The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (45 page)

“Enough!
” I struck him with all my might, rocking him back in his chair. I saw his eyes snap wide, blood spurting from his broken lip. “Did you tell my daughter about the box? Did you set her to destroying my son’s trust in me by making him think I’d murder Navarre?”

His laugh came again, high-pitched and taunting, spraying blood. “Yes! I did it all! And now you can vent your fury on me; now you can become the queen you were born to be: so powerful and fearsome you’ll be remembered forever. I have always known who you are, though you never loved or believed in me.” He thrust his face at me. “Or do you believe the lance that took your husband’s life was an accident?”

I froze. “No. That’s … it cannot be true.”

His smile was macabre. “Can’t you feel it? It’s all around us, every moment; it binds us forever. Every step you’ve taken since that fateful day was foretold. You will be queen until your death; you will save
France from destruction; but the bloodline you fight with every breath to save, the barren seed that is your family—they are damned.”

Birago stood, trembling with fury. “He is mad. We must bring in the torturer.”

I remembered the warning issued by Nostradamus years ago outside Chaumont:
He plays with evil. And evil he will wreak. It is his fate
. I met Cosimo’s eyes. “Either you tell me how to save my son or I promise before this day is done you will beg for my mercy.”

He whispered, “I do not need mercy anymore. And there is nothing you can do. It is too late.”

“Then,” I said, “it is too late for you.” I turned to Birago. “Cut off his tongue and hands, so he can never practice his foul art again. If he survives, put him on a galley to Italy.”

I went to the door. Cosimo screamed, “No! Don’t leave me, my
duchessina!”

This time, I did not look back.

At midnight Birago came to my rooms to report that Cosimo had perished during the ordeal, his body dumped in one of the pits outside the city, with nothing left to mark his passage.

He then asked of Charles. From my chair at the hearth, I said emotionlessly, “Paré attends him. There is nothing more we can do. Go rest. You look tired. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

“Madama,”
he said softly, “you cannot believe the ravings of that wretch. Your husband’s death was an accident. You were there. You saw it.”

My breath caught in my throat. “I can hear no more. Go now, please.”

He retreated, leaving me to stare into flames that whispered secrets.

You will save France from destruction; but the bloodline you fight with every breath to save, the barren seed that is your family—they are damned
.

Cosimo had never been a seer, but in that moment I believed him. None of my sons had children. Though Charles had been married for over two years, his queen showed no sign of fertility. And when Charles died, only Henri would be left to safeguard the throne, for it was painfully clear the pox had corrupted Hercule and he could never rule. Like an animal in a maze, my mind kept returning to the day in Provence
when Nostradamus told me each of my sons would reach adulthood. He had not said they’d die childless, and yet now that threat was before me, an inescapable reality I could not ignore.

If Henri failed to sire a son, Navarre would inherit. The future would hinge on a Huguenot prince who believed I was his foe, whose mother I was accused of poisoning, whose friends had been butchered in my palace, and whose conversion I had forced. Everything I had fought for, the legacy of peace I sought for France and my bloodline, would be crushed under his heel.

Forcing myself to my feet, I walked to the window to stare into the night. The windswept trees in the gardens wavered against a sable sky blurred by a thousand stars. Looking at the distant constellations, sparkling like ice, I wondered if I had struggled, plundered, and clawed my way through a labyrinth of my own making, when all along my future had been preordained.

I turned to my desk, gazed for what seemed an eternity at the sheaf of paper and quills.

You need each other to fulfill your destiny
.

Then I sat down and wrote out my instructions.

Henri arrived two days later, dressed in dirty hunting gear.

“It’s done.” He yanked off his gauntlets. “I took him to where we’d sighted a stag in the forest the day before. I sent our men away to surround it, and once we were alone I turned to him and said, ‘Go. Before one of us decides to kill you.’”

He stalked to my sideboard to pour a goblet of wine, downing it in a single gulp. “No doubt he’s halfway to his kingdom by now.” He set his goblet down, spun back to me. “If you wanted to let him go free, why didn’t you just send him away with Margot?”

“It had to look as if he fled. The Catholics, Guise: it’s the only thing they’d accept.”

“Yes, and now I’m the fool who let him escape.” Henri stared at me. “Why did you do this?”

I lifted my eyes. He knew me so well. Of all my children, he saw into me as none had. I fought against the urge to tell him everything, reminded myself why I had to deceive him. Charles was bedridden with
fever, but the convulsions were abating; Paré thought he might yet live and frantically sought an antidote. Cosimo was dead; Margot locked in her rooms. I had to bury the truth. Henri must never know what Margot had done; he must be kept ignorant, free of all blame. And while I was so angry at Margot I could barely look at her, she was still Navarre’s wife. She must be protected. If anyone was accused of poisoning Charles, let it be me.

“All you need to know,” I said carefully, “is that you must leave France.”

He went pale. “You … you want me to leave? Why?”

“Because Birago tells me many of the Huguenots who fled to Geneva after the massacre are now plotting to return and move against us. They blame you for the massacre as much as they do me and Guise. I want you out of harm’s way. I shall write to your aunt Marguerite in Savoy; she’ll be delighted to receive you. It’s not only your welfare I’m concerned for; I’m sending Hercule away as well, as soon as I secure Elizabeth Tudor’s agreement to receive him as her suitor.”

Henri grimaced. “That’ll be a sight to see, our Hercule pawing Elizabeth Tudor.” He looked at me intently. “This is rather sudden. First, you have me shut up Navarre in Vincennes and then you tell me I must threaten his life to force his escape; now I hear Charles is gravely ill.” His eyes glinted. “Why would you send me away when I might soon be king?”

I met his eyes. “Charles is ill, yes, but he may have many years yet to live. You must heed me. You must go and wait for me to summon you. I beg you.” My voice caught. “You … you cannot stay. If you do, you risk your life.”

His eyes narrowed. “My life? How? And don’t tell me again it’s those damn Huguenots.”

“Not the Huguenots.” I lowered my gaze. “It’s your brother. Charles has more than a fever. Paré says he suffers from a derangement and thinks the dead haunt him for what we did.”

“Then let me talk to him. He’s my brother. He must know I could hardly stop Guise and several thousand of his own Catholics hell-bent on slaughter.”

“No, you can’t try to talk sense to him right now. He’s not himself.
He’s threatening to send you to England instead of Hercule. I’d rather die than see you in that heretic isle. Elizabeth has opened her ports to our Huguenot refugees; her realm seethes with them. Any malcontent could do you harm.”

A frown creased his brow, to my relief. Much as he might feign otherwise, Henri was fully aware of the consequences of the massacre and I knew he was still furious at himself for ceding to Guise that night, for it made him look as if he’d willingly allowed thousands to die.

“Hercule had no part in it,” I continued, “and so Elizabeth will play her usual coy game with him. But not with you; she has been told that you were at Coligny’s house that night.”

“And that’s all? There’s nothing else?”

“No.” I forced out a smile. “It’ll only be for a short time, I promise. We can write every day.”

He hesitated a moment before he nodded. “I suppose I could use some time away.” He chuckled. “No doubt Savoy will be less funereal.” He kissed my cheek. “I hope you know what you’re doing with Navarre. God knows what he’ll do once he feels safe again.”

“Indeed,” I said under my breath, and I watched him saunter out.

Left alone I sank into my chair. I did not think. I simply put my face in my hands and wept as I hadn’t in years. I mourned a thousand losses: for the child I’d been and the family I’d left behind, for the country I barely recalled anymore and the country I now fought to save. I wept for my dead children and my living ones, who’d grown up infected by the poisonous hatred of our religious wars. I wept for my friends and my enemies; for all the lost hopes and illusions.

But most of all, I wept for myself and the woman I had become.

Two months later I sat at Charles’s bedside as he coughed up pieces of his lungs. He had not yet turned twenty-four, but Cosimo’s poison had slowly done its work, rotting him from the inside out so that he lay drenched in sweat tinged with his own blood.

His fingers clutched mine. His eyes were closed, his chest barely lifting with each shallow breath. Earlier he’d signed a document bestowing on me the regency until Henri returned. His wife, Isabel, was already in
mourning, anchored at her prie-dieu; only Birago and I, and his faithful hound at his feet, attended him as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

A little after four in the afternoon, his fever abated. As fitful rain pattered against the château walls, he opened his eyes and looked at me.

He whispered, “Forgive me.”

I
PACED MY CHAMBER IN THE PALACE AT LYONS, KICKING AGAINST
the gem-encrusted hem of my burgundy velvet gown, turning back to the window every time I heard clamor in the courtyard.

Autumn had come to France. Burnished leaves hung on the oaks and opal splendor bathed the hills. Four months had passed since Charles’s death—four long and difficult months, during which I’d buried him, sent his widow to Chenonceau, and labored to secure the realm. Now I had received word that Henri had passed through Avignon and moved up the Rhône, escorted by Hercule, whose importance had grown since becoming our new heir.

Soon my beloved son would claim his throne.

I turned from the window to see Birago shuffle in with his ubiquitous portfolios. I grimaced as he set them on my desk. I should have felt compassion; Charles’s death had left him bereaved and greatly aged, and he sought to assuage his grief by devoting his every waking hour to work. But I was in no mood today for his mournful visage or litany of responsibilities I must attend to.

“Whatever it is can wait,” I said to him.

“But these dispatches are from England. Queen Elizabeth demands
we join her in protesting further Spanish aggression in the Low Countries. She says—”

“She’ll not allow Hercule to pay her suit unless we throw our gauntlet into the ring. She’s been delaying our request for months with the same excuse. If she so wants our support against Spain, let her give something in return.”

“But this trouble could spill over into France. We cannot—”

I stamped my foot. “Do I look as if I’m dressed for the Council?”

Birago drew himself erect, or as erect as he could get these days. “Forgive me. I see I’ve come at an inopportune time. It seems affairs of state must wait.”

He limped out. Lucrezia freed my veil from a snag on my ruff. “I feel like a veal haunch at a banquet,” I groaned. “Is all this truly necessary?”

“Absolutely. Do you want His Majesty to see his mother in her old widow’s weeds?”

“I don’t care. I just want him to arrive and—”

Cannon salvos drowned out my voice. My women hurried behind me as I charged into the corridor, moving with more speed than my girth and cumbersome gown should have permitted.

As I emerged into the courtyard, I spied Margot with her women. She wore a nectarine silk gown with a ruff so wide it framed her head, her face powdered and her elaborate coiffure sprouting plumes, her throat and bosom glittering with tourmalines. I’d released her from captivity in her rooms but insisted she be attended by a posse of stern matrons chosen by me.