The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (51 page)

Within four days, our army forced Condé to retreat. The rebel forces marched southwest into the countryside and were joined by those of Montmorency’s heretic nephew, Admiral Coligny. Our spies reported that the Huguenots were hiring German mercenaries to increase their ranks.

We had no choice but to recruit mercenaries of our own. But I faced an even greater dilemma: Montmorency’s death had left a critical vacuum—that of Lieutenant General, head of the French army—yet none of the candidates for the position filled me with confidence.

At the end of a long day spent with my advisers, Edouard came calling at my chamber door.

“Make me Lieutenant General,” he said.

I laughed. He was only sixteen, dressed in a scarlet velvet doublet and a ruffed collar of spidery ecru lace; large pearls hung from his ears. The thought of him smeared with grime on the battlefield was ludicrous.

“You’re mad,” I said.

His manner was intensely serious. “I’m not. Look at me, look at Charles—we’re spoiled and cosseted, living in splendor while the people suffer the brunt of this war. Yet we ask them to die for us. Charles, with his evil temper, is hardly the sort to inspire loyalty, and I waste my days fencing and playing the fop.

“Let me give the people a Valois worth fighting for,
Maman,
one who will inspire devotion. I’ll give up my pretty clothes to play the heroic soldier. I’m not afraid to fight. And I will win this war for you.”

“You have no military experience,” I said flatly. “You cannot lead an army.”

“True. But if you give me someone experienced as my second, I’ll listen to him—just as Father listened to Montmorency.”

“Where will I find such a person?”

He answered very quickly. “In Marshal Tavannes.”

I lifted an eyebrow, impressed by Edouard’s choice. A man of unquestionable loyalty, Tavannes had begun his career as a page to old King François, defending his master at Pavia even as enemy Spanish troops surrounded and captured them. Tavannes then served Henri and played a large role in the victory at Calais. Although nearing his seventh decade, and blind in one eye, Tavannes was as sharp-witted as ever.

But the thought of sending my much-loved son to war caused an old, familiar fear to well up within me. Edouard read my thoughts in a glance.

“Make me Lieutenant General,” he said lightly, “and I shall make you a promise.”

“What is that?” I asked cautiously, and he replied: “I won’t die.”

He spat into his palm and held it out to me.

Slowly, reluctantly, I spat into my own, and clasped his hand.

Months passed, during which time Edouard educated himself in the art of war. On the day he left for the front, I smiled bravely as I kissed him good-bye—but afterward, I fled to my chambers and loosed a torrent of tears.

For more than a year, the fighting was fierce. Edoward’s confident letters failed to ease my maternal fear; the strain soon left me feeling exhausted and unwell.

On a Monday afternoon, I sat with the Cardinal of Lorraine and other members of the war council discussing the upcoming battle: The Huguenots were massing outside the town of Jarnac, and my son and Marshal Tavannes were leading ten thousand troops to intercept them. In two days, the fighting
would begin. My throat and head throbbed so badly that I had difficulty following what the other councillors were saying.

I was listening to one of the Cardinal’s tirades against the Protestant heretics—closing my burning eyes from time to time, for the light pained them—when Madame Gondi appeared at the door and announced that the Spanish ambassador, Alava, wished to see me privately. I did not trust my son-in-law, Philip, or his ambassador and sent a pointed message back: If Alava wished to speak to me, he must do so in the presence of the other Council members.

Shortly afterward, Alava—a short, rotund man with fingers like sausages—entered, a letter in his plump hands. From my daughter Elisabeth, I thought, for one bright instant hopeful before I looked again at the ambassador’s sorrowful eyes.

“
Madame la Reine,
forgive me for being the bearer of terrible news.”

I pushed myself to my feet and stared at the letter in his grip, addressed in Philip’s own hand.

“I am so sorry, Your Majesty,” Alava said, “so very sorry.” He proceeded to tell a hideous tale about a young woman giving birth to a stillborn daughter and bleeding so much afterward that she grew white as chalk and died.

I forgot about the hushed Council members and the ambassador. I saw only the evil letter, written in a foreign tongue, in a King’s bold script; I walked around the table and snatched it from Alava’s hand.

I did not open it. I pressed it to the pearl at my heart as though it were Elisabeth herself and sank to my knees, moaning.

I do not remember fainting; I only remember staring up at the ceiling in my bedchamber and hearing Madame Gondi’s distant, incomprehensible murmurs. My body and emotions melted and mingled, resolving into one agonizing, singular ache.

I was out of my head with grief, with fever: I clenched my teeth in a futile effort to stop their chattering. Margot’s and Charles’s voices floated above my bed, but I had no strength to parse their words.

The shadows on the ceiling blurred and shifted, taking on the shapes of
soldiers, swords, and cannon; women’s whispers took on the cadence of battle cries and screams. For hours, I endured scenes of men slaying and slain, of armies defeated and victorious, of blood spilling and congealing and drying to ash.

When I finally woke, Margot sat at my bedside; nearby, Madame Gondi sprawled in a chair, snoring.

“
Maman!
Thank God you are with us at last!” Margot caught my hand.

“Is it already morning?” I whispered.

“Morning of the fifth day,
Maman
. We thought you would die, but your fever has broken. Doctor Paré says you will recover quickly now.”

“Five days!” I said. “Then what of the battle at Jarnac?”

A curious look crossed her features. “You were talking,
Maman,
as you dreamed. You saw a great battle in which many men died. Suddenly, you cried out, ‘Look! The Prince of Condé has fallen—and they have killed him!’ And then you said, ‘God, no, Edouard has fallen . . .’ Then, ‘Look! He has gotten back to his feet! Look, my son is victorious! The enemy flees!’ ”

I reached for her arm. “Damn my dreams! What news of Jarnac? Have we engaged the enemy?”

Margot stared at me, her eyes wide. “It’s all just as you said,
Maman.
The Prince of Condé is dead, and Edouard is victorious.”

Despite the loss of their commander, Condé, the Huguenots refused to surrender. The surviving leader, Gaspard de Coligny, took his followers to the southern kingdom of Navarre, where they were welcomed by Jeanne and her son, Henri, now a young man. Navarre was enormously personable and well-liked; the Huguenots looked to him to replace his fallen uncle Condé.

With Condé gone, my desire for revenge evaporated: It had been he, and not Coligny, who had ordered the attack at Meaux; Coligny wrote me saying that he and his followers denounced the attack on the King and wished only to practice their religion in peace.

Half a year passed. In August, my beloved Edouard returned victorious from the wars. I climbed to the roof of the Louvre, hot and shimmering in the later summer heat, and at the sight of the cadre of soldiers winding through the streets, I ran down to the palace gate.

Unjeweled and unshaven, Edouard rode with masculine grace at the head of his troops. His shoulders had grown muscular and his face sun-browned; his eyes were hardened, the result of seeing many men die. But his grin, upon spotting me, was still brilliant. He dismounted and ran to me, and I to him.

“I did not forget my promise,
Maman,
” he said.

We embraced tightly; I drew in the scent of sun and aged sweat.

“You stink,” I said, laughing.

The following evening, I held a reception for him at Montceaux. Every corner of the château’s ballroom sparkled with jeweled men and women; to slake their collective thirst, three fountains flowed with champagne. I hired singers, musicians, dancers, and a hundred nubile girls dressed as fairies. Lest the King grow too jealous, I arranged for Charles to make a grand entrance announced by heralds and trumpets; he was hailed as “the great victor, who has brought peace to France” by a well-known poet, who then offered up an ode that credited all our current fortune to King’s wisdom.

Charles listened, sighing with faint disgust. When the poet had finished, the King sneered, “Save your pretty words for my brother.”

Soon after, the heralds announced
Monsieur le Duc
, Lieutenant General of France. Edouard appeared—no longer the weary soldier, but a courtly confection in pale blue velvet spangled with lace. His hair had been carefully curled, the fat ringlets brushed back to reveal heavy clusters of diamonds at his ears.

Beside me, Margot—herself a jewel, in a gown of sapphire—sighed dreamily at the sight of him. When he had gone off to war, Margot had written her brother almost every day; through their correspondence, they grew closer than ever. When he appeared, she hurried to embrace him.

As Margot was speaking excitedly to Edouard, the Cardinal of Lorraine and his young nephew Henri approached to pay their respects. I watched, unable to hear their conversation over the gurgling fountains.

At twenty, Henri, Duke of Guise, possessed the easy confidence of a man used to power. He was not handsome: his pointed goatee emphasized his sharp chin; his tiny eyes held the same arrogant ambition I had seen in his father’s. Yet Guise was very witty, and as he spoke, Margot giggled and lifted her fan to hide her nervous smile. Twice Guise leaned over her hand and
kissed it—then held on to it, as though reluctant to let it go. At times, when Guise leaned close enough to kiss her, Margot, crimson-faced, wound her arm around her brother’s, unconsciously seeking protection.

Charles came up beside me and said hotly, “If he moves a fraction closer to her, I’ll knock him to the ground.”

My tone was light. “I think he means to court her, Your Majesty, and if he does, I’ll help you knock him down myself.”

He let go a snort. “Not Guise! It’s Edouard . . . Look how he fawns over her.”

I clicked my tongue in exasperation. “For God’s sake, Charles, he misses his sister only because he has been so long at war! As for the Duke of Guise, you must understand that your sister is of marriageable age now; I have been studying prospective matches for her. And for you.”

Charles let go a groan. “I’m miserable enough already,
Maman.
”

“You must think of the throne,” I said. “There must be heirs.”

He looked sourly at his brother, who was laughing with Margot and the young duke. “Let
him
give you heirs,” he said and turned on his heel.

I returned to watching Edouard. He was joined by two young men—one called Robert-Louis, the other Lignerolles, both recently appointed gentlemen of the chamber to the Duke of Anjou. Margot’s eyes flashed with carnal appreciation as she studied Lignerolles. He was clean-shaven, the better to show off his fine, high cheekbones, flawless complexion, and the handsome cleft in his chin. He genuflected to Edouard and Margot in a manner as spare and elegant as his dress.

The same could not be said for Robert-Louis, whose blond hair was almost white. His nose was small and round, his lips coarse; he wore a white satin doublet with a rose velvet mantle. His bow was swift and cursory, and he grabbed Anjou’s arm and told some joke that made the Cardinal of Lorraine lift his grey eyebrows in disapproval. But Edouard laughed and slapped Robert-Louis on the back. The latter smiled at the others with smugness that verged on mockery.

After hours of socializing, I encountered Edouard alone near one of the fountains. I sidled next to him and was nearly overpowered by the fragrance of orange blossom.

“You smell better, thank God,” I teased.

He smiled at me, preoccupied as he stared at Charles and Margot, who paraded through the chamber arm in arm. “It seems my sister has her hands full these days.”

“Charles says he will not marry,” I said softly. “He says I must rely on you for heirs.” I paused. “I’ve thought a great deal about the right woman for you. I’ve written Elizabeth of England, and she’s responded with interest.”

He emerged from his reverie with a start. “That cow? If it’s heirs you want, you’ll have to do better than a balding hag with a bad leg.”

“Edouard,” I admonished, “you would be King of England.”

He let go a long sigh. “I would do anything for you, and for France,
Maman
—except that.”

I scowled. “If not Elizabeth, then who?”

“No one at all,” he said quickly and returned to Guise and Lignerolles, both of whom were still fawning over Margot.

I dismissed Edouard’s refusal as impudence and resolved to speak to him again that night, but guests interrupted me at every turn. It grew late, and revelers—including Edouard—still lingered. So did I, for I wanted him to hear me out.

Our victory at Jarnac had eventually led to promising negotiations with the Huguenots. I had welcomed the détente joyfully, believing that the war was truly over.