The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (32 page)

I turned to leave. He gripped my arm. When I whirled to him, I saw the face I knew lurked under his impassive mask—the face of hatred and intolerance, like bones beneath his skin. “Take their heads,” he hissed, “and I’ll give my Austrian cousin as queen for your son, princesses for your other sons, and crowns for the lot. I am prepared to be generous. But if you fail me, Madame de Medici, you’ll reap the consequences.”

I looked at his hand. He withdrew it, as if scalded. “Send your cousin
first,” I said, “and I’ll consider the rest. Until then, I bid you good afternoon, my lord.”

I proceeded down the gallery, feeling his eyes like arrows in my back.

I’d met ruthless men in my time, men who killed and relished it, men whose taste for mayhem ran like venom in their blood, but none unnerved me like Philip II. He was everything I’d fought against. He was my uncle Clement, le Balafré, and Monsignor; he was all the destructive, dogmatic men who saw no other way but their own, who carried darkness in their souls and expected—no, demanded—that I do their bidding because I was a woman.

Never, I vowed as I exited the gallery. I would never be a man’s pawn again.

I would rule France as I saw fit, come what may.

Once again we stood on the banks of the Bidassoa, a cruel wind razing the sky. Though it was late July, the heat had given way to gusting, premature autumn, and I embraced Elisabeth as she readied for departure. “You must take care,” I murmured, thinking back to when I had lost a child in secret. “Remember, many women who’ve suffered miscarriages go on to deliver healthy children.”

“Yes, Maman.” She glanced at Philip, already mounted and surrounded by his men. Her mouth parted, but a harsh cawing drowned her voice. We both looked to a nearby linden tree. Two ravens perched on its lowest bough, releasing harsh cries.

Then they went silent, regarding us with their black baleful eyes.

She whispered, “An omen,” and as I started to protest, for I found her superstition yet another unwelcome legacy of Spain, the solemnity of her expression stopped me.

“You will think about everything we discussed?” she asked.

I resisted the urge to rebuke her. I didn’t want conflict to mar our parting. “I will.”

She gave me then the first genuine smile of her entire visit. For a moment, the stern queen vanished and she was my child once more, the daughter who’d given me such comfort. “I love you, Elisabeth,” I said. “If you ever need me, I’ll walk across the Pyrenees to be with you.”

We embraced and she turned to her horse, the wind clutching at her cloak.

I remained at the river’s edge until the cavalcade vanished and Charles muttered, “They’re gone. Can we go inside? I’m famished.”

I nodded and turned away, overcome by sorrow.

Above me, the ravens took flight into the storm-chased sky.

W
E EMBARKED ON THE LONG TRIP HOME, THE LUSTER OF OUR
progress peeling away like the gilded
C
s on my coach. As I stared out the window at the passing landscape I didn’t see the peasants laboring to reap the harvest or barefoot children and women, running to the sides of the road to cheer our passage. All I heard was my daughter’s voice, intractable in its conviction.

You can’t play both sides forever. In the end, you must choose
.

I had already chosen. I’d chosen sacrifice over comfort, obligation over pleasure, duty over passion. What more must I choose?

My hands bunched into fists in my lap. I would not accept Philip of Spain’s threats. I would not condone him dictating my affairs. I would continue to strive for peace, no matter the obstacles. I would not hand over chaos as legacy to my sons; I would not send legions of French men and women to the flames because of their religious beliefs.

And I would not forsake Coligny. I had denied him, and myself, long enough.

• • •

We reached Blois under an early snowfall; after I saw the court established I issued a proclamation reaffirming my commitment to tolerance between the faiths and ordering the nobility to attend our Christmas court without fail.

Among the invitations was one for Coligny.

We greeted them in Blois’s painted hall, Charles and I on the dais as the lords and their wives queued up before us. The hall was hung with tapestries, lit with expensive scented candles; I sought to convey an air of festivity by slinging garlands and spangled boughs from the pilasters, but as each lord came and went, I felt increasing concern.

“They’re all wearing white ribbons or gold crosses,” I hissed beneath my breath to Birago. “What is this new fashion?”

“Huguenot for one, Catholic for the other,” he said, his brow furrowed.

I remembered the night long ago in Fontainebleau, when I’d tried in vain to identify Huguenots among us. Then, I’d seen brilliant jewels and gorgeous clothes; I’d heard only laughter and wit. Now it felt as if the very air were about to tear apart, and the expressions before me were somber.

“Since when has this court found it necessary to declare their religious affiliation?” I retorted, forgetting Charles sat right beside me. “It’s unacceptable.”

“Issue a decree against it.” Charles let out a terse laugh. “But best do it fast, before another war breaks out. For look: here come our Catholic peers.”

I tensed in my chair. The Guise family entered. Le Balafré’s widow was veiled, while her fifteen-year-old son, the new duc de Guise, wore a pure white satin doublet. The other Guise relatives were headed by Monsignor the Cardinal. One look at his malicious smile assured me he was responsible for this theatrical scene, to remind us that they would never forget le Balafré.

“I did not know you were back from Rome,” I said as the cardinal bowed before us and kissed Charles’s extended hand. “I trust the Holy Council went well?”

“Splendid,” he replied. “His Holiness has pronounced anathema on all heretics.”

Charles glowered. “Christ’s blood,” he said, without bothering to lower his voice, “why must you always ruin everything?”

I gave a nervous chuckle, about to remind him the Guises were our guests, when I caught sight of a figure walking toward us.

Silence plunged over the hall.

He too wore white. Harsh lines cut into his brow and bracketed his once-supple mouth; silver threaded his thinning hair. And his eyes were enameled by reserve, rimmed in shadow.

I said softly, “My lord Coligny, welcome. Are you in mourning?”

“I am. My wife, Charlotte, has passed away after a long illness.”

“God rest her soul,” I murmured. Even as I struggled against a guilt-ridden leap of hope, he turned to Charles. “My wife died before she could see me exonerated of the heinous charge leveled on me. Your Majesty does her memory honor by recalling me to court, where I can assume my rightful place and restore my name.”

The implicit accusation froze me. Did he blame me for his exile? I’d been looking forward to seeing him again, to reestablish our rapport; I expected nothing more, for I knew it would be far too dangerous to revive what we had lost, but I had not anticipated his coldness, the precision with which he had launched his address to my son, as if I were not sitting there.

Before I could react, Charles descended the dais to stand next to Coligny.

“You are welcome here,” I heard him say, and he turned to the court, squaring his thin shoulders. I’d crafted a speech for him, but instead of my words he spoke of his own volition, his voice ringing out with a certainty that caught me off guard.

“I would see this season of celebration marked by goodwill and reconciliation between the noble families of my realm, for we are all brothers in Christ.” He returned to Coligny, took him by the shoulders, and kissed him on the mouth. As I watched, paralyzed, he motioned to the Guises. “Come, greet your brother.”

Coligny stood waiting. Though it was a spontaneous gesture by Charles, Coligny looked as though he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. I glanced at Birago, found the same consternation on his face,
and found myself both proud and alarmed. While my son wanted to be seen as a king, he should have consulted Birago or me before choosing this occasion and method.

“I command it,” Charles said; and before the sea of appraising eyes, Monsignor came forth and pecked Coligny’s cheek. The duchess followed. I half expected her to throw back her veil and thrust a knife into his ribs but she leaned to him to accept his kiss before she stepped aside.

Young Guise did not move. Coligny started to shift to breach the distance between them when Guise spat, “Murderer! I’ll see you pay for my father’s death.” He pivoted to Charles. “Your Majesty, I fear I must retire.”

Charles flushed red as Guise executed a curt bow and strode out. I vacated my seat. “No,” I whispered. “Let him go. You’ve made your point. Now, say what I wrote for you.”

Charles went rigid. “Don’t tell me what to do,” he muttered, and then he said, “Let there be no more talk of heretics at this court. We are all Frenchmen first!” And just as I started to think he would ignore my request, he said to Coligny, “My lord, we forgive all trespasses against us and trust henceforth you will serve us faithfully. We hereby assign you a seat on our Council, where you shall advise us on matters pertaining to this realm.”

Coligny bowed. “Your Majesty honors me beyond my worth.”

Charles smiled and strode into the banqueting chamber, followed by the courtiers.

Coligny looked at me. “I came to see my name restored. I didn’t expect this.”

I had just witnessed the first act of independence from my son; as I struggled to absorb the implications, I abruptly felt mistrust of this man, who seemed to sow discord wherever he went.

“I once told you I would seat you on the Council,” I managed to say.

“You did.” He paused. “I must beg for your forgiveness.”

I met his eyes—those eyes that seemed to have changed more than anything else. “No,” I said, “no apologies. Let us leave the past where it belongs.”

“We cannot. We must confront it, for only then can we find peace.”

I did not know what peace he meant and did not want to. I had made a mistake. I wanted him gone from this court, from my life. The weight
of what we’d been to each other, of all that had passed between us, seemed to crush the very breath out of me.

“I sinned out of despair for my wife,” he said. “I was lost, frightened, and I abused your trust. I never meant to bring you pain. I will not stay here if you do not wish it so.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “You still say it is my choice? Mine? After everything, you’d still place the burden on me? It seems you’ve forgotten how this all started and how it was broken. I was not the one who took up arms; I was not the one who—” I cut myself short. I could see in his face, in the way his jaw tightened, that he knew.

“I shall go,” he murmured, but as he started to bow I said, “No.”

He went still.

“No,” I said again. “My son asked you to serve us. That is his decision and I will not countermand it.” I lifted my chin. “You wanted my forgiveness. I grant it.”

“Then,” he replied, “I will do everything I can to prove worthy of it.” He offered me his arm. Biting back tears, knowing that what we shared had been lost forever, I set my hand on his sleeve and let him escort me into the dining chamber.

There are many ways to betray one’s heart.

I had turned forty-seven, suffered disillusionment and far more devastating losses; I refused to mourn something that could never be. I’d basked in illusion, carried it with me as something precious, but now I swept up the fragments and put them away; and slowly, as winter gave way to spring, I came to accept that Coligny and I had no further meaning to each other, save as mother and adviser to our king. We saw each other in Council every day; we passed each other at the evening fetes but avoided each other’s eyes and restricted our conversation to state business. I knew he often left court to travel to Châtillon and see his children; without my asking, Birago had bribed a servant in Coligny’s household to keep us informed of his doings, and while part of me balked at Birago’s belief that Coligny needed watching, I was more at ease knowing he dwelled under our eye.

He wasn’t the only person I had to consign to the past. One July afternoon,
as a citrus-scented breeze drifted through my casement at Fontainebleau, I received word from Salon.

Nostradamus was dead.

I couldn’t imagine him gone. His incredible aura of wisdom, his ability to see into depths rarely glimpsed, had seemed impervious to the bane of mortality. Deeply saddened by his loss, I belatedly recalled I had his last gift, still enclosed in its tube. I sent the chart to Chaumont, asking Cosimo to interpret it and promising to visit as soon as I could.

News of another death was more welcome. At sixty-six, following years of seclusion in Anet, Diane de Poitiers breathed her last. I learned of it via a letter from a tax collector. For a moment I was plunged into the memory of the last time I’d seen her, of her frigid face as she confronted the loss of her prestige, and I took savage comfort that in the end, I was the one who thrived. I had outlived her to command a power she never had. Returning word to the tax collector to sell everything she owned, I closed that painful chapter of my life.