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

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  “Anna,” I said, speaking to her in Tuscan to indicate the intimate, delicate nature of our conversation, “I know that it must be difficult for you to smile so graciously in the company of Huguenots. On behalf of the King, I thank you for your civility in Admiral Coligny’s presence.”

  “He is no less a murderer, Your Majesty; today I felt as though I had fallen into a nest of vipers.” She said this softly and with complete composure, as if we were discussing the most mundane of subjects. “I can only pray that His Majesty and France suffer no harm as a result of your association with him.”

  “This is precisely what I wish to speak to you about,” I said, “for I have come to realize that the Admiral does indeed wish His Majesty harm.”

  Her composure did not waver. “I am not surprised to hear this.”

  “Then perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that Admiral Coligny has violated the King’s order forbidding the deployment of troops to the Netherlands.”

  She snapped her fan shut. “The Admiral boasts to everyone that he is leaving for the Netherlands as soon as the wedding celebrations end, and that he will be taking many troops with him. Troops who are here in Paris, armed for war. I fear, Your Majesty, for the safety of the King.”

  “As do I.” I drew in a long breath, then said, “His Majesty will no longer protect the Admiral from the justice that is due him.” I leaned back in my chair and studied her intently.

  She was still as a portrait for several seconds before she finally glanced down at her hands, one of which held the fan. When she looked up again, her eyes held tears. “I have waited many years. I made a vow to my dead husband’s soul that I would avenge him.”

  “It must happen on the twenty-second,” I said, “the day after the celebrations end. There will be a Council meeting that morning, which Admiral Coligny will certainly attend.” I paused. “It must be done in such a way that the King and the royal family are not implicated.”

  “Of course,” she answered softly. “That would be disastrous for the Crown.”

  With that, she indicated that the House of Guise would take full blame for the assassination. It would be seen as the result of a blood feud, an isolated incident for which the King could not be blamed.

  “I will see you and your family protected from any backlash, though your son would do well to quit the city when it happens. I will send for you tomorrow morning to discuss the details. Tonight, speak to no one save your son; you and he must consider how our aim might be skillfully accomplished.”

  I dismissed her and went out to my antechamber to find Madame Gondi.

  “Will you please invite the Duke of Anjou to visit me in my cabinet?” I asked her.

  When Madame had left, I returned to the tiny, airless room and sat at my desk, leaving the door open behind me. I stared down at the backs of my hands and marveled at their steadiness. Unlike Anna d’Este, I shed no tears.

  The night brought no breezes, only a suffocating dampness that settled over me as I lay on my bed, the sheets kicked away. When the darkness finally eased, I rose and directed Madame Gondi to invite Anna d’Este and her son the Duke of Guise to visit me as soon as possible that day.

  Wedding preparations followed. I visited Margot’s apartments with Edouard—who had an artist’s unerring eye—to oversee the final placement of jewels on the wedding gown and its dazzling blue cloak and train. My daughter’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, though I pretended not to notice. When the last diamonds had been carefully sewn in place, Margot stood before a full-length mirror and studied herself with awe.

  Unable to contain himself, Edouard jumped up from his chair. “How stunning you are! You will be the most beautiful queen in all the world!” He took both her hands and kissed her on the mouth—lingering, I thought, a bit longer than a brother ought. Margot flushed and giggled, just as she had when Henri of Guise had flirted audaciously with her.

  Once the cloak was prepared, three princesses—one Guise, two Bourbons—were ushered into the room to practice holding the train, which was so long that one girl stood holding its end in Margot’s bedchamber, while two stood out in the antechamber to lift the middle and Margot herself laughingly walked out of her apartment and down the corridor before the train was taut enough to lift off the ground.

  I left my daughter laughing with the three young princesses and took Edouard to my apartments, where Henri of Guise and his mother waited in my cabinet.

  Our efficient conversation lasted less than a quarter hour. The Guises owned property on the rue de Béthizy—a house that Anna d’Este herself had once occupied. As chance would have it, Gaspard de Coligny had rented a hostel on the same street, only a short walk from the Louvre.

  The Duke of Guise’s eyes burned with a cold, bitter light as he said, “Coligny walks past our property every morning when he goes to meet with the King, and returns every afternoon the same way.”

  Chance smiles on you, Catherine.

  “There is a window,” Anna added, “from which a shot could be fired.”

  “And the shooter?” I asked.

  “Maurevert,” the Duke replied.

  “I know him,” Edouard said. “During the war, he infiltrated the Huguenots”—he turned to explain to me—“in order to assassinate Coligny. He was not able to reach the Admiral, so instead he shot one of his closest comrades, a man named de Mouy. De Mouy had been Maurevert’s tutor at one point; they had known each other for many years, but Maurevert pulled the trigger without a second thought.”

  “Cold-blooded,” I said, nodding. “He will be perfect. There remains the matter of timing: This must not mar the wedding celebrations, which end on the twenty-first. I will arrange a Council meeting the next morning requiring Coligny’s attendance. I will send a messenger to you with the time. Tell Monsieur Maurevert to be ready, for we may not have another opportunity.”

  “Very good,” young Guise replied. “Before it is done, however, I would humbly request one thing of His Majesty . . .”

  “You will have royal protection,” I said. “Secretly, of course. You would be well advised to quit Paris immediately afterward, if not sooner.”

  When the Duke and his mother had been escorted out, Edouard signaled for us to remain behind.

  “The situation in Paris has grown volatile,” he said. “I have ordered the deployment of a few troops to keep the peace, but I believe our good friends the Guises are fomenting trouble. Most of the priests in the city are denouncing the Huguenots and stirring up the Catholics against them. Let us hope that the wedding distracts the people from their hatred.”

  I unfurled my fan and fluttered it rapidly; the room felt as close as an oven. “It will,” I said shortly. “It must.”

  At dusk, I accompanied Margot to Cardinal de Bourbon’s palace, where she was to spend the night. As our carriage rolled over the ancient, creaking bridge to the Ile-de-la-Cité, Margot looked behind us at the Louvre palace and burst into tears.

  “My darling,” I said kindly, “you will sleep at home tomorrow night. Very little will change.”

  “Except that I will be the wife of a Huguenot,” she said, “and if there is another war . . . Neither my husband nor my family will trust me.”

  She was right, of course, and the realization broke my heart. I put my arm around her and smoothed the tears from her cheeks.

  “Sweet girl,” I said and kissed her. “Sweet girl, there will never be another war, thanks to you.” I paused to lighten my tone. “Did you know that the day I married your father, I despised him?”

  She stopped crying long enough to frown at me. “Now you are teasing me, Maman.”

  “But it is true. I was in love with my cousin, Ippolito.” I smiled, remembering. “He was so tall, so handsome—older than your father and far more sophisticated. And he said that he loved me.”

  Margot dabbed at her nose with her kerchief. “Why didn’t you marry him?”

  I sighed. “Because my uncle Pope Clement had different plans. He del
ivered me to France in exchange for prestige and political backing. And so I married your father. He was only fourteen, shy and awkward, and he resented me, a stranger from a foreign land. We had not yet learned how to love each other.

  “I am glad now that I never married Ippolito. He was brash, foolish . . . and a liar. He didn’t really love me; he meant only to use me as a pawn in his political schemes.”

  Margot was listening, wide-eyed. “How awful, Maman!”

  I nodded. “It was terrible. You must understand, Margot, that there are men willing to use you only to further their aims. Luckily, Henri of Navarre is not such a man. Things are not always what they seem; and although you might not appreciate Henri now, in time, you will come to love him if you open your heart.”

  Margot leaned back against her seat, her expression thoughtful. We were both exhausted, and the rocking of the carriage lulled us into a drowsy silence.

  With feigned offhandedness, I said, “I am concerned about your brother Edouard. He and Charles despise each other so; when the King learns that his younger brother favors something, he immediately opposes it. Edouard has often confessed to me that he wished he had a useful spy, one to whom the King opened his heart.

  “You are so very close to them both, my daughter; does Edouard ever speak of such things to you?”

  Margot’s cheeks flamed; she turned and looked out the window with eyes so full of guilt that I closed my own, unwilling to see more.

  She had been a gift to me, a child not bought by blood. A child who, I hoped, had been heaven-sent, to undo the evil wrought by the purchase of her brothers’ lives.

  Sweet Margot, they have corrupted you.

  We rode the rest of the way in silence.

  Forty-two

  On Monday I woke to a joyous cascade of church bells exhorting the citizens of Paris to rise and ready themselves for this most festive day. I went to the open window in the hope of a hint of morning coolness. But the sky was already bleached by a harsh, fast-rising sun. The Louvre’s courtyard was filled with grooms fastening bright carapaces to the horses that would pull the royal carriages; the palace itself was alive with voices and footfall.

  The ritual of dressing soon began: My nightgown was pulled over my head and replaced by a chemise of sheer lawn, which was followed by two voluminous crinoline petticoats and a corset with wooden stays laced cruelly tight. I stepped into my aubergine gown and held out my arms as huge sleeves were laced to it. My hair was brushed out, then braided and wound into a thick coil at the base of my neck; the whole was covered with a French hood, its band of purple damask edged with dozens of tiny seed pearls. I was already melting by the time the corset was laced; by the time the hood was set in place, I was drenched.

  After a dozen long strands of pearls were hung round my neck, and diamonds affixed to my ears, Madame Gondi pronounced me ready. I went down to the courtyard, where Edouard and Charles stood watching Navarre’s beribboned carriage roll out the gate.

  My sons wore matching doublets made from pale green silk heavily embroidered with silver thread. Edouard had added a toque adorned with peacock feathers and pearls the size of raspberries. The Duke of Anjou was of good cheer, the King dismal and distracted.

  We climbed into our carriage and rode over the bridge through the pressing, curious crowds, punctuated by black flocks of Huguenots; the Duke of Anjou and I leaned out the windows and waved to them while Charles sat back, sulking.

  We arrived shortly at the episcopal palace next to Notre-Dame, where the Cardinal de Bourbon greeted us, already accompanied by Henri, who wore the same pale green with silver embroidery as my sons. The King of Navarre was accompanied by his mentor, Coligny, and his cousin Condé. The Admiral wore finery that matched Condé’s: a doublet of dark blue silk damask with gold velvet piping and breeches of blue satin striped with red. Coligny was giddy, one moment laughing and cuffing Navarre upon the shoulder, the next, wiping away tears. He seemed not to notice the King’s reticence, or the way Charles averted his eyes every time the Admiral glanced at him.

  “I am as proud of him as I would be of my own son,” Coligny said, referring to Henri. “Proud of his bravery as a lad, prouder still of the man he has become. He is an inspiration today to all Huguenots.” He impulsively wrapped his arm around the young king’s neck and kissed the side of his face.

  Navarre responded with a queasy smile and silence. He looked grand in his silver costume and ruby-encrusted crown, but nerves had bested him: He kept wiping his hands on the sides of his doublet and responding to questions or comments with monosyllables. He returned Edouard’s enthusiastic embrace mindlessly, and did not notice when the King failed to greet him.

  At last we took our places before the massive wooden doors at the front entrance of the palace. Trumpets blared as the doors opened to reveal the crowds, cheering and jubilant despite the heat.

  The youngest relatives of the bride and groom—two grinning girl twins and a trio of timid boys—went first, scattering rose petals. They were followed by the Cardinal and at some remove Navarre, flanked by Condé and Coligny.

  Once Henri and his party had begun to descend the palace stairs, Margot emerged from her hiding place with her attendants bearing the long, rustling train. A thousand diamonds glittered on her cloak and gown; a hundred encircled her long throat. Her eyes were so swollen and red that I knew she had spent the night weeping. I told myself it did not matter: Few would be able to see her as closely as I could; they would notice only the gown, the cloak, the jewels, and her regal manner, and deem her a proper queen.

  With her brothers flanking her and her three attendants in tow, my daughter slowly walked down the steps of the palace. After several paces I followed her; the remaining princes and princesses of the blood from the Houses of Bourbon and Guise came after me.

  At the base of the palace steps stood the entrance to the gallery, which stretched from the Cardinal’s palace to a small, roped-off opening in front of a high platform. This platform had been built atop the steps at Notre-Dame’s western façade so that it was level with the cathedral doors and extended fifty paces outward, rendering it entirely visible to the throngs filling the plaza. The gallery was constructed of tall wooden posts—carpenters’ families ate well the year of a royal wedding—set upright into the ground, connected by crossbeams, and covered with a canvas roof. It was draped inside and out with garlands of red roses and swags of billowing pale blue silk to match the bride’s attire.

  I forced a dignified smile as I processed behind Margot, past the rows of lesser nobles who stood inside the gallery. The canvas roof provided shade from the fierce midmorning sun, though the air inside was a cloying mix of the essences of rose, sweat, and fresh-cut timber. Sunlight streamed in the gallery’s eastern side and fell on the glorious train of moiré silk. I stared at it, entranced by the way the blue fabric shifted in the dappled light like an undulant, shimmering ocean; tiny diamonds, sewn a finger’s width apart, flashed in the sun.

  The noise of the crowd suddenly dulled, as if I had been submerged in water; its cheers became muted shrieks of terror, its cries of encouragement faint mortal groans. I looked out of the gallery into the ruthless sun and saw not joy upon the thousands of faces but grimaces of fear and pain.

  A torrent of blood gushed out from under Margot’s glorious blue train, past the ankles of the girls who held it aloft. It swept past me, soaking my slippers and the hem of my gown, rushing out to fill the width of the gallery. I stared at the nobles who stood inside the gallery, watching. Their self-conscious grins were unchanged. They did not see the blood; they did not hear the screaming.

  I looked down at the fierce red current and thought, It will stop the instant Margot says yes. It will stop the instant they are married.

  I set my slippered foot down and watched it disappear beneath the dark stream. I could see the blood but not feel it: My heel struck dry cobblestone. I lifted my gaze and forced my lips to curve in a parody of a smile. I did not look down again.<
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  I survived the long procession through the gallery and emerged into daylight and an open space that led to the platform in front of Notre-Dame. The area was cordoned off, heavily guarded, and blessedly unbloodied; Henri and his men awaited us there. Two sets of steps led up to the platform; Navarre’s group ascended the northern stairs, Margot’s the southern. Both groups met at the center of the platform, where the Cardinal de Bourbon stood waiting behind a prayer bench. A row of chairs had been placed nearby so that the wedding party could sit and watch the proceedings; we filed in front of them and sat at the Cardinal’s signal. Margot and Henri knelt at the bench, and the ceremony began.

  The ritual had been stripped to the bone, and the Cardinal was efficient. He carried no breviary, but recited from memory from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians:

  “If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I am as a ringing brass or clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and knowledge, but have not love, I am nothing. . . . Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth.”

  The full sun was brutal: Beneath swaths of damask and layers of petticoats, I melted. Perspiration trickled down my forehead; I quashed the urge to wipe it away. My eyelids fluttered as the Cardinal’s face began to shift, growing rounder, fuller, paler.