Henri likewise appointed Guise’s brother Charles to the Council. Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine, was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, brooding political genius known for his duplicity. Their sister, Marie of Guise, was the widow of King James of Scotland and served as regent for her five-year-old daughter, Mary, Queen of Scots.
At the time, Scotland was in turmoil, and the girl Mary was in great danger in her own country.
“Let her come to live with us in the French Court,” my Henri said, “where she may grow to her majority in safety. When she is old enough, she will marry my son, François.”
Some considered that to be a wise strategy: As a Catholic, Mary was the only monarch of England recognized by the Pope; if she married our son, he would have a claim to the English throne as well as to that of Scotland.
Mary arrived at Blois swathed in tartan, a dark-haired porcelain doll with wide, fear-filled eyes. She knew very little French; she would loose a tumble of harsh, guttural sounds, too coarse to be words, yet those in her entourage understood them. She brought with her bodyguards, brawny, kilted giants with greasy auburn hair and narrowed, suspicious eyes, who frankly stank. The Scots scorned bathing and manners-all except for Mary and her governess, Janet Fleming, a white-skinned beauty with green eyes and hair like sunlight. Madame Fleming was a young widow who quickly absorbed much of French culture and relayed it to her charge.
I was predisposed to like Mary, even to love her: I felt a kinship with this child whose own countrymen had threatened her with death and forced her to flee her home. I understood what it was to be hated and frightened and alone in a foreign land. When I learned of her arrival, I hurried to welcome her.
I entered the nursery without fanfare to see Mary standing beside François, eyeing him critically. She was slight and imperious, with a haughty lift to her sharp chin.
At the sound of my step, she turned and, in thickly accented French, demanded: “Why do you not curtsy? Do you not know that you are in the presence of the Queen of Scotland?”
“Yes,” I said easily, with a smile. “Do you not know that you are in the presence of the Queen of France?”
She was thoroughly taken aback; I laughed and kissed her. She returned the kiss, guarded little creature, with lips that smelled of fish and ale; her stiff posture conveyed an intense dislike. She was two years older than my François but already thrice as tall. At three years of age, my son looked barely two, and his intellect was even younger. At times I looked into his dull, unfocused eyes and saw the ghost of the murdered imbecile.
Henri doted on Mary, saying that he loved her more than his own issue because she was already a queen. I bit my tongue at the insult to my children. François and Charles of Guise were delirious at their niece’s good fortune: When Henri died, our son would be King and his bride, Mary, would become Queen of France as well as of Scotland.
My husband’s accession brought other changes as well. The old King’s little band of women was scattered, with the Duchess d’Etampes disgraced and living in anonymity; her closest friend, the dimpled, coquettish Marie de Canaples, had been denounced as an adultress by her husband and banned from Court. Two of the women had left for Portugal with Queen Eléonore, who had had enough of France and wished to live out her days far removed from intrigue.
On the day my husband was crowned, I sat in a tribune in the cathedral at Reims and fought not to weep as Henri marched to the altar. It was not only pride that triggered my unshed tears but also the gold embroidery upon my husband’s white satin tunic, directly over his heart: two large D’s back to back, intertwined, over which was superimposed the letter H. This was to become his symbol, as the salamander had been his father’s, and for the rest of my life I found myself surrounded by Diane and Henri’s monogram in tapestry and stone and paint adorning every château. I told myself that I did not care, that I had what I wanted most: Henri’s life, and the chance to give him children. Even so, it stung no less.
My own coronation took place two years later, at the cathedral of Saint-Denis, just outside of Paris.
I entered heralded by trumpets, my bodice glittering with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies; my deep blue velvet cloak glinted green with the play of the light. Escorted by Grand Master Montmorency and flanked by Antoine de Bourbon, the most senior Prince of the Blood, I glided to the altar. Beneath my gleaming bodice, the magician’s pearl-which had brought me thus far-hung between my breasts.
I genuflected and proceeded to my throne, mounted on a platform draped in gold cloth; the steps leading up to it were covered in the same blue velvet as my cloak. The Cardinal de Bourbon-Antoine’s brother-presided over the ceremony. I knelt and prayed on cue, my voice strong as I answered the Cardinal’s questions in the affirmative. I had wedded Henri fifteen years ago, and now I was marrying France.
The ancient crown Antoine de Bourbon set upon my head was so heavy that I could not bear it. A second lighter crown was produced, which I wore for the rest of the ceremony.
After Mass was said, I and three other noblewomen were given precious items to place upon the altar in offering before the Holy Sacrament was administered. Diane was chosen to follow directly behind me because my husband had given her the duchy of Valentinois, which elevated her rank and fortune substantially. Before the ceremony, he had also announced that she was now one of my ladies-in-waiting-a fact that offended me no small amount, as it would greatly increase the amount of time Diane would spend in my presence.
I processed down the long aisle with a golden orb in my hands; when I arrived at the altar, I deposited it with the Cardinal de Bourbon, then turned and waited for the other women.
They were long in coming. Diane was to have followed closely but instead moved at a ridiculously languid pace, her gaze directed heavenward, her face aglow with feigned beatific rapture. As she passed beneath the loge where my husband sat, she stood completely still for a long moment-drawing the attention of the entire assembly-then slowly paraded past him.
I watched with rage, though my expression remained consummately dignified. I had thought that Diane would be satisfied with obscene riches and Henri’s love-but these were not enough. She wished to steal what little attention I received, even on this day; she wished to make it clear who truly ruled the King.
I reflected, at that instant, on how very easy it would be to kill her-to ask Ruggieri for a potion, or a poisoned glove, or a spell-especially since I had broken through that seductive barrier twice before. But I would never kill to exact personal revenge, only to save those I loved, the same as Cosimo Ruggieri.
Perhaps there is a kinder place in Hell for us.
Twenty-five
The years that followed were difficult. Jeanne’s mother, the warmhearted, brilliant Queen Marguerite of Navarre, died shortly before Christmas 1549, leaving her daughter and all those who knew her bereft. Henri spent his days and most of his nights in the company of Diane, while I found joy only when I retreated into the simple pleasures of motherhood.
Henri was frugal and did not waste his days pursuing every pretty woman who caught his eye. Yet unlike his father, he possessed a zeal for persecuting Protestants-a zeal created and nurtured by Diane. Perhaps she thought that burning heretics would make God forget that she was a whore. She shrouded herself in a cloak of piety and virtue, and delighted in drawing a sharp contrast between Henri’s “morality” and his father’s debauchery. But like his father, Henri was ruled by his mistress: Diane wanted lands seized from Protestants and placed in the hands of Catholics, and Henri accomplished it. She desired to see Protestants imprisoned and executed, and so it was done-although there were many Protestant sympathizers at Court, including Montmorency’s young nephew Gaspard de Coligny, Antoine de Bourbon, and the King’s own cousin Jeanne of Navarre, who had embraced Martin Luther’s teachings during her stay in Germany. Nobility conferred protection; only commoners risked persecution.
Every morning after meeting with his advisers, Henri went to Diane’s chambers to discuss gov
ernment business; he took no action without her approval and delegated so much power to her that she signed royal documents in the King’s stead.
Like his father, Henri failed to see the jealousy his mistress’s power generated among his courtiers. Nor did he see the dissatisfaction brewing in the countryside, where Protestant villagers were outraged by the new laws forbidding their form of worship. Paris was almost entirely Catholic, so Henri did not listen to the advisers who warned him that his harsh intolerance of the new religion was fostering rebellion. He listened only to Diane, who in turn listened to the Guise brothers. Like Diane, they despised Protestantism and were eager to influence the Crown.
The people’s hearts began to turn from Henri, and the Protestants grew to hate him. I spoke privately with him on the matter several times; King François had taught me the importance of earning the people’s love. Perhaps I was too direct, for Henri dismissed me abruptly, accusing me of overestimating my own intelligence and underestimating Diane’s.
I spent years eclipsed by Diane, years during which my intellect and capabilities were ignored, years when I saw the country harmed and greedy, calculating nobles rewarded by my ingenuous husband. I yearned to speak out but complained to no one, for I had purchased with the prostitute’s life exactly what I had requested: I was Henri’s wife and mother to his children-and not a whit more.
Diane continued to keep her promise and sent Henri to my bed. I did not realize then that she was so confident in her position that she had begun to shun my husband’s physical attentions, and that Henri had begun to look in other arms for solace.
Our son Charles-Maximilien-as sickly as his predecessors, with a red-violet, walnut-sized birthmark just beneath his nose-was born in 1550, three years after Henri assumed the throne. We built a large nursery in the palace King François I had renovated at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, just west of Paris, where Henri had grown up. The chateau was built around a central courtyard, with sweeping lawns that spurred Mary to chase François, but running made my elder son gasp so horribly that he fainted. In the days just after Charles’s birth, I watched from my window as Mary ran alone, a swift, solitary little figure on the grassy expanse.
My husband became a solicitous father during Charles’s early months, visiting the nursery almost daily. He abandoned the old King’s itinerant habit, keeping the Court at Saint-Germain for the children’s sake. After Diane broke her leg in a fall from the saddle and went to her château at Anet to recuperate, Henri remained with me at Saint-Germain. I admit, his choice pleased me-until I learned its true cause.
On the first cold night of autumn, I sat in my chamber in front of the mirror while Madame Gondi brushed out my hair. It was late, but I was enjoying our conversation about how little François had been allowed to hold his infant brother, Charles, for the very first time, and how he-after being convinced that the baby’s red birthmark was not catching-had kissed Charles and solemnly pronounced him acceptable.
As Madame Gondi and I were speaking, I heard a woman’s heartbroken wail coming from the nursery above us. I ran out of my chambers and up the stairs, propelled by maternal urgency.
On the landing, one of Mary’s Scottish bodyguards stood beneath the lighted wall lamp. He had heard the cry but had not reacted to it; in fact, he was restraining a knowing smirk.
I ran past him toward the double doors of the now quiet nursery. Just beyond, two figures stood in the wavering light cast by a sconce in front of the closed door of the chamber inhabited by Mary’s governess. They were arguing-and at the realization, I stopped half a corridor away in the shadows.
It was Montmorency, broad-shouldered and gray-bearded, his back pressed against the door, his hand upon the latch, and Diane, who leaned heavily upon a crutch tucked under one arm. Apparently she had just traveled all the way from Anet and had rushed into the château without pausing to remove her cloak. The lamplight revealed shadowed hollows beneath her eyes and the slackness of age along her jaw. The hair at her temples was more silver now than gold. She was dressed elegantly in a high ruffed collar of exquisite black lace, accentuated by a large diamond brooch at her throat, and ivory satin skirts embroidered with gold scrollwork. But even such sartorial glory could not hide the fact that she was worn and frazzled, her dignity replaced by shrewishness as she tucked into Montmorency.
“You insult me, Monsieur, with your lies!” she hissed, shaking her forefinger at the Grand Master. “He is in there-I know it! Open the door-or move aside, and I will do it myself.”
Montmorency’s voice was soothing. “Madame, you are beside yourself. Please lower your voice, lest you wake the children.”
“The children!” She released an exasperated gasp. “I am the only one here thinking of the children!” She lurched forward, balancing on the crutch, and reached beyond the solid Grand Master for the door. “Open it now or I will go in myself! I demand to speak to Madame Fleming!”
The door behind Montmorency swung inward, causing him to take a staggering step backward, almost colliding with the man emerging from the governess’s room: my husband. Unlike Diane, Henri was in his prime, with his father’s long, handsome face and full, dark beard, his attractiveness enhanced by the sort of deep relaxation he showed on returning from a particularly vigorous hunt. His head was bare, his hair tousled; his doublet rode up a bit at the hips. At the sight of Diane, he smoothed down the hem. The room behind him was dark as he shut the door, and Montmorency moved to block it.
At the sight of the evidence that her suspicions were true, Diane averted her face in pain. The three players stood stunned and silent in the face of disclosure until she lifted her wounded countenance again.
“Your Majesty!” she exclaimed, anguished. “Whence do you come?”
At the sight of his livid paramour, Henri directed his attention to the carpet beneath his feet.
“I’ve done nothing wrong,” he murmured, so softly that I strained to hear. “I was only speaking with the lady.” Poor guileless Henri, too slow to concoct a feasible lie.
“Speaking!” Diane hissed. “Let me go ask Madame Fleming the subject of your conversation!”
She started again for the door, but Montmorency’s bulk stymied her.
“This is unseemly,” he scolded her. “You have no right to speak so to the King!”
Henri turned on him with a dangerous look, and Montmorency fell silent at once.
“Your Majesty,” Diane said, more quietly yet no less indignantly, “you have betrayed your dear friends the Guises and their niece Queen Mary with such behavior. You have betrayed your son the Dauphin as well, for he is to marry the child who has that-that woman for a governess. As for myself-I will not even speak of the hurt.”
I marked that she had not thought to mention the betrayal of the King’s wife.
“I mean to hurt no one,” Henri said, but he could not look at her. “Please, can we discuss this tomorrow? And not here, in the hall, lest we wake the children…”
“But it is on their account I must raise the alarm.” In the most politic of strokes, Diane loosed her wrath on the Grand Master. “I was told of this. Told that you, Monsieur Montmorency, have encouraged this affair. You have betrayed the Guises, and thus His Majesty, more than anyone by facilitating an infidelity that has dishonored everyone.” She pivoted on her crutch toward Henri. “Do you not see, Sire, that their niece, innocent little Mary, is being raised by a whore? How shall they feel when they learn the truth? If the Grand Master had your interests at heart, he would advise you to avoid that woman.”
“It’s not his fault,” Henri said softly. “It’s all mine. Forgive me, Madame, and do not be angry; I can bear anything but your displeasure.”
She lifted her chin, composed and regal once more, and told Montmorency, “You have served the King badly and disgraced his friends. Do not cross my path again, Monsieur, or speak another word to me, for I will not hear it.”
Montmorency-outraged, yet biting his tongue-looked to the King for support. Henr
i averted his eyes and gave the Grand Master a short, dismissive nod.
A muscle deep in Montmorency’s great square jaw twitched, just above the line of his beard, but he was a man of grace and self-control. He left quickly, his gaze downcast so that he would not have to see Diane gloat.
I remained motionless in the corridor; when Montmorency passed me, he started, but I put a finger to my lips. He could well have alerted Henri to my presence, but he was still angry at Diane and perhaps hoped she might say something to further provoke my hatred. He continued on, leaving me to listen alone.
After Montmorency’s departure, Diane spoke first, raw and uncertain.
“Do you love her?”
Henri’s countenance displayed the same contrition I had seen when he had first confessed his love for Diane.
“No,” he whispered. “No, of course not.” His voice rose to a murmur. “It was purely… purely the flesh, nothing more. And I am ashamed. I had hoped to be able to end it before I hurt anyone. Before I hurt you. But now I can only beg for your forgiveness.”
Diane cooled in the face of the King’s groveling. “Do not ask my forgiveness, Sire. Ask the forgiveness of your dear friends the Guises, and of little Mary.”
He hesitated. “Promise you won’t say anything to the Guises.”
She studied him a long moment, then answered slowly, “I will say nothing to anyone if you promise that this crime will never be repeated.”
He let go a long sigh at the thought of abandoning such pleasure, then squared himself and met her gaze directly. “I swear before God it will not.”
Satisfied, she nodded, dismissing him as if she were the monarch and not he, and began to move away haltingly on her crutch.
Henri called softly to her, “Will you be…?” Awkward, he let the question trail.
The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen Page 25
