The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine de Medici

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  I dined alone and afterward, told Madame Gondi that I wished to be notified when Henri had retired. Hours passed, but I refused to be undressed; by then, I began to worry.

  It was very late when I got word that he had gone to his apartment. Concerned, I went and knocked upon his door.

  A different valet answered and was astonished to find me standing there; Henri was inside, his collar undone and leggings removed. He was exhausted, though his mood was more pleasant than it had been earlier. When he saw me in the doorway, fully dressed, his eyebrows lifted with alarm.

  “Catherine! Is everything all right?”

  At least now he was willing to look at me.

  “All is quite well.” I turned to the valet. “Monsieur, please wait outside until I call for you.”

  After a nervous glance at Henri, who nodded, the valet stepped into the corridor.

  My husband gestured for me to sit beside him. I did, and could not help noticing how strong the lines of his face had become, beautifully framed by his dark beard, and how perfectly his black eyes reflected firelight. Simply being alone with him, and so close, disarmed me, made me remember the day he had taken me on the floor in front of the fireplace. I looked down at my hands and felt a rush of warmth rising from the base of my spine.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you at such a late hour. Forgive me,” I said. “I only wanted to say that I know how very difficult today must have been for you.”

  “Thank you,” he said, with a very faint note of impatience. He was tired and eager for me to leave; he held a kerchief, which he kept squeezing.

  I realized it might end right there, and so I said boldly, “I’ve missed you, Henri. I’ve been so worried; I can see you haven’t eaten and fear you might make yourself ill.” I did not ask after the ring, for I did not want to put him on the defensive too soon. “I am . . . I wanted . . . Might I embrace you? Simply as a member of the family, to show my affection and concern?”

  He rose, too quickly. “Of course, Catherine,” he said and began to avert his eyes out of nerves.

  He was very tall. I wrapped my arms about him and pressed my cheek against his chest. I kept the embrace gentle and closed my eyes, hoping my own ease would relax him—but I soon snapped them open again.

  He stank of lily of the valley.

  Aghast, I pulled away. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn to the execution: a black doublet with black velvet sleeves—slashed, so that the white satin of his undershirt could be pulled through. White, like Madame de Poitiers’s underskirt. On the table beside him sat his black velvet cap, with a single grey feather—to match the grey band on Madame’s hood.

  “Her,” I whispered. “You have been with her. Is that why you took off my ring?”

  His face colored crimson. He stared at the floor, too ashamed to look up at me; he opened his palm to reveal a wadded kerchief, white silk edged in black, embroidered with a large D, and threw it, in admission, at the table.

  “You,” I said, “you who hated your father because he was unkind to the Queen. Now you are obliged to hate yourself.”

  “I didn’t want it to happen, Catherine,” he said softly; his voice trembled. “I didn’t ever want to hurt you.”

  “She means to use you,” I said savagely. “Now that you are Dauphin, she surrenders her virtue to you. She lures you.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “She loved me when no one else did. Loved me, and François, as if she were our mother, even after Father gave us over to the Spaniards. When she heard that François had died, it nearly killed her. She loved him as I did. She understands what it was for me to lose him, more than anyone else.”

  My voice grew ugly. “A mother does not comfort her son by spreading her legs.”

  His head jerked as if I had struck him.

  “Out of kindness to you,” he said hoarsely, “I resisted temptation as long as I could. We both fought it . . . until grief finally broke us. Today was the first time we sinned, and God has already punished me by sending you here, so that I might see how I have hurt you.” For the first time, he looked hard into my eyes. “I tried so very hard to love you, Catherine, but she had my heart long before you arrived. I know it’s sinful—and if I am damned for it, then I am damned. But I cannot live without her anymore.”

  As I stood speechless, he fetched an item from his dressing table and pressed it into my palm: the talisman ring.

  “Take it,” he said. “It is a foul superstition and ungodly. I should never have agreed to wear it.”

  I curled my fingers over the unwanted gift. A blade would have caused less pain; I bled tears and could not stanch their flow. Unwanted, unlovely, I had only ever had my dignity, and now that was lost, too.

  I whirled about and ran sobbing back to my apartment, and did not stop crying even when Madame Gondi sent the ladies of the chamber away, even when she kissed the backs of my hands, even when she put her arms around me and wept, too.

  From that day forward, Henri wore only Diane’s colors, white and black. Perhaps envious of his son, His Majesty, bored and lustful, summoned his mistress to be near him—against his doctors’ advice.

  The morning after her arrival, I rode with the Duchess d’Etampes and her inseparable companion, the dimpled Marie de Canaples. The latter had grown plumper, while the Duchess, in her lover’s long absence, had grown thinner and sharper. As I approached the stables, the two ladies were murmuring furtively, heads together; at the sight of me, they broke apart quickly. The Duchess smiled at me with lips pressed tightly together, as if she had swallowed a dove; Madame de Canaples grinned at me with her sharp little fox teeth. Our conversation during that ride was strained, with both women coy and distant. When the ride was over, I walked away while the two of them whispered and laughed behind me before I was even out of their sight. I knew I would not go with them again.

  I was fool enough to think that they shunned me because they had heard of my tearful encounter with Henri—no doubt the news was all over Court about my husband’s affair with Madame de Poitiers, and I last to discover it.

  But there was more behind the Duchess’s sly smirk. I should have listened more carefully to Madame Gondi’s cryptic statements, as she dressed me for supper, that there were those in Court who whispered against me. I see now that she was trying to warn me, but I waved away her words.

  That evening, the King hosted a small banquet at the château, attended by many members of the Guise family. The Guises were descended from the royal House of Anjou, with a distant claim to the throne. It behooved the King to maintain good relations with them; that night, he entertained the Duke, his wife, and their daughters, Renée and Louise. Renée was still young, but Louise was a dark-eyed beauty of marriageable age. Young Charles, who had begun the previous year to notice women, was clearly smitten by her.

  As soon as was courteously feasible, I retreated to my chambers, too disheartened to indulge in after-dinner chatter. To distract myself, I continued the work I had begun on Henri’s natal chart. In time, my anguish eased and I grew lost in concentration. I remained at the task late into the night, stopping only long enough to let Madame Gondi and a lady of the chamber undress me and brush out my hair.

  I sat at the little desk in my cramped cabinet and studied Henri’s nativity. He was an Aries—a headstrong sign ruled by Mars—and his ascendant was, like mine, Leo, a clear marker of royalty.

  My focus that night was the Fifth House of our nativities, the House of Children. I hoped to find happy news there, the promise of heirs. But in Henri’s case—and eerily, in mine as well—the house was barren of planets and fell under the zodiacal sign of Scorpio, ruler of secrets and lies, of things buried, of the darkest magic.

  This crushed the fragile hope I had been nursing for the past several hours. Not only were there no signs of children but that area of our lives was ruled by deceit and dark forces. I grew frightened and tried to convince myself that I had misinterpreted the ominous nature of Scorpio in relation t
o the Fifth House. I had brought Agrippa’s writings to Lyon and decided to consult one of his books in the hope that I could ferret out something to indicate a brighter future. There was a small library where we were staying, and my large trunk of books had been stored there. I slipped on my dressing gown and stole outside.

  My apartment was on the third floor. A spiraling outdoor staircase connected it to a courtyard on the second floor, which housed the King’s and Queen’s apartments as well as the library. I hurried silently down the staircase, lamp in one hand. It was a still, clear, star-littered night in late November, with a huge waxing moon that cast shadows in my path. My dressing gown provided little warmth, and the stone banister was freezing beneath my bare hand; my teeth were chattering by the time I reached the second-floor courtyard.

  I scurried through the large entryway, flanked by two tall junipers, and nodded to the guards, accustomed now to my nocturnal excursions. After several moments of digging through the library stacks, I was able to find the second volume of Agrippa. I tucked it beneath one arm and, with the lamp in my other hand, went back out into the night.

  I did not get far. Before I moved past the junipers flanking the recessed entryway, I heard laughter floating through the still air. It came from the loggia that opened onto a terrace behind the King’s apartment; the terrace looked out onto the very stretch of courtyard I needed to cross.

  Instinct prompted me to lower the lamp and wait in the junipers’ shadow. The laughter grew louder as a woman’s form, backlit by the moon, ran out onto the terrace.

  A man’s voice called to her from the loggia. “Anne! Anne, what are you doing?” The King’s indignance was tempered by slightly drunken good humor. “It’s freezing cold!”

  She spread her arms and whirled, a dark silhouette dressed in nothing but a chemise that ended above her hips; she was bare from the waist down. Her loose hair fanned out about her shoulders. “It’s wonderful! I feel revived! You had me sweating so.”

  “Anne . . .” His Majesty’s voice turned petulant.

  “François,” she mimicked, then laughed. “Come take me here, beneath the moon.”

  He came to her—his black form tall and thick, hers small and spritelike—and lunged suddenly for her with a roar. She ran from him at first but let him catch her easily at the terrace’s edge. She put her palms upon the waist-high stone railing, facing it, with her back to the King.

  “Your Majesty, claim your prize.”

  He went to stand behind her, his hands on her hips, ready to enter her, but she pulled away, suddenly coy. “Only if you promise to heed my advice.”

  He groaned. “Woman, don’t torment me . . .”

  “Louise is a lovely girl, don’t you think?”

  “You’re lovelier.” He put his hands around her waist and lifted her to her tiptoes in the hope of piercing her, but she wriggled around to face him.

  “He’s been through so much sadness,” she said, suddenly serious. “He deserves a beautiful woman with royal blood.”

  “Don’t vex me, Anne. I want nothing to do with the Guises. Henri’s cousin Jeanne—she’s almost of marriageable age, and brings with her the crown of Navarre. She’d be a much better match for him. But Catherine is a sweet girl. Give her time, and let’s not speak of this now . . .”

  “It must be Louise,” she countered firmly. “She would give you grandchildren who would unite the Houses of Guise and Valois. No more struggles between them for the Crown . . .”

  François sighed, a bit annoyed; his dark silhouette stilled. “This is very premature. I haven’t even made up my mind yet.”

  “But you must repudiate her,” Anne said swiftly. “The people don’t like her, Henri can’t abide her . . . What does she bring you? Only disappointment.”

  “Enough!” François commanded.

  Their forms merged in a kiss, then the King abruptly turned her so that her back faced him and bent her at the waist. She clutched the stone railing as he pushed his way inside her and began to thrust.

  She let go a little gasp, then a laugh; her breath rose and hung above her head, mist in the cold night air. “François! You’re like a bull!”

  I blew out my lamp and averted my eyes. For agonizing moments I listened to their passion. Soon I began to shiver uncontrollably, not entirely from the cold.

  Twenty-one

  I didn’t read Agrippa’s book on astrology that night; my mind and heart were racing far too swiftly to concentrate on anything but what I had overheard. Instead, I lay awake, staring up at the tapestry canopy over my head.

  Without children, without Henri’s heart, I had no defense and no supporters. King François would petition the Pope and have the marriage annulled on the grounds that I was barren. Mine would not be the first royal union to end in such a manner. I would be banished—to Italy, I supposed, though I could never return to Florence so long as Alessandro ruled.

  And Henri—my beloved, faithless Henri—would no longer have me by his side to protect him, as I was meant to do. Without me, he would die just as he had in my dream, bloodied and helpless.

  I was not on particularly close terms with God, given my hard early lessons that the universe is neither safe nor just. But I prayed to Him who ruled the stars and planets. I promised that if I could remain near my darling Henri, I would be willing to surrender anything, including every last scrap of my pride.

  In the morning I rose exhausted but resolute and penned a short letter to His Majesty requesting a private audience. I would not, like my enemies, resort to a whispering campaign, going about to the King’s favorites begging for their support. François had called me his daughter; he had claimed to be my father and my friend. I would speak directly to him, or to no one at all.

  The reply came quickly. The King agreed to see me directly after the morning ritual of his dressing.

  I wore no jewels that morning, only black mourning for the Dauphin. His Majesty received me alone in his private cabinet, accessible only by royal invitation. It was cramped but handsome, the walls covered in carved panels of glowing cherrywood, some of which hid compartments for the storage of secret documents. A large mahogany desk dominated the room; on its polished surface rested a map—of Provence, where the fighting was, I supposed—but it had been scrolled so that I could not see what was marked there. Apparently I could not be trusted with state secrets.

  François sat behind the desk. His long face was marked by excess, the cheeks heavy and ponderous, the eyes puffy. The white that had appeared in his temples upon the Dauphin’s death now glistened in his dark beard as well. He was dressed simply, for work and not pleasure, in a plain doublet of black.

  “Catherine. Please, sit.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes were guarded.

  “If it please Your Majesty, I will stand,” I said. I hoped my suffering would be over quickly.

  “As you wish,” he said. Knowing what I had come to discuss—and thinking his position contrary to mine—he was consummately regal. He was prepared to behave as a king, to do what was best for France; to achieve that aim, he had abandoned even those of his blood to his enemies. I, a newcomer and foreigner, had no hope.

  I abandoned all pretense. I said, “Your Majesty, I love you. And I love your son. I know I am a liability to you both now. And so . . .” My voice broke; I silently cursed myself for my weakness. When I had gathered myself, I looked up at François again. His expression was hard, cautious.

  “And so I will not object to the repudiation. I accept that you must do what is politically expedient, and I harbor no resentment.”

  His jaw went slack. My unexpected words disarmed him.

  “I only ask . . .” The words caught in my throat, which tightened. I repeated the words, and when the barrage of tears came with them, I lowered my face to hide them and forced myself to continue. “I only ask that I be allowed to serve in whatever lowly capacity pleases you and your son. That I not be sent away. I would happily serve the woman who becomes Henri’s wife. If only
I could stay . . .”

  I sank to my knees; I covered my face and sobbed. I was humiliating myself, yet I did not care. I thought of Henri bleeding, dying because I had been sent away and had failed to save him.

  When at last I looked up, sodden and gasping, François was standing rod-straight behind his desk. An intense emotion was filling him, slowly widening his deep-set eyes and quickening his breath—yet whether it was fury or fear or revulsion, I could not have said. I could only kneel, dabbing at my eyes and waiting for the storm to erupt. I huddled in self-hatred and burning resentment, that my fate was not my own, nor even God’s, but held in the hands of men: the rebels, the Pope, the King.

  A muscle in François’s jaw twitched, as it had that bright October day when he had seen Montecuculli ripped apart.

  “Catherine,” he whispered, and emotion—doubt and sadness, then resolution—played upon his features. He came around the desk and gently lifted me up by the shoulders.

  “No saint was ever more humble,” he said. “May we all learn from you. It is God’s will that you be my son’s wife and my daughter. I tell you now that there shall be no more talk of repudiation in my Court.”

  He kissed my cheek and took me in his arms.

  Had I tried to manipulate him—had I gone to him and wept for pure show, and not meant my words with my whole heart—he surely would have sent me away, just as he would have if I had begged to remain Henri’s wife. But on the day we first met, His Majesty had loved me for my humility; he had only to be reminded of it.

  I was safe—but only for a time. Until I bore Henri’s child, I was vulnerable. The Duchess would not easily surrender her campaign against me, and Louise of Guise was still so very young.

  I was deeply relieved when King François chose to marry Jeanne to a German duke willing to pay an outrageous dowry; war was a costly business, and at that moment, François needed money more desperately than heirs. As a young woman, Jeanne was not pretty: Her nose was long and bulbous, her lips and chin too small. But her intellect was keen, like her mother’s, and her green eyes, slanting and thick-lashed, were strikingly beautiful. I bade farewell to her as she boarded the coach to Düsseldorf; I thought we would never meet again.