terrified shrieks, they seemed unreal, muffled by the tapestries lining the passage. We staggered to the gilded doors of the queen’s apartments; I saw a red cross splashed on the wood, the paint still dripping, and banged on the doors with my fist, wondering why there were no guards present, even as I knew in the dark whirlpool of my mind that I needn’t fear; my daughter-in-law would be safe. Secret orders had been given. Only those who ventured out risked death.

  “It’s me!” I cried. “Open up!” My voice echoed eerily. I heard a bolt scrape over a lock and the door opened, revealing Isabel in her robe, her hair escaping its net at her nape in sweat-dampened strands. I stared in bewilderment at the white cloth with a red cross tied about her left forearm. Before I could say a word she grasped me by the shoulders. “Get inside, now! You’re not wearing the sign. They’ll kill you without it.”

  I pulled away before she could force me into her rooms. Behind her I glimpsed the pale faces of her women, kneeling before her prie-dieu. “What sign?” I said, and hysteria crept into my voice. “What is happening? Tell me this instant.”

  “The sign.” She jabbed her armband. “It shows you are a Catholic. Don’t you know what they’re doing? They’re killing the heretics. Everyone without the sign dies.”

  Lucrezia let out an anguished moan. I looked at her and felt as if I’d gone mad. “No, it cannot be. I told them only those in the house. This can’t be happening. It can’t.”

  The sound of screaming spun us around; we froze as we saw three women running as if crazed down the passageway by the staircase, around the corner into the long gallery that led to the king’s wing. Men followed, carrying pikes. The women’s desperation seemed to bounce off every wall, magnifying until I couldn’t hear anything else.

  The screams were abruptly cut off.

  “Get inside,” Isabel repeated. “We’ll be protected here. The sign and God will protect us.”

  I turned back to her. “Where is Margot? Is she with you?”

  Isabel shook her head. “No. She didn’t come to dine. She … she sent word that she was going to visit with her husband.”

  “Dio Mio, she’s with Navarre.” I thrust out my hand. “Give me your armband.” Isabel stared at me, petrified. “Quick, woman,” I barked and she fumbled at the cloth, untying it.

  “My lady, please. You mustn’t! Navarre is a Huguenot; they’ll kill you too.” Lucrezia grabbed hold of me as I knotted the cloth about my left sleeve.

  “They won’t kill me.” I lifted my eyes to hers. “I’m the Queen Mother. They think I …” My voice faltered, cracked at its seams. “They think I ordered it.”

  “I’m going with you,” Lucrezia said.

  “No. It’s not safe. I’m better off alone. You stay here with Her Grace. Bolt that door and don’t let anyone in. Do you hear me? No matter what, don’t let anyone in.”

  As Isabel took Lucrezia by the hand I turned away, back down the passageway under the flickering torches, toward the corner where the screaming women had run. Alone now, it was as though every sense in me heightened, so that even the most muted sounds of death coming from the opposite ends of the palace were distinct, assaulting me like an inescapable tide.

  And as I walked through the palace where my worst nightmare was taking form, where I’d lived with my husband, raised my children, and fought for my country, I remembered the dream I had the night after I saw Nostradamus for the last time. I recalled the shadowy figures, the bell and the screams. I saw myself again, trailing blood. I’d not understood at the time, but now I did.

  In seeking to kill one man, I was about to bring about the deaths of thousands.

  And I might be too late to save the very prince I’d been told I must protect.

  I blundered into the long gallery, my heels skidding on the wet floor. I didn’t look down; I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, trying to ignore the shrieking coming from a room nearby, deafening me.

  “Navarre,” I whispered. “Navarre must not die.”

  I came to the end of the gallery; to my right, an open arcade led into the privy garden. I drew to a halt as I caught sight of a group of naked Huguenots. Soldiers in our livery were hauling them together, their clothes discarded in a heap, the men yelling and struggling, the women covering their faces with their hands and crying. The soldiers thrust pikes through them, scything them like wheat. I watched them fall upon each other, some still alive, others dead, and then the soldiers began stabbing indiscriminately, plunging their pikes into that mass of flesh.

  “Not Navarre.” I started to pray. “Please, God, not him.”

  I kept moving
. I knew that if Navarre was alive, the only place he could be was in the king’s apartments. No matter what happened in the palace, no matter how much madness was unleashed, no one would dare harm him if he was with Charles. I prayed Margot had somehow gotten wind of the plans and that was why she’d not visited Isabel, going instead to bribe or order away the guards at the apartment doors so she could take Navarre to safety.

  More bodies began to appear along the corridors I passed through, stripped of clothing, throats cut, sightless eyes wide and bellies spilling entrails. I kept seeing my daughter sprawled among them, her gorgeous hair matted with blood; and as I discerned a keening that seemed to come from nowhere, I realized it was me, my voice seeping in hushed anguish from my lips.

  When I heard a burst of laughter behind me, I whirled about. Drifting among the corpses behind me were our court prostitutes, clad in their best finery, their bosoms glistening with pearls and rubies, their skin powdered and white armbands dangling crucifixes and rosaries. They were whispering to each other, pointing at a past client or lover, now butchered at their feet. As one tapped a corpse with her high-heeled slipper, I choked back bile.

  I lost track of my surroundings, though I’d come this way a thousand times before to see my son. I paused, forced myself to focus, to recognize a familiar furnishing, a painting, a statue to guide me. I felt trapped in a warren as I turned abruptly and started down a dark passageway, avoiding the larger rooms and galleries, weaving around black pools of blood. My hem sloshed; incarnadine splashes crested the wainscoting almost to the eaves; discarded and broken weaponry was strewn everywhere, as if our entire armory had been ransacked. Then I saw Charles’s initials on the far oak doors and heaved a sigh of relief. I was near his private rooms.

  I tripped against something. As I gasped and drew back, I could not tear my gaze from the stunted little body blocking my path, its crooked back riddled with stab wounds. I felt my scream unspool in my throat before I realized it wasn’t my dwarf, not my precious Anna-Maria. It was male, one of Charles’s favorite jesters, whom my son liked to see tumble and juggle balls.