The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (48 page)

“Time to die,” my son says, and as my mouth opens to yell a warning, the jades shriek and Hercule yanks out a dagger from his cloak. Guast throws up his arms. The blade catches the light before Hercule plunges it to the hilt into Guast’s stomach
.

Silence falls. Hercule stands, panting, his black hair sticking up like quills. Guast looks in disbelief at the knife in his gut. Black blood gushes from the wound and he crumples to the floor
.

Henri’s scream rends the air; as he staggers from the dais, the leader gestures and the other men yank Hercule away. The courtiers follow in a stampede, until only Henri is left, alone
.

I see him drop beside Guast, heedless of the blood pooling around him …

My chamber rushed in around me like a deluge. I was on my knees, my own cupped hands extended before me. Lucrezia bent over me, her pallid features frightened. “My lady, what is it?”

“God help us,” I whispered. “Hercule has killed Guast.”

We reached the Louvre at midnight, after two frantic days of travel. In the courtyard, torches sputtered against a miasmic fog. As we dismounted and grooms raced forth to collect our baggage, I told Margot to go straight to her rooms, while I moved into the palace.

It felt deserted. I saw no courtiers pass as I trod the dimly lit passages, heard no sounds. The air was cold, still; guided by the sconces at intervals on the walls and silent guards flanking the gallery, I made my way to the royal apartments, where, to my relief, I found Birago waiting.

“I’ve been here since it happened,” he said, his face waxen with fatigue. “He’s locked the bedchamber from the inside and won’t let anyone in.”

“And Hercule …?” I whispered.

“Fled the court. I’ve sent out search parties but thus far no one knows where he is.”

“Keep looking. He can’t have gone far.” I drew my cloak closer about me. “See that the fires are lit and then bring up a hot meal.” I waved my hand at him. “Go. I’ll take care of this.”

“Madama,”
he said, “you should know: the body … it’s still in there with him.”

I nodded, biting back a shudder as I went to the bedchamber door and knocked, overcome by a vivid memory of the last time I’d been here and seen Guast sleeping naked in the bed.

There was no answer. I knocked again, louder this time, hearing it echo as though the entire palace was empty. “Henri,” I said. “It’s me. I am here. Open the door, my son.”

I discerned muffled movement, the metallic clank of something being kicked aside, and then he spoke, his voice devoid of emotion. “Go away.”

“No. Henri, please. Let me in. I … I want to see him.”

There was a long silence. I started to think I’d have to order the door broken down. Then I heard the key turn in the lock. Seizing a nearby candle in its holder, I pushed open the door.

Despite the cold, the stench hit me with a visceral force. I caught sight of an unlit candelabrum on the sideboard, went to touch my candle flame to the candelabrum’s tapers; as the tapers flared, chasing away the shadows, I saw Henri on the edge of the bed, his lank hair falling over his face. He wore a shimmering red and gold doublet, the same one I’d seen in my vision, only the sleeves were undone and his chemise cuffs hung shredded and bloodied over his wrists.

Laid out on the bed behind him was Guast’s bloating corpse.

My heart cracked in two.

“He … he didn’t say good-bye,” Henri said in a bewildered voice. “I kept telling him, he couldn’t leave without saying good-bye …” He lifted his face; I almost couldn’t bear to look into his haunted eyes. “Why, Maman? Why would they do this to him?”

“I don’t know,” I murmured and I stepped to him. “My son, you must say good-bye. He will hear you, even if he can’t respond. Then we can bury him as—”

He moaned, covering his face with his hands. “I can’t! I can’t let him go into the dark. He hates the dark. He … he always wants a candle left by the bed at night.”

“We’ll put one with him,” I said, and my voice sounded so calm, even as I battled my sorrow that he must endure this grief and suffer the kind of loss that never truly goes away. “Come with me.” I reached out. His fingers were slack, icy; he had dried blood on them. I imagined him carrying Guast from the hall, up the staircase, through the gallery to this room …

His hand tightened on mine. “I want them all arrested and put in the Bastille—Hercule and his savages, all those involved. But most of all, I want Navarre.”

I froze, met his distended stare. “How—how do you know?”

He rose, went to his sideboard, and retrieved something. He held it out to me: it was the dagger that had killed Guast. There were bloodstains along the length of the blade; forged on its hilt, to my disbelief, were Navarre’s interlocked chains in silver.

“It’s his emblem,” Henri said, and his voice turned cold. “He set the little ape to it, but it was his deed. He did it. He killed my Guast. I want revenge.”

Without a word, I reached for the dagger; it felt heavy in my hands. When I heard someone cough discreetly behind us, I turned with a startled gasp. It was Birago, carrying a covered tray. As the smell of hot food wafted to us, tears started in Henri’s eyes. Leaning on me, he let me guide him from the fetid room as if I were the last thing in his world he could hold on to.

Hours later, as dawn broke over the frozen winter sky, I returned to my rooms. Dosed with rhubarb and poppy by Dr. Paré, Henri had been put to bed in another chamber far from his own, while Birago took charge of Guast’s body and the cleansing of the king’s apartments.

Lucrezia and Anna-Maria were waiting for me. So was Margot; she sat on a footstool cradling my decrepit sixteen-year-old Muet in her arms. As I entered slowly, so tired I swayed on my feet, Margot set Muet on her cushion. “Hercule is at Chambord,” she said. “I let it be known
in certain quarters that I wanted to speak to him. A few bribes were all it took.”

I eyed her. I had learned the hard way that Margot never acted without a reason. Why would she voluntarily bring me this information? “Chambord is a hunting château,” I said. “It’s always empty this time of year. Why would he go there alone?”

“Because he’s not alone. He has others with him. Chambord can accommodate them.”

“Others? Exactly how many are there?”

“Rumor has it he’s raised an army and he intends to use it against Henri.” Though she feigned impartiality, for the first time since her terrible act of vengeance I heard a tremor of fear in her voice. “Hercule is an idiot,” she said. “He doesn’t realize what he’s doing. I … I don’t want him harmed. There’s been enough blood spilled in this family already.”

“Is that so?” I met her stare. “Well then, tomorrow we will go to Chambord. And I suggest that if you truly care about Hercule, you’ll find a way to make him see reason before it is too late.”

E
SCORTED BY GUARDS, WE TRAVELED TO THE LOIRE VALLEY. I
questioned Margot at length and found no hidden motivation, no reason other than a genuine desire to save Hercule from Henri’s wrath. I wondered if our shared grief over Claude had opened her eyes to the fact that we were all she had, that without us she truly would be alone. This bond she’d developed with Hercule since the massacre defied explanation, but I took her concern for him as a sign she wasn’t as heartless as she seemed. Hercule had suffered since childhood, pitted by the pox, a figure of ridicule at court, now thrust into a position he was unfit to occupy. Recalling the words she’d let slip to me on the day of Henri’s return, I wondered if maybe she saw something of herself in her younger brother, for in certain ways she too was an outsider, married but without a husband, childless and adrift in a world where she could no longer play the part of pampered muse.

Whatever the case, I needed her now. If anyone could talk sense into Hercule, it was she—a thought that was reinforced when our coach came up the road to François I’s hunting preserve and I beheld a sea of tents and hundreds of men mingling outside the château.

The coach came to a jarring stop. Margot and I dismounted before a leering battalion. There were more men here than I’d ever imagined Hercule capable of gathering—enough to siege a city. I smelled unwashed flesh, gauged rapacious eyes. Society’s dregs, who thrived in back alleys, willing to commit any crime for a price: this was my son’s army, a larcenous band of impoverished foreign mercenaries, footpads, killers, and common thieves. Even with his allowance, Hercule didn’t have nearly enough funds to satisfy this despicable lot.

I paused. Someone with means had definitely paid for this. Could it be Navarre? Ever since I’d seen the dagger, I’d been suspicious. He had never struck me as reckless; and the hooded men and now this band of thieves: it felt staged, as if I was deliberately being led down a false path.

Inside the château, broken casks and flagons, gristle and bones, were strewn over the inlaid floors; the walls were stained from the smoke of open fires, our prized tapestries torn down and used for bedding. Rangy hounds scavenged in the detritus.

Margot pointed. Turning about, I saw Hercule coming toward us, looking even more dwarfish within Chambord’s immense vaulted hall. I half expected him to start stammering that he hadn’t done anything on purpose, that he’d been forced to do it, but he maintained a stubborn silence until I said coldly, “Your brother is furious and so am I. What possessed you?”

His face colored. We stood inches apart. Tensing his shoulders, he muttered as if by rote, “If you threaten me, I’ll march my army on Paris.”

I guffawed. “You’ll do no such thing! You will dismiss your so-called army and come back to court to beg forgiveness on your knees.”

He glowered; Margot stepped between us. “Hercule, listen to me: you cannot send an army against Henri; it would be treason.”

His mouth worked. When he finally spoke, he blurted his words at me as if he feared he might not be able to say them, “I’ll dismiss my men when I get the recognition I deserve.”

I knew at once these were not his words; he didn’t have the nerve. He’d been primed by someone with more of a stake in this than the murder of a favorite. No one would have spent this kind of money or time preying on Hercule’s sense of inferiority without an ulterior motive.

“How dare you think you can dictate to me?” I said in a low voice.

He chewed his lower lip, glancing at Margot. I’d had enough. Grabbing him by the arm, I yanked him to the nearest window alcove, shoved him onto the seat, and stood over him. “Where is your paymaster now, eh? Do you think he cares anything for you? He’ll use you to his purpose and once he’s done he’ll sacrifice you without a thought. Who is he?” I thrust my face at him. “Tell me this instant. Who is he? Why is he doing this?”

He flinched, his eyes bulging. Margot hustled to us. “Stop it! Can’t you see he’s scared?”

“Good,” I retorted. “He should be. He has no idea of what I might do.”

Her voice fractured. “Leave him be! He’s not to blame. He didn’t—”

“Guise,” whispered Hercule. I turned slowly to him. “Guise told me to kill Henri’s friend.”

I went cold. Margot started to hush Hercule; I thrust out a hand, detaining her. She glared, but Hercule was already talking, desperate to unburden himself. “Guise came to me. He said Henri sins against God and nature. He said France would never abide a catamite king or a heretic to succeed him. He told me I would be rewarded. He … he even gave me the dagger.”

Tears spilled from his eyes; though he tried not to, I saw his gaze shift to Margot, who went stiff as stone.

I looked at her. “Did you know about this?”

She flinched. “Of course not. I was with you, at my sister’s deathbed. Would you accuse me of wielding the knife when I wasn’t even in Paris?”

I held her gaze. “Henri wants to put Hercule in the Bastille. If you knew anything about this and you kept it from me, I assure you, you will join him there.”

“No!” Hercule scrambled from the window seat to fall at my feet. He grabbed my legs, wrapping his arms about me as he started to sob like the deluded child he was at heart.

Margot said haltingly, “I told you, I don’t know anything.”

I reached down, pulled my son to his feet. I wiped his tearstained face with my sleeve. “Don’t cry. I’ll keep you safe but you must tell me what Guise promised you.”

His eyes widened. “You promise you won’t let Henri put me in the Bastille?”

“I do. Now what did Guise say?”

“He … he said Henri is cursed and will never have a son. He said I’m his sole heir because …” He faltered, lowered his eyes.

I cupped his chin. “Because, what? What else did he say?”

“Navarre. Navarre and his heretics: Guise says they must die. Then I can be king.”

Fear sliced through me. I’d known since the massacre that one day I would have to contend with Guise, but I had not expected him to fall upon us as his father had before him, to inflict deliberate havoc so he could plunge us into war with Navarre. For there could be no doubt that was his intent: he had sought to implicate Navarre in Guast’s murder to sow suspicion and doubt.

“Thank you,
mon fils.”
I forced myself to kiss his thick lips. “Remember,” I said, “Guise is not your friend. He is nobody’s friend. You must never see him again.”