History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (55 page)

“Not today,” I said. “Brides are supposed to look pale.”

She clutched my hands. “Isn’t it strange how life can change? Look at us: Only yesterday we were in the schoolroom together. Now you’re dauphine and I’m to be queen of Scotland.” She glanced again at her reflection. “I do hope I’ll make a good wife to him. My doctors say I’m better.” As she spoke, she rubbed her sleeve. I’d seen the contusions on her arm, the result of a week of bleedings prescribed by her physicians. “But I hear winters in Scotland are harsh on the lungs,” she added, “and mine have always been weak.”

“James has plenty of castles to keep you warm.” I pried her fingers from her forearm. “Now, stop fretting. It’s your wedding day.”

The women shrieked as François strode in, ablaze in gold brocade. “Bad Papa,” chided Marguerite. “It’s bad luck for a man to see the bride before she enters the cathedral.”

“Bah! Bad luck for the husband, perhaps, but never for the father.” He went to Madeleine. “Your groom waits. Are you ready,
ma chère?
”

As she hooked her arm in his, he gave me a worried glance. The death of his eldest son still showed in his face and I knew he was anxious. Scotland
was infamous for its unforgiving climate and nobility; how would our sweet Madeleine fare so far from the comforts of France?

I said, “Her Highness was just telling us how happy she is. Surely, this is one of France’s most joyous occasions, Your Majesty.”

“Indeed,” he murmured, “as joyous as your own arrival,
ma petite.
” He turned a brilliant smile to Madeleine. “To Notre Dame!”

After weeks of festivities, we accompanied the newlyweds to Calais for their departure for Scotland. We then returned to Fontainebleau, where François collapsed without warning.

His illness created immediate consternation. The courtiers whispered that the period of celebration had taxed the king, reopening a sore on his genitals that impeded his ability to pass water. For weeks he was sequestered behind closed doors, submitting to an onslaught of panaceas that left him disoriented and frail.

I held vigil with the Petite Bande. We were refused admittance to his rooms, leaving Madame d’Étampes to pace the corridors, helpless to assist the man on whom her entire life depended. When it was announced that His Majesty was on the mend, she donned her most opulent silk and jewels and awaited his summons.

To her surprise, and mine, François called for me.

From his bed he opened fever-glazed eyes. “
Ma petite
, you’ve changed your scent.”

“I made it myself.” I raised my wrist to him. “Essence of jasmine, ambergris, and rose.”

He smiled faintly. “It’s very French. When you set yourself to something, you never give up. I admire your persistence. Perhaps you’ll soon succeed in giving me a grandson as well, eh?”

“Yes,” I whispered. I didn’t show my fear, though I knew that with those words he had issued his warning. One day he would die and I would be left alone in a hostile court. I had to secure the Valois succession and prove myself worthy to be queen.

I held his hand as he drifted into sleep. I should have been devastated by the knowledge that this glorious wreck of a man, who’d sheltered me against all odds, approached the end of his life.

But all I could think of was the insurmountable task awaiting me.

• • •

By midsummer, François had recovered and war with the Hapsburg emperor Charles V broke out over the disputed duchy of Milan. This time, the constable, his nephew Coligny, and my husband led our offensive, while the court lodged in St. Germain, near the safety of Paris.

The first moment I found, I slipped out alone to visit Cosimo. He was overjoyed to see me and led me into his upper-story room, which he’d filled with shelves of vials, jars, and books, much as his father’s study had been in Florence; from the rafters hung cages of live birds.

“My lady,” he said, bowing with exaggerated subservience, “you honor me with your visit.”

I eyed him. “Cosimo, you look as if you haven’t eaten or seen the sun in weeks. I trust you’re not shutting yourself up in here all day. You can’t live by magic alone.”

As he murmured excuses, his gaunt face glowing with eagerness to please me, I wondered if I did the right thing by coming to him. He was, after all, a servant whose bills I paid. How could he understand the torments I endured? Ever since that horrible morning when I’d miscarried, despite Lucrezia’s insistence that women often lost their first babe, I lived in constant fear, tormented by the thought of banishment from France for failing to give my husband an heir.

Cosimo regarded me as if he could read my thoughts. “My lady is troubled,” he said. “You came to me because you are afraid. You can confide in me. I would die before I betrayed you.”

I started, meeting his penetrating stare and remembering the gush of blood and tissue, the cloths and nightdress curling to cinders in my hearth. A fist closed about my heart.

“I … I cannot fail,” I finally whispered. “I must have a child.”

He gave a solemn assent. “We shall examine the portents together.” He removed a dove from one of the cages overhead and with an expert twist of his fingers snapped its neck. Setting the twitching white-feathered body on the table, he took up a dagger and disemboweled it. I winced at the smell of its intestines spilling out, at the sight of its dark blood staining his hands as he peered at its organs. After a thorough examination, he looked up at me with a smile and proclaimed, “I see no impediment to your ability to bear children.”

Overwhelming relief weakened my knees. I sighed, leaning my hands on the table. Then I heard him add, “The loss of one doesn’t mean there will not be others.”

I went still. I lifted my gaze to his. “You … you know? You saw it?”

He shrugged. “It is my gift. I see what others cannot. And I also must tell you to be patient, my lady, for your time has not yet come.”

I let out a raw laugh. “How much more patient can I be? I’ve been in France seven years and I’ve nothing to show for it. That woman is to blame; she knows how much I suffer and she revels in it. By all rights, she should die.” I yanked the vial on its chain from under my collar. “I have the means in this vial your father gave me years ago. I just need the opportunity.”

He arched his brow. “You must not. Everyone would suspect.”

“I don’t care. Henri would grieve for a time and then resign himself. There’d be an end to it.”

“Or he’d heed the rumors and never touch you again. The French already think every Italian is a poisoner at heart. And whatever is in that vial might leave a trace. No, my lady. Much as you long for her death, that is not the way.”

I wanted to shout at him in frustration, not because I thought I’d ever actually poison Diane but because he had dared to point out the consequences of an act I needed to believe I could commit. In my distress over the child I’d lost, whose existence I could never reveal, I blamed her. I believed she deliberately kept Henri from my bed; in my darkest hours I almost believed she’d made an unholy pact to expel that malformed being from my womb and thus leave me beholden to her for my very survival.

“Fine,” I grumbled. “Find another way. But do it fast. I don’t have all afternoon.”

Cosimo had already moved to his shelves and was reaching for a small wooden chest. “She is of no consequence,” he said, opening the chest. “I’ll give you six protective amulets to wear under your clothes to deflect her evil and a skin lotion to attract him. When he next comes to see you, I will send you an elixir: half for you, half for him. Above all else, do not lose hope.”

“If hope were seed,” I said, taking the items from him, “I’d be mother to an entire nation.”

He smiled. “One day, that is exactly who you will be.”

• • •

I applied the lotion, affixed the metal amulets to my petticoats. I straightened my hair with hot irons and ordered new gowns by the dozens, anticipating word of Henri’s return from the front and plying the duchess with questions about the war’s progress. It all sounded much the same as any war, with the Imperial army entrenched and our officers blasting them with cannon, and it made me impatient, for I needed Henri back at court if I was to try the elixir on him.

Then fate struck again.

Gentle Madeleine died, a victim of Scotland’s harsh climate and her own tender lungs. François locked himself in his rooms and refused to see anyone. I spent my days with Marguerite, comforting her as best I could. We were in mourning again, but François had no alternative but to heed James V’s request for another bride. The Scottish alliance was crucial and the Guises wasted no time in proffering their daughter, Marie. That she too could lose her life in Scotland meant nothing; here was a chance to advance familial interests. The marriage took place by proxy, and soon after, weary of a war neither could win, Charles V and François signed a treaty.

Henri was recalled home.

At Fontainebleau, I prepared to receive him. I’d been drinking my drafts on schedule and organizing my rooms for weeks. I now paced, clad in crimson and rubies, attuned to the door. I’d sent Anna-Maria out to discover his whereabouts, electing to remain out of sight during the welcoming celebrations. The last thing I wanted was to look the frantic wife, the first to throw her arms about her husband as he entered the courtyard.

Feeling my ladies watching me, as they always did when they sensed my disquiet, I slid my hand to my pocket. When I felt the tiny bottle Cosimo had sent, I smiled. He’d promised its potent blend would make Henri think only of me. I’d drunk my half this morning. All I had to do now was slip the remaining half into his wine. Prodded into action, nature would do the rest.

My women sewed. I’d been less than even-tempered since learning of
Henri’s return and was about to apologize when the clatter of heels reached me. I straightened in my seat.

Anna-Maria burst in. “His Highness is coming! But I overheard in the gallery that—”

I ignored her. “I’ll hear the gossip later. Sit down. Henri must think we didn’t expect him.”

“But Your Highness must—”

“Later.” I pointed to her stool. With a desperate glance at the others, she sat.

Anxiety roiled inside me. It had been eight long months since we’d last seen each other. How would he find me? Would the elixir work? Would I conceive again?

Boisterous laughter preceded a group of men. I espied Henri’s close friend and companion-in-arms Francis de Guise among them. He was still too thin and tall, but now his angular features—which would have been handsome had he not carried himself with such rigidity—were marred by a raw scar that cut down his cheek and puckered the left side of his mouth into a perpetual sneer.

“My lords,” I said warmly, “how delightful to see you at long last. Welcome home.”

As the men bowed low, Henri stepped from their midst. I almost didn’t recognize him. He wore a plain brown doublet, his gaunt features half-covered by a thick beard, his eyes nested in deep shadow. In his somber regard, I found a maturity instilled by months of watching his fellow soldiers die for France. My husband had gone to war and returned forever marked by it.

“Would you care for some wine?” I asked as he gave me a brief kiss on my cheek.

“I no longer drink wine,” he replied.

I faltered. If he no longer drank wine, how would I give him the elixir? Its taste was bitter; he’d notice it in water. I searched for some reason to insist he take a goblet when I saw him lock eyes for an instant with Guise. My stomach sank as Henri returned his inscrutable gaze to me.

I reached for his hand. “I’m so happy you’re back,” I said. “I missed you. If you like, we can sup together tonight. I’ve so much to tell you.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” He withdrew his hand. As he moved to
his men, I thought he hadn’t said no, hadn’t said he would not come later. The elixir wouldn’t spoil. I could wait.

It wasn’t until they left that I remembered Anna-Maria. “What is this news you couldn’t wait to tell me?” I asked, trudging to my chair.

“It’s but a rumor,” Lucrezia interposed, indicating Anna-Maria had at some point told her.

I paused. I looked at my women. I waved all of them save Lucrezia out.

“It’s Henri, isn’t it?” I asked her. “Out with it. What has he done this time?” I steeled myself for the recounting of some venality with Diane. Instead, Lucrezia said, “It seems that while at war His Highness … well, he committed an indiscretion. The long hours on the front … like any man he sought some comfort. They say she was a young peasant girl, whom he visited only a few times. It would have ended there, only now she is with child. She claims it is his.”

My hands clutched my dress; I felt a dull crunch, something wet against my thigh. The bottle of elixir in my pocket: crushed. “Does he … does he acknowledge her claim?” I asked haltingly.

“Yes.” Lucrezia paused. “I fear there’s more.” She met my eyes. “La Sénéchale has requested that if the child is a boy, it be brought to her after its birth so she can raise it.”

I thought I wouldn’t be able to contain the sick feeling inside me. I waved Lucrezia out and then doubled over on my chair, my stomach heaving. Nothing came out. I tasted foulness, but it was as if my horror and disbelief had become a part of me.

I knew that now I must sacrifice everything if I was to survive.

In August 1538 the peasant woman bore a girl. She was given a stipend and allowed to keep the child, as Diane had no interest in raising a female. But while my husband’s mistress may have failed to get her hands on a child of his, I was not relieved. The very fact that Henri had sired a bastard invigorated the whispers at court of my continued barrenness, as there could be no doubt now as to who was to blame for our failure.

Every day that passed pushed me closer to the inevitable. Henri did not visit my bed or even see me for days on end, and I began to suspect that Diane actively campaigned against me, to destroy the little bit of
pleasure Henri and I might find in our marriage. My sole comfort and protection was the king, whose professed love for me had not changed.

In the year of my twenty-third birthday and eighth anniversary of my arrival in France, François moved to the Château of Amboise. Perched on a promontory overlooking the Loire, Amboise boasted spacious gardens and elaborate wrought-iron railings; a favored residence, François had spent years embellishing it, and here he announced a new plan he’d hatched to wrest Milan from Charles V.