History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (83 page)

“No. Leave that to me.”

Birago nodded and walked out. Feeling a sharp pain in my hand, I looked down.

I had crushed my writing quill to splinters.

I went straight to my son’s apartments. I found his room in chaos, clothing and hunting paraphernalia strewn about, his hound gnawing on a meat bone while Charles stood poised near the door, hurriedly donning a cloak. If I’d come a minute later, I’d have found him gone.

He spun to me. His face blanched. “What … what are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. Do I intrude? Are you going somewhere?”

“I … I was … There’s a new pack of deer near Vincennes, and Navarre and I …”

I planted myself at the door. “Don’t lie to me. You’re going to see Coligny, aren’t you?”

He shrank back, his expression one of utter stupefaction. Then he said nervously, “Coligny? Why would you think that? I’m not going to see him. He doesn’t like to hunt anymore.”

“Perhaps not deer,” I replied. “I know about your meetings with him. I know you’ve been going to his house in secret with Navarre.” I paused. His eyes had grown wide, his mouth working as he struggled for an excuse. “There’s no need to hide it from me,” I added. “You’ve made it clear you mean to rule as you see fit. Just tell me the truth and I will leave court today.”

“You … you cannot leave,” he stammered. “We’ve Margot and Navarre’s wedding to attend.”

I let out a taut laugh. “What wedding? If you want to go make pacts with Coligny, you risk everything. At least grant me the mercy of not having to bear witness to it.”

His expression unraveled. “But I didn’t agree to anything! I just listened. I swear it.”

“Listened to what?”

I watched the color seep from his face. He regarded me with such a terrible mixture of bewilderment and fear for a moment I wondered where I had erred, how I’d failed to recognize that my constant care of him would never defeat the influence of a man like Coligny. My son was vulnerable; he’d lost his father at an early age, watched his elder brother suffer under the Guises, and endured years of warfare; since he’d taken a whip to Margot I’d sensed something broken inside him. Now Coligny preyed on his weakness, on his desperate desire for lasting peace and his struggle to be seen as a king not dependent on his mother for guidance.

“What does he want of you?” I said. “I’ll not fault you, I promise. I know how you feel: I know how he can convince us to believe almost anything. Just tell me.”

He kneaded his cloak, his gaze darting about as if he might find an escape. “He … he …” I saw him swallow. “He wants me to exile you from France,” he burst. “He says you’ll bring more destruction on us, that you may have poisoned Jeanne of Navarre and you’ll force Navarre to
convert. If that happens, he says the Huguenots will have to go to war in Navarre’s defense.”

I felt rage boil up and forced it back, keeping my voice inflectionless, as though what he had just confided came as no surprise. “He said all that, did he?”

“Yes! But we didn’t believe him. Navarre told him so. He said, ‘I will marry Margot and I swear to you nothing on this earth will persuade me to convert.’” Charles flung himself at me, clutching at my hands. “Forgive me. He asked to see me and I couldn’t say no. But I know I was wrong to let him say those things to me.”

I looked down at his fingers entwined with mine. “Yet you were going to see him again,” I heard myself say, and I marveled at my ability to conceal the fury and fear building inside me.

“To tell him no. I was going to tell him that I will never send you away.”

I pulled my hands away, took a deliberate step back. He gasped as though I had struck him.

“No, don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Maman, please. I … I fear him. He tells me I mustn’t listen to you, that you lead me astray.” He shuddered. “I want so much to believe him when he says I can be a great king, but he looks at me strangely, as if he doesn’t see me. He promised he’ll help me bring France peace and glory, but I don’t think it’s me he wants to guide.”

My poor son. Coligny had hypnotized him, twisted him up in lies and deceit. But Charles was more perceptive than I’d been. He already sensed he was just a means to an end. Coligny did not care about my son. He wanted Navarre, his champion prince, the heir of his dead queen; Navarre, who had a blood-right to the succession. He wanted Navarre to inherit France. It was why he’d signed the letter to Jeanne, why he sought to undermine me. If he could push me aside, the Huguenots could wage war until no one was left to challenge Navarre’s right to the throne.

“Charles.” I touched his shoulder. “You must promise never to see him again. He cares nothing for you. He is a liar. He has always been a liar and a traitor.”

His mouth quivered. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I promise,” he whispered. “I do.”

I pulled him close. “Don’t cry,” I murmured. “I am here. I will keep you safe, always.”

I called for Birago and left Charles under his supervision, with guards at the door. I then returned to my study, where Lucrezia had closed the shutters to block the worst of the heat.

I sat for a long time in silence, reliving the past.

I saw him again as he’d been at my nuptial banquet, a solemn youth in ivory, with beautiful eyes. I remembered the dusk of St. Germain, when I sought his help against the Guises; and later, at Chenonceau, when his body entered mine. Every word that went between us, every touch, passed through me. And when I was done and the memories lay at my feet like crumpled papers, I realized there weren’t many, only a few in fact, though it was enough to fill a lifetime.

Night descended. Lucrezia slipped in to light the candles and inquire about my supper. Nothing formal was planned tonight, so I had her serve me in my rooms. I didn’t eat much. With concern she asked if I needed anything else.

“Yes,” I said to her. “Tell Henri I must see him.”

He came soon after, clad in loose crimson pantaloons and an unlaced chemise that revealed the curls on his sculpted chest. His hair tumbled like a dark mane to his shoulders; his eyes were bright from the evening’s wine, reminding me of his grandfather François.

“It’s like Hades in here,” he said. “Do you have a ribbon?”

I undid a lace from my sleeve. He tied back his hair, roving to the table. He picked at the remains of my roast pheasant with his long fingers. “Margot is being impossible. I asked her to dine with me tonight and she sent back word that her head ached. Does she take me for an idiot? She never has headaches. All she wants to do anymore is sit in her rooms and mope.”

I watched him take up the crystal decanter and pour wine into a goblet. He drank, eyeing me. “Well?” he said, and calmly, without any anger, I relayed everything I had discovered. When I was done, he sighed. “My, my: what a tangled web.”

I shifted on my chair. “He’s determined to destroy us so he can—”

“Turn his heretic devils on us.” Henri smiled. “Well, if Charles missed their meeting today, we can assume he’s been forewarned.”

“For now. But it’s not enough. He’ll find another way. He always does.”

I unfastened my ruff and tossed it aside. My son was right; the room was stifling. I wanted to crack open the casement, but my apartments sat on the first floor over the gardens and I couldn’t risk being overheard by courtiers who took to the shadows to make love or spin intrigue.

“You could kill him,” Henri said, and I glanced sharply at him. He returned to the decanter. “There is a way. No one would suspect you had a hand in it.”

The room went still—that kind of stillness like the gathering of clouds before a tempest.

“What way?” I asked quietly.

“Guise. He blames Coligny for murdering his father. He’d bathe in his blood given the chance. Of course, he’ll need direction. We don’t want him knifing Coligny at court.”

“And you could …?”

“Persuade him?” He traced his finger around the goblet rim. “Of course. Guise and I may have our differences, but when it comes to Coligny we understand each other.”

I looked about my room. It was full of familiar objects, my children’s portraits on the walls among the most cherished. I paused on the painting of my Elisabeth, so lifelike it seemed she was here. Something ominous grew in the back of my mind, a terrible force.

There will never be peace while he and his kind live
.

“What do you suggest?” I said, and I was surprised at how easily I accepted it, how I felt as though a great burden I hadn’t realized I carried had been lifted from me.

He braced one leg behind him, the goblet balanced on his knee. “It must be done anonymously, so Guise will need a time and place. Coligny has some sort of routine, I assume?”

I bit my lip. “I don’t know. Birago can find out, but we cannot risk an uproar before the wedding next week. Afterward …” I considered. “What if I summon him?”

Henri arched a brow. “Do you think he’ll come?”

“I do,” I said, and I could already envision him before me, unyielding in his black doublet. I wanted to confront him, I realized. I wanted to hear him admit the truth to my face, for once in his life. “He suspects me of killing Jeanne and is anxious for Navarre. Without Charles’s support he’ll fear he’s losing his influence. Yes, I think he’ll see me. He can’t do anything else.”

Henri’s eyes glittered, like serrated jewels. “When?”

“I’ll send word. Tell Guise I’ll pay whomever he hires for the deed but make sure he understands he undertakes it of his own accord. If it comes to it, I’ll deny all complicity.”

Henri quaffed his goblet. He leaned down to kiss my cheek, enveloping me in his musky scent of claret, salt and sweat, and the jasmine essence he used to perfume his throat and wrists. “Trust me to take care of Guise,” he said and he untied his hair, dropping the ribbon in my lap.

Left alone, I finally undid my own hair. Light flickered in my bedchamber; the candles were lit, the covers turned down. Lucrezia and Anna-Maria waited.

But I knew sleep wouldn’t give me solace this night.

To the clamor of bells, we assembled on the dais outside Notre Dame’s doors rather than in its cool interior, suffocating in our finery. An ocean of people converged around the platform, Huguenot and Catholic together, united for the moment by the event. My daughter and her groom knelt on cushions before the makeshift and secular altar. Margot wore violet; Navarre had opted for complementary mauve, his copper hair springing up about his matching cap.

Monsignor intoned the oratory. It was designed for brevity, so we might escape as soon as possible, but halfway through Charles started to shift in his throne, his spidery fingers tapping his chair arm. “On, on,” he muttered. “Can’t he just bless them and be done? It’s infernal out here.”

I agreed. Perspiration dripped under my coif and my purple damask. Everyone else was equally sick with heat; even young Guise—seated opposite us in a tier with his mother the duchess, his uncles, my daughter Claude, and her husband of Lorraine—seemed relieved when Monsignor
finally asked, “Do you, Marguerite de Valois, princess of France, take Henri de Bourbon, king of Navarre, as your lawful husband, to cherish so long as you both shall live?”

I held my breath. Margot did not move. The silence lengthened.

Charles spat, “Damn her!” and leapt up to push Margot from behind, forcing her head forward and upsetting her diadem, which slid precariously from her brow. Her cheeks turned scalding red as she righted herself. “She agrees,” crowed Charles, and Monsignor repeated the question to Navarre, who laconically assented. “I do.”

It was over. As the populace threw wilted flowers into the air, we assembled behind Margot and proceeded into Notre Dame. During the stampede to the pews, I felt a touch on my arm and turned to find Henri. “Congratulations, Maman. Coligny didn’t stop the wedding.”

“Shh!” I rebuked as trumpets sounded a ponderous note. “What of the other matter?”

“He agrees.” My son leaned close. “There’s someone in his employ—Maurevert, I believe he’s called. You might be interested to know he once served in the Huguenot army, a turncoat like the man who shot le Balafré. Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Yes, yes. But remember: not until I send word.”

I sat beside my daughter-in-law, who looked drawn from the heat. She’d thus far shown no signs of fertility, though Birago had assured me that Charles did not neglect his spousal duty. I had begun to worry over her constitution; I needed her to bear a son that would put Navarre at even greater distance from the throne.

“After mass, you should retire,” I advised. “There’s no need for you to overtire yourself.”

She nodded in weary gratitude, turning her gaze back to the altar. Margot knelt alone. Navarre attended a Huguenot service in a nearby temple.

Isabel sighed. “Such a beautiful bride, but so sad.”

“Let her get with child,” I retorted, impatient with her moods, “and she’ll know happiness soon enough.”

Two days later, I summoned Coligny.

H
E ENTERED MY STUDY AND BOWED, AS IF THE HEAT DIDN’T AFFECT
him at all, a black ruff cradling his bearded chin, every button of his doublet fastened and his cloak draped over his shoulders. I’d always appreciated his magnetic attraction; now I felt it aimed at me like a curse.