The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  He had already discussed this with Louise. He had planned it even before he arrived. My mind spun; I felt as though I’d just stepped off a precipice into the unknown. I knew instinctually that if I resisted, if I tried to dissuade him, I’d achieve only his mistrust. This was his first official act as a king and I must honor it, difficult as it might be.

  I set my goblet aside and leaned to him, taking his face between my hands, inhaling his scent of musk mixed with the expensive ambergris he used in his hair.

  “Are you truly certain about this girl?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Will you see to it, Maman? Will you do me the honor of arranging my marriage? I can think of no one better suited to the task.”

  I looked into his eyes, so dark and expressive, so like my own in my youth it was as though I gazed into a mirror. “Yes,” I said. “I’ll take care of it. You rest now. Go back to your Guast.”

  He kissed me and stood. As I pulled myself up and reached for the portfolio, which contained my recommendations for his Council, he said, “Leave it. I’ll look it over later.”

  I smiled and left, and made my way straight to Birago’s rooms. He was on his couch, a skullcap on his liver-spotted pate, his portable desk at his side, immersed in work as always.

  I told him everything. When I finished, he sat quiet for a spell before he said, “Perhaps it’s for the best.”

  I stared at him. “You can’t be serious. He wants to marry a Guise!”

  “Technically, as he told you, she’s a Lorraine. And she’s hardly a threat.”

  “Oh? And what if he’s wrong? What if Monsignor takes her under his wing, like he did with Mary Stuart?” I lowered my voice. “She knows about Henri; he told me so himself. Together with Monsignor, she could make him a laughingstock, turn this entire court upside down.”

  “Madama, I trust Monsignor no more than you but Louise de Lorraine-Vaudémont brings nothing to this marriage save her person. And men of Henri’s predilection are not incapable of the act with a woman. Were it so, half the marriages in this world would be childless.”

  I looked hard at him, wondering if I’d failed to note the same affinity in him. I’d never heard a single hint of impropriety in all the years he had served me and I’d come to see him as a genderless being, though of course he must have had needs. The thought that I might not know my intimate as well as I supposed brought a curt laugh to my lips.

  “You honestly think she’ll turn a blind eye every time Guast takes her place in Henri’s bed?”

  “Yes. Every royal union is the same, regardless of the spouses’ tastes, and serves the same purpose: to breed heirs. After His Majesty, Prince Hercule is next in line to the throne and we know he can never rule or sire children; after him, there is Navarre. Under other circumstances I’d agree Louise is less than ideal, but we need this time to bring stability to the realm. There is a new king on the throne; our deficit is immense, the harvest poor, and the Huguenots sneak back over our borders. We can’t afford to argue his choice of a queen, so long as he has one.”

  “You try my patience,” I said tersely. “I know all too well how much we endure. Have I not been at the helm of this country these many years?”

  “Madama, no one questions your devotion. But we now have a king of age to rule and he must do so.” He paused. “It is always difficult for the lioness to let her cub leave the pride but in the end she must. And the cub must learn to be a lion in his own right. What the king needs now are experienced advisers to guide him and a queen who’ll take what he can give. But if you try to thwart him, he could dig his heels in. Remember Charles; we can’t afford the same mistake.”

  I scowled. “Very well, but only after you find out everything you can about her. And she comes alone, without favors, and without brothers and uncles seeking favors. I won’t have the entire Guise-Lorraine clan invading this court. Understood?”

  “Perfectly. What of Monsignor? He’ll expect a seat on the Council for this.”

  “He can expect alms from beggars. After he brings her, he will return to his diocese and tend to his flock. I’ll not abide him in my presence. The only Guise I trust is a dead one.”

  Six days later the cardinal himself came to say good-bye.

  I dined in my apartments when the chill overcame me. I looked up to see him standing at the wall, his translucent figure wavering like red smoke against the tapestry. He lifted a hand. I glimpsed a sardonic smile on his face. Then I blinked and he was gone.

  Lucrezia shuddered, went to close the draperies at the window. “I feel a draft.”

  “It wasn’t a draft,” I said. “Monsignor is dead.”

  My ladies went still. I continued with my supper.

  The next morning word came that Monsignor had caught a fever on his way to Savoy and taken to his bed. At the very hour I’d seen him, he died. He was forty-nine years old.

  I didn’t grieve his passing; I was not that much of a hypocrite. But I liked to think that in coming to see me, he had finally acknowledged my victory.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  WE HELD MY SON’S CORONATION IN FEBRUARY; TWO DAYS later, he wed Louise de Lorraine-Vaudémont.

  Birago’s investigation had uncovered an astonishing virtuousness. Even Claude, who’d recently given birth to her second daughter and couldn’t attend the wedding owing to a mild case of fever, endorsed Louise. Our twenty-one-year-old bride had led a sheltered life; she’d been a companion for her father before his death and then departed for Savoy to attend my own sister-in-law, Marguerite.

  I had nothing to object to, save her connection to the Guise family. Still, as she came down the aisle to the altar, a fine-boned girl clad in lavender, I wondered how she would hold any lasting appeal for my son. Nevertheless, Henri seemed genuinely delighted with her, plucking a pink rose from the garland overhead to tuck into her fair hair. Color flushed her cheeks; she lifted her brown eyes adoringly to him as he kissed her and the court burst into applause.

  From across the aisle, Birago caught my eye and winked.

  After the wedding, I dedicated the summer to the selection of the Council with Henri, while Birago guided him without remonstration, so obsequious that my son didn’t appear to realize that he was in fact under tutelage. Despite my initial apprehension, Guast remained in the background, even after he had gained his title and a lavish new wardrobe, while Louise garnered praise for her quiet dignity. Birago reported that my son visited her bed at least twice a week.

  In late July, word arrived that my daughter Claude’s health was failing. She was only twenty-seven, but the ordeal of giving birth and ongoing struggle with childbed fever had taken their toll. I made immediate plans to go to her. At the last minute, as Lucrezia and I mounted my coach, Margot appeared with valise in hand. “My sister is ill,” she said. “I wish to see her.”

  I bit back the retort that she’d never cared for Claude before. In fact, my second daughter had led such a quiet life in Lorraine, far from our entanglements, at times we forgot her altogether.

  When we arrived at her home, Claude was resting; not wishing to disturb her, I had her worried husband show me to my rooms. As I sat on a padded chair, my aching feet propped on a stool while Lucrezia unpacked my coffers, he brought in little Christina and Charles, my daughter Claude’s two eldest children.

  Four-year-old Christina was a replica of Claude at that age, with the same plump body and doe-brown eyes. Her brother Charles took after the Lorraine-Guise side with his slim height, a rash of adolescent pimples marring his pensive face. I could see they were awed by their legendary grandmother, of whom they’d no doubt heard many tales, but then Christina abruptly wrapped chubby arms about my neck. “Grand-maman, you’re so old!”

  She couldn’t possibly remember me. Though I’d sent gifts and money for the children every year, never forgetting a birthday or Christmas, I’d never seen them, for when Claude came on her rare visits to court, they stayed behind. Nonetheless, Christina’s innocent declaration brought tears to m
y eyes. Then Charles cleared his throat and said, “Welcome, Madame Grand-mère.”

  I gave him a smile. “My child, you’re so big. Almost a man, eh? Come, I’ve some presents for you.” My granddaughter beamed. I said, “Lucrezia, show Christina her new dress. I believe it’s the perfect shade for her complexion.”

  As Christina squealed over the rose velvet dress my women had created for her out of one of my court gowns, Anna-Maria brought me a volume bound in maroon Florentine leather that I’d ordered made in Italy especially for Charles, its cover inscribed with his name in gold leaf.

  I handed it to him. “The Prince by Machiavelli,” I told him. “My favorite book. I think you are of age now to appreciate its wisdom.”

  He fingered the book as if it were a jewel. “Thank you,” he breathed, his eyes glowing just as my own late son’s, his namesake, had when given a new falcon or pet hound. Only this Charles was clearly a scholar; the veneration with which he retreated to the window to open the book demonstrated he would never find satisfaction in swords or armor.

  I leaned back against my chair and closed my eyes, content with the simple joy of having children about me again.

  Later that evening I went to see Claude. I took one look at her emaciated form and placid smile and my heart sank. Still, I tutted over her, dug out my battered pot and herbs and commenced to cook up rhubarb drafts, while Lucrezia marshaled the servants.

  Every morning for two months I awoke, bathed my daughter, and assisted her to a chair at the window overlooking the gardens. Sometimes, I read to her aloud. Other times we sat as she gazed into the gardens, smiling when she heard her young daughter laughing with Margot.

  “Margot is so full of life, like a child herself,” Claude said to me. “She’d be a good mother. You must see that she reunites with her husband. She needs a child of her own.”

  I smiled, blinking back tears at the thought of how perceptive she was and how little any of us had truly known her.

  One afternoon in August, I awoke from a doze to find her eyes fixed on me. Never beautiful, she had acquired an evanescent grace, her large grayish eyes overpowering her fragile face. In a quiet voice, she said, “I’m tired, Maman.”

  My throat knotted. I was about to lose this daughter of mine, whom I’d paid least attention to, whose stoic devotion to her family had spared her the excesses of ours. I belatedly saw that of all of us Claude had been the wisest. She’d known best how to escape the pain and fury that characterized our lives.

  I started to rise, to help her back to bed. She shook her head. “No, I want to stay here by the window. Call the others.”

  One by one they filed in: her bereaved husband, who loved her as few men love their wives; her favorite servants; the devoted nursemaid who cared for her infant daughter, Antoinette, and her son Charles, his chin quivering. Christina played in my rooms with Anna-Maria, for I would not let her witness this; it was too traumatic for such a young child.

  Then, as I stood gripping Lucrezia’s hand, Margot entered, bringing me the memory of her and Claude when they were girls in the nurseries, the one bold, always hungry for acclaim, the other stolid and plain, content to stay in the shadows.

  “I was never a sister to you,” Margot said as she knelt before Claude. “Please forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.” Claude placed her hand on Margot’s cheek. “You must be kind to Maman. Respect and support her, for you are her only daughter now. Promise me.”

  “I … I promise.” Margot turned away. She met my eyes and for a brief moment we reunited.

  We waited together. Toward dusk, Claude kissed her husband and closed her eyes.

  After the funeral, at my insistence, Claude’s husband took his children to their grandparents’ home near the Guise family seat in Joinville. Left in the house with the servants, Lucrezia, Margot, and I packed up Claude’s belongings as a donation in her name to the convent of St. Claire, which she had patronized.

  The night before our departure, I stood in my rooms overseeing the packing of my coffers when my gift stirred. I went still, my hand poised in midair; around me, the walls dissolved.

  I stand in a torchlit corridor outside the great hall; I can hear the strumming of lutes and thumping of kettledrums interspersed with laughter and though I cannot see them I know the court revels. I look about. Why am I here? Then I catch sight of six men coming toward me in masks and hooded cloaks, led by a broad-shouldered figure whose face I can’t see under his mask. Beside him, his own cloak bunched over his hump, is Hercule. They move past me; I catch a gleam in Hercule’s eyes as he glances at the leader, the flush of anticipation on his pitted features. I reach out to grab him, but my hands pass through him as if he were made of smoke.

  They enter the crowded hall. On the dais Henri lounges on his throne, wearing a gorgeous red and gold doublet. He’s smiling, watching someone; I follow his gaze and see Guast blindfolded in the center of the hall while laughing court jades turn him round and round. Guast’s hands splay out as he tries to snag one of the jades. In the revelry, no one notices the men nor do they see the leader motion Hercule forward. But the jades draw back, their laughter faltering, when Hercule plucks off the blindfold and smiles into Guast’s astonished face.

  “Time to die,” my son says, and as my mouth opens to yell a warning, the jades shriek and Hercule yanks out a dagger from his cloak. Guast throws up his arms. The blade catches the light before Hercule plunges it to the hilt into Guast’s stomach.

  Silence falls. Hercule stands, panting, his black hair sticking up like quills. Guast looks in disbelief at the knife in his gut. Black blood gushes from the wound and he crumples to the floor.

  Henri’s scream rends the air; as he staggers from the dais, the leader gestures and the other men yank Hercule away. The courtiers follow in a stampede, until only Henri is left, alone.

  I see him drop beside Guast, heedless of the blood pooling around him …

  My chamber rushed in around me like a deluge. I was on my knees, my own cupped hands extended before me. Lucrezia bent over me, her pallid features frightened. “My lady, what is it?”

  “God help us,” I whispered. “Hercule has killed Guast.”

  We reached the Louvre at midnight, after two frantic days of travel. In the courtyard, torches sputtered against a miasmic fog. As we dismounted and grooms raced forth to collect our baggage, I told Margot to go straight to her rooms, while I moved into the palace.

  It felt deserted. I saw no courtiers pass as I trod the dimly lit passages, heard no sounds. The air was cold, still; guided by the sconces at intervals on the walls and silent guards flanking the gallery, I made my way to the royal apartments, where, to my relief, I found Birago waiting.

  “I’ve been here since it happened,” he said, his face waxen with fatigue. “He’s locked the bedchamber from the inside and won’t let anyone in.”

  “And Hercule …?” I whispered.

  “Fled the court. I’ve sent out search parties but thus far no one knows where he is.”

  “Keep looking. He can’t have gone far.” I drew my cloak closer about me. “See that the fires are lit and then bring up a hot meal.” I waved my hand at him. “Go. I’ll take care of this.”

  “Madama,” he said, “you should know: the body … it’s still in there with him.”

  I nodded, biting back a shudder as I went to the bedchamber door and knocked, overcome by a vivid memory of the last time I’d been here and seen Guast sleeping naked in the bed.

  There was no answer. I knocked again, louder this time, hearing it echo as though the entire palace was empty. “Henri,” I said. “It’s me. I am here. Open the door, my son.”

  I discerned muffled movement, the metallic clank of something being kicked aside, and then he spoke, his voice devoid of emotion. “Go away.”

  “No. Henri, please. Let me in. I … I want to see him.”

  There was a long silence. I started to think I’d have to order the door broken down. Then
I heard the key turn in the lock. Seizing a nearby candle in its holder, I pushed open the door.

  Despite the cold, the stench hit me with a visceral force. I caught sight of an unlit candelabrum on the sideboard, went to touch my candle flame to the candelabrum’s tapers; as the tapers flared, chasing away the shadows, I saw Henri on the edge of the bed, his lank hair falling over his face. He wore a shimmering red and gold doublet, the same one I’d seen in my vision, only the sleeves were undone and his chemise cuffs hung shredded and bloodied over his wrists.

  Laid out on the bed behind him was Guast’s bloating corpse.

  My heart cracked in two.

  “He … he didn’t say good-bye,” Henri said in a bewildered voice. “I kept telling him, he couldn’t leave without saying good-bye …” He lifted his face; I almost couldn’t bear to look into his haunted eyes. “Why, Maman? Why would they do this to him?”

  “I don’t know,” I murmured and I stepped to him. “My son, you must say good-bye. He will hear you, even if he can’t respond. Then we can bury him as—”

  He moaned, covering his face with his hands. “I can’t! I can’t let him go into the dark. He hates the dark. He … he always wants a candle left by the bed at night.”

  “We’ll put one with him,” I said, and my voice sounded so calm, even as I battled my sorrow that he must endure this grief and suffer the kind of loss that never truly goes away. “Come with me.” I reached out. His fingers were slack, icy; he had dried blood on them. I imagined him carrying Guast from the hall, up the staircase, through the gallery to this room …

  His hand tightened on mine. “I want them all arrested and put in the Bastille—Hercule and his savages, all those involved. But most of all, I want Navarre.”

  I froze, met his distended stare. “How—how do you know?”

  He rose, went to his sideboard, and retrieved something. He held it out to me: it was the dagger that had killed Guast. There were bloodstains along the length of the blade; forged on its hilt, to my disbelief, were Navarre’s interlocked chains in silver.