Henri did not tell me of the appointment until it was a fait accompli. He rightly surmised that I would object and chose to wait until we were in bed together after an evening of gentle lovemaking. He kissed my belly and spoke sweetly to the child inside me. I was thoroughly charmed and smiling-until he abruptly confessed to Guise’s appointment. The news brought me out of the bed and onto my feet.
Henri waited until I had vented my displeasure, then argued that a move against Diane and François of Guise would upset the delicate balance at Court and throw the government into confusion. That was true, so I calmed and discussed with him what was best for France. Unfortunately, he did not agree that Diane’s and the Guises’ conservative Catholicism presented the greatest danger; he agreed with them that Protestantism should not be tolerated at all, which frightened me.
From that time on, I grew fearful of the conflict that would come if the Guises’ desire to persecute the Protestants was indulged, but I let myself be mollified during my pregnancy by Henri’s doting caresses and pushed away all thought of impending political catastrophe.
When our new son was born, Henri was present, laughing and squeezing my hand. Edouard-Alexandre was healthier than my other children, and Henri and I freely lavished affection upon him. Edouard was by far the most handsome, and his presence always reminded me of the loveliest days of my life. Henri and I spent much time together in the nursery, and Henri spent an hour every evening discussing affairs of state with me.
Such an idyll could not last long. When Edouard was only a few months old, my world was again shaken.
For years, my husband had exchanged insults with Emperor Charles, who had held the child Henri and his brother prisoner. A rational man, Henri resisted going to war for slight cause; however, in 1552, the year after Edouard was born, my husband yielded to pleas for help from German princes who hoped to oust the Emperor from their country. They were Lutherans, outraged by the Catholic Emperor’s attempts to suppress their religion.
To my astonishment, Henri cooperated with them, agreeing to weaken the Emperor by fighting him on France’s northeastern border with an eye to reclaiming the towns of Cambrai and Metz, among others. If Diane saw any irony in the King’s rush to aid Protestants in order to defeat a good Catholic, she said nothing. Henri decided that French soldiers would go to war.
And he intended to join them. This terrified me, for it meant that he would leave behind the safe haven created by the onyx talisman hidden beneath Diane’s bed.
My anxiety was not helped when I received a letter from the venerable Luca Guorico in Rome. Ser Luca was greatly respected for his work in judicial astrology, the branch that studied the influence of the stars on the fates of individuals. When my great-uncle Giovanni de’ Medici was only fourteen years old, Luca Guorico had predicted that he would become Pope-and indeed, Uncle Giovanni became Pope Leo X. Guorico had also predicted Alessandro Farnese’s ascension to Pope, and his death, with uncanny accuracy.
When Madame Gondi placed an envelope from Rome into my hands, I broke the wax seal with trepidation. Inside was a letter to me and a second sealed letter, folded into thirds, addressed to my husband.
Your Most Esteemed Majesty, Donna Caterina,
Please forgive my boldness in writing you, and not your husband directly. I have heard that His Majesty is indisposed to heed the advice of astrologers, and so I turn to you for help, for I know that you are quite knowledgeable about astrology and sympathetic to its aims.
I have charted the progression of your husband’s stars over the course of the next several years. As a result, I am convinced of the need to warn King Henri to exert extreme caution at certain times and in specific situations.
The danger to His Majesty is great. May I prevail upon you, Your Majesty Donna Caterina, to present the enclosed letter to him, and to use your influence to persuade him to heed its advice?
The temptation to break the seal on the second letter and read it was nearly overwhelming, but I set the letter aside and waited until Henri came to my chambers to discuss the affairs of the day.
When he entered my room, I handed him the sealed document in lieu of a greeting. “You have received a letter from Rome, Your Majesty. From Luca Guorico.”
“Do I know him?” he asked wearily, settling into a chair as he took the letter. He had spent a long day in his cabinet discussing plans for the war, first with his loyal old friend Montmorency, then with François of Guise-the two advisers were so politically opposed that Henri did not meet with them together, as the discussion would quickly degenerate into argument.
“The famous astrologer,” I prompted. “The one who said my uncle Giovanni would become Pope.”
“Ah,” he said dismissively and slipped the letter into his belt. “I will deal with the machinations of fate later. I am done with serious thinking for the day.”
“Please!” At the unintended sharpness in my voice, he glanced at me in mild surprise. “Please,” I said more gently, “will you not at least look at it?”
“Catherine, you brood too much about these things.”
“Monsieur Guorico also wrote to me.” I settled into the chair beside him. “He has discovered something in your stars and means to warn you.”
“Warn me of what?”
I looked pointedly at the letter in his hand. “He did not tell me.”
“I will read it then,” he sighed. He opened the letter and scanned it. As he read, a line above the bridge of his nose gradually deepened.
“It’s nothing,” he said. “He warns me against single combat-against duels, not battles, so there is no danger in my going to the front. And it is nothing I need worry about for many years.” He refolded the letter and stuffed it into his belt.
It was impertinent even for a queen to violate the King’s privacy, yet I could not restrain myself. “Please, Henri, I must know what he has told you.”
“Look at the fear in your eyes,” he chided. “You have gotten yourself agitated over nothing. Why do you continue to believe in such things?”
“Because astrology is like medicine, Henri-a gift from God to aid the suffering. I have seen the proof with my own eyes.”
He snorted. “It’s that sickly looking magician who shadows you like a ghost. Why do you surround yourself with such people? There’s nothing of God in him-he looks more like he speaks daily to the Devil.”
“Monsieur Ruggieri saved my life in Florence,” I countered hotly. “He gave me a talisman. I never would have survived without it.”
“You would have survived just as well with nothing.” Henri shook his head. “That man fills your head with strange notions. I’ve a mind to send him away.”
The French doors leading to the balcony were shut; night had left the glass unrevealing, but I studied a point far beyond it.
“When I was a girl,” I said quietly, “just before the rebels imprisoned me, Ruggieri gave me a talisman for protection.” Henri began to interrupt, but I stayed him with my hand. “He also told me that I would never rule Florence. He said that I would move to a strange land and marry a king.” I did not add what had finally convinced me: Ruggieri’s summoning of my dead mother, and her prediction that Ser Silvestro would rescue me. Henri remained silent, but one corner of his mouth quirked with ill-concealed skepticism.
I continued. “He also spoke to me about the dreams that have tormented me since that time. I dream that you lie bleeding and I must save you, but I don’t know what to do. You speak to me in French-and always did, even before I learned the language. The day we first met, I recognized you, because I had already known you for years.”
“Catherine…” Henri’s tone held both disbelief and dawning amazement.
“I have tried…” I faltered as a wave of emotion broke over me. “All my life, I have tried to understand what I must do to protect you. It’s what God means me to do. So don’t scoff, and don’t push me away.”
“Catherine,” he said, this time gently. He could see that I was
distraught and took my hand.
Tears slid down my cheeks, though my voice remained calm. “That’s why I wanted Ruggieri to come to France-to save you from evil, not to bring it-and that’s why I’m so curious to know what Luca Guorico told you. I would die for you, Henri.”
I did not say, I have already killed.
We were silent a long time-I, struggling to gather myself, he, clasping my hand.
“Then we will not send Monsieur Ruggieri away, since his presence comforts you,” he said at last, “though I do not believe in his methods.” He took the folded letter from his belt and handed it to me. “Because you are so desperate to help, I will not hide this from you.”
I unfolded it with an unpleasant thrill.
Your most greatly esteemed Majesty,
My name is Luca Guorico. Her Majesty Donna Caterina may have told you that I am a horoscopist who focuses my art on determining the fate of illustrious persons.
After studying your stars, I must warn you urgently to avoid all combat in an enclosed space. Duels and single combat present the greatest peril, and could lead to a mortal blow to the head.
This danger remains constant but will be magnified greatly a few years hence, in your fortieth year, as the result of an evil aspect made by Mercury to Mars as the latter moves through your ascendant, Leo the royal lion. I warn you in hopes that foreknowledge and caution will allow you to survive this treacherous period. This is quite possible, for my investigation has revealed that you survived an earlier period of comparable risk without incident.
May God bless and guide you and see you safely through all hazards.
For a few moments, I sat with the letter open on my lap before turning to Henri, who now sat beside me.
“Promise me that you will never go to war again,” I begged.
His brows lifted. “Of course I’m going. I must lead the troops. Didn’t you read the letter carefully? War doesn’t occur in enclosed areas, and I’m not challenging anyone to a duel.”
The same anguished helplessness I felt in the dream tugged at me. Henri was so close, yet there was nothing I could do to keep him there beside me; he would-like my mother, my father, Aunt Clarice, and King François-slip too easily from life into shadowy memory.
“War is unpredictable. What happens if you find yourself in a building, faced by a single assailant?” I demanded. “If I lose you…”
“Catherine,” he soothed. “We’ve only just found each other, after all this time. I promise that you won’t lose me. Not now.”
“Then take a talisman with you.”
“I need no such thing,” he answered gently. “If God sent you to protect me, then He will hear you. Pray for me, and that will be enough to bring me home safely.”
He would not listen when I tried to explain that God did not hear my prayers.
Twenty-seven
Before he left for the war in the northeast, Henri appointed me his regent. With the country mine to run, I discovered that I had both the taste and the aptitude for it. My memory was keen, and I enjoyed the exercise of recalling each word uttered by Henri’s advisers. Coupled with my gentler, more diplomatic method of governing, this talent won me support and admiration. I pored over each letter Henri or his generals sent from the front and made sure that funds and supplies were constantly available for them; I even grew bold enough to offer military advice.
Victory came quickly; within months, the towns of Toul, Verdun, and Metz were ours. My husband distinguished himself in battle, as did François of Guise, and the campaign further solidified the friendship between them.
Henri left for war in late January and returned to my arms in late June, brimming with optimism. By August I was pregnant again. This time I did not remain sequestered in my chambers or the nursery but sat in on cabinet meetings with Henri and his ministers. Montmorency and Diane soon learned that I was no longer the silent, invisible Queen.
Henri began to spend more time with the First Prince of the Blood, Antoine de Bourbon. I approved heartily of this, for Bourbon despised the Guises. He was also a Protestant again by that time, as was his wife, Jeanne. I hoped that Henri’s relationship with the man would soften his prejudice against non-Catholics.
While Henri spent more time with Bourbon, I spent a good deal of time with Jeanne. She assisted the midwife at the birth of my daughter, whom I named Marguerite, in honor of Jeanne’s mother, though we all called her Margot. In the difficult hours before Margot’s birth, Jeanne confessed that she had just learned of her own pregnancy.
My dark-eyed, dark-haired Margot, as precocious and stubborn as her own mother, was born on the thirteenth of May, 1553. Jeanne’s son, Henri of Navarre-named to honor both his grandfather and my husband-was born seven months later, on the thirteenth of December. I remained beside Jeanne throughout her labor, just as she had stayed with me throughout mine. And when I first held her squalling newborn son, love pierced me as keenly as if he were my own.
Even then, I believed the two children were linked by fate. When Jeanne’s father died a year later, leaving her Queen of Navarre, she chose to remain in France for her son’s education. Little Henri, or Navarre, as I sometimes called him, grew up at the Court and spent his days playing with my children in the royal nursery and sharing their tutors. He and Margot became especially attached to each other.
For many years, I would not understand just how intricately their fates were intertwined, or how deeply both were bound to the coming bloody tide.
This is how a dozen years of my marriage passed. As I lived them, I perceived them to be difficult and tumultuous, but perspective has revealed them to be sweet and halcyon compared with the evil that followed. I was deeply relieved that Henri did not return to war, though he and Emperor Charles remained enemies. Shortly after Margot’s birth, a new queen ascended the throne of England: Mary Tudor, champion of Catholicism, determined to purge her country of the Protestant blight. Perhaps we should have been glad of the fact, but when Mary wed King Philip, uniting the thrones of England with Spain to create an invincible military giant, I grew uneasy.
Three years after Margot’s birth, I became pregnant again. My stomach grew so distended that I soon realized I carried more than one child. A strange dread settled over me during my confinement. I had labored hard to forget my crimes, but the memory of them began to overwhelm me. My fear was underscored by an event in the last moments of my last pregnancy.
Henri had continued his father’s tradition of collecting a copy of each book printed in France; my librarians knew to bring works of interest to my attention.
Such was the case with a volume titled Les Prophéties, written by Michel de Nostredame-in the Latin, Nostradamus-a physician renowned for saving victims of plague. Monsieur de Nostredame’s work consisted of hundreds of verses-four-lined quatrains-each of which contained a prophecy. The references were oblique, arcane. I understood little of what I read until I reached the thirty-fifth quatrain.
On a warm night in June, I was lying propped up against the pillows in my bed, uncomfortable and sleepless because of the weight in my belly and the relentless kicking of two pairs of little legs. I had chosen to give birth at the Château at Blois, and that night, the dank air rose from the Loire River, bringing with it the stink of decay. I had trouble balancing the heavy book on my swollen stomach and was about to give up the effort when I turned the page, and my gaze fell upon these lines:
The young lion will overcome the old, in
A field of combat in a single fight. He will
Pierce his eyes in a golden cage, two
Wounds in one, he then dies a cruel death.
I sat up with a gasp, recalling the words penned by the great astrologer Luca Guorico:
I must warn you urgently to avoid all combat in an enclosed space. Duels and single combat present the greatest peril, and could lead to a mortal blow to the head.
Fear wrung my midsection like a sponge. I cried out at the sudden physical spasm and let the heavy book
slide off my lap.
The labor of childbirth had always gone easily for me, but the agony that gripped me now was malicious, dire and unknown. I climbed out of the bed, but when my foot touched the floor, pain felled me.
I went down shrieking for Madame Gondi, for Jeanne, and, most of all, for Henri.
I am stout in the face of pain, but this labor was so cruel and protracted that I thought I would die before the first infant was born.
Jeanne sat beside the birthing chair, and Henri visited me at the beginning of the labor, gripping my hands when the pains worsened and encouraging me throughout the long morning and into the heat of the summer afternoon. We pretended that the added agony I experienced augured nothing ominous, that it was only because there were two children instead of one. My longest previous labor had endured ten hours-but when ten hours had passed, then twelve, without progress, our anxiety increased. When the evening lamp was lit, I was no longer able to maintain a cheerful front. Henri paced helplessly until I grew peevish and told him to leave. Once he had gone, I lost myself to the pain, barely aware of Jeanne’s soft, perfumed hands bearing cool compresses, of the midwife’s whispered instructions. I fainted, and woke to find that I had been spirited from the wooden chair to my own bed.
The first infant, Victoire, arrived at dawn, almost thirty-six hours after the initial excruciating spasm. She was weak and grey, with a sickly mewl, but her arrival brought joy to Jeanne and the midwife, who thought that this signaled the end of my travail. But her birth brought only a glimmer of relief before the savage pain returned.
The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen Page 27
