History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by Gortner, C. W.

  And every time, as Henri plunged and I cried out, I tried to avoid looking toward the shadows just beyond the bed, where she stood with her eyes fixed on us, directing our movements with precise, scythelike lifts of her fingers …

  When I suspected our efforts had yielded fruit, I waited for the first nausea and weeks of malaise to pass before I sent word. She dispatched a midwife to examine me, who poked and prodded before proclaiming me both pregnant and fit.

  Now the king came to me asking breathlessly, “Is it true, ma fille?” and I smiled, hiding deep within my revulsion at what I had done to accomplish this moment. “Yes, it is. I am with child.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me! You’ll lack for nothing. Ask and you shall have it.”

  The moment he left, Henri entered with Diane. I stared at her as he kissed me awkwardly and let her step forth. She smiled. An enormous new diamond hung on her bodice.

  “We are overjoyed,” she said, and she draped something cool about my neck.

  I reached up: it was her rope of black pearls.

  TEN

  THE GROUNDS OUTSIDE FONTAINEBLEAU CONGEALED UNDER January ice and snow; inside, my chamber was an inferno, hearths and braziers lit to a feverish pitch.

  I’d felt the first pangs in the early afternoon, and my birthing room, draped in heavy arras, had become a world apart, dominated by women. Crouched on the stool with its wide hole, I writhed, pummeled by pain, oblivious to the smell of my own blood and urine.

  “Push, Your Highness,” Diane hissed in my ear. “Push!”

  I tried to speak, to order her out, but the pain came at me with such force I felt I might crack in two. I howled. All of a sudden, a vast emptiness filled me. I felt a viscous gush of fluids and the rim of a basin shoved between my thighs to catch the afterbirth.

  Through a haze of my own sweat, I gazed at Diane. She conferred with the midwives. Taut silence descended. I struggled to stand, my body throbbing. “Is it … is my child …?”

  Diane turned around. She held the wailing babe swathed in white velvet. “A boy,” she purred and she swept out with my newborn son, Henri’s heir, pressed to her breast.

  I collapsed against my pillows. I was safe. At long last, I had delivered my savior.

  The next two years were fraught with trials. We fought a war that couldn’t be won, depleting the treasury and enraging the people. Riots greeted each new tax imposed to outfit our armies and everywhere François turned he found reports that Lutheran preachers infiltrated the realm from the Low Countries to incite his people to seek solace in the Protestant faith. Destitute and in precarious health, he signed his final treaty with Charles V.

  At court, I awaited the outcome of my second pregnancy. Since the birth of my son, christened François in honor of his grandfather, Henri had been visiting my rooms at regular intervals, prompted by Diane. Our carnal union remained passionless, but as though a sluice had opened, the time we spent was enough to conceive our next child.

  Though I knew I’d struck a devil’s pact, I had safeguarded my future.

  In April 1545, after a mere three hours of labor, I gave birth to my daughter Elisabeth. She proved disappointing to those hoping for another son, but I was overjoyed and insisted on assuming full charge of her during her first months of life.

  She was perfect, with her smooth Valois complexion and liquid-black eyes. I spent hours crooning over her, promising her everything I’d never known: safety, comfort, parents who would always care for her; with her dreams in my hands I found solace from the tumult of the world outside.

  Unseasonal blizzards had dumped enough snow to bury entire villages and the abscess that had plagued François since Madeleine’s wedding erupted anew. While he took to his bed, I fashioned a cocoon in my apartments, where I brought my young children to be with me.

  It was the first time I’d had my two-year-old son to myself. Little François suffered from terrible ear infections, screaming for days until our doctors dosed him with opiates. Diane had used the excuse of his ill health to dominate his care, but she always retired to Anet for the winter, loath to expose her skin to wind or frost, and I hoped to bind my son to me while she was away. My initial joy in his auburn curls and faunlike grace was undermined, however, by the realization that he didn’t know who I was. He regarded me as if I were some mistake, flinching when I took his chin in my hand and said, “Mama. I am Mama.” I pointed to Elisabeth, cradled in Lucrezia’s arms. “That is your sister, Elisabeth.”

  He screwed up his mouth. “Deeane! I want Deeane!”

  I closed my ears to his wails, enduring his tantrums because he was my child, my son.

  One frigid evening as I sat with Elisabeth and watched him mutilate one of my lutes, word came that the king wished to see me. I went to François’s apartments to find the fire in his great hearth ebbing, platters of food and goblets piled on the sideboard. Something was wrong. He never suffered laxness in his servants.

  Then I smelled the odor.

  He sat by the window, his black velvets accentuating his gauntness. The seals of a parchment he held rattled as he looked at me. “Henry Tudor is dead.” He dropped the parchment to the floor. “He succumbed three days ago, eaten alive by that ulcer on his leg. He’d grown big as an elephant, striking at ministers and disposing of intimates easy as you please. His last wife, the sixth one—she’s lucky to survive him.” A bitter smile crossed his lips. “His ten-year-old son has been crowned Edward VI. Hard times ahead: I hear Edward’s maternal uncles already fight over the right to rule as regent in his name.”

  I genuflected in respect for the passing of a sovereign, though I thought the world would be a better place without Henry VIII in it, his sordid life having repelled us for over a decade.

  “He was fifty-five,” François went on. “Three years older than me. I remember when we first met years ago. He was tall, golden, and rich as Croesus; he could have charmed devils from the pit.” He chuckled. “That old snake Charles is the wise one. He refuses to go as we do, rotting on our thrones. He says he’ll enter a monastery when he grows too ill to rule and divide his empire between his brother Ferdinand and his son Philip: Austria and the German duchies for Ferdinand; Spain, the New World, and the Low Countries for Philip. A pretty picture, calculated to cause me as much misery as possible—though he must have heard that I too cannot live much longer.”

  I stepped to him. “Don’t say that. You just need to rest and recover your strength.”

  He held up his hand. “You’ve never lied to me before. Why start now? I am dying. I know it and so do you. You have a sense for such things.”

  I averted my eyes. The smell was stronger the closer I came to him, a terrible reminder I couldn’t bear to face. How could I live in a world where he no longer existed?

  He said softly, “Ma fille, why do you look away?”

  “Because … I cannot bear to hear you speak like this.” My voice caught. “You will not die.”

  “Oh, I will, and sooner rather than later.” He clucked his tongue. “Now cease your tears. I’ve something to say to you.”

  I wiped my eyes, sitting beside him.

  “Henri will be king,” he began, “and you, queen. It’s the cycle of life: the sun sets, the moon rises. Only such a moon I leave France! To think that of my sons, the one least like me, the one I’ve never understood, is the one who’ll inherit my crown—it’s almost too much to believe.”

  “I’m certain that Henri loves you,” I said. “You are his father. How can he not?”

  He sighed. “Loyal Catherine, will you defend him forever? It is your duty, eh, your obligation as his wife. But I needn’t feign something I do not feel.” He paused. “Yet perhaps Henri can learn to be a good king with you at his side. I’ve watched you these past years and you never concede defeat. You have the heart of a ruler, Catherine de Medici, and it shames me to think there was a time when I almost heeded my Council’s advice to set you aside.”

  “Your Majesty did as
you thought best,” I murmured, thinking of how close I’d come to that disaster and what I had done to protect myself from it. “I would not have protested.”

  “I know. And I also know now that my son doesn’t deserve your devotion. I hope one day he’ll prove worthy of it.” François fixed his gaze on me. “But do not let devotion blind you. Beware that woman of his, that Sénéchale. She’ll take everything if you let her. She’ll force you to act the brood mare while she rules Henri and the court.”

  It was the first time he’d spoken of Diane. Her name sounded obscene on his lips.

  “And his friends the Guises,” he added. “You must watch them, as well. They’ll seek to wield power through Henri. They aim high; I wouldn’t be surprised if one day they sought to rule France itself.” He turned to his desk, took a scroll, and set it in my hands. “This is for you.”

  I unrolled the paper. I looked up at him in disbelief.

  “I confiscated it years ago from a creditor,” he said. “I don’t recall the wretch’s name. I never got around to restoring it, though it’s a lovely place. The château sits by the river Cher, next to gardens and an old vineyard. It’s called Chenonceau. It is yours now, to do with as you please.”

  My own château, deeded to me by the man I had grown to love as a father. It all became horribly real. He was dying. Soon he would be gone and I would never see him again. I would never laugh with him; never ride the hunt at his side, never share his delight for painting, music, and architecture. He would be dead and I would be alone, without his protection.

  The pain was visceral, squeezing off my breath. “I am unworthy,” I whispered.

  He reached out to cradle my face in his thin hands. “You are worthy. Never forget that. Remember me, Catherine, always. As long as I live in your memory, I’ll never die.”

  There was no disguising his decline, his feverish eyes and emaciated frame. Word was sent to Henri, who’d gone hunting. I suspected I was pregnant again, but I had no chance to tell him, for no sooner did he arrive than we went together to François’s apartments.

  The skeletal man on that crimson-hung bed was unrecognizable, bones showing through his skin. Dr. Ambrose Paré, our royal physician, motioned to Henri. I stayed by the alcove, holding Marguerite’s hand.

  François reached out; Henri faltered. Gazing at his father, his face unraveled. They spoke in hushed voices before Henri staggered out. As he passed me, I saw for the first time the terrible burden he carried, the years of hatred for his father, for which he could now never atone.

  François smiled at Marguerite. “Ma fille.”

  Choking back tears, Marguerite kissed his brow, holding his hand before she left the room as if buffeted by an invisible wind. I alone remained. He murmured, “Ma petite, sit beside me.” I perched on the bed, took his cold hand in mine. His eyes closed. “Ah, c’est bon …”

  At midnight, he drifted into unconsciousness and Dr. Paré and the king’s gentleman took my place. I tarried in the antechamber; at two in the morning, the sound of their weeping roused me from my shallow slumber.

  I drifted into the deserted gallery. A figure materialized from the shadows, disheveled coppery hair framing her desolate face. Behind her trailed two pale women clad in black, the last remaining members of the Petite Bande.

  “Is he …?” said Madame d’Étampes. I nodded. She pressed her hands to her temples with a heartrending cry. The women started to lead her away when she turned to me, gripping my hand with ice-cold fingers. “It’s your turn now. Remember everything you’ve learned; remember that while men may fight each other in the open, we must engage in more private combat. Your battles are just beginning but you are the queen. Without you, she is nothing.”

  I watched her walk away for the last time. Her glittering career was over; she had dominated the court, usurped the king’s affections so that even his wife, Queen Eleanor, wouldn’t set foot near him; she’d been adored, reviled, feared. Now she faced life alone, at the mercy of the woman who’d soon step into her role. And I feared for her. I feared what Diane might do to her.

  I returned to my apartments, where I closed the curtains over the windows and sat on my bed. I waited for a tide of inconsolable grief. I had loved François as I had loved no other man, loved him for his excesses and his foibles, for his grandeur and his weakness; but most of all, I had loved him because he had loved me.

  But I did not cry, not a single tear. I now had a purpose, nebulous as it might be: I would be queen. I could almost hear François laughing, his spirit alive, full of mirth at what we’d contrived to achieve. I knew then that he would never truly die; it was his final gift, one that he had ensured I would carry for the rest of my days.

  In me, he had bequeathed his immortal love of France.

  ELEVEN

  AFTER FORTY DAYS OF MOURNING, HENRI AND I MADE OUR FIRST appearance as king and queen.

  I still found it difficult to believe my father-in-law was dead, that the entire world had changed and now I was queen. I donned the white gown, barb, and veil of mourning and—as often happens in times of grief—fretted over the inconsequential, fearing the white would make me look sallow. My pregnancy showed and I felt the entire court’s eyes upon me, gauging my suitability to share the throne with a Valois king.

  Unlike me, Henri was serene. White suited him to perfection, highlighting dormant amber in his eyes and dark hair. The wisps of silver in his beard added dignity to his thirty years, and he showed patient grace as eager courtiers queued up to greet us. I too had to say a few words to each one and my neck ached from nodding in appreciation of their hollow well-wishes. I was about to sigh in relief as the last one bowed before us when I happened to look up at the hall entranceway and felt my blood surge.

  Headed by Francis, duc de Guise since his father’s death and known as le Balafré, the Scarred One, because of the injury he’d sustained on his face, the Guise clan cut a swath through court. The instant he saw them, Henri stood and left our dais. I stared in disbelief at the sight of my husband, our new king, welcoming that brood as if they were his equals. After he pounded le Balafré’s back in camaraderie, he turned to kiss the hand of the duc’s brother, the cardinal of Guise, whom I had always disliked.

  Though still in his mid-twenties, Monsignor was already a seasoned diplomat who’d represented French ecclesiastical interests in Rome. Like his brothers, he stood to inherit vast wealth and he behaved as one who had never known anything else. With his swishing red silk robes and skullcap, his soft calf eyes, thick lips, and delicate hands, Monsignor reminded me of my late papal uncle. Bred to a life of luxury, behind his elegant facade lurked insatiable ambition, and I almost preferred his scowling brother, Balafré, who didn’t even try to conceal his contempt of anyone who wasn’t French, noble, and Catholic.

  “Look at them,” I said under my breath to my sister-in-law Marguerite. “They act as if they own him.”

  Marguerite whispered back indignantly, “My brother is blind when it comes to that family and they know exactly how to play him. You’re wise to mistrust them. The Guises would have all of France bow to them, though they only have a dukedom because my father gave it to them.”

  Her words carried an uncanny echo of my late father-in-law’s warning. I lifted my chin higher, hiding my disquiet as Henri faced the court with the Guises at his side.

  “My father, François I, is gone,” he declared. “Though I mourn his passing, I must now reign in my own right. I shall be a king for a new age, restoring France’s fallen glory so we can live in peace, protected from our enemies and in the grace of the one true faith.”

  Fervent applause rose. I didn’t understand why I felt such apprehension until he added, “You see before you a sovereign confident of his place yet unversed in the ways of governance. Thus, I shall reconfigure my Council, starting”—he extended a hand to the cardinal—“with Monsignor as head councilor and his brother, Francis le Balafré, duc de Guise, as my chief adviser.”

  This time,
a stunned hush greeted his words.

  “And Constable Montmorency,” Henri went on, “who served my father so loyally, shall assume an honorary seat on the Council, while his nephew Gaspard de Coligny will be named an admiral and assume charge of the defense of our ports.”

  I found some reassurance in the mention of Coligny and his uncle, the constable. I hadn’t seen Coligny in years, as he rarely came to court; but I had always considered him a friend, one I might need, while the constable was famous for his hatred of Diane and the Guises. Perhaps Montmorency would be an obstacle, I thought, until I saw the subtle smile on the cardinal’s full lips. The constable’s assignment had been his idea, of course, as it was wiser to have a potential foe at court, under his eye, rather than stirring up trouble elsewhere.

  Henri had acceded to the Guises’ every demand.

  And now she appeared as if on cue, refulgent in ermine sleeves and mauve brocade. On her bodice glittered an enormous sapphire jewel. A jolt went through me; the last person to wear that jewel was the duchesse d’Étampes. It formed part of the queen’s treasury, which Queen Eleanor, already on her way home to Austria, had never enjoyed. By wearing it today, Diane was making a statement that no one, especially me, could ignore.

  She glided past the whispering courtiers to the dais as if her indifference might asphyxiate them. As she dropped into a curtsy before me, she lifted her eyes and I knew in that instant that she was delivering her warning. A terrible revenge had been exacted on Madame d’Étampes, and unlike her predecessor, Diane had no intention of recognizing her proper place.

  “Madame de Poitiers,” announced Henri, “sénéschale of Normandy. I hereby grant her the title of duchesse de Valentinois, in recognition of her tireless service to my wife, the queen.”