The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (27 page)

“The Guises no longer have any power here,” I said to him. “You needn’t worry.”

He shrugged, seemingly absorbed in his falcon. Then he said with that uncanny insight that children sometimes display, “If you’re to be my regent, why can’t you instruct me?”

I chuckled. “Because I too have much to learn. Now, finish with that bird; Birago expects you in the classroom.” As I leaned down to kiss his cheek, he wrapped his arms around me. “I love you, Maman,” I heard him murmur. “Promise me, you’ll never let the Guises hurt us again.”

Of all my children, he’d always been the least demonstrative, but I’d seen his desperate grief when his father died and knew he had a deep sensitivity. I held him close. “I promise,” I whispered. “They’ll never hurt us. Never. I’d die first.”

I left him to check on Hercule, who had a mild colic, and then, after seeing to Margot and Henri—whom I’d set to a rigid schedule of studies—I returned to the task of ruling the kingdom.

I hadn’t lied when I said I had much to learn. I’d never held power as queen consort in Henri’s reign, save for my brief regency during the Milanese war, and I was faced with a near-destitute treasury, a troubled populace, and fractious government. Widespread starvation haunted France, the legacy of years of harsh winters and humid summers, so I had our royal storehouses opened and grain distributed. Birago suggested we reinvigorate taxation by putting the burden on our nobility rather than the mercantile class, but we were immersed in presenting my edict of toleration to the parlement, where it was hotly contested. It passed by a narrow margin; the Huguenots were now free to resume their businesses and worship in peace.

It was my first triumph as regent, and to celebrate our success I presented Charles at court.

Without extra money, we made do with what we had. Lucrezia, Anna-Maria, and I almost ruined our eyes and fingers altering the royal robes to fit Charles’s spare frame. I dressed my other children with equal care; as our new heir, Henri sported a silver tissue doublet, which he accessorized in his inimitable style with pearl-drop earrings. Margot wore red satin and we squeezed Hercule into azure velvet and a jaunty cap.

Mary Stuart appeared clad in the white veil and gown of mourning. Though her cloister was at an end and the children clamored about her, to me she resembled a lost soul, shrouded in uncertainty. I dreaded the thought of contending with the thorny issue of her future, but I knew I must before the Guises did it for me, and so I wrote to Cosimo Ruggieri the next day to request an astrological chart, hoping to find clues to my immediate problems in the stars.

I had neglected Cosimo, leaving him to his business in his château at Chaumont, and I was shocked when he arrived by how thin he was. He looked as though he hadn’t eaten a full meal in weeks, his face pared to bone and skin, his black eyes huge and gleaming with intensity.

As soon as he saw me, he released a dramatic sigh. “I’ve done my utmost, but I’m afraid I’m not the great Nostradamus. I can’t divine the future in a basin of water.”

I resisted rolling my eyes. We were off to a fine start. “You don’t see Nostradamus here, do you? Come, did you bring the chart? What does it say?”

I peered at the complex diagram he unrolled from a leather tube and set before me. He traced a line. “See here: this eclipse in Leo means war.”

“War?” I looked up, startled by the certainty in his voice. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. War is imminent. The stars do not lie.”

I swallowed the retort that his father would have disagreed. The Maestro had said nothing can be predicated for certain which concerns the future. And if nothing is certain, surely we can gain the knowledge to avert calamity.

“As soon as you take your rest, you must return to Chaumont,” I said. “I must know how this war will come about. I need names, dates, places.” I was about to wave him out when I recalled the reason I’d summoned him. “Did you see anything in the stars for Mary Stuart?”

He nodded, his intense black eyes unblinking, overpowering his gaunt face. “I saw a marriage in her future that will bring about great misfortune.” He paused. “I assume the name Don Carlos means something to you?”

I went still. Don Carlos was the prince of Spain, Philip II’s son.

I went to Mary’s apartments the next day. She looked better, with color in her cheeks and a new sheen in her hair. She’d even put on some much needed weight.

“I wanted to see how you fared, my dear,” I said as we kissed each other’s cheeks. “The cloister can be so difficult, but you seem to have survived well enough.”

“They insisted I could be carrying a child.” She smiled; we both knew, without having admitted it out loud, that my son never consummated
their union. “They also tell me I can rejoin the court, but François is gone. I feel as if I don’t belong here anymore.”

I fell silent. I realized a transformation had taken place: our pampered queen had taken stock of her life in her widowhood, much as I had. I understood how trying this time of reflection was and resisted my sympathy for her. I had to do what I’d come here for, come what may.

“My dear,” I said gently. “I’m afraid I’ve bad news to impart. Your Guise uncles … I’ve reason to believe they seek to wed you to Don Carlos, Philip of Spain’s heir.”

She blinked. “But he’s mad. He’s not fit for public life. Everyone knows that.”

“I fear his lack of reason poses no impediment as far as your uncles are concerned.”

Anger sparked in her eyes. “I’ve just lost my François. They cannot think I’ll consent!” We both glanced to the door, half-expecting her women to rush in. When they did not, she added in a taut voice, “What can I do to stop it?”

I was again taken by surprise. The last time we’d had an actual conversation, she accused me of heresy. I twined my hands. “You are still queen of Scotland, yes?”

She nodded, frowning. Then she froze. “You think I should …?”

I met her eyes, difficult as it was. I had fought with everything I had to stay in France; I connived to save myself. I expected the same from her; in fact, I anticipated it, for unlike me she had options. If she refused Don Carlos, her Guise uncles could offer her as a bride for Charles and I’d find myself trapped. This was why I couldn’t falter. There was no other way.

“I don’t remember Scotland,” she said, and it was as though she spoke to herself, to the curtains fluttering in the air coming through the casement. “But it is my realm.” She lifted a hand to her face, her slim white finger now bare of a wedding ring. She turned to me. “Maybe in Scotland, I will be happy again.”

I could have wept, for I knew that the loss of her prince had left a hollow in her that would never be filled. Despite all his faults, François’s death had heralded the end of her innocence.

“You will,” I said, “if that is your desire.”

Her smile was heartrending. “I’ve had what I desired. Now I must do my duty.”

I took her in my arms. We had never been close, but I prayed for her safety.

For she was right: we both must do our duty. It was the price of privilege, of our roles as royal women. Before comfort, before hopes and dreams, our countries must come first.

Summer faded into autumn.

I wasn’t present when Mary informed her Guise relatives of her decision, but I could imagine the uproar. Whatever transpired, however, was masked by stiff familial unity when she received the Scottish lords sent to escort her home.

On the day of her departure, mist floated over the landscape, veiling the drays and coaches of her entourage. To the cracking of whips, the assembly lumbered onto the road to Calais, where galleons waited to convey her to Scotland.

As her coach disappeared, Mary leaned from her window, her white-gloved hand raised in a final farewell.

A
MONTH LATER, I RECEIVED WORD FROM COLIGNY, A BRIEF
note requesting I meet him in a small town called Vassy. “It’s near Guise territory,” Birago told me, “a four- or five-day ride east from Paris. Why would he want you to go there?”

“I don’t know.” I looked again at the paper in my hand before I met his worried eyes. “But no doubt he has something important to tell me.”

“Then he can come here. It’s not safe or wise for you to go to him. What if someone hears of it? He hasn’t yet presented himself at court, and many of our Catholics still believe he had a hand in that Amboise affair.”

I couldn’t tell him that the last time I’d seen Coligny he told me not to risk myself and would therefore not have asked this of me unless it was safe.

“He had nothing to do with Amboise,” I said. “And I hardly think I’ll be in any danger. But just in case I’ll go in secret; we can say I’m visiting my daughter Claude in Lorraine. She is after all pregnant with her first child and it stands to reason that I’d wish to see her.”

“
Madama
, think about what you’re doing,” he implored, but nothing he said could dissuade me. I was desperate to get away from the court,
from the constant struggle and intrigues. I wanted to be a woman again, free of the entanglements of power.

Birago grumbled but ensured I had a strong guard; and on a chilly spring dawn I left the Louvre in a hooded cloak, a valise with my belongings packed behind my saddle.

I rode a sure-footed mare, my days of riding the hunt long past. As we cantered out the gates of Paris onto a wide stretch of road still paved with a few ancient cobblestones left by the Romans, I reveled in the snow-bitten air on my face; the vast land lying fallow around me and the azure dome of the sky, so unique to France. I’d been holed up in chambers for so long I’d forgotten the simple pleasure of being outdoors. Yet as we progressed, stopping at predetermined inns along the way, I also saw stark evidence of the havoc wrought by our religious discord. In one township, I saw a charred Catholic church, its relics and bell smashed on the ground; in another, a Huguenot temple—identifiable by its strange cross-armed crucifix, a resting dove at its base—had been defaced, the word
HERETIC
splashed in red over its splintered doors. The smell of blood and smoke hung in the air, like an echo.

There was famine too, especially outside towns, where the peasantry was isolated and left to scavenge in sodden fields; emaciated livestock stood hock-deep in mud and gaunt-cheeked children in rags, with sores on their legs, rummaged through trash heaps. It reminded me of the siege on Florence, of the senseless devastation of war, and, recalling Cosimo’s unsettling words I regretted not having sent for him before I left, to demand that chart I’d asked from him.

By the time we reached the walls of Vassy under a drenching rain, I was saddened and more resolved than ever to ensure nothing like what the Guises had wrought during my son François’s reign ever happened again.

I lodged in a house commandeered by Birago’s network of informants; that night, I had my own large room, cleansed and readied only for me, and I sat in an upholstered chair before a stone-surround hearth when Coligny arrived.

He stood on the threshold, dripping water. As he cast back the hood of his dark cloak and revealed his bright eyes, I laughed. “You didn’t think I’d come!”

“No, I knew you would.” He strode to me, enveloping me in the scent
of wet wool. His arms were around me in a minute, his mouth crushing mine with a hunger that incinerated my fatigue. Without words he undressed me, took me to the bed, and made love to me with a fervor that left us gasping, entangled like waves in a rough sea.

When we were done, I took the last of my cheese, figs, and bread from my valise and brought them back to bed, where we ate with our fingers, cross-legged and touching each other. I traced his beard, thicker now and more unkempt, marveling at its wiry feel; and finally, as he lay back on the pillows with his hands crossed behind his head, I said, “So, why did you bring me here? What is so important that you couldn’t come to court to tell me?”

He held out his hand. “Come.” As I nestled in the crook of his arm, drinking in his musky scent, he whispered, “I wanted you to see what you have done, the marvel of it.” His voice was passionate; I could feel joy emanating from him, a palpable heat.

“What?” I poked his ribs. “Tell me!”

“No.” He threw his bony shanks over me. “Wait. Tomorrow, you’ll see.”

“I want to know now—” I started to protest, but then his lips covered mine and I forgot what I wanted. I forgot everything but the feel of him, moving inside me.

The next morning he took me outside Vassy to a barn in a forest clearing; as we approached, I heard song coming from within. I turned to him. “It’s … they’re at worship.”

He nodded, leading me into the musty interior, where I came to a halt behind rows of women, men, and children, singing with their heads lifted. I’d only heard psalms in Latin before; only seen the bejeweled ostentation of our churches. I stood transfixed by the simplicity of this gathering: the odor of barn animals and straw in the air, the rafters where pigeons perched; and the singing in French, so exuberant and alive, so different from the stately inaccessible Latin chants I had grown up with.

Coligny smiled. “This is a Huguenot temple. We worship where we can; we seek God not in ritual and incense, but in celebration of his Word. You made this possible. Your edict has brought us peace.”