The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  Nevertheless, I’d never spent a colder winter in my life. The snow fell for weeks on end, blanketing everything, and while I huddled in his stone fortresses before the fire, Navarre strode about in shirtsleeves as if it were midsummer. His resiliency and cavalier attitude soon began to grate on me, for he behaved as though this were indeed some endless familial visit. And my aggravation only increased when I received word from Birago that Elizabeth Tudor had finally granted Hercule leave to pay her suit and Henri had dispatched my youngest son to England in a galleon loaded with gifts. I was irate that I wasn’t there to oversee Hercule’s departure and nervous about how he might behave so far from home.

  Margot, on the other hand, had settled in. One afternoon after I awoke from a nap, stiffer and colder than when I’d first lain down, I went into the hall with Lucrezia in search of warmth and I found my daughter in the middle of the bare floor, directing what appeared to be a small army trudging past her with armfuls of boxes, furnishings, and tapestries. Seated on a new gilded chair by the hearth, Navarre twirled a goblet, an insouciant grin on his face.

  “Dio Mio,” I said, “what is this?”

  “What does it look like?” Margot snipped. “I’m redecorating. All this stone and freezing brick—it’s barbaric. I’m a queen now and I must live accordingly.”

  I glanced at Navarre. He shrugged. “She’ll empty my treasury at this rate,” he muttered, “but at least we’ll starve in style.”

  That night, dressed in one of her fantastic wigs and revealing court gowns, Margot presided over a fifty-course feast in her newly decorated hall, delighted there wasn’t a lady present who could outshine her. Later I heard she and Navarre finally shared a bed, assuaging my fear that they’d go the rest of their lives without acknowledging the true purpose of their union.

  The next day, Navarre sent word that he wished to see me.

  I entered his private study—a masculine wood-paneled chamber Margot had not succeeded in overhauling during her rampage; it boasted a wide window that overlooked the snowcapped mountains, a threadbare rug underfoot, and racks of antlers displayed on the walls.

  He motioned to a chair. Pouring two goblets of hot mulled cider, he handed one to me and said bluntly, “I wish to conclude our agreements. I don’t like having my life disrupted any more than it already has been. Tell me what you came here for, and if I can I will grant it.”

  I took a sip of my cider, taken aback by his directness. “I wish for us to reach accord,” I began. “I believe we share a common belief in peace.”

  “So the time has come for us to put the past to rest?”

  I started. “Do you mock me?”

  “Not in the least. But you’re not here for peace; you came to strike a pact. You want my allegiance and surety of my troops should you need them against Guise; in exchange, you promise that I will remain in the succession. Am I correct?”

  As he regarded me calmly, awaiting my answer, I realized that raw potential I’d first glimpsed when he was a child had come into its own. He still needed finesse, but if he avoided a young king’s natural inclination to indulge in heroics, in time Henri of Navarre would be a magnificent ruler. This thought both excited and unsettled me; he was the perfect bulwark against Guise’s machinations, but he was also still a heretic.

  “Yes,” I said, with a lift of my chin. “You are correct. It is why I am here.”

  He moved to his desk. “I appreciate your candor. But seeing as I’m not the one who seeks bloodshed, what would I gain by submitting to your terms?”

  “You’ll stop Guise. All you need do is—”

  “Convert?” He chuckled. “Why should I? You don’t want me to inherit France. You just seek a temporary savior until your son sires an heir. Then you’ll disown me.”

  “That’s not true,” I retorted. “You have no idea of everything I’ve done for you.”

  “Oh, I know,” he said softly. “Others may claim you live solely for power, but I know you do only what you think necessary to safeguard your sons’ kingdom. We are not so different, you and I—though our methods do not always agree.”

  I stared at him. “What do you mean by that?”

  He looked at me intently. “I mean, I know you saved my life that night. You let me live and then you let me escape. I didn’t understand at the time why I was alive, when so many others were dead, but I do now. For some reason, you and I are meant to play this game. It is why I stay married to your daughter, why I haven’t requested an annulment. But there comes a time when a man must stand for what he believes in, regardless of the cost. And I must stand for my faith.”

  He turned around, opened his desk drawer. “Besides, my conversion will do no good. You see, Guise has accepted payment from Spain to form a Catholic league against me.”

  Dread surged in me as he handed me a fragment of paper. I willed my eyes to focus.

  My lord the duke has acknowledged the offer of fifty thousand gold écus pledged by His Catholic Majesty toward the eradication of heresy. Your Majesty may rest assured the duke will do all in his power to prevent the naming of the heretic Navarre into—

  The rest was torn off. “Where did you get this?” I said, and I couldn’t hide the tremor in my voice.

  “My patrols sometimes catch illicit couriers at the border; they find the most interesting things in their satchels. You can’t imagine what people will entrust to a stranger. Unfortunately, this particular courier got away with the rest of the dispatch.” He smiled. “As you can see, regardless of which faith I choose, Guise will not rest until he sees me dead.”

  I forced myself to swallow. “How … how do you know this is true? Any envoy worth his salt can falsify information to suit his master.”

  “I know it’s true because I know Guise. And so do you.” He came from around the desk, took my hand, and lifted it to his lips. “Now, Tante Catherine, I believe your son has need of you. Perhaps after you’ve dealt with Guise, you and I can meet again.”

  He walked out. As his footsteps faded, I closed my fist over the paper in my hand.

  • • •

  I reached Paris by mid-November, after an absence of nine months. Birago rode out to meet me, crablike in his black damask, his gnarled hands clutching his staff as he got into my coach.

  “There’s disquiet in the streets,” he said. “Plague broke out and His Majesty shut himself up in Vincennes with the queen. The sickness is confined to the poorer quarters of the city but he refuses to return to Paris until he can be sure he’s safe.” Birago paused, coughing into his hand. He looked dreadful; jaundiced and hunched over, his shoulder bones poking under his robe.

  “Anything else?” I asked quietly. I should never have gone for so long; I shouldn’t have left the burden of watching over my son and the kingdom to this frail old friend of mine.

  “That other matter you mentioned,” Birago said. “While I’ve seen no evidence of payment from Spain, Guise has been meeting in secret with the other Catholic lords. It appears he could be forming a league with Spain and Rome, modeled on his late father’s Triumvirate.”

  “So,” I mused, staring toward the spires of Notre Dame, “le Balafré rises again. Keep watching him. I want to know everything he does, everywhere he goes, and everyone he sees. When the time comes, I will deal with him.”

  Anna-Maria was overjoyed to see me. As we embraced and Lucrezia and I removed our traveling cloaks, I thought of how much I relied on these two women. They had been my most constant companions since my arrival in France, always at my side when I needed them, forsaking husbands and children and homes of their own.

  That night I sat before my mirror. Along with rheum, bad circulation, and a recurring knot in my chest that sometimes left me breathless, my hair had gone completely white. I’d had Lucrezia crop it, for I always wore a veiled coif in public and saw no further need to tend tresses. I hadn’t minded at the time, relieved at long last of the weekly dyes with walnut juice, the hot irons, and fanciful coiffures. Yet as I now
beheld my sallow image with its wintery fuzz I couldn’t help but mark the insidious advance of my decrepitude. My chin was slack, the lines at my brow and about my mouth deeply etched; and my dark eyes, once my most notable feature, were sunk in permanent shadow, lusterless, the skin at their corners pleated like crepe.

  Anna-Maria came with my bed cap. I said quietly, “Do you think I’m too old?”

  She met my gaze in the glass. Of the three of us, she most resembled her younger self, her piquant face barely scored, her small size and bustling movements lending her the illusion of eternal youth. She smiled. “You can never be too old, my lady, not when France needs you.”

  I reached up to clasp her hand in mine. “Yes,” I murmured. “That’s what I thought.”

  I went to bed, falling into exhausted sleep. I dreamed.

  Blood drips from my ceiling. I lie prostrate in my bed; I can feel my lips straining wide to cry out but I cannot hear my voice. The drips of blood seep from the painted eaves and fall one by one onto my coverlet. Death is here. It surrounds me. I can smell its iron essence, almost taste its salt and bitterness. I flail; I try to inch away but the drops come faster now, faster and faster, turning into a rain, cascading about me, falling into my open eyes, my mouth—

  “My lady, wake up!” Lucrezia was shaking me, stooped at my bedside.

  I struggled upright, drenched in sweat. “Dio Mio, I had the most awful dream.”

  She peered at me. “You were shouting. You woke us in the other room.”

  “What time is it?” I muttered and she glanced at the extinguished candle by my bedside, the hours notched into its side. “Almost dawn. Go back to sleep a while longer.”

  “No. I … I must get up. I’m due at Vincennes today to see Henri.” I arose quickly, the vestiges of my dream clinging to me as she helped me into my robe. She went to stoke the hearth, set a decanter by it to warm the morning wine. “Should I get you something to eat?” she asked and I heard a catch in her voice. “Lucrezia,” I asked. “What is it?”

  She went still; I turned to see Henri on the threshold. He was thin and pale, clad in an unadorned black doublet, his hair loose about his shoulders.

  “It’s Hercule,” he said in a low voice.

  My throat tightened. “But Hercule is in England, wooing Queen Elizabeth.”

  “No. She refused his marriage suit, so he went to the Low Countries, where he got involved in a Lutheran revolt. He was taken prisoner. Birago paid his ransom. He arrived a few days ago but he …” Henri’s voice faltered. “Maman, you must help him. Dr. Paré says he is dying.”

  I stood immobile, thinking I must have heard wrong. “Dying?”

  “Yes. He suffered a wound on his leg; corruption set in. I made everyone swear not to say anything; I wanted to tell you myself. But you were tired after your travels. You needed to rest.”

  I reached for my robe. “Take me to him.”

  Birago was by the bedside with old Paré. They regarded me with sad eyes, their faces drawn with exhaustion. They must have been here all night, watching over my son so I could sleep.

  I stepped to the bed. Veins could be traced under Hercule’s translucent skin. His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Maman, you are home.”

  I set my hand on his brow. “They tell me you’re hurt. Let me see, yes?” I spoke gently, feeling the fever blazing off of him. His face spasmed in fear. “Don’t let them do it. Don’t let them take my leg.”

  “They won’t. I promise.” As I spoke Paré eased back the sheet. I had to stop myself from gasping aloud at the sight of the festering wound on his right thigh; the flesh so inflamed it looked about to burst. Vicious red streaks spread like tentacles to his swollen groin.

  “I’ve seen this on the battlefield,” Paré said. “Left untended, the corruption enters the blood. He was very sick by the time he got here and I dared not cut. Now—”

  I stopped him. “I don’t blame you. Go. Fetch me hot water, fresh cloths, and poppy.” I swept a pile of garments aside from a nearby stool and sat, taking Hercule’s hand. “I’m here,” I said. “All will be well, you’ll see.” I reached out with my other hand to stroke his cheek. Though his unkempt beard was thick and wiry, it could not disguise his alarmingly gaunt face.

  “Maman,” he said, “I’m so afraid.”

  Tears blurred my vision. He was flesh of my flesh, last child of my love for my husband. He’d never had a chance; the stigmata of illness had left him helpless in a world that knew only cruelty. And I had failed him. I should have protected him. I should have kept him safe.

  “Don’t be,” I said. “You are safe. I love you. Your brother and your sister Margot love you.”

  I stayed with him for the next six days, cleansing his wound and dosing him with massive quantities of poppy and rhubarb. He grew so thin, his bones showed under his flesh; I knew nothing could save him, so I made sure he was as free of pain as possible. When he began to breathe shallowly and his leg turned black I clambered into bed and cradled his head against my breast. I sang to him, the nursery rhymes every mother hums to her child; and he melted into me, soothed by my voice, by the constant motion of my hands stroking his hair.

  When he finally went limp, my heart broke into a thousand irreparable pieces. I engulfed his lifeless body and wept for him as I never had during his life, for the wretched fate that had stolen away his promise before he’d ever had the chance to fulfill it.

  I had lost my son. Henri had lost his heir.

  And if Guise had his way, France would lose everything.

  I left his corpse to be embalmed and went to see Henri in his apartments. He rose from his chair, searching my face. “Is he …?”

  I nodded; as he moaned and turned away, I said: “We must make plans.” My tone was detached, concealing the anguish that threatened to overcome me. More than ever before, I had to remain strong. The danger posed by Henri’s lack of a Catholic heir was paramount.

  “Plans?” He looked up with undisguised fear. “What plans? What am I supposed to do now?”

  I met his gaze. “We invite Navarre to court. He is now your heir presumptive. Though Navarre has told me he’ll never convert again, we must persuade him to reason.”

  He raked a trembling hand through his hair. “Invite him to court? He’s a heretic! Guise will never let him be named heir. He’ll kill him first.”

  “Perhaps.” I paused. “But Louise is still young, as are you. If you get her with child …” My voice faded as a burst of frenetic laughter escaped him. Then he went still.

  “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I’ve tried. God knows, I’ve tried. I touch her and touch her … and I feel nothing. I’m not able to …” He swallowed, looked at me with stricken eyes. “It’s not her fault. It’s me … I cannot be aroused by a woman.”

  His words crumbled the last remnants of the illusion he had built between us. I did not remonstrate. I did not cajole or encourage him. Like me, he could not feign desire. We were not made that way. I had to accept that there would be no child of his loins.

  All we had left was Navarre. He had to save us from Guise.

  I reached out and Henri staggered into my arms. He was still my son. He was still our king.

  And while he lived, there was still hope.

  “Trust in me,” I said. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll fight for you to my last breath.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  HENRI AND I RODE OUT FROM PARIS TO WELCOME NAVARRE. WE both wore mourning for Hercule, whose body rested in the Abbey of St. Denis. We had delayed his funeral, waiting for an answer to our invitation. Finally, after weeks, Navarre sent word expressing his desire to be with us in our hour of grief. Soon he’d be here; together, we would find a way to contend with Guise.

  As the entourage straggled into view, coming over the vale, I peered at it uncertainly. It was pitifully small, even by Navarre’s impoverished standards—a mere clutch of horses and carts. Then the group neared and Henri’s hands clenched on his rein
s.

  “I see Margot,” he said tersely. “Navarre is not with her.”

  In the Hôtel de la Reine my daughter stood in her knee-length chemise, her soiled outer garments discarded at her feet. Her tired women heaved jugs of hot water into a linen-lined tub. I waited, tapping my foot. The women curtsied and left. With a sigh, Margot stepped into the tub.

  “God’s teeth,” I burst out, “where is he? Does he not realize he could be heir of France?”

  She splashed the rose-scented water over her voluptuous breasts. To my chagrin, her belly remained flat. “He sends his regrets, but he was obliged to reconsider your offer when his Council raised objection. They don’t think it’s safe for him here. And in order for him to be made heir, he’d have to abjure his faith again, yes? Such a decision, he says, cannot be made lightly. He wrote you a letter.” She motioned to the heap of valises by the bed. “It’s in my bag.”

  Her tapestry bag lay open, revealing perfume vials and cosmetics. I found the folded parchment with Navarre’s seal under her enamel hand mirror.

  I send Your Grace fond greetings and my regret that I cannot attend the court and His Majesty my cousin in this tragic time. I grieve deeply for the loss of His Highness Hercule, duc d’Alençon; however, matters of state compel me to remain within my realm until my Council deems otherwise. I trust Your Grace has not forgotten our last conversation, in which I gave you a word of caution, for loyal Huguenots in France continue to inform me that a certain lord persists in his assembly of unauthorized power, which can only result in a threat to His Majesty. You will find in me a fellow monarch who fears greatly for my cousin the king’s welfare, and one who sincerely hopes Your Grace and His Majesty will see fit to curb this lord’s ambitions before it is too late. Until said time, it is unlikely I will gain my Council’s leave to travel to France.

  “He doesn’t trust you,” Margot said, her eyes fixed on me. “He thinks Guise will murder him just like Coligny. Nothing I said could convince him otherwise.”