The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (59 page)

When she had left, I laid my head wearily upon the desk, my cheek resting against the cool wood. The lamp flickered, casting my leaping shadow against the far wall; I thought suddenly of my aunt at her desk, writing letters late into the night despite her injured wrist, on the day we had fled Florence.

No more blood
, I had told Ruggieri.
No more blood
, but the House of Valois—my blood—was now at risk.

I thought of the stableboy’s eyes, wide with shock and mute reproach, and hardened.

The next morning, a Saturday, the betrothal ceremony took place in the Louvre’s great ballroom, officiated by the groom’s uncle, the Cardinal de Bourbon. In full view of some three hundred guests, Navarre and Margot prepared to sign the thick marriage contract.

As Margot hovered over the final page of the contract, quill in hand, she let go a wrenching sob, then threw down the quill and covered her face with
her hands. I moved forward and put my arms about her, then smiled up at the Cardinal.

“Nerves,” I said to him, then whispered in Margot’s ear: “Do not think—simply do it. Now.”

I placed the quill in her fingers and closed my hand over hers. Her shoulders shook with repressed tears, but she lowered her hand and scrawled her signature.

Navarre kept his pleasant, dignified gaze focused on the Cardinal, politely ignoring the incident. Like the reluctant bride, I could not bear to look at him: At the same time, I reminded myself I had no real evidence that he was abetting the Admiral and his war. If I called off the wedding, I would quash any real hope for lasting peace, and signal my intent to act against Coligny.

Instead, I wrapped my arm around Margot and stood beside her as the Cardinal made the sign of the cross over the couple and intoned a blessing. When it was done, I kissed my daughter, then Henri, and welcomed him into the family.

“You are my son now,” I told him.

During the reception afterward, I caught the arm of the Duchess of Nemours, an old friend. “Will you come to see me tonight, in my cabinet?” I whispered into her ear.

She bowed graciously in assent. She had spent her entire adulthood at the French Court and was known for her scrupulous discretion—a quality on which I planned to rely heavily.

Night found us alone in my cabinet, with the door closed and barred, despite the stifling heat; I had not invited Edouard, for if the conversation went awry, I did not want him implicated.

The Duchess sat smiling placidly across the desk from me, fanning herself. She was forty-one years old, soft and plump, a woman who possessed no natural beauty and therefore appeared to change little as she aged. Her eyes were large and her nose and lips small; folds gathered easily beneath her receding chin, a gift from her grandmother, Lucrezia Borgia. Her eyebrows were so heavily plucked as to be invisible.

She had been born Anna d’Este and raised in her native Ferrara until she was married at the age of sixteen to François, Duke of Guise. She quickly mastered the subtleties of courtly life and proved an able helpmeet to her ambitious husband. When François was assassinated by Coligny’s spy, the Duchess did not retire quietly into widowhood. Seething with outrage, she demanded that Coligny be prosecuted for the murder and brought so many petitions before the King that an exasperated Charles declared the Admiral innocent and forbade her to bring up the matter again. But like her son Henri of Guise, who had inherited the title of Duke from his late father, she continued to despise Coligny and to denounce him vehemently whenever she could. Six years ago, she had married Jacques de Savoie, the Duke of Nemours, a staunch Catholic who had fought bravely against the Huguenots.

“Anna,” I said, speaking to her in Tuscan to indicate the intimate, delicate nature of our conversation, “I know that it must be difficult for you to smile so graciously in the company of Huguenots. On behalf of the King, I thank you for your civility in Admiral Coligny’s presence.”

“He is no less a murderer, Your Majesty; today I felt as though I had fallen into a nest of vipers.” She said this softly and with complete composure, as if we were discussing the most mundane of subjects. “I can only pray that His Majesty and France suffer no harm as a result of your association with him.”

“This is precisely what I wish to speak to you about,” I said, “for I have come to realize that the Admiral does indeed wish His Majesty harm.”

Her composure did not waver. “I am not surprised to hear this.”

“Then perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that Admiral Coligny has violated the King’s order forbidding the deployment of troops to the Netherlands.”

She snapped her fan shut. “The Admiral boasts to everyone that he is leaving for the Netherlands as soon as the wedding celebrations end, and that he will be taking many troops with him. Troops who are here in Paris, armed for war. I fear, Your Majesty, for the safety of the King.”

“As do I.” I drew in a long breath, then said, “His Majesty will no longer protect the Admiral from the justice that is due him.” I leaned back in my chair and studied her intently.

She was still as a portrait for several seconds before she finally glanced
down at her hands, one of which held the fan. When she looked up again, her eyes held tears. “I have waited many years. I made a vow to my dead husband’s soul that I would avenge him.”

“It must happen on the twenty-second,” I said, “the day after the celebrations end. There will be a Council meeting that morning, which Admiral Coligny will certainly attend.” I paused. “It must be done in such a way that the King and the royal family are not implicated.”

“Of course,” she answered softly. “That would be disastrous for the Crown.”

With that, she indicated that the House of Guise would take full blame for the assassination. It would be seen as the result of a blood feud, an isolated incident for which the King could not be blamed.

“I will see you and your family protected from any backlash, though your son would do well to quit the city when it happens. I will send for you tomorrow morning to discuss the details. Tonight, speak to no one save your son; you and he must consider how our aim might be skillfully accomplished.”

I dismissed her and went out to my antechamber to find Madame Gondi.

“Will you please invite the Duke of Anjou to visit me in my cabinet?” I asked her.

When Madame had left, I returned to the tiny, airless room and sat at my desk, leaving the door open behind me. I stared down at the backs of my hands and marveled at their steadiness. Unlike Anna d’Este, I shed no tears.

The night brought no breezes, only a suffocating dampness that settled over me as I lay on my bed, the sheets kicked away. When the darkness finally eased, I rose and directed Madame Gondi to invite Anna d’Este and her son the Duke of Guise to visit me as soon as possible that day.

Wedding preparations followed. I visited Margot’s apartments with Edouard—who had an artist’s unerring eye—to oversee the final placement of jewels on the wedding gown and its dazzling blue cloak and train. My daughter’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, though I pretended not to notice. When the last diamonds had been carefully sewn in place, Margot stood before a full-length mirror and studied herself with awe.

Unable to contain himself, Edouard jumped up from his chair. “How stunning you are! You will be the most beautiful queen in all the world!” He
took both her hands and kissed her on the mouth—lingering, I thought, a bit longer than a brother ought. Margot flushed and giggled, just as she had when Henri of Guise had flirted audaciously with her.

Once the cloak was prepared, three princesses—one Guise, two Bourbons—were ushered into the room to practice holding the train, which was so long that one girl stood holding its end in Margot’s bedchamber, while two stood out in the antechamber to lift the middle and Margot herself laughingly walked out of her apartment and down the corridor before the train was taut enough to lift off the ground.

I left my daughter laughing with the three young princesses and took Edouard to my apartments, where Henri of Guise and his mother waited in my cabinet.

Our efficient conversation lasted less than a quarter hour. The Guises owned property on the rue de Béthizy—a house that Anna d’Este herself had once occupied. As chance would have it, Gaspard de Coligny had rented a hostel on the same street, only a short walk from the Louvre.

The Duke of Guise’s eyes burned with a cold, bitter light as he said, “Coligny walks past our property every morning when he goes to meet with the King, and returns every afternoon the same way.”

Chance smiles on you, Catherine
.

“There is a window,” Anna added, “from which a shot could be fired.”

“And the shooter?” I asked.

“Maurevert,” the Duke replied.

“I know him,” Edouard said. “During the war, he infiltrated the Huguenots”—he turned to explain to me—“in order to assassinate Coligny. He was not able to reach the Admiral, so instead he shot one of his closest comrades, a man named de Mouy. De Mouy had been Maurevert’s tutor at one point; they had known each other for many years, but Maurevert pulled the trigger without a second thought.”

“Cold-blooded,” I said, nodding. “He will be perfect. There remains the matter of timing: This must not mar the wedding celebrations, which end on the twenty-first. I will arrange a Council meeting the next morning requiring Coligny’s attendance. I will send a messenger to you with the time. Tell Monsieur Maurevert to be ready, for we may not have another opportunity.”

“Very good,” young Guise replied. “Before it is done, however, I would humbly request one thing of His Majesty . . .”

“You will have royal protection,” I said. “Secretly, of course. You would be well advised to quit Paris immediately afterward, if not sooner.”

When the Duke and his mother had been escorted out, Edouard signaled for us to remain behind.

“The situation in Paris has grown volatile,” he said. “I have ordered the deployment of a few troops to keep the peace, but I believe our good friends the Guises are fomenting trouble. Most of the priests in the city are denouncing the Huguenots and stirring up the Catholics against them. Let us hope that the wedding distracts the people from their hatred.”

I unfurled my fan and fluttered it rapidly; the room felt as close as an oven. “It will,” I said shortly. “It must.”

At dusk, I accompanied Margot to Cardinal de Bourbon’s palace, where she was to spend the night. As our carriage rolled over the ancient, creaking bridge to the Ile-de-la-Cité, Margot looked behind us at the Louvre palace and burst into tears.

“My darling,” I said kindly, “you will sleep at home tomorrow night. Very little will change.”

“Except that I will be the wife of a Huguenot,” she said, “and if there is another war . . . Neither my husband nor my family will trust me.”

She was right, of course, and the realization broke my heart. I put my arm around her and smoothed the tears from her cheeks.

“Sweet girl,” I said and kissed her. “Sweet girl, there will never be another war, thanks to you.” I paused to lighten my tone. “Did you know that the day I married your father, I despised him?”

She stopped crying long enough to frown at me. “Now you are teasing me,
Maman
.”

“But it is true. I was in love with my cousin, Ippolito.” I smiled, remembering. “He was so tall, so handsome—older than your father and far more sophisticated. And he said that he loved me.”

Margot dabbed at her nose with her kerchief. “Why didn’t you marry him?”

I sighed. “Because my uncle Pope Clement had different plans. He delivered me to France in exchange for prestige and political backing. And so I married your father. He was only fourteen, shy and awkward, and he resented me, a stranger from a foreign land. We had not yet learned how to love each other.

“I am glad now that I never married Ippolito. He was brash, foolish . . . and a liar. He didn’t really love me; he meant only to use me as a pawn in his political schemes.”

Margot was listening, wide-eyed. “How awful,
Maman
!”

I nodded. “It was terrible. You must understand, Margot, that there are men willing to use you only to further their aims. Luckily, Henri of Navarre is not such a man. Things are not always what they seem; and although you might not appreciate Henri now, in time, you will come to love him if you open your heart.”

Margot leaned back against her seat, her expression thoughtful. We were both exhausted, and the rocking of the carriage lulled us into a drowsy silence.

With feigned offhandedness, I said, “I am concerned about your brother Edouard. He and Charles despise each other so; when the King learns that his younger brother favors something, he immediately opposes it. Edouard has often confessed to me that he wished he had a useful spy, one to whom the King opened his heart.

“You are so very close to them both, my daughter; does Edouard ever speak of such things to you?”

Margot’s cheeks flamed; she turned and looked out the window with eyes so full of guilt that I closed my own, unwilling to see more.

She had been a gift to me, a child not bought by blood. A child who, I hoped, had been heaven-sent, to undo the evil wrought by the purchase of her brothers’ lives.