The Confessions of Catherine de Medici

by C. W. Gortner

  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.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  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.

  “That gown is becoming,” I said as I went up to her. My fury against her had started to ebb; Charles was dead, and with Navarre gone she dwelled in limbo, a wife and queen in name alone. Nothing could excuse her behavior, but I knew well how bitter disillusionment can be.

  She gave me a sarcastic smile. “I might as well dress up, seeing as the entire court looks at me as though I were some pitiful widow. Poor Margot, they whisper, abandoned by her husband, without even a child of his to call her own.” She paused, her chin lifting slightly as she realized she’d just confessed an inner weakness to me. “Speaking of which, have you heard from my husband? I understand he reached his kingdom to his subjects’ great rejoicing and renounced his conversion. He’s a Huguenot again. I wonder how long it’ll be before he declares war on us.”

  I wanted to feel sympathy for her, but of course she would never allow it. “Why should he?” I retorted. “He’s next in line to the throne after Hercule. I should think he’d want to retain good relations with us.” I pinched her arm. “And let me warn you now: no more mischief. I’ve kept your secret and now I want you to let Henri reign in peace.”

  “Oh, you needn’t worry about my secret,” she riposted, “not when Henri has a secret of his own to keep.” Leaving me with these cryptic words, she swept back to her matrons.

  She was impossible; no matter how hard I tried, she never failed to get a rise out of me. I deliberately dismissed her from my thoughts as I strained to see past the sea of courtiers. I would not let her mar my good mood. I was fifty-five and had endured many losses. Today was my glory. Today all things were possible.

  Henri III was here. At last, we would have a king worthy of France.

  Sensing my joy, Lucrezia said, “We can go closer to the gates if you like, so you’ll be the first to welcome him.”

  “No.” Tears stung my eyes. “Let him enjoy this moment. It belongs to him.”

  But when I finally caught sight of him riding into the courtyard with his gentlemen, so proud and erect in his saddle, I couldn’t contain myself. I shouldered through the crowd, my arms outstretched. “Henri, mon fils! Henri!”

  He dismounted and I flung myself into his embrace, inhaling an unfamiliar musk. His dark hair tumbled in a perfumed wave from his cap, his body taut as a lyre under his violet doublet. I clasped his face as he kissed me on my lips. “Chère Maman,” he murmured, and with his arms about me he turned to the waiting crowd. “Today,” he declared in a ringing voice, “I pay homage to my mother, who has steered this realm past many shoals so I might live to see this hour.”

  And as everyone broke into applause, I let my tears fall unheeded down my cheeks.

  We returned to Paris, traveling in procession so that the people could see Henri. He rode at the head of the cavalcade like the king I’d always dreamed he would be, dressed in mauve brocade shot with silver tissue, his gestures regal yet expansive as he greeted the multitudes thronging the sides of the road to cry out: “Vive Henri III! Vive le roi!”

  In the Louvre I held a banquet in his honor, festooning the hall with evergreen boughs, the symbol of constancy. I sat on the dais beside him and Hercule; at either side of us in the hall stretched adjoining tables occupied by Guise, whom I’d allowed back to court in honor of Henri’s accession; Monsignor, his uncle; and our other Catholic nobles. Margot presided over a separate table with the noblemen’s wives and other prominent ladies of the court.

  Henri sat on his throne, a coronet on his brow. He was generous with the courtiers who lined up to greet him, recalling their names with an accuracy that reminded me of his grandfather, François I. We dined on roast boar, swan, peacock, and pheasant; after the feast, a troupe of dwarves enacted a comedic play. At its conclusion, Henri motioned and his bodyguard Guast tossed a pouch of coins. The dwarves dove to the floor, losing their wigs as they fought among themselves for the largesse, causing more uproarious laughter.

  Henri yawned. “In Savoy, everyone of rank retains a theater group. No one keeps fools anymore.” He turned to Hercule, who gaped at the quarreling female dwarves as if he might eat them. “What do you think, little ape? Should we dismiss the fools?” His tone was affectionate; he had never showed any malice toward Hercule, but my youngest son flushed hotly and spat, “I’m not your little ape anymore. I’m the dauphin now!”

  Henri smiled, returning his gaze to the crowded hall. The musicians tuned their instruments. As the courtiers began selecting partners for the upcoming dance, he abruptly said: “Monsignor, a word about Madame de Lorra
ine-Vaudémont.”

  I had no idea whom he spoke of. From his other side, Monsignor inclined his emaciated face to me, betraying he eavesdropped on everything. “His Majesty refers to my cousin of Lorraine, whom he met recently in Savoy, where she serves as lady-in-waiting to the duchess.”

  “Yes, she was enchanting,” Henri said. “I’d like to bring her to court. See to it.”

  “I would be honored,” replied Monsignor, mellifluous as always when he gleaned an advantage. He may have lost most of his teeth and his hair, but his mind still clicked like a well-oiled machine, and I started to lean to Henri to inquire further about this Madame de Lorraine-Vaudémont when I saw him slide his gaze to Guast, who hovered like a rugged shadow at the foot of the dais. Henri let out another yawn. “I’m so tired. I believe I will retire.”

  “But the dancing,” I protested. “The court expects you to open the floor.”

  “Let Hercule do it. He can dance with Margot.” Before I could detain him, he rose and descended the dais, walking from the hall with Guast close behind him.

  I avoided Monsignor’s pointed stare, my disquiet increasing as I searched for Margot. She’d abandoned her table for a couch near the pilasters, where she reclined surrounded by admirers.

  As if she felt my stare, she lifted her eyes and gave me a cold, knowing look.

  I rose before dawn. Henri and I were scheduled to discuss the agenda for his first Council meeting later in the week, and after a hasty breakfast I gathered my portfolio and met Birago in the corridor. He was leaning on his cane, his lined face revealing his discomfort.

  “Your foot is badly swollen,” I said. “Is it the gout again?”

  He grimaced. “I fear I ate too much at the banquet. But I took a draft and—”

  “And you must rest today,” I interrupted. I held up my hand as he started to protest. “No. Go back to bed, old friend. It’s just a private meeting with my son. I’ll come see you afterward.”

  He assented gratefully and limped off, while I made my way to my son’s apartments. Rounding the gallery into the royal suite, I found a guard at Henri’s door.

  “His Majesty has not yet risen,” he told me. “He gave orders that he wasn’t to be disturbed.”

  “Well, it’s time he got up. Move aside.” He knew better than to detain me and I strode into my son’s antechamber to find the room submerged in dim shadow, the rising sun seeping under the edges of the curtains at the windows. A decanter and two goblets sat on the table; a half-open door in the wainscoting led into the bedchamber. I stepped toward it in sudden apprehension; it was so quiet I could hear snoring from within. Peeking inside, I saw the bed directly in front of me, its scarlet tester curtains open, revealing Guast’s muscular nude body in slumber, one of his hirsute arms thrown over rumpled pillows.

  Stifling a gasp, I started to step back.

  A sound spun me around. Henri came toward me from an alcove in the antechamber. He wore a loose white silk robe, his thick hair tumbling about his shoulders. Without his court finery, he looked younger than his twenty-three years, though the chest I glimpsed under his parted robe was chiseled, dusted with curly dark hair just like his father’s.

  “What are you doing here?” he said, and there was a humiliated anger in his voice.

  “Never mind that,” I replied. “You should have locked the door. What … what is this?”

  He stepped past me and pushed the bedroom door shut. “I left orders with my guard. You are the only one bold enough to ignore them.” He moved to the table, reaching for the decanter. As he poured a goblet, he looked up at me. “As for what ‘this’ is, I think you know by now.”

  I clutched the portfolio to my chest, dumbfounded.

  He drank from the goblet, his eyes fixed on me. “Well? Aren’t you going to say something?”

  I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to face it. He’d always been dauntless—fierce in war and his pride of place, worthy to bear his father’s name. He had been the most gifted student of the family, more disciplined than Margot, quicker than Elisabeth, more avid than Charles. I believed he had the best of the Medici-Valois blood and had staked my hope on him, thinking that at long last France had a strong king. He’d made mistakes; he was impulsive and headstrong, but he was young and could learn restraint. And just as with his brothers, I was here to guide him.

  But I had never envisioned this.

  “How … how long?” I finally managed to utter.

  “For as long as I can remember.” He moved to the window to pull back the curtains. Brilliant light flooded the room. He turned back to me. “I met Guast during my first campaign against the Huguenots, if you recall. He helped me through a … very difficult time. Since then, he has been my companion. Were it not for him, I might have fallen prey to one of those Huguenot assassins you say are so eager to spill my blood.” He paused. “Guast is the most loyal person in my life, after you. I want to give him a title. He deserves a reward for all his care of me.”

  “You cannot,” I said at once. “Everyone will know. Put him up in a country château; pay for his expenses out of your privy purse, but not here, not at court.” As these words escaped me, I marveled at myself. Here I stood on the day after my son’s arrival, confronted by something I had no practice dealing with, and already I was thinking of ways to hide his secret.

  “Maman,” he said softly, “you, of all people, must know how impossible it is to forsake those we love.”

  I heard Margot sneer in my ear: Henri has a secret of his own to keep.

  “Love?” I echoed. “You love him …?”

  “Indeed, or at least as much as we can love anyone. Margot is right, you know, hateful as she can be: when she lost Guise, she told me we are not like other people. She said we can’t truly love because we’re incapable of giving without always expecting something in return.” He gazed at the closed bedroom door. “There was a time when I thought I could love that way, but I was wrong. Still, what I offer, Guast accepts. I suppose that qualifies in some manner as love.”

  “This is my fault.” I lowered my eyes, feeling a deep inner pain I’d never admitted aloud. “I was not there during your or your sister’s childhood to show you how much I cared. I should have never let Diane raise you. I should have fought that she-wolf for you.”

  “I do not blame you,” he replied, with an understanding that made me want to weep. “Besides, no one did this to me. No one is at fault. There are many men like me.”

  A knot formed in my chest. “What do you think the court will say? The ambassadors, the nobles? Do you think they’ll understand?” My voice quavered as I tried in vain to hold back my emotion. “Our enemies will use this against you; they’ll see it as a weakness. Think of Guise: he’s our premier Catholic lord now and the church forbids—”

  Henri’s face and voice sharpened. “Don’t cite Guise or the church to me. I’ve bathed in tears for the one and blood for the other. I’m done proving myself. I am king now and I will rule in deed as well as name—me, and no one else.”

  I went still. “I … I don’t understand.”

  “Let me explain.” He guided me to a chair. The portfolio slipped from my fingers. After pouring claret into a goblet, he pressed it into my hand and bent over to retrieve the portfolio. He set it on the table and knelt before me in a swirl of his robe, taking my other hand and regarding me with such tenderness I felt tears fill my eyes.

  “What I mean,” he said gently, “is that I am not my brother Charles. I want to rule on my own, Maman. I am king of France now. I need to make my own decisions.”

  I felt faint, sitting utterly quiet as he lifted my hand to his lips in a brief kiss. “You must be so tired,” he went on. “You’ve spent the last fifteen years fighting to save us all from destruction. You lost Papa, two sons, and many friends; it is time you surrendered your burden. I am king now. Isn’t this what you want: a son who can rule the country you’ve sacrificed so much for?”

  I nodded numbly, the goblet
untasted in one hand, my other limp beneath his.

  “I know why you are afraid,” he said. “I know that is why you let Navarre escape. You wanted him safe, in case we should fail. While he is wed to Margot, there is still hope he might convert again, should the time come for him to inherit.”

  I flinched. He hushed me. “Don’t deny it. I don’t reproach you. You love France and both of my brothers died without heirs. Hercule is unfit, and now you think I’ll disdain my duty. But you needn’t fear. I’ve no intention of letting my love for Guast interfere with my reason. In fact, I will wed as soon as possible and get my wife with child, so no one can question my manhood. For no matter what they think, I am a man. I have the tools like any other.”

  Once again, he’d seen right through me. I had thought to conceal the truth with intrigue and lies, and in the end I had hid nothing. The only thing I’d managed to keep from him was Margot’s terrible act of revenge against us.

  “Think of it.” He smiled. “You’ll soon have a grandson of our blood, not a half-breed with a heretic for a father. I’ve even chosen my bride: I will wed Louise de Lorraine-Vaudémont.”

  “But she’s a Guise,” I exclaimed. “You cannot bring her family back into our lives.”

  “She’s not a Guise; she’s descended of the house of Lorraine, niece to my own sister Claude’s husband. She’s lived in Savoy since she was twelve. She barely knows the Guises.” He pressed my hand, silencing my next protest. “And she understands. We spent time together in Savoy and she knows about me. She told me I’d do her honor by making her my queen and she’ll do everything to prove her worth. All she needs to do is bear a son; and if there’s one thing you can say about the Guise-Lorraine families it’s that they do not lack for children.”