The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (9 page)

“It was! Machiavelli dedicated it to him. This version was bound and then sent by the merchant guild as a gift. How did you know?”

“
The Prince
is famous even here in France. I’ve read it several times.” He met my eyes. “‘From this arises an argument: whether it is better to be loved than feared. I reply that one should like to be both one and the other; but since it is difficult to join them together, it is much safer to be feared than loved when one of the two must be lacking.’”

“You quote from memory,” I marveled.

“Machiavelli’s treatise is considered one of the most elucidating on how men in power ought to behave.” He handed me the book. “Do you understand what he says?”

I nodded. “I think so. His Majesty recently said something similar. He told me, ‘It is the way of life. Sometimes we must strike first, before we are struck in turn.’ But I think it’s always better to find compromise or, as Machiavelli would say, to be loved.”

“Indeed.” His voice turned somber. “That is wisdom. I wish His Majesty thought the same of those in his realm who most merit his regard.”

The air took on a chill. Around us, the trees began to thin, giving way to manicured paths and decorative herb patches. “I fear I don’t quite know what you mean,” I said, unsure I should be discussing the king, my father-in-law, in this manner with him.

He frowned. “Have you heard of the protests in Paris?”

“No. The court hasn’t been to Paris yet. I’ve heard the king doesn’t like to go.”

“Yes, he would. You see, his Huguenot subjects are demanding the right to be heard before his Council because the authorities have been arresting them for importing forbidden books.”

“Huguenots?” I echoed. I had heard only a brief mention of them in passing at court.

“Yes. Protestants, followers of Jean Calvin. Up till now His Majesty has chosen to ignore their existence. But I fear a time fast approaches when he’ll have to take them into account.”

I paused, my fingers tightening about my book. “You speak of heretics.” A ripple of disquiet went through me. I had not expected our conversation to take such a turn. Until now, the most controversial subject I’d faced was my husband’s attachment to his mistress, and I suddenly felt as though I’d dwelled in perfumed oblivion to the dark currents running beneath my feet.

“Not everyone in France considers them as such,” he said. He paused, with a wry laugh. “If my uncle heard me say that, he’d flay me alive.”

“Are you …?” I wondered what I’d do if he said he was. I’d never met a heretic before. All I’d heard about them was that they were ravening madmen who spat on our statues and desecrated our churches, and caused no end of trouble for Rome. I’d been a Catholic all my life, but I wasn’t sure I should hate these so-called heretics as much as I’d been told. I’d had better occasion than most to know that the Church of Rome was not clean of sin.

“I am not,” he said, his voice infused with a genuine fervor that marked him even more apart than his appearance. “But we are each created in God’s image and must be allowed to seek our path to Him in our own way.”

“The church says we have only one way to God,” I said. “Would you argue with Rome itself?”

“Rome does not understand the world anymore; it clings to customs that are dying.” He looked intently at me. “Do you think these people lack souls? Do you think we have the right to persecute them because they choose another way to worship?”

His words stirred something in me. In truth, I hadn’t given any of this much thought. “The church claims animals do not have souls,” I said carefully. “The same is said for heretics.”

“Then you’ve not seen a man burn. If you did, you would not doubt he has a soul.” He paused. “I trust I haven’t offended. I felt that as you asked, I should speak the truth.”

“No, no. I am grateful. It’s been an elucidating talk.”

He smiled. “And, I hope, one of many to come. Though I suggest we keep it between us. Most people at court would not understand what we’ve discussed.”

“Of course.” I took his arm again, enjoying the fact that we had a secret. We moved into the formal gardens, where the flash of jewels and vibrant colors by the fountains alerted me that the court had spilled outdoors for their evening promenade. From amid the gallants and ladies, Marguerite caught sight of me and moved quickly to us. “Catherine, where have you been? I was worried. You said you were going for a walk.”

Coligny bowed. “Her Highness and I happened upon each other and she asked that I accompany her. I apologize if we caused any concern.”

Marguerite gave him a sharp glance. “We owe you our gratitude, then.”

I saw she was perturbed, a rarity for her, and held out my hand to Coligny. “Thank you, my lord. I hope we’ll have occasion to meet again soon.”

Coligny raised my hand to his lips. His kiss was cool, his slight beard prickling my skin.

Marguerite led me away. “You were with him for over an hour! I’d been looking for you everywhere! There’s a banquet tonight. Come, we mustn’t be late.”

For the first time, I barely listened to her. Coligny had made me forget my troubles, awoken my mind to wider concerns. I wanted to speak with him more, to lose myself in his profundity, and I glanced over my shoulder. He stood still, a solitary figure among the courtiers. I felt an abrupt emptiness, almost like a loss, and wondered if I would ever see him again.

• • •

That night as we devoured platter after platter, I watched François brooding on his throne. The courtiers frolicked, dancing and drinking and sharing petty gossip, all dressed in their glittering finery, all oblivious to anything but their immediate pleasure.

Usually François would be among them, exchanging quips and flirting, the duchess at his side, but tonight he didn’t seem to see them, and Coligny’s words went through my mind. Wondering if the situation in Paris had worsened, I scoured the court as if I might somehow spy one of the Huguenots among them. What did they look like? Could I mark them by their bearing, their dress? I imagined them all in black, brandishing their forbidden books as they confronted the king. If they were so prevalent in Paris, surely there must be some among us. I was fascinated by the thought, eager to lay eyes on these unseen people whose existence had alerted me to the fact that not all was wealth and indolence in this realm I called home.

Then I saw my husband, clad in a mud-stained doublet and boots, walking toward the dais where the king sat nearby. I heard him say, “Your Majesty wanted to see me?”

François’s face twisted. “How dare you come into my presence stinking of horse sweat?” he yelled. “Go! Wash yourself and see to your wife. By God, see to her this very night or I’ll not be responsible for my actions.”

All thoughts of heretics fled my head. I felt as if the very eaves crashed down around me as Henri shot me an accusatory look and marched away. The duchess clucked her tongue. I caught her eye; she gave an apologetic shrug. The courtiers began to whisper; I heard a ribald mocking laugh ring out, sensed all eyes upon me. At the first opportunity, I begged leave to retire.

That night, for the first time since Marseilles, Henri came to my rooms. It was the hour I’d worked so hard to achieve, yet when he walked in, wearing a white robe that emphasized his pallor, his black hair falling in a stiff wave to his collar, I could barely say a word.

He stared at me. “Did you tell him?”

I shook my head. “No. But His Majesty, he—”

“He can go to the devil. Lie down. It’s time we put an end to this insulting affair.”

I turned to the bed and lay down. I was terrified. Here he was at long
last, to do what our marriage required of him. It was the moment I’d longed for, the reason I had changed my entire appearance, and still I had to fight the urge to look away as he unfastened his robe, exposing his erect organ. “Lift it up,” he said, pointing to my nightdress, and I did, feeling my stomach tighten with cold and fear. He knelt between my legs, thrust them apart. Without a word he pushed himself inside me. I clamped my lips against a sudden searing pain. I opened my legs wider, trying to envision the lovers by the lake, to seek some kind of pleasure in this forced sterile act, in the feel of his hard body grinding against mine.

The pain was almost unbearable. I couldn’t believe anyone would willingly subject themselves to it as he pumped harder, faster, before he gasped and went still. Even as I lay spread-eagled and stunned, feeling something warm and sticky seeping out of me, he fastened his robe and walked out, banging the door shut behind him.

Sitting up, I forced myself to look. His whitish seed intermingled with my blood. I felt disgusting, used. I never wanted anything like this to happen to me again.

But as I staggered to my feet and walked, aching, to the wash basin, I knew I had no choice. His seed must stay inside me; Lucrezia had told me so. If it didn’t, I’d never bear a child.

Despite all my efforts and pain, I had succeeded in surrendering my virginity.

Nothing more.

I
N AUTUMN, WE DEPARTED FOR THE PALACE OF ST. GERMAIN
ON
the outskirts of Paris. Built in red brick, with the king’s emblem of the salamander in flames adorning its exterior in stone escutcheons, it was smaller and more fortified than Fontainebleau and I understood why François found it less to his taste than his airy Loire château. I looked forward to visiting the city. I’d heard much of Paris and its marvels, famed for the luxuries that merchants brought from all over the world. Hoping to find a sword of Toledo steel to give François for Christmas, I voiced to the princesses my idea of venturing out to the marketplace.

Madeleine sighed. “Papa has forbidden us to leave the palace. He says Paris isn’t safe.”

“Bah,” scoffed Marguerite. “Papa is just angry because he has to meet with his Council all day, instead of going hunting or building something. I think it’s a splendid idea. We can disguise ourselves and be back here before anyone knows it.”

“Why not ask the merchants to visit us, instead?” said Madeleine. “They’ll bring their best wares and we won’t have to trudge through mud and muck like charwomen.”

Marguerite rolled her eyes. “Because they’ll triple their prices. Not to mention everyone at court will know Catherine bought a sword for Papa before she’s even paid for it.”

Madeleine seemed to shrink into herself. “Well, I couldn’t. Anything might happen.”

“Then stay here. But don’t you dare think of telling on us!”

I made my plans with Marguerite, and on the appointed morning we attended our lessons as usual. Afterward, during the hour when we played music or board games, we would sneak off. I couldn’t concentrate as the tutor droned on, Marguerite watching me over her book, hard-pressed to stifle her giggles. We’d stashed cloaks, walking shoes, and a purse of coins in the window seat. Everything was ready for our adventure.

The door opened and the duchesse d’Étampes swept in. The tutor yelped. As the princesses and I came to our feet, the duchess said, “His Majesty has ordered everyone to retire to their rooms. The palace is under guard. No one is to enter or leave until further notice.”

Though her voice seemed calm enough, I’d never seen her so pale. We gathered our belongings and made to leave; at the door, she detained me. “Not you, Catherine,” she said. “The king would see you at once in his apartments.”

Madeleine and Marguerite shot fearful glances at me; it was then that I started to feel afraid. What had happened, that the king would close up his palace and ask for me?

As Madame d’Étampes and I walked down the corridors toward the royal chambers, we passed whispering courtiers huddled in the alcoves. None met my eyes. My fear spiraled.

“Madame,” I quavered, “have I done something wrong?” I wondered if this had something to do with my marriage, if François had wearied of Henri’s disdain and decided to set me aside. I had lived with the fear of being sent away for months now and I couldn’t breathe as she reached into her gown and removed a crumpled paper that reeked of cheap ink.

On it, I read:
The Abuses of the Papal Mass, devised contrary to the Supper of Jesus Christ: The Church of Rome and its priests are idolatrous vermin, who renounce Our Savior’s doctrines. Burn your pagan idols and not those who revere the truth of our Lord
.

I looked up at her. She grimaced. “That is a Huguenot tract. They
dared to set these pamphlets about the palace last night, while everyone slept. They must have bribed servants who share their heresy; François found them even in his private rooms. He is furious. Last week, he had to order twenty-four of these Huguenots arrested after they were caught printing copies of Jean Calvin’s
Institutes
. It’s why we came to this pesthole of a city: François has to set an example that heresy will not be tolerated in France.”

So, it was as Coligny had said: François had been forced to acknowledge what he’d tried for so long to ignore. Obviously there were Huguenots in court; I had thought to mark them by their appearance, but they must blend in as well as anyone else, secretive and plentiful enough to have seen these pamphlets distributed. I still didn’t know what to feel about them, but I was sure that I didn’t want them upsetting the king or turning the realm upside down with their credo.