The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (15 page)

Henri had acceded to the Guises’ every demand.

And now she appeared as if on cue, refulgent in ermine sleeves and mauve brocade. On her bodice glittered an enormous sapphire jewel. A jolt went through me; the last person to wear that jewel was the duchesse d’Étampes. It formed part of the queen’s treasury, which Queen Eleanor, already on her way home to Austria, had never enjoyed. By wearing it today, Diane was making a statement that no one, especially me, could ignore.

She glided past the whispering courtiers to the dais as if her indifference might asphyxiate them. As she dropped into a curtsy before me, she lifted her eyes and I knew in that instant that she was delivering her warning. A terrible revenge had been exacted on Madame d’Étampes, and unlike her predecessor, Diane had no intention of recognizing her proper place.

“Madame de Poitiers,” announced Henri, “sénéschale of Normandy. I hereby grant her the title of duchesse de Valentinois, in recognition of her tireless service to my wife, the queen.”

I remembered the nights when she’d stood by our bed, directing our copulation as if we were her creatures; she no longer participated now that my womb had been breached, but I thought it would be preferable to this public humiliation. I would have risen and marched out, protocol be damned, had I not felt Marguerite’s hand on my shoulder. And as anger clouded my reason and I tasted iron in my mouth, I heard Papa Clement lilt:
Love is a treacherous emotion. You’ll fare better without it. We Medici always have
.

• • •

Though I was the queen, I dwelled in a world ruled by Diane. As I’d feared, she had indeed wreaked her vengeance on the duchesse d’Étampes, appropriating her estates and casting her into ruin. From her splendid new suite of apartments, Diane also took over my son François’s household, calling herself his official governess and appointing his staff of attendants.

She had my husband’s permission, so no one thought twice about how I felt. No one believed I’d amount to anything other than royal brood mare. Like many queens before me, I was expected to deliver a child every year and endure my husband’s infidelity without reproach.

In short, there was nothing I could do to vanquish her, short of murder.

This possibility gnawed at me like vice, abetted by my pregnancy, which made me tired, ill humored, and relegated to a supporting role. Every time I heard of a feast she and Henri had organized or a hunting trip they undertook, my anger was such that it required all my self-control not to uncap my poison vial and be rid of her, consequences be damned. Less than a year after François’s death, I couldn’t venture outside my apartments without encountering her and Henri’s entwined initials everywhere, sprouting on tapestries and eaves like mushrooms after a rain. God forbid Diane ever desired something of mine, for hard-pressed would I be to defend it.

Nothing made this more apparent than the matter of Chenonceau.

It happened a few months after Henri’s coronation, in the autumn. The season was mild, the fields luxuriant and trees aflame in gold and russet. François had always said the Loire was at its most breathtaking in autumn and I decided to visit my château before winter set in. Unfortunately, I aired my intentions one evening during supper, and like clockwork, Diane floated into my apartments the next morning, refulgent in black damask and mink, her marbled hair arranged in a Grecian coiffure that reflected her decision to cast herself in a classical mode.

If she was fleet Diana, then I was earthbound Juno, seven months pregnant, my feet and hands swollen, my back aching, and my eyes not at all pleased to see her at this early hour. She dipped her head, her concession to obeisance. “I understand Your Grace wishes to travel to the Loire. His Majesty has asked that I accompany you, as any mishap could occur.”

“That’s not necessary,” I said. “I’ve asked the architect Philibert de L’Orme to accompany me and help me with the refurbishments, and I’ve more than enough attendants to ensure my safety.”

“Ah, but none so devoted as myself.” Her gaze lowered pointedly to my pregnant stomach. I could have slapped her. It was decided. Off we went to the Loire.

Chenonceau’s beauty shone through its neglect. The gardens were devastated by wildlife and the vineyards left untended, but the château boasted peaked turrets and balconies overlooking the span of the Cher—a house fashioned of pearl and mist, made for a woman’s sensibilities.

I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. So did Diane. She wafted through the vacant chambers with that cretin L’Orme (who knew very well which of us was better equipped to make his reputation) scampering behind her, jotting down her airy suggestions in his notebook. I was left in a chair in the hall, glowering at the charming lopsided vaults.

A few nights after our return, Henri came to me. When he told me Diane desired my château, I stared at him as if he’d asked me to run naked through court to amuse her.

“But the deed is mine,” I said. “Your father gave it to me as a gift.”

He tapped his feet. Dressed in black brocade, her crescent moon embroidered in silver on his sleeves, he embodied the image of a king. His beard was full and soft, just as I’d thought it would be on our wedding night. We no longer needed Diane to prod us to our duty and I could imagine the feel of his hands on me even as I sat there. I thrust the thought aside, despising my weakness and desire for an act we enjoyed only for the sake of breeding children.

“She’ll give you Chaumont,” he said. “It is a fair exchange.”

“You might as well compare a hovel to the pyramids. Is not her palace at Anet enough?”

It was the wrong thing to say. Anet was their refuge from court and from me; and his voice hardened. “Anet belongs to her. She can do with it as she pleases.”

“Indeed, providing she allows me the same.” I gave him a steady look that forewarned I was prepared to do battle if need be. “Tell her I won’t part with it for the Louvre itself.”

His jaw clenched. “There is doubt whether my father acquired the château legally.”

“What of it? To confiscate property in lieu of a debt is a time-honored royal custom.”

“Nonetheless,” he said, to my astonishment, “I shall appoint a tribunal to debate the matter.” He stalked out, his sole concession to his thwarted rage the slamming of my door.

The verdict was that François had acted illegally. Chenonceau was put up for auction, which precluded my participation as queen. There was one offer: for the paltry sum of fifty thousand livres, Diane bought my château lock, moat, and key.

To compensate my loss, she deeded Chaumont to me “as a gift.” Mortified that I had let myself become embroiled, I insisted on paying for Chaumont so no one could say I’d taken anything from her for free. Then I stormed off to visit my new château.

Lacking any modern renovations and surrounded by a dense pine forest that rendered its stone walls perpetually damp, Chaumont’s sole redeeming quality was its sweeping view of the Loire. I wept when I beheld it, ordering that I be taken back to court at once, where I barged into my rooms and threw objects at the wall.

I vowed never to return to Chaumont. But I did return, after the birth of my third child, my daughter Claude. This time, I brought Cosimo Ruggieri. He wandered the château in a daze, so enthused by its potential as an observatory that I handed him the keys. He closed up his house in Paris and moved in. As for me, I refused to have anything more to do with it.

Pride was one luxury I still thought I could afford.

B
ESIDES ASSUMING CHARGE OF MY SON, DIANE APPOINTED HERSELF
overseer of the royal nurseries, where she basically had control of my children’s upbringing. Still, I diluted her impact by appointing Madame and Monsieur d’Humeries, a noble couple with much experience, as my children’s official governors, so I too could have some say in how they were raised.

In her typical hypocritical fashion Diane insisted on us feigning cooperation and instituted morning appointments with me to discuss the children’s needs. A few months after she stole Chenonceau, she arrived to inform me she had a matter of great importance to impart.

“Monsignor the Cardinal and I were discussing His Highness’s marriage,” she announced, trailing her hands over my tables as if to assess their cleanliness.

“Oh?” I looked up from my embroidery, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her whole. “Aren’t such discussions rather premature? François isn’t even six years old.”

“He’s our dauphin, heir to the throne. It is never too early to consider who shall bear him sons. The cardinal believes, and I think Your Majesty
will agree, there is no princess better suited to wed His Highness than Mary Stuart, queen of Scots.”

I chuckled. “But she’s just a child herself, a girl-queen overseen by her widowed mother …” My voice trailed off. Scotland’s regent since James V’s death was Marie de Guise; Mary herself was half Guise. The vultures already planned ahead, ensuring that when my son became king, one of theirs would sit in my place. I’d have been flattered they viewed me as such a threat had I not been outraged by the way they’d use my son to further their ambitions.

Diane added, “It would be a betrothal, to be ratified once they both are of age.”

“I see,” I said. And I did. “Let me give the matter some thought.” I watched her turn to the door before I added, “I assume His Majesty my husband has been apprised?”

She went still for a moment before carefully responding, “His Majesty is occupied with Monsignor’s upcoming embassy to Rome.” Her voice edged. “But I’m certain he’ll approve. The Scottish alliance is essential to our defense.”

“Indeed. Nonetheless, he must be consulted, yes? Perhaps tomorrow, after Council …?”

Diane marched from my room in a huff.

Leaning back in my chair, I let out a gusty laugh. This time, I vowed, she would not win.

The next day Henri and I listened as the cardinal extolled the Scottish betrothal. Resplendent in ivory velvet, Diane sat nearby on an upholstered stool. I had also donned regalia, but compared with her swanlike grace I felt like a duckling in my pearl-studded azure gown, my stomacher pinching me like a vise.

“Your Majesties,” said Monsignor in his melodious voice, his expressive hands describing patterns in the air, “by betrothing the queen of Scots to His Highness, we’ll preserve the Scottish alliance; support my sister Marie’s regency, and warn her Protestant lords we’ll not tolerate further dissension, but most important, we’ll gain a superior claim to the English throne.”

As I saw Diane nod, I piped, “How so? I believe there is a king already on said throne.”

Monsignor paused in unpleasant surprise. He evidently hadn’t expected me to have, much less express, an opinion. “Indeed, Your Grace, but Edward Tudor is a Protestant heretic and not in the best of health.”

“That may be true,” I said, enjoying this chance to ruffle his composure, “but he has two sisters and I believe the eldest one, Mary, is an avowed Catholic.”

He let out the impatient sigh of a tutor obliged to humor an inept pupil. “She is, but the annulment of her mother’s marriage cast doubts on her legitimacy. As for the other sister, Elizabeth, she was born of the witch Anne Boleyn, whom Henry VIII beheaded for adultery. Many claim that Elizabeth isn’t the king’s daughter. Thus, neither sister is suited to rule.”

Henri had sat quiet; when he spoke, his voice betrayed impatience. “Her Grace and I are well aware of Henry Tudor’s marital problems. We also know your niece Mary Stuart bears a claim to England through her paternal grandmother, Henry VIII’s sister. Still, I share my wife’s doubts as to the appropriateness of this proposed marriage for my son.”

Diane stood. “Your Majesty, may I speak?” He nodded. “The queen of Scots is two years older than His Highness. The death of her father has left her and her realm prey to the English. Monsignor and I therefore suggest she be brought here as a companion to His Highness, so they may develop the mutual affection born of a childhood spent together.”

“Oh?” Henri’s expression warmed, to my dismay. “And what says the queen of Scots’ mother? Surely she doesn’t wish to be parted from her only child.”

The cardinal intervened. “My sister fears for her daughter’s safety. She too begs Your Majesty’s leave to send Mary here, where she can live under your protection.”

Nothing could have been more calculated. My husband was enamored of old-fashioned notions of chivalry; rescuing the helpless Scots queen from the English couldn’t fail to incite him, as Diane and the cardinal knew.

Henri turned to me. “Catherine, what say you?”

I wanted to say I’d prefer that my son wed Jezebel herself rather than
take a Guise bride to his bed, but the truth was I had no logical reason for protest save that I mistrusted the Guises and Mary Stuart shared their blood. Otherwise, it was, in fact, the ideal union, one that would bind Scotland and France in an unbreakable alliance and fortify our standing in Europe.

I had been outmaneuvered by masters and I smiled with as much dignity as I could master. “What else can I say? It appears we must welcome little Mary Stuart with open arms.”