The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (60 page)

Sweet Margot, they have corrupted you
.

We rode the rest of the way in silence.

On Monday I woke to a joyous cascade of church bells exhorting the citizens of Paris to rise and ready themselves for this most festive day. I went to the open window in the hope of a hint of morning coolness. But the sky was already bleached by a harsh, fast-rising sun. The Louvre’s courtyard was filled with grooms fastening bright carapaces to the horses that would pull the royal carriages; the palace itself was alive with voices and footfall.

The ritual of dressing soon began: My nightgown was pulled over my head and replaced by a chemise of sheer lawn, which was followed by two voluminous crinoline petticoats and a corset with wooden stays laced cruelly tight. I stepped into my aubergine gown and held out my arms as huge sleeves were laced to it. My hair was brushed out, then braided and wound into a thick coil at the base of my neck; the whole was covered with a French hood, its band of purple damask edged with dozens of tiny seed pearls. I was already melting by the time the corset was laced; by the time the hood was set in place, I was drenched.

After a dozen long strands of pearls were hung round my neck, and diamonds affixed to my ears, Madame Gondi pronounced me ready. I went down to the courtyard, where Edouard and Charles stood watching Navarre’s beribboned carriage roll out the gate.

My sons wore matching doublets made from pale green silk heavily embroidered with silver thread. Edouard had added a toque adorned with peacock feathers and pearls the size of raspberries. The Duke of Anjou was of good cheer, the King dismal and distracted.

We climbed into our carriage and rode over the bridge through the pressing, curious crowds, punctuated by black flocks of Huguenots; the Duke of Anjou and I leaned out the windows and waved to them while Charles sat back, sulking.

We arrived shortly at the episcopal palace next to Notre-Dame, where the Cardinal de Bourbon greeted us, already accompanied by Henri, who wore the same pale green with silver embroidery as my sons. The King of Navarre was accompanied by his mentor, Coligny, and his cousin Condé. The Admiral wore finery that matched Condé’s: a doublet of dark blue silk damask with gold velvet piping and breeches of blue satin striped with red. Coligny was giddy, one moment laughing and cuffing Navarre upon the shoulder, the next, wiping away tears. He seemed not to notice the King’s reticence, or the way Charles averted his eyes every time the Admiral glanced at him.

“I am as proud of him as I would be of my own son,” Coligny said, referring to Henri. “Proud of his bravery as a lad, prouder still of the man he has become. He is an inspiration today to all Huguenots.” He impulsively wrapped his arm around the young king’s neck and kissed the side of his face.

Navarre responded with a queasy smile and silence. He looked grand in his silver costume and ruby-encrusted crown, but nerves had bested him: He kept wiping his hands on the sides of his doublet and responding to questions or comments with monosyllables. He returned Edouard’s enthusiastic embrace mindlessly, and did not notice when the King failed to greet him.

At last we took our places before the massive wooden doors at the front entrance of the palace. Trumpets blared as the doors opened to reveal the crowds, cheering and jubilant despite the heat.

The youngest relatives of the bride and groom—two grinning girl twins and a trio of timid boys—went first, scattering rose petals. They were followed by the Cardinal and at some remove Navarre, flanked by Condé and Coligny.

Once Henri and his party had begun to descend the palace stairs, Margot emerged from her hiding place with her attendants bearing the long, rustling
train. A thousand diamonds glittered on her cloak and gown; a hundred encircled her long throat. Her eyes were so swollen and red that I knew she had spent the night weeping. I told myself it did not matter: Few would be able to see her as closely as I could; they would notice only the gown, the cloak, the jewels, and her regal manner, and deem her a proper queen.

With her brothers flanking her and her three attendants in tow, my daughter slowly walked down the steps of the palace. After several paces I followed her; the remaining princes and princesses of the blood from the Houses of Bourbon and Guise came after me.

At the base of the palace steps stood the entrance to the gallery, which stretched from the Cardinal’s palace to a small, roped-off opening in front of a high platform. This platform had been built atop the steps at Notre-Dame’s western façade so that it was level with the cathedral doors and extended fifty paces outward, rendering it entirely visible to the throngs filling the plaza. The gallery was constructed of tall wooden posts—carpenters’ families ate well the year of a royal wedding—set upright into the ground, connected by crossbeams, and covered with a canvas roof. It was draped inside and out with garlands of red roses and swags of billowing pale blue silk to match the bride’s attire.

I forced a dignified smile as I processed behind Margot, past the rows of lesser nobles who stood inside the gallery. The canvas roof provided shade from the fierce midmorning sun, though the air inside was a cloying mix of the essences of rose, sweat, and fresh-cut timber. Sunlight streamed in the gallery’s eastern side and fell on the glorious train of moiré silk. I stared at it, entranced by the way the blue fabric shifted in the dappled light like an undulant, shimmering ocean; tiny diamonds, sewn a finger’s width apart, flashed in the sun.

The noise of the crowd suddenly dulled, as if I had been submerged in water; its cheers became muted shrieks of terror, its cries of encouragement faint mortal groans. I looked out of the gallery into the ruthless sun and saw not joy upon the thousands of faces but grimaces of fear and pain.

A torrent of blood gushed out from under Margot’s glorious blue train, past the ankles of the girls who held it aloft. It swept past me, soaking my slippers and the hem of my gown, rushing out to fill the width of the gallery. I stared at the nobles who stood inside the gallery, watching. Their
self-conscious grins were unchanged. They did not see the blood; they did not hear the screaming.

I looked down at the fierce red current and thought,
It will stop the instant Margot says yes. It will stop the instant they are married
.

I set my slippered foot down and watched it disappear beneath the dark stream. I could see the blood but not feel it: My heel struck dry cobblestone. I lifted my gaze and forced my lips to curve in a parody of a smile. I did not look down again.

I survived the long procession through the gallery and emerged into daylight and an open space that led to the platform in front of Notre-Dame. The area was cordoned off, heavily guarded, and blessedly unbloodied; Henri and his men awaited us there. Two sets of steps led up to the platform; Navarre’s group ascended the northern stairs, Margot’s the southern. Both groups met at the center of the platform, where the Cardinal de Bourbon stood waiting behind a prayer bench. A row of chairs had been placed nearby so that the wedding party could sit and watch the proceedings; we filed in front of them and sat at the Cardinal’s signal. Margot and Henri knelt at the bench, and the ceremony began.

The ritual had been stripped to the bone, and the Cardinal was efficient. He carried no breviary, but recited from memory from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians:

“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I am as a ringing brass or clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and knowledge, but have not love, I am nothing. . . . Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth.”

The full sun was brutal: Beneath swaths of damask and layers of petticoats, I melted. Perspiration trickled down my forehead; I quashed the urge to wipe it away. My eyelids fluttered as the Cardinal’s face began to shift, growing rounder, fuller, paler.

What was done out of fear must now be done out of love
. Madame la Reine,
these children should not be
.

I shook off my dizziness and refocused my gaze until I saw the Cardinal’s features again. He was addressing Navarre.

“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love her, and cherish her, so long as you both shall live?”

Navarre’s strong voice carried over the hushed, breathless city. “Yes.”

The Cardinal looked to my daughter. “And do you, Marguerite, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To honor and obey him, so long as you both shall live?”

The crowd waited. Margot bowed her head and answered nothing. After a torturously long pause, the Cardinal—assuming that heat or emotion had overwhelmed the bride—repeated the question.

Margot did not reply. Her lips were pressed together tightly, her face flushed from something other than the heat. Her groom resolutely fastened his gaze on the Cardinal.

“God be damned,” Charles muttered beside me. “God be damned, haven’t I endured enough?” He leaped from his seat; beside me, Edouard tensed as the King marched up to Margot. He put his hand firmly upon her jeweled crown and began to pump it up and down, forcing her to perform a parody of an affirmative nod.

Margot’s features crumpled with humiliation and fury—but the relieved Cardinal took it as an answer and pronounced the couple man and wife. The crowd’s response was thunderous. The couple rose, and the Cardinal presented them to the assembly—Henri de Bourbon, King of Navarre and Prince of France, and his wife, Marguerite de Valois, Queen of Navarre and Princess of France.

I rose to embrace my daughter and her husband. But as I stood up, daylight suddenly flickered. I looked down at my feet and saw there a dark, spreading stain. It traveled quickly until the entire platform bled crimson.

Margot had married the Huguenot king, but it was not enough.

Something prompted me to look over my shoulder and down. On the northern edge of the platform, an arm’s breadth from the halberd-bearing Swiss, was Cosimo Ruggieri.

He stood near a group of black-clad Huguenots and might well have been mistaken for one of them were it not for the red satin stripes on his black sleeves and breeches. The past thirteen years had taken their toll: His blue-black hair was streaked with silver, his shoulders markedly stooped. In the midst of the jubilant revelers, he alone did not smile. He stared somberly, intently, directly at me.

I wanted to run to him, to ask him if he, too, saw the river of blood. But I could only stare fixedly at him until Edouard hissed at me: The time had
come to go into the cathedral for the proxy ceremony. While Navarre and his party waited outside, I reluctantly entered the church with the others.

When the ritual was over and we came back out onto the platform, accompanied by the deafening chorus of Notre-Dame’s five bells, I turned my searching, anxious gaze to the crowd, but Ruggieri had vanished.

A banquet followed at the Cardinal’s palace; afterward, the sated diners headed for the Louvre’s ballroom. I ate and danced and kept an anxious eye on my daughter, who had apparently resigned herself to her fate; she danced and smiled with apparent sincerity, though she scrupulously avoided meeting the admiring gaze of her husband.

I had unwisely joined in a vigorous
saltarello
and was returning to my chair, fan pumping madly, when Ambassador Zuñiga caught my eye and motioned me aside. He, too, had just performed the jumps and twists of the challenging dance; his face was streaked with rivulets of perspiration.

“
Madame la Reine
, forgive me,” he gasped. “I do not mean to dampen the joy of this celebration, but I must lodge a protest.”

I looked at him from behind my frantically gyrating fan. “What now, Don Diego?”

“It is that ill-bred boor Coligny. Go and listen to him now: He is bragging openly that he will return victorious from the Netherlands and present Charles with the captured banner of Spain. How can I listen idly to this blatant affront to my King?”

My fan stilled. “He is a traitor,” I said softly, “and he will soon pay for his crimes against our King, and yours. But not today, Don Diego. Today, we will celebrate my daughter’s wedding.”

The intrigued tilt of the ambassador’s head indicated that he could guess very well what I had
not
said, and that it would be to his benefit to forget our conversation.

“Thank you,
Madame la Reine
,” he said and kissed my hand. “In that case, I must apologize for interrupting your joyful day.”

I was tempted to go and hear Coligny’s boasts for myself but decided against it: I did not want to be seen reacting to his arrogance. I sat in my chair listening to the music for the rest of the evening, until most of the guests had left.

Near the end of the revels, an exhausted Navarre approached me. “
Tante
Catherine,” he asked, “might I have a private word?”

“Of course.” I patted the empty chair beside me. “You are my son now.”

He sat down and handed me a small velvet box and a letter. “These are from my mother. She asked me to give them to you after the wedding.”

I took them from him. The sealed letter was addressed to me in Jeanne’s careful hand; I knew it well, from all the many lists of demands we had shared with each other during the marriage negotiations.