History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (67 page)

The carriage lurched forward, descending the steep château road and careening into the night.

“How can you call it a revolt?” I faced Monsignor and le Balafré in the lusterless light seeping through their study in Amboise, the sumptuous palace embellished by my father-in-law, where I had first struck my pact with Diane. Now I fought to strike another pact, having waited days for an audience, badgering Monsignor’s secretary until he agreed to see me. “You sent us racing from Blois when you know those men were disorganized and desperate. They let themselves be rounded up like lambs; they wanted to plead with the king and offer their grievances. They are
starving, afraid; your edict has denied them the right to conduct business and they’ve lost their livelihoods. You can’t blame them for seeking justice.”

Monsignor sat at his desk, his well-fed fleshy cheeks tinged red with anger. At his side, his brother, le Balafré, stood like a granite pillar, his unblinking gray-blue eyes fixed on me.

“An example must be made,” repeated the cardinal. “Those poor men, as you call them, are traitors. They planned an attack on a royal château.” He raised his voice to cut short my protest. “We have the documents to prove they were both organized and willing to do harm to Their Majesties. They planned to take them captive and kill my brother and me.”

“And they planned to legalize the Huguenot faith and sit their leaders on the Council,” intoned le Balafré, his voice inflexible as the gold-sheathed sword at his waist. He grimaced, his puckered scar distorting his lips. “We are the ones who seek justice, madame, and after we have had it, we will have their leaders—all of them, including Admiral de Coligny.”

I returned his stare in silence, willing myself to stay seated, for now I knew that I fought for more than the lives of anonymous men ensnared by the Guises.

“What … what does Coligny have to do with this?”

“He is the mastermind,” replied Monsignor. “We found a letter on one of the prisoners, conveying Coligny’s order to capture the king. This was his plan. He is heretic as Satan.”

“If that is true,” I countered, “then why send us such a pathetic lot?” I looked at le Balafré. “You are a soldier, my lord. You fought beside my husband and you know Geneva and the Low Countries are full of mercenaries for hire. Surely, Coligny could have hired some.”

Le Balafré didn’t answer; the cardinal’s fist clenched on his desk. “Madame, we have heard you out in patience,” he said, “but I suggest you confine yourself to your household affairs. These men are rebels. They’ll be put to the death and a warrant will be issued for Coligny.”

“Dear God,” I breathed. “You are mad. You cannot kill those men. It could mean war with the Huguenots. Coligny is a nobleman, nephew to the constable. You cannot—”

“We can!” roared le Balafré. He took a step to me, his huge veined
hand at his sword hilt. “Do not presume to tell us how to rule. We are Guises, descendants of a noble line that puts your merchant’s blood to shame. Our late king had no choice when they wed him to you, the niece of a false pope with nothing to commend her; but we do. Mother to His Majesty or not, one more word and we’ll see you exiled for life, Medici.”

He spat my family name as if it were filth. For a heart-stopping instant, I couldn’t move. I met his malignant stare and saw the revulsion he’d never fully displayed until now—the contempt for my lineage, my gender, my very person. I was horrified by the thought that during the twenty-six years I’d been with Henri, this man had nurtured such loathing of me. But I was even more horrified by his omnipotence, his undoubting belief that he was in the right, always, because he was a Guise.

Monsignor folded his supple hands at his mouth, in a vain attempt to disguise his smile. “Madame, you look pale. Perhaps you should retire.”

I started to turn, not feeling the carpet underneath my feet.

“You will attend the executions when a date is set,” I heard le Balafré clip. “The entire court is expected to attend. We will broach no absences save for the queen and Their Highnesses.”

I looked back at him. “I wouldn’t miss it,” I said and I left them with their eyes narrowed, pondering my meaning. Only once I’d clicked the door shut on them did I let myself feel the horror and fury that ran like poison through my veins.

We assembled in Amboise’s inner courtyard. I wore a veil to obscure my face and sat apart; I was the only one to don black, while the court assembled in their finery on tiers, as if for a tournament. In the background came the muted roars of Amboise’s caged lions in the menagerie.

Monsignor brought forth François in his royal robes and coronet, sitting him on a chair under a canopy, his oversized cap shadowing his waxen face. He looked frailer than ever, but as I started to rise le Balafré stepped forth to stop me.

“His Majesty is here because he will see the heretic traitors pay for their crimes.”

“Then I should be with him,” I said. I saw Monsignor nod, a pomander held at his nose. I could barely look at him as I sat next to François
and noticed how my son gripped his chair’s armrests, his knuckles drained to white.

Guards hauled in the first ten prisoners, their hands roped behind their backs. Their features were indistinct from where I sat but I saw they were young. My stomach knotted as I wondered who they were: landowners, farmers, or merchants; if once they’d dwelled in safety in their townships, where they bedded their wives, loved their children, and sought meaning in an incomprehensible world through a new faith that promised what ours had failed to give.

Condemned traitors weren’t allowed to speak, but when the first young man caught sight of us above him, a collection of shadows, he called out, “Mercy, Your Majesty! Have mercy—”

He didn’t finish. The executioner swung his sword and sent the man’s head flying. The next victim staggered on his predecessor’s blood. He was forced to his knees. Leather-clad apprentices below the scaffold caught his severed head.

Another followed, and another. Blood flooded the scaffold, dripping to the cobblestones and snaking toward the keep, where the others sang as their comrades died—not somber Catholic prayers but the vibrant psalms of the Protestants. But as the pile of heads mounted and the air turned foul with the stench of urine, feces, and blood, their singing faltered and by dusk the guards were dragging the last of the fifty-two shouting and flailing to their deaths.

I did not look away. I did not close my eyes. Though my heart quailed and bile rose in the pit of my being, I forced myself to bear witness to the madness unleashed by the Guises. It was in those hours, as night fell and the cardinal started to turn green about the mouth, as one by one the nobles staggered away while le Balafré remained obdurate, directing the executions with militant precision, that my own resolve turned to stone.

I would destroy the Guises. I would not rest until I freed France of their menace. Forever.

My son let out a moan as the last prisoner was hacked to pieces by the exhausted executioner. I felt his icy fingers grip mine and heard him whisper, “May God forgive them.”

I knew he meant the Guises; but what God might forgive, I never would.

And if I had my way, neither would the Huguenots.

F
LAMBEAUX LIT THE NIGHT, SUMMONING CURIOUS FIREFLIES TO
circle in the spring air. A pavane sounded in the distance, redolent of Florence. Canopied barges shaped in the fantastical images of proud swans and birds of prey glided past on the Cher, their painted oars stirring the river’s silvery surface. Mary and François sailed there with a select group of attendants, holding hands and finding solace in a make-believe refuge veiled by hangings of gossamer. My other children, Margot, Charles, and Henri, sat in another barge with their governors, without a care in the world.

I’d managed to spirit them away following the executions, but only after the smell of the rotting heads garlanding Amboise’s balustrades had caused Mary to faint and crowds of angry citizens clamored at the gates, flinging a dead dog at the cardinal’s carriage when he attempted to leave the palace. As I’d hoped, with one act the Guises had unmasked themselves as tyrants, turning all but our most conservative Catholics against them; for if Monsignor and his brother could slaughter fifty-two men without even a trial, it did not bode well for anyone else who might think to oppose them.

And so Monsignor conceded to my request that a change in scenery
was in order. He and le Balafré had to remain behind to restore some semblance of order, but he didn’t want his precious Stuart niece or François falling ill; and I seized full advantage to divest ourselves of most of the court, as my château was too small. As soon as we reached Chenonceau I sent out my invitation. I now had the advantage and I stood at the window, watching my son and his queen sail past.

A knock came at my study door. Lucrezia said, “He’s here.” She paused. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Of course. Don’t fret.” I gave her a smile as I gathered the portfolio containing the document that I’d drafted with Birago. “I’ll be there in a minute. See that our meal is readied.”

She snorted and retreated. I eyed myself in the mirror. I’d donned a new black damask gown with a high collar. Pearls adorned my ears; rinses of walnut juice and henna had restored the auburn in my hair, now coiled in a gilded net at my nape. I’d shed pounds by riding for an hour every morning and cutting back on my penchant for bread. In all, my reflection assured that I’d succeeded in resurrecting something of the girl he’d met in Fontainebleau. It was vital I appear vibrant and strong.

Taking up the portfolio, I pushed open the door between my study and the adjacent room.

Birago and Coligny stood by the hearth, goblets in hand. He had accepted my wine and removed his cloak: good signs. At the sound of my entrance, he turned. In the flickering of the candlelight, he didn’t seem to have aged a day.

“Welcome,” I said, as he set aside his goblet and bowed over my hand. Birago excused himself, leaving us alone. Coligny had about him the aroma of horses and sweat, for he’d ridden several hours to get here. Abruptly nervous, I motioned him to the table.

I’d chosen this chamber because of its intimacy and saw that despite her reservations Lucrezia had outdone herself. The sideboard shimmered with polished gold platters; a vase of lilies sat on the mantel, while the central table was set with my Limoges porcelain and Murano glass goblets.

A frown crossed Coligny’s brow as he stood by his chair. His beard was fuller, its brassy color radiant, as if he’d combed pomade into it.
However, the candlelight deceived: I could see new harsh lines scoring the corners of his eyes and he was much thinner.

“My lord,” I said, “you must be hungry. Please, sit.”

“Before I do, I must ask you about what happened at Amboise. The Huguenot pastors are horrified, as is our brethren. I … I need to know.”

I faced him. “What? If I sat there like Jezebel while innocent blood was spilled? Is that what you think?”

To my relief, he did not hesitate. “No. I think that you did everything you could to stop it.”

“I did. Birago must have also assured you that I protested the warrant for your arrest. Fortunately, they’ll not dare issue it now that Monsignor has seen the enormity of their error.”

“Too late,” he said in a low voice, and I assented.

“For those poor souls, yes; but I trust, not too late for us. Now, will you dine with me?”

We sat opposite each other. Lucrezia entered with our first course of roast goose garnished with artichoke hearts from my gardens. He looked surprised; I told him, “I brought the seeds from Tuscany myself. There is no artichoke superior to the Florentine.”

“It’s … delicious,” he marveled, tasting it. “I’d expect such fare in a country home.”

“This is a country house.” I reached over to pour claret into his glass. “I loathe meals at court. The food arrives cold from its long trek from the kitchens and is so spiced or drowned in sauce you don’t know what it is. When I’m not at court, I eat what my gardens can produce. The goose was born and slaughtered here; even this wine is made from my harvest of grapes.”

He raised his goblet. “To Your Grace’s health.”

“Catherine,” I said, as our goblets clinked together. “You must call me Catherine.”

We fell into silence as we received next a course of chicken basted in fennel. He ate with gusto; I was pleased to note he had rough table manners, a country boy at heart. It was one of the reasons I liked him. After years of mincing courtiers and backstabbing mistresses, conniving churchmen and arrogant nobles, to me he personified all that was still gallant in France.

I breached the quiet. “I want you to know that my son regrets the events at Amboise. He did not realize how terrible a retribution the Guises would enact.”

He considered me. “Was His Majesty’s signature not on the warrant of execution?”

I swallowed. “It was. But François has been ill and the Guises forced his hand. He didn’t understand what he was doing. I saw how awful he felt as he watched those men die.”

“Not as awful as their widows and children.” He sat back in his chair as Lucrezia came in to remove our plates. “Your Grace—I mean, Catherine … I’m afraid that one deed has caused grave mistrust among the Huguenot leaders. They deem the king as bloodthirsty a tyrant as Philip of Spain, who slaughters Protestants by the thousands in his dominions.”