The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (25 page)

He sipped his wine, without taking his eyes from me. He did not speak and I thought perhaps I had disclosed too much. After all, he was still a stranger to me.

“How can I help?” he finally said.

I allowed myself a smile. “You speak with the Huguenot pastors and other leaders, yes? Tell them of my edict. Let them preach to their congregations and counsel restraint, so there are no disturbances while I work with parlement.” My voice took strength, envisioning the country liberated at last from the Guises’ terror. “I do not blame the Huguenots for wanting revenge, but there must be tolerance if we are to survive.”

“And the Guises? The leaders want them removed from the government. They see the Guises as cold-blooded killers, who must pay for what they’ve done.”

“I agree. However, I cannot remove them by force, not yet. But I believe in this new enterprise as I’ve believed in nothing else, and I know that in the end France will have no peace while the Guises hold power.”

He leaned back, raking his hand over his close-cropped hair. “I think I can speak for most of the leaders when I say peace is also our desire. But not everyone will bow to reason.”

“Oh? Explain.” I knew I wouldn’t like it, but I needed to hear it. I must recognize and overcome all obstacles, no matter where they came from.

“Put simply, the deaths at Amboise have divided my brethren into two factions. One side wishes to live their lives without fear. The other wants the same, plus the removal of the Guises and a role in the government.
This is not simple: some men will switch sides, depending on their circumstances. If you seek to worship freely, but then your house is burned, your crop razed, and your daughters raped by a Guise patrol, you’re likely to change your stance.”

“So, we have religious and political issues to address.” I caught a shift in his eyes and added, “I would seek to place Huguenots of influence on the Council. I do not believe our differences mean we cannot find common ground.”

He cupped his hand at his chin. “When that time comes,” he said, “I would welcome a place at court. We need to work together if we are to return France to her former glory.” And a genuine smile brightened his face, the first I’d seen all night. “I believe you have our best interests at heart. I will therefore speak with the leaders and the pastors and see that no one acts in retaliation for Amboise. It will take time, though. They are scattered; no one dares congregate in these dangerous times. I’ll have to meet with them one by one.”

“I ask for nothing more.” For the first time in weeks, I felt I might actually succeed in bringing down the Guises for good. I reached for the decanter, saying, “I hope you’ll like the chamber I’ve prepared for you. It’s small but I’ve little extra room, as my children are here.”

“I’m sure it would be fine,” he replied, “though I must decline your hospitality.”

The air in the room shifted. I bit back my protest. Of course he couldn’t stay. I might see Chenonceau as my refuge, but neither of us could be sure there weren’t Guise spies lurking about. And he had his own family to consider, whom he’d left to see me.

“Naturally,” I said, hiding my disappointment. “I was thoughtless to assume otherwise.”

“No,” he said. “I would stay, if I could. But my wife … she has been ill.”

“Oh, no. I hope it’s not serious.”

“I’m afraid it is.” He averted his eyes from me. “Charlotte is dying. She gave birth a few months ago to a daughter,” he said, his voice so low I had to lean to him to hear. “The labor was hard but the child sound. Then Charlotte lost her milk; she couldn’t feed the babe. Her appetite deserted her and at first we thought she had milk fever, but as time went
on she did not improve. We hired a doctor and he found …” He swallowed. “She has a lump in her breast. She wastes away before my eyes and I can do nothing.”

I knew all too well the helplessness of watching a spouse die, of praying for a miracle you fear will never come. I reached over, set my hand on his where it rested on the table. “I will send to court for our royal physician, Dr. Paré. If anyone can heal her, he can.”

He went still. Then he withdrew his hand and stood. “No. It is too late.”

That brief touch of his skin burned in me. I followed him to the bay window overlooking the night-shrouded gardens, where mummers entertained Mary and François in a spangled pavilion. “She might yet be saved. While there is a chance, we must never lose hope.”

He turned so quickly we found ourselves face-to-face. I could discern darker flecks in his pale blue eyes, the supple lines at their corners, and slash of cheekbones above his lustrous beard. He was a few inches taller than me; his wine-tinged breath blew warm on my brow. “You remind me of her,” he said. “She too is brave and bold.”

Under my bodice, my heart started to pound. “I … I am not her,” I whispered.

His hand slid downward, to my waist. “No, you’re not. She doesn’t have your strength. You are the strongest woman I know, Catherine de Medici.”

The sound of my name on his lips sent heat rushing through me. No one had looked at me like this; no man had ever seen the strength in me as he did. I felt as though I might dissolve in his gaze, as if he had opened that place inside me where I’d locked the wreckage of my youth and my dreams—everything that life and time had made me surrender.

And I knew then that I wanted this man. I had wanted him all along.

Desire flared in me like a newborn sun, so overpowering that I tried to pull away. He didn’t let me go. He brought me to him, his lips closing on mine, quenching my breath. I lost all sense of reason, of myself, drowning in the heat of being wanted for myself, for the very first time.

I heard him murmur, “Just for tonight,” and it was enough. It was everything.

I led him through the darkened château to the staircase. Through the
open windows that let in the soft evening air, the sound of music and laughter drifted to me. My children and Mary Stuart were enjoying their revel; they sounded for once like the young people they were.

Lucrezia rose from her stool, her eyes sharp in the moonlight sliding like silk through the mullioned window. I gestured. She gathered Muet in her arms and retreated without a word.

My bedchamber awaited; sun-dried linen sheets drawn back, the satin coverlet I’d embroidered by hand folded over. Anna-Maria was with the children; hearing the door click shut behind me, I moved as if in a dream to the candle in its sconce on my dressing table.

“No,” he said, “leave it. Let me look at you.”

I felt as I had the night I first bedded Henri, at a loss as to how to act. I almost laughed aloud. I was forty-one. I’d been with a man before. I knew what couples did.

With that uncanny way he had of sensing my thoughts, Coligny said, “Don’t be afraid.” He untied my sleeves, removed my stomacher, bodice, and skirts, until my clothing lay strewn like foam at my feet and I stood in my shift, trembling, but not with cold.

In an instinct born of years as a wife, I turned to climb into bed. Then I heard clothing slide to the floor, the single clank of a metallic buckle. When I looked around, he stood naked, a taut silhouette of pallid skin.

I stared. He was beautiful but his body was nothing like Henri’s, not that broad hirsute frame I’d known. This was a small wiry man, his muscles melded to the bone, standing with utter confidence and a wry smile that made my knees turn to water. His manhood rose upright from its thatch of bronze hair; his ribs showed under his flesh as he drew quick breaths. Lifting his corded arms to undo the gilded net at my nape, he released my hair and it tumbled over my shoulders.

“Like a dark sea,” he whispered and he melded his body to mine, laying me on the bed as with one hand he slipped my shift upward, over my head. All doubt evaporated when I felt his touch, transformed by some alchemy into exquisite, near-unbearable pleasure. He teased me with his lips and his tongue, and when I began to shudder and he entered me, I let out a cry I’d never made before: a spontaneous celebration of uninhibited joy that released my very soul.

• • •

I awoke before dawn. He was at the window, dressed. He turned as the sky unfurled behind him. “I must go,” he said and he sat beside me, caressing tangled hair from my face. He looked into my eyes with sadness and I said softly, “No apologies.”

His expression was gentle yet grave, once again the reserved courtier.

“We must never speak of it,” I said, and I touched his cheek. “They would not understand. We have so much to fight for and they … they would say I seek peace with the Huguenots because I took you to my bed.” As I spoke I trembled with the first chill I’d felt since our night together and I had a fleeting fear that I might have surrendered something I’d come to regret.

“I will not tell a soul,” he said. “Never forget that God has a plan for you. Without you, this realm will fall apart. You can save France, but never underestimate them. Remember, while you think you hold them at bay, they are still tigers and tigers know when to attack.”

He kissed me. “I’ll send word as soon as I can. Until then, do not risk yourself, even for me.”

I cradled his face, engraving it in my memory. “Godspeed, Gaspard,” I whispered.

He gathered his cloak and left.

As I brought my hands to my face, his scent clung like rain to my fingers.

W
E LEFT CHENONCEAU IN LATE AUTUMN, AS THE CHESTNUTS
changed colors and wild swans flocked to the Cher in search of last-minute food. I’d had time to bask in my secret, to relive it in my mind every night; I’d ridden with Mary and overseen François’s health. I spent time with Charles, Henri, Margot, and Hercule, governing their lessons and their well-being.

At ten, Charles bore a startling resemblance to his father. He was tall as Henri had been, with the hooded Valois eyes and aquiline nose. He liked the same activities: riding, hunting, fencing, and hawking, and I had a special bow made for him so he could practice. Seven-year-old Margot was budding into a precocious beauty with her mass of red-streaked hair and feline eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She was indolent, however, preferring to preen before the mirror, and I put her on a strict diet, for like me she easily gained weight. In contrast, nine-year-old Henri was slim as a blade, with my olive skin and long-lashed dark eyes that contained a prescient light. Of all of them, Henri alone seemed to sense the change in me.

I enjoyed every moment of time alone with my children, but the idyll couldn’t last. When the Guises sent word that the court was in Orléans
preparing for Christmas, we packed up and left, the children chattering with excitement as I braced for another battle with the Guises.

Instead, we arrived to tragedy.

Marie de Guise, regent of Scotland on her daughter’s behalf, had died after years of struggle against the Protestant lords, who now ruled the kingdom until Mary came home or named another regent. Mary was oblivious to the political discord plaguing her land, disconsolate over the mother she did not recall, and though the Guises declared us in mourning, they understood that with no means to keep Scotland safe, our alliance was now on paper alone. The Guise prestige had plummeted; few of the nobles invited to court that holiday season deigned to appear and tumult plagued the streets, with placards denouncing the Guises as bloodthirsty tyrants plastered on every corner. Their stranglehold on France was weakening.

I was left to care for the children and Mary. Her sorrow roused frenetic concern in François, who couldn’t stand to see her distressed. The combination of her grief, undercurrents of intrigue at court, and daily visits from Monsignor proved too much and François fell ill again.

This time, the onslaught was merciless. Within days a monstrous fistula had formed inside his left ear and he writhed in agony, suppurating pus and soaked with fever. I ensconced myself in his chamber and held him while he shrieked and his physicians debated the feasibility of using a stronger dose of opiate.

“Fools!” I yelled. “Look at him! Dose him now or by God I’ll have your heads!”

Mary hovered nearby. I almost waved her out, thinking the sight of her would make François even more anxious, but she crept to his side and took his hand. I watched in awe as he went quiet, like a sick animal soothed by its master’s touch. She had a more calming effect than any opiate, and so I left her in charge of his care so I could contend with the growing anxiety at court.

Every time I emerged from his rooms to change my clothing or take nourishment, I found a host of whispering courtiers and dagger-eyed ambassadors waiting in the galleries, searching my face for any sign that death was about to claim my son. François was childless; his heir was my third son, ten-year-old Charles. I could almost hear the court’s avid speculation as they sensed the balance of power begin to tilt; and I took
to creeping down hidden back passageways to my rooms, where I stayed only long enough to recover my strength.

One night, bone-weary from my vigil, I entered my apartments in a haze. As I passed the alcove, I sensed a presence. I whirled about. I couldn’t contain my gasp when I saw Nostradamus materialize as if from nowhere. “You scared me to death! How did you get in here?”