The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (30 page)

François sat behind the desk. His long face was marked by excess, the cheeks heavy and ponderous, the eyes puffy. The white that had appeared in his temples upon the Dauphin’s death now glistened in his dark beard as well. He was dressed simply, for work and not pleasure, in a plain doublet of black.

“Catherine. Please, sit.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes were guarded.

“If it please Your Majesty, I will stand,” I said. I hoped my suffering would be over quickly.

“As you wish,” he said. Knowing what I had come to discuss—and thinking his position contrary to mine—he was consummately regal. He was prepared to behave as a king, to do what was best for France; to achieve that aim, he had abandoned even those of his blood to his enemies. I, a newcomer and foreigner, had no hope.

I abandoned all pretense. I said, “Your Majesty, I love you. And I love your son. I know I am a liability to you both now. And so . . .” My voice broke; I silently cursed myself for my weakness. When I had gathered myself, I looked up at François again. His expression was hard, cautious.

“And so I will not object to the repudiation. I accept that you must do what is politically expedient, and I harbor no resentment.”

His jaw went slack. My unexpected words disarmed him.

“I only ask . . .” The words caught in my throat, which tightened. I repeated the words, and when the barrage of tears came with them, I lowered
my face to hide them and forced myself to continue. “I only ask that I be allowed to serve in whatever lowly capacity pleases you and your son. That I not be sent away. I would happily serve the woman who becomes Henri’s wife. If only I could stay . . .”

I sank to my knees; I covered my face and sobbed. I was humiliating myself, yet I did not care. I thought of Henri bleeding, dying because I had been sent away and had failed to save him.

When at last I looked up, sodden and gasping, François was standing rod-straight behind his desk. An intense emotion was filling him, slowly widening his deep-set eyes and quickening his breath—yet whether it was fury or fear or revulsion, I could not have said. I could only kneel, dabbing at my eyes and waiting for the storm to erupt. I huddled in self-hatred and burning resentment, that my fate was not my own, nor even God’s, but held in the hands of men: the rebels, the Pope, the King.

A muscle in François’s jaw twitched, as it had that bright October day when he had seen Montecuculli ripped apart.

“Catherine,” he whispered, and emotion—doubt and sadness, then resolution—played upon his features. He came around the desk and gently lifted me up by the shoulders.

“No saint was ever more humble,” he said. “May we all learn from you. It is God’s will that you be my son’s wife and my daughter. I tell you now that there shall be no more talk of repudiation in my Court.”

He kissed my cheek and took me in his arms.

Had I tried to manipulate him—had I gone to him and wept for pure show, and not meant my words with my whole heart—he surely would have sent me away, just as he would have if I had begged to remain Henri’s wife. But on the day we first met, His Majesty had loved me for my humility; he had only to be reminded of it.

I was safe—but only for a time. Until I bore Henri’s child, I was vulnerable. The Duchess would not easily surrender her campaign against me, and Louise of Guise was still so very young.

I was deeply relieved when King François chose to marry Jeanne to a German duke willing to pay an outrageous dowry; war was a costly business, and at
that moment, François needed money more desperately than heirs. As a young woman, Jeanne was not pretty: Her nose was long and bulbous, her lips and chin too small. But her intellect was keen, like her mother’s, and her green eyes, slanting and thick-lashed, were strikingly beautiful. I bade farewell to her as she boarded the coach to Düsseldorf; I thought we would never meet again.

Perhaps uncomfortable that I would not soon be repudiated, Henri asked to join the fighting in Provence. The King refused him at first, saying he had just lost one son and would not risk another. But Henri was so determined that he prevailed and joined Lieutenant General Montmorency in the south.

While Henri was away, I had time to think clearly about my predicament. My husband was loyal by nature; now that he had given his heart and body to Diane de Poitiers, he would no doubt be repelled by the thought of sharing either with another woman. Yet if I were to conceive an heir, Henri would need to come to my bed frequently once he returned from the war.

Not long after my encounter with the King, I went to Queen Eléonore and asked if I might enjoy the company of her lady-in-waiting Diane de Poitiers for an hour.

The Queen consented graciously, though she and her entourage understood how very strange my request was. Madame de Poitiers and I were perfectly cordial to each other when our paths were forced to cross, but in all other instances we avoided each other, and everyone knew why.

Madame de Poitiers rode full astride, like a man, unashamed of her calves and ankles. Like me, she would not be led, and she held her reins with no uncertain grip. Her horse was white, perhaps chosen carefully to match her widow’s trousseau. It was a colorless sight on a day uncommonly cold for the Midi: Diane in her black and white, the grass frosted, the sky a burdensome grey. Despite the intemperate weather, I had asked her to ride. I led her away from the palace grounds and human ears. A groom followed at a distant pace, given the possibility of encountering a wild boar. When the time came for earnest conversation, I lifted my gloved hand so that he remained behind, and we women trotted off until he appeared no larger than a pea. I wanted no one to be able to read our faces.

Diane de Poitiers was not quite forty, and the gold in her hair was tempered by silver. But her skin was still firm—except around the eyes, where the troubled light revealed fine creases. Her complexion was even, without the broken veins or blotchiness that reveal a fondness for wine.

As I stared at her, struggling to perceive what qualities my husband so loved, her answering gaze was steady and calm. She was unafraid—balm, surely, for Henri’s fearful, uncertain soul. I despised her at that moment, almost as greatly as I despised myself.

I smiled at her and said easily, “Shall we speak?”

The degree of her smile matched mine. “Of course,
Madame la Dauphine,
” she replied. “Let me first thank you for the opportunity to ride. I have been eager for the exercise, but none of the other ladies will accompany me because of their belief that the cold is unhealthful.”

“The pleasure is mine.” My little smile faded. “We have much in common, Madame. A grandmother, and a love for riding. A love, even, for the same man.”

Her expression remained unflinching and serene as she faced me, waiting.

“Louise of Guise is a beautiful girl, isn’t she?” I continued. “So fresh and young. Any man would deem himself lucky to have such a stunning bride.”

“Yes,
Madame la Dauphine,
” she dutifully replied.

My black steed paced, impatient; I reined him in.

“But I’ve heard she is quick-tempered and somewhat demanding,” I remarked. “She would make a difficult wife, perhaps, for a husband to manage.”

“Yes, Madame. I’ve heard the same.” Her eyes were mirrors, reflecting me back to myself, revealing nothing of what lay beneath their polished surface.

“I have been told,” I said, “that I am patient. I have never enjoyed causing trouble for others. I only hope that my children are as agreeable.”

“I pray they are,
Madame la Dauphine.
And I pray that they are many.”

Her face, her eyes, her soft and gracious tone were unchanged, as if she had just remarked on the weather. She might have been utterly sincere or utterly false. I tried to imagine how someone who showed so little feeling could inspire such passion in my husband.

“I will have no children at all,” I said, “if my husband will not come to
my bed.” I felt an exquisite tightening of my throat and waited until my composure was sure.

Perhaps she sensed my anguish; for the first time, her gaze wavered, and she looked beyond me at a copse of bare-limbed trees.

“If he will not come to me,” I said, “we both know that I shall have to leave.” My tone became candid. “I do love him. For that reason alone, I will never make things unpleasant for him or for those fortunate enough to share his affections—even if it breaks my heart. The Dauphin’s will must be respected.”

She eyed me, faintly frowning, a hint of cautious wonder in her gaze.

“A laudable attitude,” she said.

“Louise of Guise’s would not be so gracious.”

Nearby, the underbrush crackled, and a bevy of quail took flight. Crows settled on the silver branches and scolded the invisible culprit below. Our distant chaperone craned his neck, on the alert, but the disturbance was not repeated and the crows grew silent. Diane and I watched them for a moment before turning back to each other.

The faint lines that had appeared on her brow smoothed as she made her decision. “The House of Valois must have heirs,” she said, and for an unsettling instant I thought she referred to my inability to provide them and agreed with those who would repudiate me. But then she added softly, “He will come to your bed, Madame.”

“I have never taken my agreements with others lightly,” I said. “And I have heard that you are a woman of honor.”

“You have my word, Madame.”

We rode back to the palace without speaking. I was in no mood for idle conversation now that my humiliation was complete.

On the way, something feather-light and cold stung my cheek. I looked up at the threatening sky and saw what was, for the Midi, impossible: snow-flakes sailing down, white and soft and soundless.

In time, Henri returned from the war. As Dauphin, he was supreme military commander of the French forces in Provence, but aware of his inexperience, he consulted his lieutenant general, Grand Master Montmorency, on every
maneuver. His deference paid off: Our army decisively defeated the Imperial invaders. As a result, Henri and Montmorency became close friends and were welcomed home as heroes. The King had nothing but praise for both of them.

The crucible of war had transformed Henri into a man and brought him confidence. It also left him determined to hide his affair with Madame de Poitiers no longer. He proudly wore her colors, white and black, and adopted as his emblem the crescent moon—symbol of Diana, goddess of the hunt.

But within days of his return, Henri appeared at my bedchamber door. He brought with him resignation, not joy, but neither did he bring resentment. Diane had surely told him everything; I think he was relieved that I would cause them no trouble.

His manner was removed but kindly. The sight of his body—utterly a man’s now, with a full, muscular back and chest—made me ache with longing. Each time I lay with him, I convinced myself that surely this time I would say or do the very thing that would win his heart; and each time he rose from my bed too quickly, I lay watching him, replete yet shattered. Never did pleasure bring so much pain.

A year passed, then two, three, four, and I did not conceive. I consulted the King’s astrologers and had dutiful intercourse with Henri at the recommended times. I uttered pagan chants and spells; Madame Gondi put a mandrake root beneath my mattress; I followed Aristotle’s advice and ate quail eggs, endive, and violets to nauseating excess. Following Agrippa, I made a talisman of Venus for fertility and put it beside the mandrake. All of it availed nothing.

Anne, the Duchess d’Etampes, began to whisper again into the ear of her lover and anyone else who would listen. The Court parted into two camps: those who supported the aging King and his devious paramour, and those who looked to the future and supported Henri and Diane de Poitiers. The Duchess was extraordinarily jealous; she perceived Diane as her rival and wanted to see her cast down. The best way to do so, she had decided, was to bring Henri a new wife—one headstrong and willful, who would not accept Henri’s mistress as graciously as I had. And if this caused harm to me, favored too well by the King, so much the better.

So I watched over the barren days and months and years as the smile His Majesty directed at me grew fainter, as the warmth in his eyes and embrace slowly cooled. The talismans, the physicians, the astrologers . . . all had failed. Yet in my mind I kept returning to the memory of the night my late mother had spoken to me. Her words had been uncannily accurate; as I could not trust the living, I decided to trust the dead.

I had been very ill the night that the magician had summoned her, so I could not remember the proper chants or gesticulations. I recalled only that Ruggieri had anointed us with what seemed to be old blood.

I saved some purplish black menstrual blood and, on a chilly day in March, 1543, in the privacy of my cabinet, I anointed my forehead with it, then pricked my finger with an embroidery needle.

Fresh blood was required, Ruggieri had said. The dead would smell it.

At my desk, I squeezed my finger, milking several fat red drops onto a small piece of paper. I dipped my quill into it and scratched out a message:

Send me a child.

I cast the paper into the hearth. The fire jumped as it caught and blackened at the outer edges, curling inward as the flame raced toward the center.