The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (24 page)

“Brilliant!” said the King. “But surely you cannot ride as swift as a man.”

“Sire, I can.”

“Certainly when you ride at such speed, your legs will show,” said Marie de Canaples.

“A pity,” the Duchess said slyly, “to distract the King from such a fair face.”

Marie grinned; her eyeteeth were sharp, like a fox’s.

I flushed at the insult and looked to the King, but he offered no protection. Like the others, he was watching to see how I handled myself.

“Your Majesty,” I said pleasantly. “Shall we ride?”

The King led us south, away from the château and steep hills, toward the broad river.

Our pace was unbearably sedate. The women’s mares were content to be led by the grooms, but the King’s stallion and my gelding were straining at the bit. To ease the tedium, Marie told a story of how one devious young woman, new at Court, had invited her paramour to a great banquet. As her husband dined nearby, her lover crawled beneath the table and, hidden by her voluminous skirts, pleasured her while she ate.

We made our way onto the long wooden bridge across the river, which took several minutes to cross. I looked back over the river, its blue broken here and there by golden sandbanks, to see the houses and church spires and hills behind us, and the great white rectangle of the royal château dominating the city.

The King grew bored; his gaze was on the dense woods waiting on the other side. The instant we made it to the other shore, he broke into a trot. The grooms quickened their pace a bit, which caused the women to bounce in their saddles.

“Your Majesty!” the Duchess called after him, with overt irritation. “The doctor didn’t want you to ride at all today—you mustn’t overtax yourself!”

In reply, His Majesty gave a laugh that terminated in a small cough and grinned over his shoulder at me. “Catherine! Let’s see if you can truly keep up with a man!”

I grinned back at him and signaled Zeus with my heel.

I expected the King to lead me on a chase through the open meadow along the riverbanks; instead, he rode at a gallop straight into the thick woods. I drew in a breath and followed—ignoring, as he did, the women’s warnings. I rode headlong into the forest of bare-limbed beech, oak, and fragrant pine. Luckily, the trees were all a century or more old, with branches high enough that I was not immediately knocked from my mount. Even so, I had to lean low to avoid some of them—not an easy feat when one is astride a horse at full gallop.

King François whooped at the realization that I had given chase and urged his stallion to go faster. Reveling in the sting of cold air on my cheeks, I followed him through the thick of the woods—hares and birds scattering before us—until he swerved and broke clear to ride alongside a neatly tilled vineyard. I followed in close pursuit but, in the end, couldn’t catch him; Zeus’s stride was shorter than that of François’s huge charger. Even so, I refused to yield him more distance.

When he circled to retrace his path through the woods, I followed, encouraging Zeus to go as fast as he dared. I ducked at a low-hanging limb of a pine, then looked up to see the King veering sharply: The Duchess and the others had entered the forest and were heading directly toward us.

Immediately after his change in course, the King crouched low as the black charger surged upward over an obstacle.

The trunk of an ancient oak had split and fallen, blocking our way; the bare fingers of its upper limbs had caught on those of a neighboring tree, so that it hung high above the ground.

I saw the obstacle the second after it would have been possible to steer my
horse away from the fallen limb and the nearby band of riders. I knew Zeus’s limits, and this pressed them sorely, but the time for decision was past: I had no choice.

The horse’s muscles strained beneath me; the spectators gasped. The fall happened, as falls do, so quickly that I had no time to be frightened. The world whirled as my body collided with Zeus’s lathered flank, the jagged edges of wood, the cold, damp earth.

For an instant I couldn’t breathe, then just as suddenly I was gulping in air.

King François stood over me, his long face made even longer by his gaping mouth. “Good God! Catherine, are you all right?”

The Duchess stood beside him, her mouth open in a tiny circle. The other ladies were still mounted.

My skirts were bunched up about my hips, exposing my petticoat, my stockinged calves, and my knee-length pantaloons of fine Italian lace, part of the exquisite trousseau chosen by Isabella d’Este. I made a sound of disgust as I pushed myself up and quickly rearranged my skirts.

The instant she realized I was unharmed, the Duchess said, in a low voice, “So. You did indeed distract the King from your pretty face. Such comely legs.” A ripple of repressed laughter made its way through the women on horseback behind her; humor glinted in the King’s eye, but he dutifully extinguished it.

I pushed the grooms’ proffered hands away as I got to my feet. Zeus stood nearby, breathing heavily but exhilarated after the fine run, his reins held by the youngest groom.

“I’m fine, Your Majesty,” I said.

I brushed dead leaves and splinters off my cape. The jagged limb, broader than my thigh, had caught my right shoulder, gouging the wool; had I been unprotected by the thick fabric, the branch would have torn open my gown to leave a serious wound. As it was, my shoulder ached from a bad bruise. My French hood had been pulled off completely; the punctured veil fluttered from the offending branch like a flag of surrender. One of the grooms fetched it like a trophy. It was torn, so I told him to hold it.

The King took my hand. “I can’t believe you tried to take that tree. You must be more careful.”

“My horse is a good jumper, Your Majesty,” I said. “Under better circumstances, he could have cleared it.”

A curious look came over him; he cocked his head, and the beginnings of a faint grin showed at one corner of his mouth. “You jump?”

“I do. Or at least I did, before coming here. Have you never seen a woman on horseback take a hedge?”

He gave a small laugh. “I didn’t know it was possible. Of course, my sister has always said that, given the opportunity, women would be better at the hunt than men.” He paused. “Perhaps I will have you accompany me on a hunt sometime.”

“Nothing would please me better, Sire.”

As we left, he rode next to me, and we made our way out of the woods at our original slow amble. The Duchess brooded silently, ignoring Marie’s attempts at conversation. We cleared the forest and made our way onto the open, grassy riverbank. The King led us back toward the bridge, but the Duchess resisted.

“Canter along the shore, Your Majesty,” she said, with feigned cheer, “and let us have a contest to see who can best keep up with you.”

The King turned back in his saddle to look at her. “Anne, don’t be foolish.”

The Duchess turned to the groom holding her mount’s reins and pointed. “Ride faster. There, along the banks.”

The groom looked uncertainly to the King, who gave no signal, then again at the Duchess before leading her horse away from the group at a steady trot.

“Come, Your Majesty!” she called. “Give us chase!”

“Anne,”
the King said again, though she was already out of earshot. His expression was slightly pained as he spurred his charger and rode after her.

I would not compete directly with Anne; I followed slowly as the King broke into a canter and easily outpaced her mare. Once he had committed himself, he did so with boyish abandon.

“Faster!” she urged her groom. “Faster!”

The other women took up the cry. The most ridiculous of races commenced, with the Duchess well behind the King and the other women following, bobbing madly on their little thrones. The Duchess was not content
with a brisk trot and insisted on more speed until the nervous groom finally broke into a canter. As he did so, she leaned forward to grasp her mare’s white mane.

The result was utterly predictable. I spurred Zeus into a gallop, arriving just as the groom noticed he was leading a riderless mount; the King, caught up in the moment, was still happily cantering away.

I let go a shout, dismounted, and hurried over to the Duchess. She lay on her side, her crimson skirts and petticoat hiked up to reveal thin white legs—and much more. When Madame Gondi had first come to serve as one of my ladies of the chamber, she had remarked on my pantaloons, not just their fine lace and embroidery but the fact that French women did not wear them at all. Now I saw the proof, as the Duchess d’Etampes pushed herself up and, finding that she was entirely exposed, pulled down her skirts. I repressed a smile; her hair was not naturally copper but dull brown like mine.

She was undamaged, with her hood still in place, but would not rise until she was sure that the King had marked her fall. As the others rode up, I offered her my hand.

“So,” I said loudly, “I see that you, too, have decided to distract the King from your pretty face.”

François and his ladies giggled. As Anne rose, her hand in mine, fury sparked in her eye, tempered by approval that my barb had cleanly hit its mark. To ease its sting, I murmured of her bravery and took care, as we rode back over the bridge toward home, to remain well behind the King so that the Duchess could take her place beside him.

For I suspected, even then, that if I fell out of Anne’s favor, I would fall out of the King’s, and lose everything.

That evening the King hosted an intimate family supper, which included his children; his sister Marguerite and her daughter, Jeanne; and the Grand Master—the stodgy, grey-haired Anné Montmorency, who was included in almost everything because he was trusted with the keys to the King’s residence. Queen Eléonore came with her most trusted lady-in-waiting—Henri’s tutor, Madame de Poitiers. My husband arrived late and shared a hostile glance with his father before taking his seat between his aunt Marguerite and me. I greeted Henri eagerly; in response, he averted his gaze.

The King began to speak: He had been quite impressed by my courage in attempting a difficult jump, and the grace with which I took my fall. He related the incident with some embellishment and a good deal of humor, describing in comic detail the Duchess’s desperate bouncing upon her saddle and subsequent fall—referring to her simply as “one of the ladies” so as not to embarrass the Queen.

Henri clearly understood which lady had been indicated, however, and while the others laughed at his father’s amusing tale, he frowned.

The King went on to describe my saddle and said that, with the urging of “one of the ladies,” he had ordered the Master of Horses to have several copies of it made “so that the women of the realm might keep pace with their king.”

Queen Eléonore, Madame de Poitiers, and Grand Master Montmorency all smiled with brittle disapproval but dared not appear unenthusiastic. But Henri scowled at the story; something deeply vexed him. I tried to divert him with talk of amusing things, but the more I spoke, the darker his mood grew.

After supper, I found him in the outdoor courtyard, lingering at the foot of the steps leading to our separate apartments, I hoped with the aim of speaking privately to me. After Queen Eléonore and the royal children had made their way past us up different staircases, I confronted him.

“Your Highness,” I said softly, “you seem displeased with me. Have I offended you?”

He was growing so quickly that each day brought fresh changes. He was already taller than the day we had met, and his jaw had grown longer and squarer, making his nose less prominent and his face almost handsome. His hair had been cut quite short, but he had let it grow since our wedding so that it now fell against the neck of his collar. Though his beard was still patchy, he had managed to grow a respectable mustache.

I expected him to flush and stammer and quickly take his leave. Instead, he turned on me with heat. “That harlot, that whore—how could you befriend her? She’s a viper, a vicious creature!”

Dumbstruck, I blinked at him. I had never before heard him speak in anger, or use harsh language.

“Madame d’Etampes?” I asked. “You think I am her friend now?”

“You rode with her.” His tone was cold, accusatory.

“The King invited me to ride. I didn’t seek her company.”

“You helped her up when she fell.”

“What was I to do, Your Highness?” I countered. “Spit on her as she lay?”

“My father is a fool,” he said, trembling. “He permits her to use him. You can’t imagine . . . At Queen Eléonore’s coronation, my father viewed her procession through the city streets from a great window, in full public view. And
she
”—he could not bring himself to say the Duchess’s name—“
she
convinced him to let her sit in the window with him and seduced him, made him do horrid, lewd things, while everyone—while the Queen, who passed by—watched.” He fell silent and glared at me.

“Are you telling me not to ride with His Majesty when he invites me? Are you giving me an order?”

He turned swiftly, with a jerk, and began moving toward the staircase. “No, of course not,” I called out after him. “An order would require you to be a husband. It would require you to care.”