The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (25 page)

I pressed my fist to my mouth to stifle the next angry word and ran up a different set of stairs to my apartments. Without a word to my ladies, I swept into my bedchamber, slammed the door, and fell onto the bed.

Only a few moments had passed when a knock sounded at my door. Thinking that it was Madame Gondi, I called sharply that I did not want to be disturbed.

But the voice at my door belonged to the King’s sister. “Catherine, it’s Marguerite. May I come in?” When I didn’t answer, she added softly, “I saw you with Henri just now. I might be able to help.”

I cracked open the door to avoid raising my voice. “There’s nothing you can do,” I said. “He hates me, and that’s the end of it.”

“Oh, Catherine, it isn’t that at all.” Her voice held such knowing compassion that I let her in. She led me over to the bed to sit on its edge beside her.

“I had no more say in this marriage than Henri did,” I said hotly. “But I don’t hate anyone for it. Of course, he’s handsome and I’m homely. I can’t remedy that.”

“Never let me hear you say such a dreadful thing again,” she said sternly. “You make a fine appearance. It has nothing to do with you—not in the personal sense.”

“Then why does he run from me?”

Marguerite drew in a deep breath, the better to tell a long tale. “You know that the Duchess of Milan was our great-grandmother. That’s why King Charles invaded Italy, and King Louis after him, to claim hereditary properties that rightfully belonged to France.”

I nodded. Like most Italians, I had been raised to hate the French kings for their incursions; now I was obliged to retrain my sympathies.

“It’s also the reason my brother invaded Italy nine years ago. It was a matter of honor.” She paused. “François is very brave, but sometimes foolhardy. When he was fighting Emperor Charles’s army at Pavia, he led a charge into the open. He thought the enemy was retreating, but he was badly mistaken. His men were all killed, and he was taken prisoner. He languished in Spain for a year, until an agreement was reached for his release.

“My brother had to agree to give up many things in order to win his freedom. One was the whole of Burgundy. Another was his sons—the Dauphin François and Henri.”

My eyes widened. “They were held prisoner?”

Marguerite’s expression grew distant and sad. “France languished badly in the King’s absence. And so he made many unpleasant concessions: to marry Charles’s widowed sister, Eléonore, to hand over Burgundy . . . and to hand over his sons.”

She fell silent. I recalled the morning I had awakened at Poggio a Caiano to see rebel troops on horseback lined up on the sprawling lawn. I thought about the night I had ridden with Ser Silvestro through the streets of Florence, jeered at by a hate-filled crowd.

Marguerite continued. “Henri was barely seven years old when he and the Dauphin took their father’s place as the Emperor’s prisoners. They were held in Spain for four and a half years. When he left France, Henri was a cheerful boy—a bit shy, and sometimes melancholy over his mother’s death, but generally happy. The imprisonment changed that. The King has often said that the Spanish must have sent back a different boy.”

“So his father’s desire for lands in Italy,” I said slowly, “led to the imprisonment of Henri and his brother. And our marriage took place because the Pope guaranteed the King those lands.”

Marguerite nodded sadly. “Perhaps now you understand why the King favors his youngest son, Charles. The Dauphin has forgiven his father, though he has not forgotten, but Henri has done neither. His hatred toward the King hasn’t eased with the passage of time; if anything, it’s grown worse, especially now that you two have married.” She sighed. “I know that this doesn’t make your situation any better, but perhaps understanding Henri will make it more bearable.”

I brought Marguerite’s large, smooth hand to my lips. “Thank you,” I said. “It’s already more bearable. And perhaps you’ve helped me to make it better.”

The next day, I put aside my wounded dignity. Early in the morning I asked Madame Gondi to locate a French ephemeris. I knew Henri’s birth date—the thirteenth of March, 1519, the same year I was born—and decided to chart his nativity myself so that I might better understand his character.

Afterward, I shadowed the King, following him to Mass at ten o’clock, standing in attendance at his lunch at eleven while listening to the bishop read from Thomas Aquinas. I didn’t do so merely out of the desire to grow close to the father in the hope of reconciling him to his son, though that was still part of my aim. I wanted to better understand the workings of government, to fathom the forces that shaped nations and separated children from their fathers.

During his lunch, the King spotted me and invited me to ride with him that afternoon. By three o’clock, I was at the stables and highly amused to see the Duchess sitting upon her mare, outfitted with a hastily constructed sidesaddle. The other ladies were forced to ride slowly, led by their grooms, but Anne and I trotted alongside the King, making plans for a future hunt. Though I cannot say she exuded warmth, she accepted me well enough to engage in lighthearted verbal parries. I was now a member of the King’s inner circle.

That evening, the family met again for dinner. Aunt Marguerite cast a knowing glance at me as she took her place. I sat beside her.

Henri was, again, a few minutes late. This time, his manner was subdued as he apologized to his father and quickly took his chair. I was greatly relieved when my greeting was kindly returned.

After supper, we made our way into the courtyard, lit by blazing torches upon the winding staircases that led up to our separate apartments. It was a cold night, very clear and quiet save for the murmurs of the other diners saying their good nights. Henri said my name, softly, and I turned to see him summoning his courage by averting his gaze toward the star-littered sky.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness, for my ill-considered retort last evening,” I said.

“You mustn’t apologize for anything, Catherine,” he said. His eyes were very, very black; I had thought, until that moment, that they were dark brown. “It’s I who am sorry, for all my selfish, unkind behavior since you have come.”

His sincerity unnerved me; I cast about for an appropriate reply. Madeleine’s sudden laughter floated down from the staircase above us as she and her sister made their way up to their apartment, accompanied by their little cousin, Jeanne. Behind us, Montmorency called to the King as they left the dining room.

Henri glanced quickly in both directions, then back at me. “May I accompany you to your chambers? I should like to speak to you alone.”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “Yes, of course, Your Highness.”

We climbed the stairs in awkward silence. Henri went only as far as my antechamber and seated himself near the fire. I gestured for all of my ladies to leave.

When we were alone, Henri cleared his throat and stared into the hearth. “I’m sorry for losing my temper. Madame d’Etampes manipulates my father shamelessly and has hurt many of her fellow courtiers. Last night, I was thinking only of my own feelings and did not take yours into consideration.”

“I am Catherine,” I said. “I am not Italy.”

He drew back, startled; his cheeks bloomed red. “I see that now. I have also seen how my father mistreats Queen Eléonore, how he ignores her, even though she greatly desires his attentions. When she enters a room, he acts as though she’s not even there.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to be cruel like him.”

“She is a foreigner, and unlovely,” I said, “and your father a victim of political circumstance. He didn’t want to marry her.”

“His own greed obliged him,” Henri countered with sudden heat. “His craving for Italian property—it’s an insanity with him. He bankrupted the royal treasury in pursuit of it; he almost died for it, at Pavia. Like a fool, he rode ahead of his men into the thick of battle.”

He turned his head away in an effort to hide his bitterness.

“Henri,” I said, “this anger will destroy you if you let it.” I paused. “I learned only yesterday of your imprisonment in Spain.”

He jerked his head back to face me. “And were you told, too, how my father betrayed us once he gave us to the Emperor? How he left his own sons to rot, to die, to be—” He broke off, bitter.

“No,” I murmured. “No. I was not told.”

Henri looked down at his hands and squeezed them into fists, then stared into the fire; a distant look came over him.

“They made the exchange at a river,” he said. “My mother was dead by then; only Madame de Poitiers came to say good-bye. She kissed the top of my head and told me that I would return soon, that she would count the
days. My brother and I were put in a small boat. The Spanish were waiting on the other shore, but we couldn’t see them. It was early morning and the fog was thick, but I could hear the lapping of the water. Just as we pushed off, I glimpsed my father like a ghost in the mists, waving to us from the bow of a nearby ship. He was crossing at the same time.”

He let go a long, wavering sigh. “The Spanish treated us kindly at first. We stayed in the palace with the Emperor’s sister, Queen Eléonore. Then, suddenly, we were sent to live at a fortress, in a filthy little room with a dirt floor and no windows. If we uttered a single word in French, we were beaten; we were allowed to speak only in Spanish. When I had finally learned enough to ask the guard why we were being mistreated, he told me that my father had violated the conditions of his release. He had promised that, once he was freed, he would go to Burgundy to prepare it for a peaceful takeover by the Emperor’s forces.

“Instead, my father went to Burgundy and fortified it for war. He never intended to let the Emperor have it. Knowing this, he had surrendered me and my brother to the Spanish.”

I drew in a sharp breath. I saw clearly the political expediency of the act: how King François had gambled that the Emperor would not kill his sons, and how he saw that a vast Imperial stronghold in Burgundy—the very heart of the nation—would threaten all of France. Yet that made it no less horrifying, no less cruel. I rose from my chair and slipped to my knees beside Henri; I reached up for his clenched fist. He flinched, so absorbed in the memory that my touch startled him, but he let me take his hand and gently uncurl it, and kiss the palm.

“Henri,” I said softly. “We have much in common, you and I.” And when curiosity flickered in his gaze, I explained, “I spent three years a captive of the Florentine rebels.”

His lips parted as he blinked in surprise. “No one told me,” he said. “No one dares speak of my imprisonment to me, so perhaps they were afraid to tell me of yours.”

He seized my hand and squeezed it hard. He looked at me and for the first time saw me, Catherine, and not the Pope’s niece, the foreigner, the hateful obligation.

“Catherine, I am so sorry. I would not wish for anyone . . .” He trailed off. “Was it terrible?”

“At times. I was always afraid for my life. I was betrayed, too—by my own cousins, who escaped and left me behind, knowing I would be taken prisoner. One of them now rules Florence. But I can’t waste my time hating them.”

“I’ve tried not to hate my father,” he said, “but the sight of him fills me with such anger . . .”

“You need him,” I said gently. “He’s your father, and the King.”

“I know.” He dropped his gaze. “I hate him only because I love my brother so much. For the Spanish, tormenting the Dauphin was the same as tormenting the King, because they knew he would rule France someday. So they singled him out. They defiled him.” His voice broke on the last two words. “Sometimes there would be as many as five men—always at night, when they were full of wine. We were isolated, in the mountains, with no one to hear him scream but me.” He looked up at me, his face contorted, his black eyes liquid. “I tried to stop them. I tried to fight. But I was too small. They laughed and shoved me out of the way.”

He let go a hoarse sob. I rose, wound my arms about his shoulders, and kissed the top of his head as he pressed his face to my bosom.

His words were muffled. “How can people be so evil? How can they want to hurt others so badly? My gentle, good-hearted brother, he can forgive them all. But I can’t . . . And our father hates us, because each time he looks at us, he’s forced to remember what he’s done.”

“Hush,” I said. “Your brother François wakes each morning happy. He let go of his suffering long ago. For his sake, you must stop clinging to yours.”

He pulled back to look at me as I held his hot, damp face in my hands. “You’re like him, kindhearted and wise,” he said. He reached up and brushed my cheek with his fingertips. “So beautiful of spirit that all the other women at Court are hideous by comparison.”

I drew in a breath, voluntarily captive. I know not who moved first, but we kissed each other with sudden heat and fell by the fire. I lifted my skirts and petticoat; when I pulled off my pantaloons and flung them so carelessly that they landed on his head, he giggled.

This time when he took me, I was ready. I rode him with wild desperation, abandoning myself with spectacular result. No one had told me that women could gain as much pleasure as men from the sexual deed, but I discovered the fact that day, to my astonished delight. I suppose I cried out rather loudly, for I remember Henri laughing wickedly while I was in the grip of unbearable pleasure.

When we were spent, I rang for my ladies to undress me while Madame Gondi fetched one of Henri’s valets to do the same for him. After the servants departed, we lay together naked in my bed. I permitted myself to do what I had longed to do since coming to France: I ran my palms over the contours of my husband’s body. He was so very tall, like his father, with long, sculpted legs and arms. And he touched me—my breasts, and my legs, muscular and shapely—and pronounced them to be perfect.