The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine de Medici

  He laughed, dispelling our shared grief. “Tante Catherine, I never had the chance to thank you properly for the copy of Rinaldo. I loved it so much that I must have read it a hundred times.”

  “After all this time,” I marveled, “you remembered.” I took his arm and gently turned his attention to the double doors. “But you didn’t come all this way simply to talk to your old aunt.”

  Margot entered, a dark-haired, dark-eyed vision in deep blue satin overlaid by gossamer cangiante silk, which shimmered first blue, then violet. A talented coquette, she lifted her chin to make her neck as long as a swan’s, then tilted her head and gazed at Henri with a playful smile. He was honestly transfixed before looking down, a bit abashed to be caught leering.

  “Monsieur le Roi,” Margot said, with a small curtsy, and extended a hand as white and velvety as milk.

  Navarre pressed his lips to it. As he rose, his composure regained, he said, “Your Royal Highness. Can you still run faster than I?”

  She laughed. “Most likely, Your Majesty. Unfortunately, I am now impeded by these trappings.” She gestured at her heavy skirts.

  “Ah.” He feigned disappointment. “I had so hoped for a contest after supper.”

  She laughed and drew him to her for a chaste kiss upon the lips, as befitted cousins. We then welcomed the Prince of Condé; the greetings were more restrained on both sides. Afterward, we proceeded to the dining room.

  Henri’s company was a delight; the conversation grew increasingly punctuated by laughter. After the meal, I led him to the balcony overlooking the Seine. In the last week, summer had descended upon the city with a vengeance, and the muddy river offered no breeze, only the faint odor of decay. Nonetheless, Henri leaned against the railing and looked out at the Seine and the city, with the yearning of a long-unrequited lover.

  After a time, I spoke quietly. “Your mother said that you wrote me letters, but she would not send them.”

  Henri’s expression did not change, but I sensed a sudden caution in him. He shrugged. “I suppose my . . . youthful imagination frightened her. I had questions about things she didn’t understand.”

  “That day you were chasing a tennis ball,” I said, “it seemed you and I were possessed of that same imagination. Was I wrong?”

  He didn’t answer for a time. “My mother was obsessed with God and sin. But unlike my fellow Huguenots, I’m not a religious man; I fought beside them because I believe in their cause. As for me, I believe in what I see: the earth, the sky, men and beasts . . .”

  “And visions of blood?” I asked.

  He turned his face away. “And visions of my comrades dying horribly.”

  “I don’t see their faces, but my dreams and visions have grown worse of late. I’ve always taken them to represent a warning, a glimpse of a future that can be averted. But if you don’t believe in God, perhaps you believe them to be without meaning.”

  He met my gaze soberly. “I believe, Madame la Reine, that this marriage presents us with an opportunity—to ruin France, or to save her.”

  “How startling,” I said, “that we should both have come to the same conclusion.”

  His stare grew unsettlingly intense. “I came here against the advice of my advisers and friends, who fear this wedding is an elaborate trap meant to destroy us. I have come because I trust you, Tante Catherine—because I believe, most irrationally, that we have seen the same evil coming and intend to avert it.”

  I lifted my hand, heavy with the iron Head of the Gorgon, and set it upon his shoulder.

  “Together, we will stop it,” I said and turned at the footfall of the Prince of Condé and his attendant, who had come to fetch their king.

  The first days of August were stifling; beyond the ancient walls of the Louvre, heat hung like black, writhing specters above the pavement. The door to my windowless cabinet was always open, not only in the hope of catching the breeze but also to admit a constant stream of guests, advisers, seamstresses, and others. One morning found me sitting at my desk across from the Cardinal de Bourbon—the groom’s uncle and brother of the spineless Antoine de Bourbon, whom the Cardinal had long ago disavowed. The Cardinal’s disposition was admirably steady and his health sound: At the age of fifty, he had not a single grey hair.

  We were discussing the steps involved in the wedding ritual—both inside and outside the cathedral—when a guard knocked on the lintel.

  “Madame la Reine,” he said. “The Spanish ambassador waits outside. He requests a private audience immediately.”

  I frowned. I didn’t know the new ambasssador, Diego de Zuñiga, well, but his predecessor had been given to overly dramatic proclamations. Perhaps Don Diego was similarly inclined.

  I rose and went out into the corridor, where Zuñiga waited, cap in hand, at the entrance to my apartments. He was a small man, middle-aged and severe. His hair, slicked back with pomade, was very black and thin at the temples.

  I faced him without smiling. “What matter, Don Diego, is so dire that it requires me to abandon the Cardinal de Bourbon?”

  He responded with the most cursory of bows; his manner was outraged, as if he were the offended party. “Only a deliberate act of war, Madame la Reine, committed by France against Spain.”

  I stared at him; he stared back, combative. Beyond the entrance to my apartments, the Louvre’s narrow corridor bustled with servants, courtiers, and Navarre’s guests.

  I put a hand on Zuñiga’s forearm. “Come.”

  I led him to the council chamber and settled into the King’s chair at the head of the long oval table.

  “Speak, Don Diego,” I said. “How has Charles offended his former brother-in-law?”

  Zuñiga’s brows lifted in surprise as he realized I truly did not know what event he referred to.

  He drew a long breath. “On the seventeenth of July, five thousand French soldiers—Huguenots—trespassed onto the soil of the Spanish Netherlands. Their commander was your Lord of Genlis. Fortunately, King Philip’s commanders learned of the coming attack and intercepted your forces. Only a handful survived, among them Genlis.

  “Forgive my candor, but I suggest you have a frank discussion with His Majesty, considering that his action was a violation of his treaty with Spain, and an act of war.”

  I pressed my hand to my lips in an effort contain the invective that threatened to spill from them. Coligny: The deceitful, arrogant bastard had over-reached himself, had dared to send troops to the Netherlands in secret, hoping for a victory that might convince Charles to support an insane war.

  “This is the work of a traitor,” I said, my voice shaking. “France would never encroach on the sovereignty of Spain. I assure you, Don Diego, that Charles neither knew of this incursion nor approved it. We shall see that the responsible party—”

  Zuñiga risked the extraordinary act of interrupting a queen. “The responsible party is outside the King’s chamber now, awaiting an audience. No doubt the meeting will be cordial; it is said Genlis bears upon his person a letter of support from Charles.”

  I rose. “That is not possible,” I whispered.

  “Madame la Reine, it is so.”

  I left the chamber and pushed my way down the stiflingly hot corridor, past sweating, genuflecting bodies and the black-and-white blurs of startled Huguenots. I stopped at the closed doors to the King’s private apartments, where a small group of men had gathered.

  Coligny was among them, his hand on the shoulder of a weathered Huguenot nobleman with a pockmarked face and thick red hair; a black silk sling cradled his injured arm. With them was the young Prince of Condé, for once wearing a genuine smile.

  Henri of Navarre had just joined them. As I watched, he threw his arms around Coligny and kissed the Admiral affectionately upon each cheek. Coligny then presented Navarre to the stranger, who attempted to kneel until Navarre stepped forward and raised him to his feet. The two shared an embrace—a cautious one, owing to the stranger’s injury—after which Navarre and the strange
r kissed, then launched at once into an animated conversation.

  I see betrayal coming, Ruggieri whispered.

  I stepped forward into the men’s line of sight and ignored their bows. I did not acknowledge Navarre or the others; I had eyes only for the stranger.

  “Tell me, sir,” I asked, “do I have the honor of addressing the Lord of Genlis?”

  The other men grew still as the stranger’s mouth worked. After a time, words emerged: “You do, Your Majesty.”

  “Ah!” I reached toward the black sling and let my hand hover just above it. “Your wound . . . Is it so very terrible, Monsieur?”

  Genlis’s cheeks and neck were scarlet. “Not at all, Madame la Reine; it is almost healed. I wear this”—he nodded at the sling—“only at my doctor’s insistence.”

  “Thank God you did not suffer the harsh fate of so many of your fellows.” I summoned the foolish smile of a superstitious woman and confided, “No doubt it is due to the lucky talisman you wear.” I had heard, in more diplomatic terms from Madame Gondi, that the Huguenots regarded me as a witch who consorted with the Devil.

  “Talisman?” He cast about, perplexed.

  “The letter of support for your enterprise from His Majesty,” I said. “Do you have it with you, even now?”

  He glanced desperately at Coligny, but the Admiral’s eyes revealed nothing. Perhaps Genlis sensed my determination, or perhaps he suffered an astounding lapse of stupidity.

  “I do,” he said.

  I held my hand out expectantly as he struggled with the sling and fished the letter from a pocket.

  I snatched it. The wax, impressed with the royal seal, had been broken; the creased paper was limp and stained, as though Genlis had anointed it with his sweat.

  The barrier that housed my burning fury fell away as I opened the letter, read it, and saw my son’s signature there. Without a word I abandoned the men and, clutching the letter, advanced on the pair of guards who barred entry to the King’s chambers.

  “Stand aside,” I commanded.

  When they did not obey, I forced myself between them and pushed the happily unlocked doors apart. I stormed past servants and nobles into the royal bedchamber, where His Majesty Charles IX sat upon his chamber pot as one of his gentlemen read poetry aloud. One glance from me and the gentleman closed his little book and vacated the room. I slammed the door after him and, waving the letter, advanced on Charles.

  “You fool,” I hissed. “You magnificent, impossibly witless fool!”

  Charles clumsily pulled up his leggings with his right hand while sliding the cover over the chamber pot with his left. He was accustomed to inflicting anger upon the world but had so rarely witnessed it in others—least of all, his mother—that he raised his arm defensively and cringed.

  “Five thousand French soldiers, dead in service to sheer stupidity!” I shouted. “And the Spanish King knew of them before I did! His ambassador came to warn me today that Philip considers this . . . this madness in the Netherlands an act of war!”

  “What of it?” Charles challenged weakly.

  “What of it?” I echoed, aghast. “Are you so mad as to think we could win a war with Spain?”

  “The Admiral says we can,” he ventured. “Do not hurl insults at me, Madame.”

  I lowered my voice. “You dream of military glory—but you will not find it in an ill-conceived war. You will find defeat and shame. The people will rise against you and put a Huguenot on the throne.”

  “Coligny loves me,” Charles said, “as he loves France. War against a common foe will unify the country.”

  “I have lived a long time, my son, and I have seen what war with Spain brought this country. Your grandfather suffered a horrible defeat, and your father spent over four years as a prisoner. Philip’s army is too strong. Do you not see how Coligny plays you? How he tries to turn you against me?”

  Charles’s jaw grew set, and his eyes rolled upward in a madman’s gaze. “The Admiral said that you would say this. It is unnatural for a woman to command such power as you have; you have usurped me for too long.”

  I clenched my jaw and swallowed the bile that rose in me at Coligny’s words, so obligingly parroted by my son.

  “If you’re so convinced that France’s best interests would be served by war with Spain,” I said quietly, “then Admiral Coligny must present his proposal to the Privy Council so that it can reject or approve it. If the Admiral’s reasoning is sound, then the other members will be swayed to his point of view. Why not speak openly to all? It would be impossible to wage a successful war in secret.”

  Charles nodded as the idea took root. “I will tell the Admiral. We will prepare a presentation.”

  My tone lightened at once. “Good. There’s only one thing you must bear in mind.”

  He frowned quizzically at me.

  “You must abide by the Council members’ vote. If they agree with the Admiral, you can wage your war in public. If they don’t, the idea must be put to rest—permanently.”

  He pondered this, then said, “Very well.”

  “Excellent! I will notify the members and set a date for the meeting, and I will rely on you to tell Admiral Coligny to prepare his argument.”

  I left Charles’s bedchamber wearing the falsest of smiles. It was still on my lips when I passed into the corridor, where Coligny and Genlis remained conversing with Navarre.

  Coligny was first to turn and acknowledge my appearance with a bow. We smiled, though surely he had overheard my shouting. In his eyes I saw smug challenge: He was waiting for my departure, at which point he would go in and speak to the King.

  As I passed by, Navarre also smiled. I turned away, unable to bear the sight of his eyes.

  Forty

  Eight days before the wedding, the King’s Privy Council convened. It had rained steadily the previous night, and Sunday morning brought no respite from the storm. Despite the downpour, the windows had been opened a hand’s breadth to let in the sweltering air, which steamed the windowpanes and turned the stack of papers at my right hand limp.

  I sat at the head of the long oval conference table, flanked by Edouard and Marshal Tavannes—now sixty-three years old, completely bald and almost toothless. Tavannes had fought beside François I at Pavia and had been taken prisoner with his king. The battle had cost him the sight in his left eye; the clouded eye now roamed constantly, always at odds with the right. I loved Tavannes because he had once offered to kill Diane de Poitiers for her arrogance; I loved him more because he had led Edouard to victory at Jarnac.

  Beside Tavannes sat his peer and fellow soldier Marshal Cossé, who had served during the wars as my envoy to Jeanne. In contrast to Tavannes, Cossé was still meticulous, with a neatly trimmed white beard.

  Across from Cossé sat the dashing Duke of Nevers, a diplomat by the name of Louis Gonzaga, born in Tuscany but educated in Paris. As a youth, Gonzaga had fought with Montmorency at Saint-Quentin. The final member of the Council was the gouty, aging Duke of Montpensier, whose wife had long ago been part of King François’s little band of women.

  Admiral Coligny entered several minutes late with the cheery comment that God demanded rest upon the Sabbath—but perhaps the Almighty would forgive him when “it is, I hope, God’s work we do here today.” His pious pronouncement met with silence and a roll of distant thunder.

  A gust caused the lamps to quiver as I said, “Gentlemen. Admiral Coligny shall present his case for war, after which there will be a vote.”

  I nodded at the Admiral; Coligny rose and, resting his fingertips lightly upon the table, began to speak.

  “Five years ago,” he began, “King Philip sent his general, the Duke of Alba, to occupy the Netherlands and to inflict upon its people a reign of terror. Since that time, ten thousand have been slaughtered for nothing more than their desire to worship God as they see fit.” He turned toward me. “You, Madame la Reine, have always been for France the voice of tolerance. Let France stand against tyranny and for
freedom.

  “Save, now, the innocents to our north; for if we fail, the blood of tens of thousands more shall be spilt. Stop, I beg you, this swelling tide of blood.”

  I was speechless: Coligny had appealed so brilliantly to my beliefs that I had been moved. Even more, he had played on my darkest fears, as though he knew of my terrible visions. Impossible, I thought—until I remembered Navarre, leaning against the railing to stare out at the Ile-de-la-Cité. And visions of my comrades dying horribly . . .

  I stared down at the table’s dully gleaming surface in an effort to contain the bitterness that welled up in me. When I had regained my composure, I lifted my face to the Admiral.

  “Would that I could help them,” I said, “save for the inescapable fact that France lacks the means to displace Alba. Both the Huguenots and the royal army have taken heavy losses and left the country nearly bankrupt after years of civil war. We simply do not have the men or arms or money to take on so great a foe. Even if we tried to help them, those innocents of yours would perish—along with thousands of Frenchmen.”

  “That would not happen,” Coligny countered swiftly, “because we would not fight alone. The Prince of Orange will fight alongside us, and he has recently secured aid from Germany and England.”

  “But it has already happened,” I said. “Five thousand of our soldiers died. French blood has already been spilt.”

  “I submit,” the Admiral said, “that war with Spain is inevitable. We can face her now, in the Netherlands, or later, upon our own soil, when Philip finally yields to the craving to expand his empire by straying over our border. That is why we must strike now—while we have the support of Orange, England, and the German princes.”

  Tavannes spoke in a low growl. “I have seen two kings make the error of starting foreign wars with hopes of conquest. They, too, were given promises of support. In the end, we retreated after heavy losses, only to return to a country in financial ruin. A foreign war will claim more lives and gold than we have to spend.”

  “I fought beside Montmorency at Saint-Quentin when I was a callow youth,” Gonzaga, the Duke of Nevers, added passionately. “I went into battle filled with dreams of an easy victory. I came to my senses when the Constable and others—including myself—were captured by the Spanish.”