The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (23 page)

I dismissed all the French attendants and called for one of my own ladies-in-waiting, Madame Gondi, to undress me.

Marie-Catherine de Gondi was an astonishingly beautiful woman of thirty with prematurely silver hair and delicate black eyebrows. Her skin was flawless, save for a tiny dark mole on one cheek, near the corner of her lips. She was well-educated, intelligent, and possessed of a natural daintiness that held no whiff of affectation.

She was French but with a comforting difference: She had lived in Florence for many years before joining my entourage, with the result that she spoke fluent Tuscan. I was not of a mind to speak French that night, and her conversation was a comfort to me. After she undressed me, I asked her to read to me and gave her a copy of one of Aunt Marguerite’s poems, “
Miroir de l’Ame Pecheresse,
Mirror of a Lost Soul.”

She read for some time, and I sent her to bed as the poor woman was exhausted after a long day of travel. I was still restless and recalled what Aunt Marguerite had told me about the royal library. I wrapped myself modestly in a cloak and, lamp in hand, made my way onto the spiraling staircase that exited my apartment.

The layout of the château was confusing, but after several false starts, I found the staircase that led me to the library. The room was vast and as dark, on that moonless night, as a high-ceilinged cave. I held my brave little lamp close, my hand in front of me to prevent any immediate encounters with walls or furniture.

As I sensed a looming presence in the darkness, I reached out and felt the smooth edge of molded wood and silk-covered spines—a shelf of books. Eagerly, I moved closer and lifted the lamp, whose glow revealed a wooden case stretching from floor to ceiling; in the shadows, even more cases stretched back into infinity. The books were all of a uniform size, bound in different
colors of watered silk. There were the obligatory editions of Dante’s
Commedia,
Petrarch’s
Trionfi
and
Canzoniere,
and of course Boccaccio’s
Decameron.

There were also titles I had never seen before: a newly bound volume of
Pantagruel,
by Rabelais;
Utopia,
by Sir Thomas More, and an astonishing collection by Boccaccio,
De claris mulieribus, On Famous Women.

I soon stumbled onto greater riches: a copy of
Theologica Platonica de Immortalitate Animae, Platonic Theology of the Immortal Soul,
by Marsilio Ficino. I pulled it down at once, of course, and might have stopped my searching right there, but my appetite was whetted. A chill coursed through me at the sight of
De Occulta Philosophia Libri Tres
by Cornelius Agrippa. I had just stumbled onto the King’s occult collection, and a lifting of my lamp revealed volume after volume on the subjects of astrology, alchemy, qabala, and talismans.

In my mind, I heard the magician’s voice:
The Wing of Corvus Rising, from Agrippa, created under the aegis of Mars and Saturn.
Instinctively, I lifted a hand to my breasts, between which the talisman hung.

It seemed to me that the sudden appearance of these works by Ficino and Agrippa was a providential indication: If Henri was the bloodied man in my dream, I needed all the secret wisdom I could find.

This notion filled me with an eerie excitement; I opened Agrippa’s book and began to read. I was so utterly carried away by the words that I did not hear the creak of the door, with the result that when the King himself appeared in the darkness—hair uncombed, nightshirt hid beneath a gold brocade dressing gown—I gasped as if I had seen a specter.

King François laughed; the yellow glow from the lamp in his hand had a ghoulish eff ect on his long face.

“Don’t be frightened, Catherine. My supper awakens me far too often now that I am grown old.”

“Your Majesty.” I shut the book and curtsied awkwardly. “I must compliment you on your library. I’m enormously impressed by your selection of titles. And I’ve barely begun to explore it.”

He lowered his lamp and grinned, pleased, then glanced at the books in my hand.

“Agrippa, eh? That manuscript is rare—it has yet to be formally published—but I was lucky enough to obtain one of the few copies in circulation.
Quite esoteric choices, Neoplatonism and astrological magic, for a young lady. How do you find Agrippa?”

I paused. Many priests disapproved of such subjects; indeed, many argued that these topics were blasphemous. It occurred to me that, although the King might see fit to include such titles in the royal library, he might not necessarily approve of them—or of my taking them to read.

“I find it fascinating,” I said stoutly. “I am a student of astrology and related subjects, and fond of Ficino. In fact, I brought one of his works from Florence,
De Vita Coelitus Comparanda.
”

His eyes widened and lit up. “That would be the third volume—”

“Of
De Vita Libri Tres,
yes. I’ll write my family in Florence and ask for the first two volumes. And I shall make all three of them a present for your library.”

He lunged at me and kissed each of my cheeks in rapid turn. “My darling! I could ask for no better gift! But I cannot ask you to give away one of your own country’s national treasures.”

“I’m French now,” I said. To my mind, the House of Medici and the royal House of Valois were one and the same.

He embraced me with real warmth. “I will accept your generous gift, my daughter. But I would not see the books sent here, where we will be spending only a month or two. Have them sent to Fontainebleau, near Paris. You and I will be there by the time the books arrive, and thus will be able to enjoy them immediately.” He paused. “You needn’t read the books here, child; take them to your room and keep them as long as you’d like.” He moved back toward the shelves. “And now, some reading for me.”

Lifting the lamp, he squinted at the titles.

“Ah,” he said at last. “Here.” He drew a book from the shelf. The title was in French, the subject Italian architecture. “I’m of a mind to do more building at Fontainebleau.”

I moved to stand beside him and spied a treatise about Brunelleschi, who had designed the great dome for Florence’s cathedral. I retrieved the book from the shelf and opened it.

He turned his head sharply as he registered my interest. “So,” he asked, “you enjoy philosophy
and
architecture? Not generally subjects of interest for a woman.”

I must have blushed, given the sudden rush of warmth to my neck and cheeks. “It is Brunelleschi, Sire, and I am from Florence. But I should think anyone would be curious to learn how such a huge cupola stands without any visible support.”

He gave a toothy grin of approval. “Tomorrow, the third hour after noon, go to the royal stables and join me for a ride in the countryside.”

“Your invitation honors me, Your Majesty,” I said and curtsied again. “I won’t be late.”

By the time I finally drifted off to sleep in my bed, Agrippa’s book open on my lap, I had made a decision: If I could not win Henri, then I would win his father, in the hope of reconciling them—and, of course, reconciling Henri to me.

As Madame Gondi directed my ladies in dressing me the next morning, I asked her to find a French hood for me. I had been wearing my hair in the fashion of an Italian married woman, up with brooches, but all the French women had shoulder-length hoods—veils actually, affixed to stiff , curved bands of velvet or brocade, worn at midcrown over smoothed-back hair. I had told King François that I was now French, and the hood was a physical reminder of my first loyalty.

In a matter of minutes, Madame Gondi appeared with a white veil attached to a dove grey band. I felt odd wearing it, as if I were wearing a disguise at a masque.

The days at Court fell into a predictable pattern based upon the King’s movements. After rising, the King met with his secretaries and councillors. At ten o’clock, he went to Mass, and at eleven, he ate lunch in his reception hall. He was the sole diner, with nobles, petitioners, and servants standing in solemn attendance. Often, a bishop would read aloud to him from a text of His Majesty’s choosing. Afterward, the King held audiences or heard complaints. In the afternoons, he would emerge for exercise—a ride, a hunt, a walk, a game of tennis.

I shadowed the King that day in the hope of encountering Henri, but he and his older brother were off elsewhere.

By afternoon, the November sky held grey clouds that promised drizzle.
Even so, my mood had brightened. My favorite mount, Zeus, a black-maned chestnut gelding, had traveled with me to France. I missed him, and the exercise, terribly. I also hoped that my husband might be among the riders.

But when I arrived at the stables at the appointed hour, Henri was not there. Nor was the Dauphin, nor young Charles, nor any of the gentlemen of the court. With the exception of the grooms—one of whom stood holding the reins of the King’s restless, large black charger—His Majesty was the only man present.

He was quite distracted by the five lovely women who accompanied him, all laughing and chattering like bright, beautiful parrots—save one, who had just stepped onto a small stool set before her waiting mare with the intent of ascending the padded, thronelike perch that was a French ladies’ saddle. Her back was to the others—a fact that tempted the King. He wound his arm around the waist of a different woman standing beside him and pulled her body against his in lascivious fashion, then, with incriminating deftness, slipped his hand inside her bodice and squeezed her breast. She displayed no embarrassment, even when she lifted her gaze and saw me.

“Sire!” she exclaimed, with mock reproval, and coyly slapped his hand. She was dark-haired and stout, with prim lips braced by dimples. “Your Majesty, you are a wicked man!”

“I am,” the King admitted cheerfully, “and only the kiss of a good Christian woman can save me. Marie, my darling, rescue me!”

Eager not to be seen by the woman settling on the saddle, Marie gave him a swift kiss on the lips and glanced pointedly at me.

I curtsied. “Your Majesty,” I said loudly.

Instantly, five pairs of feminine eyes marked my French hood.

“Daughter!” the King exclaimed, smiling, and took my hand. “How fashionable you look, and how French! Welcome to our little band! Ladies, this is my darling daughter Catherine. And these, Catherine, are Madame de Massy, the Duchess de Montpensier, Madame Chabot, and Madame de Canaples.”

I nodded at each of them in turn. Madame de Massy, perhaps eighteen and the most hesitant of the group, had milky blond hair and eyebrows so fine and colorless as to be invisible. Beside her, already mounted, Madame de Montpensier—a handsome woman with a square, masculine jaw—bowed
politely in the saddle but could not entirely repress her smirk at my discomfort over finding the King with his hand in a woman’s bodice. Madame Chabot, wife of an admiral, smiled faintly as though bored and beyond it all. Madame de Canaples—Marie, as the King had called her—looked on me with smug, heavy-lidded eyes.

The King gestured at the woman who had been mounting the grey mare when I arrived. “And this is my beloved Anne, also known as the Duchess d’Etampes.” He glanced at her with a foolish, lovesick grin.

All of the women’s glances followed his, looking to Anne for a cue. The Duchess sat upon her little riding throne, her feet on the high footrest, which forced her knees to bend so that her skirts spilled down to cover her legs. Thus situated, she could not reach the reins but folded her gloved hands while a mounted groom came alongside and took the reins for her.

She was a fragile creature, tiny, with large golden brown eyes and rouged lips that were full and astonishingly mobile, curving easily in sly amusement, or twisting in contempt, or pursing in disdain. Her copper hair was crimped into soft, frizzy clouds at her temples and parted severely down the middle; the band of her French hood was of gold filigree fashioned to resemble a tiara. From her chin to the tip of her riding boots, she was swallowed by a high-collared coat of the same cut and fur as the King’s. She accepted his adoration as her due, with no more acknowledgment than a pleased sidewise glance.

When I neared, she turned her head deliberately to take me in, as a cat would prey, then swept her gaze over me: me, in my plain, shapeless cloak and my foolish French hood covering my very Italian hair; me, with my unforgivably olive complexion and bulging eyes.

“Madame de Massy,” I said politely, with a nod. “Madame Chabot. Madame de Montpensier. Madame de Canaples.” I turned to the Duchess and said, simply, “Your Grace.”

The Duchess’s lips tightened into a rosebud of a smile, as though she was struggling to repress a laugh at my thick accent.

“Your Highness,” she said, in a voice deeper than expected from so small a throat. “We are honored to have you ride with us this day.”

It was at that instant that my own horse, Zeus, was led out, snorting an eager greeting. I ran to him and stroked his dark muzzle, whispering of how I had missed him.

“Whatever is
that
?” the Duchess asked, with a nod at my sidesaddle.

The King more courteously echoed the question.

“My own design, Your Majesty,” I answered, “so that I might mount and ride in modesty and without assistance.” I demonstrated. “I put my left foot in a stirrup, here, and grasp the pommel . . .” With a small bound, I swung myself up onto Zeus and settled into place. The act permitted only the most fleeting glimpse of my calves, which were covered in white stockings. “I put my right leg around the horn, at the pommel. It holds my right knee fast, you see, so that I don’t fall.” I gathered up the reins and waved off the groom who wanted to take them.