The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (23 page)

We …

The question burned on my lips. I had to ask; there was no evading it now. “Do you defend the Huguenots because you are one, Seigneur?”

He did not falter. “I converted several years ago. I’ve not hidden it, but neither have I announced it at large.” His smile broadened, lending mischievousness to his face. “You should know I requested my uncle’s vacant seat on the Council and was denied. Monsignor and le Balafré will never allow me at their table. As it stands, I have no choice but to retire to my house in Châtillon to be with my wife and son.”

A wife: he had a wife. A wife and a son; a family …

“Forgive me,” I murmured. “I did not know you were wed.”

“Charlotte and I married two years ago. We were betrothed in our childhood, but it wasn’t until recently that we decided to wed. As we grow older, we come to value the simpler things in life. Family is the simplest and most precious of all.”

“I understand,” I said, though I didn’t. Important and overriding all other concerns for me as it did, family had never been simple either as a Medici or mother to the Valois.

“She makes you happy?”

“She does. I’ve delayed returning to her because I wanted to see Your Grace.”

“You should call me Catherine.” I met his eyes. They were so deep yet at the same time so impenetrable, like icebound lakes. He could be the ally I needed; he could help me overturn the Guises and regain the kingdom. But not now. I was still too weak and he too vulnerable.

“You must know I do not go away by choice,” he added. “Nor will I stay away forever.”

“I know.” I gave him a smile. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to get the edict rescinded and, as soon as I can, to seat you in Council. I believe we can accomplish much good together.”

He took my hand and raised it to his lips. His kiss was dry. “Should you find need of me before then, for whatever reason, do not hesitate to send word. I’ll come at once.”

I watched him stride back down the path and into the cluster of trees, swallowed by the night.

Though my plan had not gone as expected, for the first time since Henri’s death, I felt hope.

I
N SEPTEMBER, MY SON AND HIS QUEEN RETURNED FROM THEIR
hunting trip. I waited in the courtyard, flanked by Elisabeth and Claude, wearing the black gown that had become my armor.

I was eager to see François. He must feel the loss of his father; he was the eldest, and Henri and Diane had often attended him. While he and I hadn’t forged a bond because of Diane’s constant vigil over him, I now had the opportunity to. At fifteen, my son might be a man by law, but emotionally he was much younger. He would need me to give him strength and steer him past those treacherous shoals that the Guises would dash him against.

My delusion was dispelled at once. He entered in an upholstered litter, escorted by le Balafré and our new queen, Mary. “His Majesty is ill. Give way!” Le Balafré barked, and he led my son past us in a bundle of trailing furs, into the palace. Fluttering in distress, Mary started to follow. I snagged her by the arm. “What is wrong?” I asked, alarmed by her pallor.

“My poor François,” she said, breathless. “His ear became inflamed and he collapsed with a fever.” She pulled from me. “I must be with him, madame,” and she left me standing there.

Raindrops splattered the cobblestones. Elisabeth slipped her hand in mine. Claude looked at me awkwardly; as Lorraine’s wife, she was expected to attend Mary. “Go,” I said to her. “See to your duties. You’ll come to me later to report on your brother’s health. Is that understood?”

Claude nodded and scampered off, sturdy as a hen in her white velvets.

Elisabeth murmured: “Come, Maman, let’s go inside. It’s cold.”

Following François’s coronation—which was a modest affair because of his frail health—the Spanish escort arrived to take Elisabeth to Spain.

I insisted on riding with her all the way to snowbound Châtelherault. By the frozen river, she turned to her ladies, retrieving a squirming bundle and passing it gently to me. When I peeled back the ice-flecked wool, I encountered moist dark eyes staring at me from a fluffy white face.

“I haven’t named her yet,” Elisabeth said. “She’s a puppy, but she won’t grow much bigger than she is now. I’m told the breed is very long-lived and cleaves to one master.”

The little dog yipped, writhing in my embrace as she tried to get free of the wool long enough to lick my nose. I stared at Elisabeth in helpless silence.

“She’s also rather noisy.” My daughter laughed. “She’ll bark at anyone she doesn’t know and will make an excellent guard for your door.”

“She’s lovely,” I said. “I’ll call her Muet, silent one, because she’s so noisy.”

Elisabeth whispered, “I love you, Maman. I’ll write to you every day.”

I embraced her, Muet wiggling between us. Then I released her to her escort, standing on the riverbank as she embarked on her passage into the mountains. Countless people had crossed the Pyrenees; Spain was just across our border. We could visit every year if we liked.

Still, I stood there long after she disappeared, smelling her scent on the dog’s soft fur.

The court moved to Blois after François again took ill, no doubt from the strain of his crowning, during which he’d been forced to stand and
kneel for hours in a freezing cathedral, his chest bared for anointing. He’d never been strong, but I barely recognized the dreadfully gaunt adolescent huddled in bed, his sunken eyes glittery with opiate and fever.

I tried to reassure François and lend him encouragement. I brewed special herbal drafts of rhubarb and chamomile; I sat and read to him. But whenever I mentioned the Guises or the edict, he moaned and turned his face from me, muttering he had never wanted to be king.

Mary didn’t appear to enjoy being queen either. She was thin and agitated, worrying over François until I insisted she partake of other diversions. We walked the walled gardens of Blois together, played the lute and embroidered, establishing a delicate rapport that was shattered one afternoon as we sat in my rooms.

“Those Huguenots are vicious dogs,” she said without warning. “They defied my uncle Monsignor’s edict and ripped it from the town squares, though it is forbidden by law. Burning is too good for them. They should be drawn and quartered, their limbs left to rot on every city gate. My uncle says they cast spells on poor François to make him ill. He says they poison the wells and curse the harvests, so that our people thirst and starve.”

I looked up from my sewing hoop. I had not heard this particular brand of venom from her before. “My dear, your uncle exaggerates. I assure you, they are not monsters. And I doubt there are so many as to bring about such calamity.”

Her eyes grew huge in her drawn face. “You don’t think heretics dwell under this very roof? The entire court seethes with them!”

In the corner on her cushions, Muet growled. Lucrezia came over to refill our goblets. I drank it in one gulp. “You should heed less rhetoric,” I said, more sharply than I intended. “François has always suffered from earaches and we’ve had bad harvests and too much rain for several years now. As a queen you must learn the value of tolerance with all your subjects.”

She gasped. “You … you actually defend them …?”

“I defend the innocent.” I fixed her with my stare. “I want peace in France and prosperity for all. This is not Spain: we do not burn people here for differences of opinion.” I stopped her protest. “Yes, it
is
a difference of opinion. Last I heard we worship the same Christ.”

She stood, trembling, her embroidery falling in a tangle at her feet. “So it is true. You … you are …” She gulped, as if she were choking on the word.

I shot a look at Lucrezia, who stood immobile, decanter in hand. I forced out a chuckle. “What? What am I? By God, you do not think that I, the king’s mother, am a heretic?”

She didn’t move, didn’t meet my eyes. Her silence was answer enough.

I sighed. “You disappoint me. I was born in the Roman faith and, I assure you, I will die in it. Just because I advocate tolerance doesn’t mean I share the credo. Like you, I know almost nothing of these Huguenots, but I am sure of this much: they do not persecute us.”

“Yet you defend them!” Mary cried. She whirled about, marching away. I rolled my eyes in exasperation at Lucrezia. “Have you ever heard such nonsense? Now my own daughter-in-law thinks I’m in league with the Protestants. Where could she have gotten such a preposterous notion?” Even as I feigned dismay, I knew what she would say before she spoke.

“Where else?” she said. “Take heed, my lady, lest Monsignor find a way to consign you to the flames. It seems he will stop at nothing to achieve his ends.”

Five nights later, a pounding on my door awoke me. I fumbled for flint to light my candle when Lucrezia raced in. “My lady, you must rise! We must leave at once!”

I slid from my bed; from her truckle bed at my side, Anna-Maria peered at me. Birago came in moments later. “Blessed Virgin, what is it?” I asked, throwing on a shawl.

“The Guises say that Huguenot rebels march toward us. Monsignor orders our departure for Amboise. There is no time to pack. We must go as we are.”

I recalled my confrontation with Mary and wanted to break something. I searched Birago’s face. “Is it true? What do you know?”

He looked tired, his thin features drained from the long nights and days he spent acting as my spy in the galleries and passageways of the courts, trying to ferret out any useful information he could. “All I know
is that a Guise scouting party came upon the rebels in the forest and captured one. This man confessed that the Huguenots plan to siege Blois and take Their Majesties captive.” His voice lowered. “The Guises have spies everywhere. I can’t imagine how they failed to uncover this before now. In any event, we’re expected in the courtyard. I wouldn’t tarry.”

I dressed, grabbed my jewel coffer and sleepy Muet under my arms, and sped from my apartments. Courtiers were rushing from every direction, carrying half-packed valises as they stumbled down the tiered staircase in a panic. My women and I were swept along, staggering into the courtyard breathless and with our headdresses askew.

A contingent of guards blocked the château’s iron gates. Grooms ran about with torches, casting a smoky glow over the women as they scrambled into carts normally reserved for transporting furniture. Men leapt onto horses; le Balafré’s retinue cantered around the courtyard, yelling and inciting more panic. Fear ripened in the midnight air.

I caught sight of le Balafré herding Mary and François into a carriage. Thrusting my coffer and Muet at Lucrezia—“Find a wagon!”—I dashed across the courtyard. I reached le Balafré with my heart in my throat. He gave me a cruel smile from his white steed, his lean figure encased in armor. “I see Your Grace heeded our warning. You may ride with Their Majesties.”

I scrambled into the upholstered interior. When I looked up, Mary seared me with her stare. Smothered in furs, François groaned, “What’s keeping them? Do they expect us to wait and be killed?” and I banged on the rooftop with my hand. “Go! Now! The king commands it!”

The carriage lurched forward, descending the steep château road and careening into the night.

“How can you call it a revolt?” I faced Monsignor and le Balafré in the lusterless light seeping through their study in Amboise, the sumptuous palace embellished by my father-in-law, where I had first struck my pact with Diane. Now I fought to strike another pact, having waited days for an audience, badgering Monsignor’s secretary until he agreed to see me. “You sent us racing from Blois when you know those men were disorganized and desperate. They let themselves be rounded up like lambs; they wanted to plead with the king and offer their grievances. They are
starving, afraid; your edict has denied them the right to conduct business and they’ve lost their livelihoods. You can’t blame them for seeking justice.”

Monsignor sat at his desk, his well-fed fleshy cheeks tinged red with anger. At his side, his brother, le Balafré, stood like a granite pillar, his unblinking gray-blue eyes fixed on me.

“An example must be made,” repeated the cardinal. “Those poor men, as you call them, are traitors. They planned an attack on a royal château.” He raised his voice to cut short my protest. “We have the documents to prove they were both organized and willing to do harm to Their Majesties. They planned to take them captive and kill my brother and me.”

“And they planned to legalize the Huguenot faith and sit their leaders on the Council,” intoned le Balafré, his voice inflexible as the gold-sheathed sword at his waist. He grimaced, his puckered scar distorting his lips. “We are the ones who seek justice, madame, and after we have had it, we will have their leaders—all of them, including Admiral de Coligny.”

I returned his stare in silence, willing myself to stay seated, for now I knew that I fought for more than the lives of anonymous men ensnared by the Guises.

“What … what does Coligny have to do with this?”

“He is the mastermind,” replied Monsignor. “We found a letter on one of the prisoners, conveying Coligny’s order to capture the king. This was his plan. He is heretic as Satan.”