The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (29 page)

He gave me a pensive look. “Of all people, you must know this time, we must have justice.”

“This is not justice,” I exclaimed. “It’s war!” I stopped, forced myself to lower my voice. “I would have made le Balafré pay for what he’s done.”

His bearded lips curved in a mirthless smile. He moved to the table, piled with maps. “Catherine,” he said at length. “He rode into Paris at the head of a legion; he holds you and the king hostage and has blockaded the city. How did you intend to stop him, with no army of your own?”

My reason failed me. I found no dissimulation in him, no pretense. His hidden strength had found its purpose. He was a leader now: the Huguenot leader.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered. “Why didn’t you trust enough in me?”

“It was never about trust.” He returned, kneeling before me to take my hands in his. “You don’t understand because you don’t see how power corrupts. You still believe logic can solve all ills; that men will heed reason because in the end we are equal under God.” His grip tightened. “But the Guises and your church see us as vermin. The suffering will never end until we show them they cannot murder and pillage without consequence. They leave us no choice.”

I looked down at his strong, bronzed hands over mine. “I believe in God,” I said. “I believe there are many ways to seek his light, not just those set forth by Rome. But I’ve seen war before, in my youth, and I do not believe it can solve anything. I don’t think God pays attention to how many people we kill to prove a point.”

He was still.

“We can still find a peaceful solution,” I added, reading encouragement in his silence. “My edict remains in effect; the Huguenots are still under royal protection. If you come with me to court, I’ll seat you on the Council and—”

“No.” He pulled away from me and came to his feet. His expression hardened, crumbling my hope. “The next time I see the duc de Guise, it will be in battle. The time for discourse is past.”

I had lost my gambit. I envisioned a desolate future, dominated by a religious war that would turn this realm, my adopted country, into chaos—a place of charred hamlets and ravaged harvests, of widows and orphans and despair.

I stood and met his eyes, my next words erupting from me in a desperate plea. “I cannot protect you if you choose this war. France is a Catholic realm; for now, it must remain so. Your cause is not sanctioned by the king; you commit treason and I’ll be forced to side with the Triumvirate against you.”

“I know,” he replied, with heartrending acceptance. “I do not expect anything else; your coming here was enough. Now you must defend your son, the king.”

My voice broke. “Then at least withdraw. Pick another place to fight your war. Le Balafré has all of Paris to draw reinforcements from. He will slaughter you. All of you will die!”

He stepped to me. As he reached out, I held up my hand. “No. I can’t bear it. Not now …”

He nodded gently. “I understand. I will take your warning under advisement. Until then, my Catherine, pray for France.”

And before I could reply, he turned and walked out.

Le Balafré waited for me in the Louvre’s courtyard. He raked his gaze over my mount and his mouth twisted. “Those saddlebags look too flat to contain Huguenot heads.”

I returned his remorseless stare. “You will release the king and me at once. Only then shall you have our leave to wage this war you insist on. It will be fought at our command, without unnecessary rapine or butchery. And Admiral de Coligny is not to be harmed. Do I make myself clear? If he is captured, you will bring him to us, where justice can be served.”

“Perfectly,” he said, and as I swept past him he let out a callous laugh that left me in no doubt that if Coligny should fall into his hands, my lover’s life would be forfeit.

I
RETREATED WITH CHARLES AND MY CHILDREN TO ST. GERMAIN.
As summer blazed into autumn, I watched from afar as our army, led by le Balafré and the constable, chased Coligny, who’d heeded my advice and retreated, electing instead to seize every stronghold he could find with a preponderance of Huguenots ready to assist him.

By September, the Huguenots had claimed thirty citadels and taken the constable hostage in battle near Orléans. Le Balafré was enraged. Together with our new regent, Antoine de Bourbon, he set siege on the city, flinging boulders over the walls; razing the countryside and salting every well. Inside the city, the Huguenots were starving but they still dumped hot pitch from the battlements and sniped at their foes until snows blew in to bury the dead rotting beneath their walls and everyone’s supplies began to dwindle.

Each report I received rekindled the horrors of my childhood. I’d never been as devout as I pretended; but in those terrible months I anchored myself at my prie-dieu every night before bed and every morning after I awoke, praying for Coligny’s deliverance and le Balafré’s demise.

Then in December word came that Antoine of Bourbon, king consort of Navarre, had been killed during the siege on Orléans. Jeanne de Navarre was a widow and she sent me a recriminatory letter that dared reproach me for having let the duc de Guise put Antoine in harm’s way. I choked on my incredulity as I read these words. She acted as though
I
were responsible for her inability to keep her foolish husband out of the fray! But I understood her plight and sent his body to her for entombment, along with a stern warning that she refrain from lending money or arms to the Huguenots. I couldn’t afford for her to become embroiled in the conflict. She was a queen; her aid would lend the Huguenot cause legitimacy and turn le Balafré’s wrath against her. But as the days shortened and I paced, awaiting news of the war’s progress, I found myself thinking of her stalwart heir, that boy who had touched me so deeply at my late son’s wedding. Like my own children, he was fatherless, and the thought of his loss so tugged at me that I sat down one evening and wrote him a letter, offering him my comfort.

As I sealed it, I wondered if Jeanne would let him read it.

Shortly after the New Year, le Balafré launched a renewed attack on the Huguenots trapped inside Orléans. I sent Lucrezia into the courtyard every morning to greet the courier, and one frigid January day she returned panting from her race up the staircase, missive in hand.

My shock when I read it must have showed; from the desk where he took his morning lessons with Birago, Charles raised wary eyes. “Maman, what is it? What is wrong?”

He had turned twelve—that precarious age between childhood and adolescence. He was growing tall but had become anxious and thin, and he had trouble sleeping. His rooms were adjacent to mine, so I could keep a close watch over him, and as I saw the fearfulness in his expression, I mustered an equanimity that I did not feel.

“It’s le Balafré,” I said. “He’s been wounded.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “Will he die?” Before I could answer, he snatched the missive from me. “‘The duc de Guise has been shot,’” he read aloud. “‘The assassin has confessed that Coligny hired him. Your Grace must come at once.’” His laughter burst from him in a malicious cackle. “Coligny paid for le Balafré’s murder. Excellent! I’ll give him a medal for it.”

“No,” I said quickly, alarmed by his vehemence. “You mustn’t say that. Coligny would never hire an assassin. And for the moment, le Balafré is alive.”

Charles crunched the missive in his fist. “With luck, not for long. When do we leave for Orléans? I want to see our proud duke before he dies so I can spit in his face.”

I couldn’t stop my brittle chuckle as I pried the missive from him and ruffled his hair. “You’re too passionate, my son. You must learn to control your impulses.” I wagged my finger. “And you’ll stay here. Let me take care of this.”

The moment I stepped into the canvas field tent, the stench of pus and blood struck me with a near-visceral impact. I fought back memories of my husband’s death as I stood over the duke’s bed and watched le Balafré gasping for air, slowly drowning in his own blood, his right lung pierced by the bullet. He was delirious, unaware of me; at a stool by his side sat his wife, her proud beauty stricken by the specter of impending widowhood. She clutched the hand of her son, a golden boy not much older than my Charles, who would soon inherit his father’s title of duc de Guise. His fine-boned face, exalted by the smoky sapphire eyes of his family blood, twisted in pain when the doctor murmured, “I fear the hour draws near.”

Young Guise looked at me; in his pained gaze I saw the struggle to harness the maturity required of him and something else, dark and beyond his years. “Your Grace, might we have this time alone to say farewell to my father?” he said in a voice made raw by his grief.

“Of course.” I shifted back. I felt like an intruder. I felt their eyes upon me, the disconsolate mother and son who knew how much I loathed the duke and longed for his death. To them, his loss was an abyss. To me, it was freedom. “You must send for me if …” I began haltingly, and Madame de Guise hissed, “See to it that the foul murderer Coligny pays for this crime!”

I retreated to a nearby cloth pavilion, where Lucrezia had set out mulled wine for us. As she went to monitor the entrance, I asked Birago, “What did you discover?”

He sighed. “Everyone sings the same tune. Le Balafré was shot in the
back by one of his own attendants, one Poltrot de Méré, a renegade Huguenot who turned coat and joined our forces. Under torture, he confessed that Coligny hired him to infiltrate our ranks and kill le Balafré.”

My fingers tightened about the goblet. “Is the confession reliable?”

“As far as such things go. They flayed Méré until his flesh hung in strips. He’ll survive only long enough to suffer the final indignity of execution. You do plan to …?”

“Of course. He shot le Balafré. He must die for it.” I paused. “There is no other evidence?”

“If you mean witnesses or correspondence, no. And Coligny denies all complicity. He issued a statement that Méré acted alone.”

“Thank God,” I whispered, without thinking. When I saw Birago frown, I added, “Méré is a turncoat; he may also be a liar who seeks to implicate Coligny. He can’t be trusted.”

Birago gave me a wry smile. “This newfound naïveté does not suit you.”

It was the first allusion he’d made that he knew of my secret and I recoiled from it. I didn’t want to hear his judgment. I didn’t want what I’d shared with Coligny sullied by his hard truths.

“You presume too much,” I retorted. “I am not naïve. I just know Coligny would not do this. He is a man of honor, a Huguenot, yes, but not a criminal. This was an act of cowardice.”

Birago sighed. “The siege was over, the Huguenots trapped. Le Balafré sent terms for surrender. Coligny agreed and the next morning le Balafré was shot. In my opinion, this is no coincidence. Coligny was about to lose everything he fought for.”

I met his stare. “I don’t believe it. Not from him. It’s not his way.”

“You no longer know his way,
madama.”
Birago stepped close to me. “He’s taken up the Huguenot cause and gone to war against us. You must distance yourself. He cannot be received until his name is cleared. And if it is not, you must judge him a traitor and see justice done.”

I did not want to hear this; my very soul rebelled against it. I stood frozen, until Lucrezia suddenly turned from the entrance to whisper, “My lady, a guard approaches.”

I murmured to Birago, “Excuse me. We’ll talk later, yes?” and turned from his knowing eyes to step into the night, pulling my cloak about
me. I didn’t need to hear what the guard relayed; I already knew. Le Balafré, my foe, who had degraded and insulted me since my arrival in France, was dead. The Catholic cause had lost its leader. And I was free to again resume my rule.

I walked over charred fields, smelling smoke and roasted meat from the soldiers’ campsites and glimpsing the crumpled spires of Orléans like ragged teeth on the horizon. I paused to draw in icy air, lifted my eyes to the mist-wreathed moon.

Only then did I allow myself to consider the unthinkable: What if it was true? Had Coligny, in desperation over his imminent defeat, stooped to murder? Had he sacrificed his own ideals, that moral standard I’d always admired in him, to save his faith?

A shiver went through me. I didn’t want to believe it. I recalled the pride on his face as he led me into the barn in Vassy, his anger and horror as those innocents died, but I didn’t want to believe that one atrocity could so warp his soul. We’d striven together for peace, worked always to that end. If he was found culpable of le Balafré’s murder, it would bring about the ruin of his name, pit Catholic against Huguenot in a never-ending feud. It seemed impossible that the man I knew, so cautious and intelligent, would risk everything on such a gamble.

Still, as I stood alone on these war-blackened fields, I had to concede that harsh as it might be, Birago’s advice was plausible.

It could be the man I knew no longer existed.

As this thought drove itself through me, I knew I faced a terrible choice. If I brought him back to court, I’d set myself against the world I struggled to keep whole for my son. Much as I’d loathed le Balafré, I could already envision how this news would be received by our Catholics and Philip of Spain, how this sole act might sow a feud that would tear France asunder. Already it set an inexorable shadow over Coligny and his cause, one not even I could dispel. Our dream was over. Now I must do as Birago advised. I must save France.