The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (42 page)

I drew in a long breath. “Promise me that, when you are King, you will not let Mary make the decisions. Promise me that you will listen to your advisers instead.”

“The Guises will be my advisers, won’t they? And Mary always agrees with them. So of course, I will promise you.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

“Thank you,” I said tenderly. “You are a good son.” And with a sinking heart, I realized that I could not afford to die so long as my eldest son lived.

The wedding celebrations continued for five days, with pageantry and circus; they concluded with the customary jousting tournament. Tradition required that the bridegroom take part in the last joust of the day, but François’s ill health made his participation impossible; he sat with Mary, Diane, and me in the stands to cheer his athletic father on.

I suffered through another banquet hosted by François de Guise, then retired to my chambers. To my surprise, Henri arrived not long afterward.

He bent down as I stood on tiptoe to kiss him. His face was still flushed and his cheek warm from the joust; his skin smelled of soap. I scrutinized him carefully: He had come with no amorous intent; indeed, he sagged back in the chair and sighed with exhaustion. A tired man would simply have gone to his own bed.

“What is troubling you, husband?” I asked bluntly. We were both too fatigued by the recent celebrations to waste time with formalities.

His feigned smile fled. He turned his face toward the hearth, empty now in late spring, and sighed again.

“It’s François,” he said finally. “And Mary . . .”

I had not asked about the wedding night; I had been too afraid. My eldest
son had miraculously survived the marriage ceremony, but I dared not hope he could survive the marriage.

“You know I was required to be a witness,” Henri began. “If it had been another boy, a healthy, normal boy, perhaps it would not have been difficult. But given that it was our François . . .

“It was terrible.” His voice was a low monotone as he stared dully into the blackened, empty hearth, where the chambermaid had set a large crystal bowl of white lilies in honor of the wedding couple. “I had explained things about . . . you know, about the marriage bed, to François. And I thought he understood well enough. But when I arrived, and he and Mary were underneath the sheets together . . . Well, he just
lay
there. I had to whisper to him that he was supposed to take her, but he answered that he was far too tired.

“I was so ashamed,” Henri continued. “I seized his shoulder and said in his ear that I was not the only one waiting; there was the Cardinal, too, who had to report to the Pope. Then he grew upset, and had one of his fainting spells, there in the bed. I had to call for the physician, who advised that we wait until morning.”

“Poor Henri,” I said, shaking my head. “Poor François . . . Could anything be done?”

“The next morning, François declared himself indisposed,” my husband said unhappily. “But there were other affairs to attend, and Mary wouldn’t tolerate his missing any of them. I endured endless jokes about the newlyweds’ first night together. . . . But how could I tell anyone the truth of it? How can I ever?”

I put my hand gently on Henri’s forearm. “Did anything . . .”

“Did anything ever happen?” he finished for me, without humor. “Yes, something, on the second night. Let us just say that François made the attempt but lacked the determination to finish what he had started. He was frightened, poor boy, and unwell, and I left him sobbing in Mary’s arms. So I lied to them all—lied to the Cardinal, who came in after me and found them in what he assumed to be a nuptial embrace. I will swear before God to anyone who asks that the marriage was consummated. But I fear Mary might have said something to Diane. And if
she
knows . . .” He shook his head at the thought.

“Oh, Henri, how awful for all of you.”

“It
is
awful.” He turned toward me at last; yellow lamplight glinted off the silver strands in his hair and beard. “I’ve said everything I can say to the boy. So I’ve come to you— He loves you so, Catherine, and you’ve always been better at explaining things to him. Could you . . . ?”

“I’ll go to him,” I said quickly. “He must understand how critical it is to produce an heir.” I put my hand upon his and smiled. “After all, I still remember what it’s like to soothe a nervous young man in the bridal chamber.” My tone grew serious again. “But you must set the Guise brothers straight on the issue of succession. They think to make themselves kings. If word gets out of the Dauphin’s behavior, the question of succession might arise. If it does, it must be clear to everyone that the Bourbons are next in line to the throne. The Guises must be put in their place. Otherwise, there will be unrest—perhaps even war.”

My husband’s expression subtly hardened. “They’ve been too full of themselves. I can scarcely bear François of Guise’s preening anymore; I do so only for Mary’s sake.”

“Mary must know,” I said smoothly, “and her uncles must know, that if there is ever a question, the Bourbons take precedence over them. If you die, if I die, how would François ever stop the two families from killing each other?”

Henri nodded thoughtfully. “What you say has merit. I will think on it, Catherine.”

I looked at him, at the faltering resolve in his eyes, and knew he would do little. Still, I had planted the seed, and could only hope that time would water it.

I rose and laid a hand upon my husband’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to our son,” I said softly. “Don’t worry. He and Mary will have sons, many sons, and this palace will be filled with our grandchildren. That I promise you.”

Henri smiled up at me. “Of course,” he murmured. “Of course.”

But when I looked into his eyes, I saw the truth that was surely reflected in my own: There would be no children.

My words about trouble with the Bourbons quickly proved prophetic: On the fourteenth of May, the First Prince of the Blood, Antoine de Bourbon,
mounted his stallion and led four thousand Protestants on a march through Paris. One afternoon, I stared out the windows of the Louvre and saw what appeared to be an army of hymn-singing civilians marching over the bridge from the Ile-de-la-Cité. Henri was outraged—as were the good Catholic Guise brothers.

I summoned my friend Jeanne, Antoine’s wife, and told her I felt betrayed to think that someone in the Court knew of such plans and had failed to warn the King. Jeanne was, like me, a queen and did not take kindly to my insinuation. She had not known, she claimed, and with a burst of temper added:

“Surely you, of all people, understand that a wife cannot always control her husband’s public actions, nor can she be privy to all his secrets.”

Her remark stung. Though we parted with polite words, we became distant from that moment on.

Shortly after Henri’s visit to my chambers, I summoned Ruggieri.

“Once again, the question of producing an heir has arisen,” I told him, annoyed at my own embarrassment. “The Dauphin requires . . . help. To instill lust.”

The morning light was unkind to the magician, showing all too harshly his sickly pallor, his scarred cheeks, the shadows beneath his eyes. “A simple talisman, perhaps?” he asked.

“That would be suitable, yes,” I answered. The room seemed suddenly close and warm.

He nodded; a stranger would have thought his expression ingenuous, innocent. “Might it also be salutary to have two talismans: one for health, one for fertility?”

“That would be fine,” I said, a bit irritably. “So long as—”

“Yes,
Madame la Reine,
” he said with consummate courtesy and a nod. “So long as no one is harmed. I understand.”

“Very good,” I said. “You may go.”

Tall and still thin, in a black silk doublet that fit too loosely, he rose and bowed, but as his fingers touched the door, he turned to face me.

“Forgive me,
Madame la Reine,
” he said. “Forgive me, but should the talismans fail to produce a child . . . ?”

My voice grew cold. “They will not fail.”

He cast aside his courtly manners and said bluntly, “Without blood, there can be no guarantee. The talismans of which we speak will bring mild improvement to the Dauphin’s health, and to his sexual desire. Beyond that, the rest is chance.” He did not wilt beneath my withering gaze but added, “I want only to be clear.”

I rose from my desk. “
Never again.
That is what I told you fifteen years ago. Do not make me repeat it.”

He bowed low and left quickly, closing the door behind him. I stood listening to the sound of his rapid steps dying in the hall.

Within a fortnight, Madame Gondi delivered a small bundle to me, wrapped tightly with ribbon. I opened it: Upon the black silk, two talismans—one of ruby, one of copper—hung from a single cord.

François accepted the necklace without question and swore that he would neither speak of it nor show it to anyone, including Mary.

The next morning, I was urgently summoned to the King’s chamber. It was early—I had not yet finished dressing and hurried my ladies in order to respond promptly.

Henri’s antechamber was decidedly masculine, paneled in wood and furnished in brown velvet and gold brocade. Over the mantel was the gilded relief of a salamander, the emblem of Henri’s father, François I. In front of the cold hearth, Henri stood waiting, silent and motionless, until the valet departed.

His lips were taut with contained rage, his eyes narrowed with fury. He was a very tall man, and I a very small woman; I sank into a low curtsy and stayed there. “Your Majesty.”

Such a long silence followed that I at last dared to lift my gaze.

Henri was holding out his hand. In his open palm lay the necklace with the ruby and copper talismans I had given François.

“What is this, Madame?”

“A simple charm, Your Majesty,” I answered smoothly. “For the Dauphin’s good health.”

“I will not have my son involved with this—this filth!” He flung it into the empty fireplace. “I will have it burned!”

“Henri,” I said quickly, rising, “it is a harmless thing. It is a
good
thing, made according to a science based on astronomy and mathematics.”

“It is a heinous thing,” he retorted. “You know how I feel about such things. For you to give this to our
son
. . . !”

I bristled. “How can you believe that I would give my own child something harmful?”

“It’s that magician of yours. He’s poisoned your mind, made you believe that you need him. Let me warn you now, Catherine, that things will go more easily for you if you dismiss him today, now, rather than later!”

“I have no intention of doing so,” I said, indignant. “Do you threaten me, Your Majesty?”

He let go a long, unsteady breath and calmed himself; dark earnestness replaced his anger. “Two months ago, I petitioned the Pope so that I might organize a French Inquisition.”

I froze.

“Last week, His Holiness granted my petition. I appointed Charles of Guise as head. Can you imagine, Madame, how I felt when the good Cardinal dropped that
thing
”—he gestured in disgust at the fireplace—“into my hand? How
he
must have felt when his frightened niece Mary brought it to him?”

Mary, crafty Mary; I should have known that François could hide nothing from her. “So what will you do, Henri? Will you bring your wife before a tribunal for questioning?”

“No,” he said. “But if you were wise, you would tell your magician that the King’s Court is no longer a safe place for him.”

Heat rose to my cheeks. “Were you to arrest him, would that not bring ugly attention to me? Would it not start rumors that would only harm the Crown?”

“There are ways to do it without implicating you,” he replied coldly. “You have been advised, Madame.”

I called Ruggieri to my cabinet that afternoon. I did not give him leave to sit—there was no time—but held out a velvet purse filled with gold ecus.

“The King has organized an inquisition; you will be one of its first victims.
For my sake, take these,” I said. “Ride far from Paris and remain a stranger wherever you go. There is a carriage waiting at the side entrance. The driver will help you gather your belongings.”

Ruggieri clasped his hands behind his back and turned his face from me. There were no windows in my tiny office, but he seemed to find one, and looked far beyond it at a distant scene.

“For your sake, I cannot go,” he said, then settled his arresting gaze back on me. “Matters grow dangerous,
Madame la Reine.
The King’s fortieth year is upon us.”

“There is no war,” I said lightly. I set the velvet purse upon my desk, midway between us. “And if war comes, I will not let Henri go. You know this, Monsieur. Do not test me.”

“I would never do so,” he replied. “But consider this: There can be battle even when there is no war.”

“What are you saying?” I demanded. “Do you tell me now that your magic was worthless?”