History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (73 page)

Only then did I allow myself to consider the unthinkable: What if it was true? Had Coligny, in desperation over his imminent defeat, stooped to murder? Had he sacrificed his own ideals, that moral standard I’d always admired in him, to save his faith?

A shiver went through me. I didn’t want to believe it. I recalled the pride on his face as he led me into the barn in Vassy, his anger and horror as those innocents died, but I didn’t want to believe that one atrocity could so warp his soul. We’d striven together for peace, worked always to that end. If he was found culpable of le Balafré’s murder, it would bring about the ruin of his name, pit Catholic against Huguenot in a never-ending feud. It seemed impossible that the man I knew, so cautious and intelligent, would risk everything on such a gamble.

Still, as I stood alone on these war-blackened fields, I had to concede that harsh as it might be, Birago’s advice was plausible.

It could be the man I knew no longer existed.

As this thought drove itself through me, I knew I faced a terrible choice. If I brought him back to court, I’d set myself against the world I struggled to keep whole for my son. Much as I’d loathed le Balafré, I could already envision how this news would be received by our Catholics and Philip of Spain, how this sole act might sow a feud that would tear France asunder. Already it set an inexorable shadow over Coligny and his cause, one not even I could dispel. Our dream was over. Now I must do as Birago advised. I must save France.

I could not afford sentiment; I had no time for it.

I had a realm to protect.

On May 13, 1563, I celebrated my forty-fourth birthday.

Inundated with work since le Balafré’s death, I scarcely heeded it. In
Paris the people huddled for hours in blistering winds to watch his coffin pass, weeping and wailing as if he were a martyr. Every noble of rank attended his spectacular funeral in Notre Dame, with one notable exception: I ordered Coligny to stay put in his estate of Châtillon, pending the outcome of the investigation into the duke’s murder. To placate those Catholics clamoring for his head, I had the assassin Méré torn asunder by horses in the public courtyard of the Place de Grève, a distasteful spectacle I did not attend.

The war was over. With Antoine of Navarre and le Balafré dead, the Triumvirate was vanquished and I reaffirmed my regency and my edict of toleration. I knew I had to do more. Our conflict had devastated France; I had to restore the Huguenots’ confidence in my policy of tolerance, while the Catholics had to learn to respect my rule.

“What if we go on a progress?” I asked Birago as we sat at our desks, laboring over our correspondence. “Charles will turn fourteen next year, almost of age to be crowned. Huguenot and Catholic alike must see that they have a capable king. We can visit all the cities where there have been disturbances and ensure the terms of my edict are upheld.”

He nodded. “An excellent idea, though it would entail months of travel and much expense. How would we pay for it?”

“With loans, of course. The Florentine bankers are always sending me offers of credit. I’ll bring the children and the court. Who knows? I might even persuade Philip of Spain and my daughter Elisabeth to meet us at the border. I haven’t seen her in four years. A family reunion would do us all good. And we should start seeking a bride for Charles; he’ll have to wed soon and Philip’s Hapsburg cousin, Isabel of Austria, would be the perfect bride.”

“Not to mention, she’d cement your alliance with the Imperial Hapsburg family.” He chuckled. “It would be a coup. However, the king’s betrothal to a Catholic princess so soon after our war might give the Huguenots cause for alarm. You are well aware of how Philip has encouraged his nephew the archduke Maximilian’s efforts to arrest and burn Lutherans in his domains in Austria. As Maximilian’s daughter, Isabel no doubt shares her family’s intolerance.”

“True.” I reflected for a moment. “Very well, we’ll not mention the marriage suggestion until something is settled. And I’ll have the constable plan the itinerary. As you say, we’ll be gone months and he’s
the last of the Triumvirate. I’m not leaving him here to stir up any trouble.”

There was a brief silence. Then Birago said, “Have you made any decision about Coligny?”

I averted my eyes. “You heard the outcome of the investigation,” I said quietly. “Despite the Guises’ copious bribes none of the judges found proof that Méré was hired to kill le Balafré. But if you’re asking if I’ll invite him to join us, I fear it wouldn’t be wise, not at this time.”

I heard him let out a relieved sigh as he bent to his papers. In time, I had told myself. In time, I would figure out what to do with him. But not yet; I needed this time away from his magnetic presence, from the passion we had shared; I needed to come to terms with my own conflicted feelings over what had occurred between us.

Birago brought me back to attention. “When would you like to embark on this progress?”

“Early next year,” I decided. “I’ll ask Cosimo for a fortuitous date. Now, let’s finish these letters and assemble the Council. We’ll need their approval before I go begging for money.”

We held Christmas at Fontainebleau, on which I spent lavish sums, determined to show off our prestige. Charles giggled in delight as belled falcons swooped over the garland-draped tables, while Hercule devoured as many sweets as he could. My daughter Claude came to visit from her husband’s northeastern duchy of Lorraine; she was heavy with pregnancy and content as wives seldom are, sitting with a serene smile as Henri and Margot led the court in the dancing.

Under the glow of torches, Margot’s satin skin complemented Henri’s catlike grace. I found myself blinking back tears as I watched them, seeing their father and grandfather in Margot’s elegance and my son’s sophistication. I felt blessed that night to have survived the war, to have spared them the worst. They were healthy and vital; they represented the future of the Valois. Everything I did, I did for them, and the hour when I was no longer here to guide them.

In the zeal of my motherhood, I still believed I could mold the future.

W
E DEPARTED THE LOIRE IN THE SPRING.

At the last moment, I had to leave little Hercule behind in the Humeries’ care, after he suffered a minor case of smallpox. He was recovering, but his doctors deemed him too weak to withstand prolonged travel. Dr. Paré attended him and reassured me he’d heal in time, though the pustules might leave scars and the fevers could affect his growth. I felt guilty for leaving him and surrounded him with additional physicians and attendants, ordering that should anything untoward occur, they were to send for me at once.

Margot and Henri did come with us, along with Birago and my women. I even had a new coach with embossed gold
C
s on the doors and sturdy upholstery, in which I might conduct state business while on the road. We carried everything we might need—enough furnishings, set pieces, horses, mules, livestock, and servants to supply a small nation.

The network of informants supervised by Birago kept me briefed. Thus did I learn that Philip had sent word that he was considering my suggestion that we meet. I had no doubt he’d agree in the end and was overjoyed at the thought that I’d soon behold Elisabeth again.

We visited numerous cities, from Normandy’s craggy shores through
the vineyards of Burgundy and into the gilded fields of Auvergne. In late autumn, we came to rest in the quiet township of Salon in Provence. I’d not sent word in advance, but Nostradamus greeted me at the doorway of his house as if he’d been expecting me for weeks. He had aged visibly, his black robe accentuating his white beard and bald pate, even while that piercing prescience in his eyes had turned sharp and translucent as a diamond.

He bowed, gripping a staff of polished wood as straight as he was gnarled, and we passed into a foyer decorated with painted furniture. An energetic partridge of a woman bustled forth to remove my cloak. “Your Grace does us honor,” she said, turning to wag her finger at him. “Now, you mustn’t have her going thirsty upstairs in that study of yours. I’ve left a decanter of ale on the table and expect you both in the hall before five for supper.”

I demurred. “There’s no need. I can dine later with the court.”

“Nonsense. Your Grace must stay. We wouldn’t have it any other way. Come, my dear.” She beckoned Lucrezia. “I’ve a nice pitcher for us in the kitchen.”

I refrained from comment, despite my amusement. I’d never stopped to consider that Nostradamus might have someone so forceful to organize his private life.

“Madame Saint-Tère thinks she owns me,” he complained as he led me up a flight of stairs which brought back vivid memories of another staircase in another land, where the air had also been drenched in alchemy. Nostradamus’s study was a spacious loft, dominated by an impressive star-glass mounted on a tripod and shelving on the walls filled with tomes and scrolls. It might have been the room of any affluent physician with a passing interest in astronomy.

“I’ve been expecting you,” he said, as he moved with a pained gait to a side table and the decanter. “I saw you in the water. A long trip lies ahead.”

I looked at the decrepit copper basin on his desk. “What is this?”

“It’s where I see my visions.” He paused, gauging my reaction. “You look surprised. Surely you didn’t expect a cauldron?” He chuckled. “It holds water; that is all I require.”

He handed me a goblet. As he proceeded to search through his papers,
I peeked into the basin and found it disappointingly empty. “Please, sit. I’ve something for you.”

He slipped a scroll into my hands. As I unraveled it, I saw a chart depicting planetary movements, convoluted diagrams, and mathematical annotations. The air turned thick. I wondered if he transformed any atmosphere he inhabited, the way salt taints liquid.

“This chart,” he said, “depicts a summary of ten years into your future. In it are important events marking your life. It’s why you’re here, yes? To discover if my prophecies hold true?”

A shiver trickled down my spine. It hadn’t been my intent at all, or so I’d thought.

He clucked his tongue. “You still doubt me. Did I not predict your husband’s death? Did I not say you would reign, and do you not rule now for your son Charles?”

I stared at him. “I thought you said you didn’t understand your prophecies.”

“I usually don’t, at the time. Only after the event itself comes to pass do they become clear.”

“I see.” I set the scroll on his desk. I didn’t relish any more predictions, particularly if it meant I’d be left alone to decipher them.

Nostradamus said, “You keep Maestro Ruggieri in your employ, I assume? He can interpret the chart. There’s nothing arcane there, just my observations based on years of studying the alignment of the stars on the date and hour of your birth.”

I heard no condemnation in his voice and still I felt ashamed for not heeding his warning about my astrologer. “Ruggieri isn’t with me,” I said. “Can’t you tell me what it says?”

“That would take too much time. I can tell you, you must protect the prince of Navarre.”

My stomach knotted. I had a vivid memory of the boy I’d embraced and my vision of him years from now—proud and confident on a black destrier, a white plume in his cap …

“You must watch over him,” Nostradamus added, as if he could hear my thoughts. “You are two halves of a whole. You need each other to fulfill your destiny.”

“The boy is almost twelve years old and resides with his mother,” I
began, and I breathed deep, daring to question for the first time. “Jeanne rules Navarre as though it were a world apart, which you might say it is, for it straddles the Pyrenees between us and Spain, and shields her from the trials that affect us. One day, her son will inherit. How can he be so important to me?”

“He is,” Nostradamus replied, in a tone of infuriating certainty that implied I needed no further explanation. “Still, our future is fluid. If it were not, there’d be no point in living.”

Why must he always be so vague? And yet, if he knew about my future … I took up my goblet and drank. “And my sons …?” As I asked, I felt a profoundly private fear. My eldest, François, had died young. Were my other sons also destined for early graves?

“Your remaining children will survive to adulthood,” he said, to my relief. He rolled up the chart, inserted it into a leather tube. “It will weather the journey better this way.” He held out his arm. “Now, let us go dine. Madame Saint-Tère’s roast lamb is a marvel.”

After a hearty supper, Lucrezia and I said our farewells. Wrapped in our cloaks on our way back to camp, we were quiet. After Lucrezia assisted me to bed, I lay awake and watched the moonlight slide across the ceiling. I had the uncanny sense that Nostradamus and I would never see each other again and that the chart had been his final gift, a map to a future I could affect.

I drifted off to sleep. And I dreamed.

I run down a stone corridor. A bell tolls in the distance. I am drenched in sweat. It is hot, a purgatory. Others rush around me, shadowy terrified figures. Fear curdles in me; I know something horrific is happening, something I cannot escape. A wail shatters the night. Another follows; then another and another, shriek after anguished shriek. Footsteps pound. I stumble and almost fall, recoiling as my hand flails out and grips a wet wall. The floor is slippery. I look down and see blood coating the flagstones, splashing the walls like frayed ribbons and dripping whorls—blood everywhere. I hear a desperate cry, “No, not him!” and I realize it is my voice—