The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (20 page)

I float through a black tunnel. I cannot feel anything solid, and it is dark, so very dark, like the awful finality of a tomb. The lack of sensation suffocates me; I want to cry out but I have no voice with which to utter a sound. A flame flares in the distance. It draws me toward it, burning higher, closer and closer, warning me of something inescapable, something—

I was awoken by Lucrezia shaking me. “My lady!”

Struggling out of my tangled, sweat-soaked sheets, I was overcome by a sickening dizziness. I knew this feeling; I’d last felt it when I embraced the little prince of Navarre. It was my gift. And then I heard Nostradamus’s voice, as though he were in the room with me:
I will never withhold the truth …

I pushed past my anxious lady. “I must see my letters.”

The pile reproached me on my desk. I’d neglected my correspondence these busy past weeks. As Lucrezia lit the candles, I yanked up a chair, glancing at and discarding papers at my bare feet. It was here: I could feel it. I ignored messages from provincial governors and petitions from charities; missives from Venice and Florence were pushed aside as I searched, my anxiety increasing until I could hardly breathe.

Then I saw it. An envelope sealed with my ring’s ensign. This was his letter.

I opened it. His words were concise:
Your Grace must take heed. Remember the prophecy
.

He had sent me a warning.

“Dio Mio.”
I looked at Lucrezia. “Something terrible is going to happen.” The letter slipped from my fingers. “But I don’t remember the prophecy. Nostradamus recited several to me when we first met. I don’t even have the book he gave me. It’s in Blois, in my cabinet. I left it there.”

I didn’t sleep the rest of the night, pacing while my women sat in
bleary-eyed attention. The moment dawn broke, I took to the corridors. Minor courtiers sprawled on the floors and in the alcoves, while our palace cats prowled for rodents.

Henri and I lived in separate wings. Diane still attended him on occasion in his chambers, and I never went to see him without sending word in advance. But she wouldn’t be there this morning. She always kept her distance when we assumed center stage, still the hypocrite after all these years. Nevertheless, I found my husband amid a crowd of secretaries and pages, standing on a footstool in his linen drawers, the breastplate of his new armor fastened to his chest as his wardrobe master fitted the leggings. Le Balafré lounged in a chair nearby, long legs stretched out before him. When he saw me, the scar on his gaunt face twitched. There was no love lost between us; from the day I’d first arrived in France he’d treated me with disdain.

I ignored him, forcing him to rise and make his obeisance.

Henri looked fatigued, his beard hugging the sunken length of his cheeks. “Yes, Catherine?” he said, as if my appearing unannounced in his rooms were a daily occurrence.

“My lord,” I said, “might we have a moment in private?”

He motioned about him. “As you can see, I’m rather busy. Can’t it wait until later?”

“No.” I felt Guise’s stare. “I fear it is of the utmost importance.”

“So is everything.” Henri sighed, waving his wardrobe master aside. One of the leggings didn’t quite fit. He got off the stool.

“Besides being fitted for the umpteenth time,” he said, as his attendants left us, “I’ve a mountain of papers to sign, the English ambassador to meet, Alba to see, not to mention inspecting the lists before the joust. Is this so important?”

“It is. I am here because … I think we’re in danger.”

He frowned. “Danger? How?”

“I don’t know.” I clasped my hands, hearing myself and knowing how I must sound to him. “I had a dream last night and …” My voice caught. I could see the disbelief in his eyes. I went to him. “Please, just listen to me. I fear for someone dear to us, perhaps in our own family.”

He dropped onto the chair by his desk, reaching down to unlock the bindings of the legging. It fell with a clank to the floor. He couldn’t recline because of the breastplate and so he sat in erect discomfort. “Very
well, I’m listening. But that secretary of mine will be back any moment and I’ll not be able to send him away a second time. He’s been at me all morning.”

I told him about the dream and the letter from Nostradamus. I had to stop myself from blurting out the truth about my own past premonitions, as I’d never mentioned my gift to him and suspected he’d not appreciate hearing his wife declare she possessed occult powers.

When I finished, he folded his hands at his chin. “And you think your dream and this prophecy of Nostradamus’s portend some peril to us?”

“Yes.” I was relieved by the lack of derision in his tone. “If you recall, he did cure your leg. And he told me he would contact me should the need arise.”

“Catherine,” he said, without a trace of mockery, “this is absurd. You are overwrought because of Elisabeth. She must soon leave for Spain and you worry for her.”

“No, you don’t understand. His letter was dated weeks ago. I only looked for it because of my dream. It’s a warning. He wrote his prophecies down for me in a book, which he gave to me when he first came to Blois. But I left it there, in my cabinet. We must send for it.”

He regarded me as if I’d lost my senses. “Send for a book? In less than three hours we are holding a joust to celebrate our daughter’s union with the king of Spain.”

“We can still hold it. Just send someone we trust to the Loire to—”

“Catherine.” He did not lift his voice, but I could hear his impatience. “Blois is closed for the season, as you know. My chamberlain holds the keys to our apartments and he has far too much to do without my dispatching him on this fool’s errand.”

“It’s not a—”

He held up his hand. “You’re asking me to send a trusted servant to Blois, a day’s ride at best, to fetch a book he’s never seen. You have hundreds of books in your cabinet. How on earth is he supposed to locate the one you want?”

I hadn’t thought of that. I hadn’t stopped to think about any of this, but I wasn’t going to admit that to him. I squared my shoulders, fighting back a wave of inexplicable desperation. “Then, I will go myself. Get me the keys and I’ll take Lucrezia and a guard. I’ll be back by nightfall.”

“And miss the tournament, where I’m scheduled to challenge the
winner?” He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “You can’t be serious. It was a dream, Catherine. Nothing bad is going to happen if you don’t get that book.”

Suddenly, I doubted myself. He was right: it had been a dream. A dream and a cryptic letter from a man I hardly knew, whose prophecies were thus far unproven.

And still, I knew. “I realize it sounds mad, but I can feel it, Henri, in my heart. What if it’s Elisabeth? We’ve asked so much of her and she’s been so tired. What if she falls ill?”

“We’re all tired. We’re tired of England and Spain, of heretics demanding the right to worship, and bad harvests and poverty. We each have our burdens to bear. Elisabeth will bear hers as best she can. I’m not sending her away because I want to but because I must.”

“I know that. No one is faulting you. It might not be her. It might be a warning about someone else, one of our other children.”

“Catherine, there is no warning, no prophecy. You’re overwhelmed like the rest of us, though you hate to admit it. You worry for Elisabeth, for you are a good mother.” He paused, softened his voice. “Philip wants her in Madrid by November so he can present her at his Christmas court. You should use this time to give her support, not to rush off to the Loire because of something that man said to you years ago.”

“Henri, please.” I gazed at him, my tears breaking free.

He stood and took me in his arms. Against his chest, the chill gold of the breastplate pressed to my ear, he caressed my hair. “There, now,” he murmured. He cupped my chin, lifted my face to his. “It is no sin to weep.” He gave me a resigned smile as voices came from the antechamber, indicating his horde had returned. “Let’s get through the blasted tournament and if you feel like this tomorrow, we’ll see what to do, yes? We’ll go to Blois together, if need be.”

I exhaled in relief. “Thank you. I … I love you.”

The words were out before I could stop them and he went still. Then he closed his arms around me. “I love you too,” he whispered.

He didn’t speak again as his servants erupted into the room. But as I departed I realized that I finally had from him what I’d always wanted.

• • •

No truth can be determined that concerns the future
.

Hurrying to my apartments, I repeated old Maestro Ruggieri’s adage, interpreting it as a sign that there was time to avert calamity if we were forewarned. Tomorrow, I’d send for Nostradamus’s book, and the seer himself if need be, to explain it. One day wouldn’t make a difference.

It was already midmorning and I dressed in my court gown and jewels, gathered up my other children and my entourage. We entered the rue de St. Quentin to the blast of trumpets. My ladies and I mounted the dais to join Elisabeth, Mary, and François under the canopy. Charles, Henri, and Margot sat below us on cushioned tiers. I sat on my chair, took a goblet of wine from a page, and settled in for a long afternoon. I’d always found the thundering of steeds down the lines, the breaking of lances, and the shouting of the crowds overly boisterous.

Four competitors were scheduled to joust today, with Henri engaging the winner. The crowd roared as Henri’s boon companion, the scarred le Balafré, galloped onto the field on a massive white destrier. As he swiftly proceeded to unseat his first opponent, Mary leapt to her feet. “Crack open his head, Uncle!”

I yanked at her skirts. “Sit down! Are you a heathen to display yourself thus?”

She tossed her head; her Guise uncle won three more rounds. Le Balafré then challenged the duc de Nemours, who lost. I didn’t even bother to try and restrain Mary as she shrieked her delight along with everyone else as Guise cantered about the arena, his scarred face flushed.

“Who will challenge me?” le Balafré cried, his gauntlet lifted. “Who dares fight the victor?”

Montgomery, a captain of the Scottish guard, stepped forth. “I will.”

There was uproar. Montgomery might be part of the privileged corps that protected my husband’s person, but he was still a Scotsman. Le Balafré eyed him and nodded. He wouldn’t show himself a coward even before an inferior’s challenge.

Montgomery mounted a white steed. Guise and he positioned themselves at opposite ends of the list and charged. With a deft upswing of his lance, Montgomery slammed Guise’s shield, throwing the duke from his horse and onto the field. “Foul!” cried the spectators. “Again!”

But there could be no repeat. Le Balafré had been routed and the subsequent
blast of trumpets proclaimed that now my husband, the king, would challenge the victor.

I sat upright. Had this been a coliseum, they’d have unleashed lions on Montgomery. But Henri was a staunch champion and indicated he would joust against the captain.

Clad in his gold armor, he galloped forth on his dappled charger. He looked fit, younger than his forty years as he rode to his end of the list and dropped his visor. Silence fell. The heralds sounded, and king and captain leapt forward.

In that instant, I recalled words spoken at Blois over four years ago.

The young lion shall overcome the old in single combat
.

I started to rise. Everything slowed around me, so that I could distinguish the clumps of earth torn up by the horses’ hooves, hear the creaking of armor, and smell the anticipation in the air. I opened my mouth. A crash shattered my cry as lance struck metal in a deafening explosion.

The applause cut short. Henri was lifted from his saddle, his lance clattering to the ground. As grooms raced to him, I saw his foot tangle in his stirrup as he slid from his saddle. The men caught him in their arms. There was a stricken pause.

The first scream came from Mary—a petrified wail that seemed to echo for hours. I stumbled from the dais, shoving past gaping courtiers frozen on their tiers. When I reached the arena, breathless and panting, the nobles were bringing Henri toward me. His helmet was still on, the visor dented beneath his brow. They laid him on a bench, began to remove the helmet. I glanced at the field. Montgomery stood frozen, his splintered lance still in his hand.

Henri let out a moan as the helmet was pried from his head. I covered my mouth with my hands to stop my own terrible cry.

He will pierce his eye in a cage of gold
.

My husband’s face was white; there was very little blood.

From his right eye protruded the shards of Montgomery’s lance.

W
E BROUGHT HIM BACK TO THE PALACE, WHERE I STOOD AT
his bedside as Dr. Paré examined the wound. Henri had slipped into unconsciousness, his pallor so pronounced that blue veins could be seen under his skin. Paré prepared a poppy seed plaster and applied it to the injured eye before carefully wrapping gauze about the protruding shard. He then motioned Monsignor the Cardinal and me into the antechamber.

“Well?” barked Monsignor, his usually moderate voice shrill. “Will he live?”