The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  At that moment, a woman stepped from the shadows behind Henri. Together, they walked down the stairs into the hall, not touching, yet so in tune they seemed to move as one.

  She glided as if her feet didn’t touch the ground, her silver-ash hair swept from her narrow brow, her slim figure set off to perfection by a dramatic gown of black and white that echoed Henri’s ensemble. She wore no jewels save for the same crescent symbol on her breast, drawing every courtier’s stare as she came to stand beside my husband.

  I stared at her, horrified. She was like a marble statue come to life, a mature woman at the height of her powers, all too aware of her impact on others. I’d imagined a plump, affectionate governess; a wanton with smeared lips and dyed hair; and as if she could hear my thoughts she raised her eyes to me. A smile curved her mouth. It was a smile unlike any I’d seen, mocking and triumphant, exposing that dark place in my soul where fear and envy reigned.

  Clutching my skirts, I fled from the hall. I didn’t stop running until I crashed into my apartments, causing my ladies to yelp and start from their stools.

  Lucrezia came to me. “My lady, what is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “That … that woman. Diane de Poitiers. She is here, in the hall.” And as I uttered her name, I thought the vile taste of it would stay with me forever. “Dio Mio, she’s not old. She’s not ugly.” I pressed my hands on my dressing table, saw my long fingers with their painted nails, laden with rings. Looking up into the polished glass, the face staring back at me was like a stranger’s—an overblown Italian in a Frenchwoman’s paint, who lived on royal sufferance.

  “Go,” I whispered. “All of you. Leave me.”

  Little Anna-Maria hastened out. Lucrezia stayed put. “You mustn’t let her do this to you. You are Catherine de Medici, duchesse d’Orléans. Who is she but your husband’s whore?”

  I drew a shuddering breath, willing myself to take hold of my fury. “Yes,” I heard myself say in a voice that didn’t sound like my own. “Who is she, eh? A nobody! The widow of a court functionary, an ex-governess. My great-grandfather was Lorenzo de Medici, overlord of Florence; my family has sat on the throne of St. Peter.”

  I turned to Lucrezia. “And yet she dares show her face at this court; she dares walk into the hall with my husband at her side and look upon me as if I were her servant.”

  “Perhaps she is afraid. Perhaps she realizes now how much she could lose.”

  “Afraid?” I let out a burst of acid laughter. “Of what? Me?”

  “Yes. You are his wife; one day you will bear him sons. She has nothing to offer him save her body and she knows that cannot last forever. She may look young but she isn’t, and she depends on his fidelity. A woman like her can be easily discarded. It happens every day.”

  I paused. I hadn’t seen it like that before. The woman I’d seen must be already in her forties; after all she had borne children, been widowed. She also must know I held the king’s affection; that despite my lack of issue François refused to send me away. Was this why she’d come out in the open, dressed in matching colors with Henri like some knight and lady of lore? Had she finally realized that if she did not concede something, she could lose everything?

  “That’s it,” I breathed. “The king summoned Henri and she came with him. She knows Henri cannot evade his duty anymore, not even for her. She had no other choice.” I waved my hand. “Quick, help me change. He’ll be here soon.”

  Lucrezia divested me of my gown and helped me into my nightdress. While she sat vigil in the adjoining room, I pushed a brush through my coiffure until my hair tumbled loose, thick with curls, and long enough to sit on. Opening my robe, I cupped my breasts, gauging their heft, teasing my cinnamon-colored nipples erect. I surveyed my body as I might a commodity, marking the fine length of my legs, my calves toned from riding, my ankles strong but not too thick, my thighs wide and well shaped.

  I smiled at my reflection. I might not be statuesque like her, made of marble and satin; but I was hardy and young. She clung to her youth, while mine stretched before me like a fertile field.

  A tap came at the door. I tied the tassels of my robe and summoned an expectant smile when Henri stepped in. He paused, as though he wasn’t sure he would be welcomed.

  “Husband, this is an unexpected pleasure.” I slowly walked to my sideboard and the decanter of wine. He accepted the goblet I gave him with an awkwardness that made me want to chuckle.

  He cleared his throat. “We must speak,” he began, and I nodded, sitting in my chair. He regarded me for a long moment before he blurted, “My father sent word to me. He demands we have a child. He says it is imperative, given my brother the dauphin’s health.”

  I did not betray my surprise. Though he was here as I’d hoped, I hadn’t known about the dauphin, who suffered from weak lungs like Madeleine. He was so invisible at court, keeping to his own household and pastimes, I sometimes forgot he even existed.

  Henri paced my chamber, his hand clutching the goblet. “My father’s physicians do not think my brother will live much longer, so you and I must ensure the succession.” He took a long gulp of his goblet, turned to the decanter to refill it. I saw his hand was trembling.

  I sat still, hiding my shock. If the dauphin died, Henri would become the king’s heir. One day, we would be king and queen. It made my mind reel. I’d never looked that far ahead. Forever mired in safeguarding my present, I’d never stopped to consider the reasons behind François’s stalwart protection of me. Did he see me as France’s future queen?

  I had just moved out of my insular existence into a vast unknown.

  I heard Henri speak and pulled myself to attention to find him before me. “I promise to be gentler this time,” he said, and I met his eyes. He tried to smile, and I realized he was ashamed. He had treated me cruelly the last time on purpose, as a punishment.

  I rose and went into my bedchamber. Even if it hurt, I told myself, it would not last long. And this time I would get with child and prove myself worthy. Still, as I pulled back my sheets I felt fear and knew it had nothing to do with what he might do. What if it wasn’t his fault? What if everything the court said behind my back turned out to be true?

  What if I was barren?

  Lucrezia had slipped in through the side door at some point to prepare the room. A candle burned by the bed; the curtains were drawn back. Shadows played over the ceiling. As I heard the rustle of clothing being discarded behind me, my hands shook and I fumbled at my robe.

  “Catherine.” His mouth was at my ear. He took me by the shoulders, turned me to face him. He towered over me, his broad chest covered with dark hair, his arms and legs heavy with muscle. He wore only his braies. I could see his erection under the thin linen.

  Without warning heat flared in me. I tried to suppress it. I didn’t want to desire a man who saw me only as a vessel for his seed; I didn’t want to love him. I tried to rekindle the fury and hatred I’d felt when I saw him with his whore, to shore up the contempt that protected me from the hurts he’d inflicted. But none of it mattered as he leaned me back onto the bed and I watched, tremulous, as he drew my nightdress past my breasts, gradually revealing my nakedness. “You are beautiful,” he murmured, as if he hadn’t expected it, and he met my eyes. For the first time in our marriage, I felt he saw me as I was, not as the wife he never wanted, and his hands dropped quickly to the lacings of his braies, as if he was impatient to free himself.

  He seemed impossibly large. Yet he entered me with a care that filled my eyes with tears and made me grateful for the flickering light that half hid my face.

  This time, I almost cried out at the simultaneous pain and pleasure of it, his organ filling me until my entire existence became the sensation of him moving inside me, gathering momentum, his breath coming fast and low in my face as I arched my hips to meet his thrusts and my hands caressed his chest, tangling in the coarse hair.

  A shudder went through him. I felt him enlarge even more and I
whispered his name. He went still, his entire body taut as if he fought to keep something back, and then he gasped and plunged deeper, spearing me with a heat that spiraled into a thousand dancing circles, until I too was crying out, kneading him with my hands, my legs clasped tight about his waist.

  He fell to my side, panting. I clenched my muscles, willing his seed to take root. As I turned to him, my entire body throbbing, he rose from the bed. I heard him gather his clothes and pull on his hose and doublet with a haste that filled me with shame.

  I whispered, “Stay with me tonight.”

  And he replied quietly, “I cannot.”

  I reared up. “Why? Was I not pleasing to you?”

  He averted his eyes. “You … you were. You are. But I am expected elsewhere.”

  I couldn’t stop the anger from tainting my voice. “It’s that woman, isn’t it? You’re leaving me for her. Does she mean so much that you’d humiliate me before the entire court?”

  “She means everything.” He met my stare, his expression drawn, almost sad. “I don’t mean to hurt you. But you must accept what I can and cannot give. Once you have a child, you will not care so much anymore. You will have our son to love instead.”

  I dropped my hands to my belly, feeling the pain of his words as if he’d struck me. I wanted to bellow that I would always care. I was the one who deserved his love, not that statue who held him in her thrall. But I did not, for I now realized what I’d kept even from myself, the delusion that had spurred me and kept me believing I had the power to change his heart.

  If it hadn’t been her, there would be another. But not me. Never me.

  I turned from him. “Go, then. Go to her.”

  Without a word he left, closing the door softly behind him.

  I awoke three months later to cramps. Crawling from bed, I staggered toward my privy pail, despairing that my menses had returned. My appetite had been ravenous of late, and I’d secretly begun to hope I might be with child, as my previous menses had been sporadic, not nearly as strong as before. But as Lucrezia rushed in to assist me, I felt my belly twist in a vicious knot and a viscous gush of blood splattered under my gown. I froze, gazing in horror at the clotted mess at my feet. Then my legs gave way and, with a stifled gasp, I crumpled to my knees.

  Lucrezia replaced my bloodied nightdress with my robe and guided me to my chair. I moaned, hugging my midriff, rocking back and forth. “No. Please God, no.”

  I watched, aghast, as Lucrezia sopped up the blood and set the soiled cloths in the hearth. Only then did I whisper, “No one can know. It would be the end of me.”

  She nodded. “I’ll burn everything, including the dress. You rest now.”

  “How can I rest?” My entire body started to tremble. “I’ll never be able to rest again. I’ve lost his child. What will I do now? How can I survive?”

  “You will.” She fixed me with her stare. “You are young. Many women lose their first one. He came to you before and he will again. He needs a son as much as you do.”

  My eyes filled with tears as she stoked the embers, adding extra wood to build a fire that would turn the evidence of my womb’s failure into ashes.

  Two days later, the dauphin died.

  NINE

  AT COURT, WE DONNED WHITE.

  Seated with the princesses in the royal crypt of the Basilica of St. Denis, I watched as the dauphin’s narrow coffin was lowered into the vault. Though the king’s eldest son had never been well, he’d not yet reached his twentieth year and François was devastated by his loss, haggard and pale as he knelt to kiss the engraved marble that would mark his eldest son’s tomb before he moved down the aisle, followed by Henri. I saw in my husband’s brief hooded glance in my direction that he was overwhelmed by his elevation as his father’s heir, and I felt faint at the thought that now, more than ever, the entire court would be watching me for signs of the son I must bear.

  The princesses stood. I started to step aside for Madeleine, when she murmured, “No, you must go first. You’re the wife of our dauphin now.”

  I looked at Marguerite; she gave a sad nod. I bowed my head and stepped forth.

  As I moved down the aisle, I heard the courtiers start to whisper.

  • • •

  The forty days of mourning was prolonged. Deprived of entertainments with the king in seclusion, all my fears returned, so that at night I barely slept, haunted by visions of my exile. Henri did not come to my bed owing to the mourning for his brother; and we sat stiff as effigies together during our first official appearance following mourning, when King James V of Scotland came to visit France to cement the two countries’ alliance by seeking a bride.

  No one could have foreseen that from among the multitude of ladies proffered to him, it would be shy Madeleine who captured James’s heart. It was, of course, the perfect match, and I wondered if even in his grief François had planned it, fully aware that bellicose Henry VIII of England would be enraged that his Scottish neighbor had a new French queen in his bed.

  Only weeks after James’s arrival we stood in Madeleine’s chambers, ladies rushing about applying last-minute touches to her bridal costume. Arranging the flowing veil of her coronet, I turned her to the mirror. She peered. “Catherine, I look so pale. Maybe I should use some of that rouge you made for me?”

  “Not today,” I said. “Brides are supposed to look pale.”

  She clutched my hands. “Isn’t it strange how life can change? Look at us: Only yesterday we were in the schoolroom together. Now you’re dauphine and I’m to be queen of Scotland.” She glanced again at her reflection. “I do hope I’ll make a good wife to him. My doctors say I’m better.” As she spoke, she rubbed her sleeve. I’d seen the contusions on her arm, the result of a week of bleedings prescribed by her physicians. “But I hear winters in Scotland are harsh on the lungs,” she added, “and mine have always been weak.”

  “James has plenty of castles to keep you warm.” I pried her fingers from her forearm. “Now, stop fretting. It’s your wedding day.”

  The women shrieked as François strode in, ablaze in gold brocade. “Bad Papa,” chided Marguerite. “It’s bad luck for a man to see the bride before she enters the cathedral.”

  “Bah! Bad luck for the husband, perhaps, but never for the father.” He went to Madeleine. “Your groom waits. Are you ready, ma chère?”

  As she hooked her arm in his, he gave me a worried glance. The death of his eldest son still showed in his face and I knew he was anxious. Scotland was infamous for its unforgiving climate and nobility; how would our sweet Madeleine fare so far from the comforts of France?

  I said, “Her Highness was just telling us how happy she is. Surely, this is one of France’s most joyous occasions, Your Majesty.”

  “Indeed,” he murmured, “as joyous as your own arrival, ma petite.” He turned a brilliant smile to Madeleine. “To Notre Dame!”

  After weeks of festivities, we accompanied the newlyweds to Calais for their departure for Scotland. We then returned to Fontainebleau, where François collapsed without warning.

  His illness created immediate consternation. The courtiers whispered that the period of celebration had taxed the king, reopening a sore on his genitals that impeded his ability to pass water. For weeks he was sequestered behind closed doors, submitting to an onslaught of panaceas that left him disoriented and frail.

  I held vigil with the Petite Bande. We were refused admittance to his rooms, leaving Madame d’Étampes to pace the corridors, helpless to assist the man on whom her entire life depended. When it was announced that His Majesty was on the mend, she donned her most opulent silk and jewels and awaited his summons.

  To her surprise, and mine, François called for me.

  From his bed he opened fever-glazed eyes. “Ma petite, you’ve changed your scent.”

  “I made it myself.” I raised my wrist to him. “Essence of jasmine, ambergris, and rose.”

  He smiled faintly. “It’s very French. When you set your
self to something, you never give up. I admire your persistence. Perhaps you’ll soon succeed in giving me a grandson as well, eh?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. I didn’t show my fear, though I knew that with those words he had issued his warning. One day he would die and I would be left alone in a hostile court. I had to secure the Valois succession and prove myself worthy to be queen.

  I held his hand as he drifted into sleep. I should have been devastated by the knowledge that this glorious wreck of a man, who’d sheltered me against all odds, approached the end of his life.

  But all I could think of was the insurmountable task awaiting me.

  • • •

  By midsummer, François had recovered and war with the Hapsburg emperor Charles V broke out over the disputed duchy of Milan. This time, the constable, his nephew Coligny, and my husband led our offensive, while the court lodged in St. Germain, near the safety of Paris.

  The first moment I found, I slipped out alone to visit Cosimo. He was overjoyed to see me and led me into his upper-story room, which he’d filled with shelves of vials, jars, and books, much as his father’s study had been in Florence; from the rafters hung cages of live birds.

  “My lady,” he said, bowing with exaggerated subservience, “you honor me with your visit.”

  I eyed him. “Cosimo, you look as if you haven’t eaten or seen the sun in weeks. I trust you’re not shutting yourself up in here all day. You can’t live by magic alone.”

  As he murmured excuses, his gaunt face glowing with eagerness to please me, I wondered if I did the right thing by coming to him. He was, after all, a servant whose bills I paid. How could he understand the torments I endured? Ever since that horrible morning when I’d miscarried, despite Lucrezia’s insistence that women often lost their first babe, I lived in constant fear, tormented by the thought of banishment from France for failing to give my husband an heir.

  Cosimo regarded me as if he could read my thoughts. “My lady is troubled,” he said. “You came to me because you are afraid. You can confide in me. I would die before I betrayed you.”