History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (59 page)

Diane stood. “Your Majesty, may I speak?” He nodded. “The queen of Scots is two years older than His Highness. The death of her father has left her and her realm prey to the English. Monsignor and I therefore suggest she be brought here as a companion to His Highness, so they may develop the mutual affection born of a childhood spent together.”

“Oh?” Henri’s expression warmed, to my dismay. “And what says the queen of Scots’ mother? Surely she doesn’t wish to be parted from her only child.”

The cardinal intervened. “My sister fears for her daughter’s safety. She too begs Your Majesty’s leave to send Mary here, where she can live under your protection.”

Nothing could have been more calculated. My husband was enamored of old-fashioned notions of chivalry; rescuing the helpless Scots queen from the English couldn’t fail to incite him, as Diane and the cardinal knew.

Henri turned to me. “Catherine, what say you?”

I wanted to say I’d prefer that my son wed Jezebel herself rather than
take a Guise bride to his bed, but the truth was I had no logical reason for protest save that I mistrusted the Guises and Mary Stuart shared their blood. Otherwise, it was, in fact, the ideal union, one that would bind Scotland and France in an unbreakable alliance and fortify our standing in Europe.

I had been outmaneuvered by masters and I smiled with as much dignity as I could master. “What else can I say? It appears we must welcome little Mary Stuart with open arms.”

“Good, then it’s settled.” Henri tugged at his doublet, eager to go change for his afternoon sport. “Have an escort of galleons sent to fetch the queen of Scots,” he instructed the cardinal, “and assure your sister that her daughter will receive honor here, by my word.”

The cardinal bowed. Henri said to Diane, “Would you care to join me for a round of tennis?”

She smiled. “I fear I cannot play, but it would give me pleasure to watch.” Inclining her head to me, she swept out with my husband, leaving me alone.

In early August Henri and I repaired to Lyons, where we were scheduled to make our royal entrance. It would not have been appropriate for Diane to be present, so she reluctantly remained behind with the children, leaving me to bask in the chance to show myself as Henri’s wife and queen.

For ten blessed days, he and I dwelled under the same roof without her, receiving petitioners, strolling in the gardens, and dining in the hall with the local nobility. We even played cards at night. Henri seemed to turn softer, more tranquil: he smiled and was attentive of me as a person. I began to realize that removed from the wiles of his mistress he was at heart a simple man who relished peace of mind, and I had a glimpse of what our life might be when one evening a messenger arrived with an urgent missive.

Henri rolled his eyes as he cracked the seal. “I wonder if my lord cardinal ever sleeps or if he spends his every hour with quill in hand.”

I chuckled, shuffling the deck of cards as he read. Suddenly he slammed his fist on the table. “God’s teeth, I won’t abide that heretic rabble defying me!”

I set the cards aside. As I saw his jaw clench under his beard, I said, “May I see it?”

He frowned. I never interfered in matters of state, much less where the cardinal was concerned. But Monsignor had won one round with the Mary Stuart betrothal and I wasn’t prepared to cede to him again. I added, “Perhaps I can be of some assistance.”

He extended the letter. It was quite simple: the Huguenots were demanding equal rights of worship and were distributing propaganda in Paris to this effect, much as they had during my father-in-law’s reign, only this time Monsignor wanted them arrested and burned at the stake.

I looked up. “Other than Monsignor’s opinion, I see no evidence here that the Huguenots defy you. In his zeal, I fear our lord cardinal has taken to seeing traitors in every corner.”

Henri did not speak for a long moment, his fingers drumming on the table. Then he muttered, “Perhaps. He did insist that I grant him leave to establish the Inquisition here.” He regarded me with narrowed eyes. “You’ve never mentioned that you knew about the Huguenots.”

I resisted the urge to sigh. There was so much he didn’t know about me. “I hear the court talk,” I said. “I do try to stay informed on any matters that might affect you, as a wife should.”

I watched the suspicion in his eyes fade; he was a stolid Catholic, too stolid in my opinion, but then to my surprise he laughed. “And so you’d advise me based on gallery gossip?”

“I wouldn’t presume. However, Machiavelli says the foundations of every state are good laws. I don’t believe the establishment of the Inquisition in France is good law. Misguided as they are, the Huguenots are still your subjects. Persecution would only increase their defiance.”

“Machiavelli, is it?” He gave me a pensive look. “Interesting … Still, these Huguenot gatherings must be curtailed somehow. Calvin does not rule here.”

“Then do it gently. Calvin does not rule here, and neither should the cardinal.”

As soon as I spoke, I paused, thinking I’d gone too far. Henri reached for his goblet, eyeing me over its rim. “It appears I misjudged you,” he said. He reached over to pat my hand. “Thank you, wife: common sense is a rare commodity. Now, deal those cards. I’ve a mind to win back all the money I lost to you over dice last night.”

We played until late. I basked in the newfound respect of his regard and the fact that he didn’t pay the cardinal’s letter any more mind.

When he kissed me good night, I was content to let him go alone to his bed. I didn’t dare hope our rapport would bring us closer; but I recalled what my father-in-law had said before he died and I thought that with me to counsel him my husband could learn to rule in his own right.

U
PON OUR RETURN TO PARIS, I WENT STRAIGHT TO ST. GERMAIN
, where my children were lodged. Word had come of Mary Stuart’s arrival while we were in Lyons and I opted to meet my future daughter-in-law without ceremony. I didn’t want the Guises to appear with Diane and Henri, obliging me to sit for hours on a hard-backed chair while the children played the lute and Madame and Monsieur d’Humeries hovered in the background like hawks.

So I went alone to the children’s wing. As I reached the nursery door, I heard dispute.

“François can be the knight and I’ll be the princess,” declared a strident voice in accented French. “You’ll be the evil queen.”

“But why? You’re a queen already,” protested my daughter.

“Yes, but your coloring is darker. Therefore, you must play the queen.”

I edged closer, peering inside. Mary Stuart stood with her back to me, seven years old and more than a head taller than my François, who gazed at her in awe. Clad head to toe in white satin, her hair an ash-gold mane that fell to her stripling waist, she had one hand on her hip while she
wagged the other at Elisabeth. My four-year-old daughter looked at her as if she were an apparition, one Elisabeth wasn’t certain she liked.

“I don’t want to be the queen,” Elisabeth said again.

“Well, if you don’t play her, who will?” retorted Mary, and I stepped in. “I’ll do it.”

The children froze. Or rather, my children froze. Mary spun about. “And who are you?”

She did make an impression. She had exquisite bone structure, near-translucent skin, and almond-shaped eyes. Her nose was long, a Guise nose; her mouth showed perfect little teeth. Robust health was evident in her slim body, which had gone stiff at my appearance.

I chuckled. “The question should be, my dear: Who are you?”

She passed her gaze over me. “I am the queen of Scotland and the Isles, of course.”

“Is that so? And what if I told you, queen of Scotland and the Isles, that I too am royal?”

She scoffed. “You can’t be. I’ve already met His Majesty and Her Grace.”

My smile vanished. Diane. She thought Diane was queen.

My children watched as I stepped closer to Mary. “So you’ve met the king and queen. Tell me, my dear, what do you think of them?”

“They’re beautiful, as a king and queen should be.”

“Indeed.” I looked at my son. “Do you find the queen of France beautiful, my prince?”

He cringed. “Mary,” he whispered, “this lady, she … she is—”

At that moment a disheveled young woman rushed in. She brought with her the smell of fresh-cut grass and roses, her fiery red hair tossed about a flushed face, her voluptuous figure squeezed into a far too ornate azure gown. She came to a halt, gasped, and dropped into a curtsy.

Mary went still.

“Please, rise,” I said. “You must be Janet Fleming, our queen of Scots’ governess.”

Janet Fleming stood. “I am, Your Grace,” she murmured, “to serve you, Your Grace.”

Mary lifted her stunned eyes to me. “You … you are …?”

I nodded and embraced her. “Now,” I said in her ear, “now you’ve met the queen.”

She shuddered in my arms. I drew back. “Go on,” I said. “Continue with your games.” I moved to the door and then I paused. “You didn’t answer my question, my dear.”

“Question, Your Grace?” She had recovered her poise with remarkable alacrity.

“Yes. Do you find me beautiful, as a queen should be?”

She replied without hesitation. “Of course. All queens are beautiful.”

It was a devious answer. But it gratified me all the same.

The following year, I bore my fourth child and second son, Charles. A month overdue, he was a small babe, unusually quiet. Still, he bore a strong resemblance even in his infancy to his father; and my husband, who held himself aloof from the nurseries, took an immediate fancy to him, charmed by Charles’s delighted gurgles whenever he showed up. Henri’s fondness for our new son also meant Diane swooped in to take charge of Charles’s household arrangements, insisting he needed two nursemaids because of his size, as well as extra attendants. Once more I was ignored, though I’d just given birth, and my hatred of Diane almost choked me.

But like me, she was about to discover the price she must pay.

I’d retired early from the evening banquet and sat before my dressing table, where Lucrezia brushed out my hair. Anna-Maria came to my door. “Your Majesty, Madame de Valentinois is here,” and without leave, Diane pushed past her.

“Leave us,” I told my women, and I turned to her. “Madame, I was just about to retire.”

Her mouth twitched. “I had to see Your Grace. It’s horrible. Horrible!”

I rose at once. “What is it? What has happened to my children?”

She shook her head. “They’re fine. I’ve just come from their apartments and they sleep like angels. I’m not here about them. I’m here about that harlot who watches over them.”

I paused. This was an unexpected turn of events. “Whom do you refer to: Madame d’Humeries or Lady Fleming?”

“Lady Fleming, of course. I’ve discovered she and the constable are lovers.”

I couldn’t contain my burst of laughter. “Handful the Fleming is, no doubt, but not even she would bed a man old enough to be her grandfather.”

My pointed barb regarding age went unnoticed; I refrained from adding that I rather liked Janet Fleming and the children adored her, for she was never averse to hiking up her skirts and joining them in a game of hide-and-seek or getting down on her knees to hunt for a lost toy.

“It is true,” Diane spat. “Janet Fleming consorts with him. Friends of mine, trusted friends, have seen her sneaking in and out of his apartments. It cannot continue. Think of the scandal should her harlotry become public.”

Much as I hated to admit it, she wasn’t being hysterical. Sexual indiscretions had a way of mutating at court. Anyone with a grudge against the Guises (and there were plenty) might use the indiscretion to cast calumny upon Mary, who would one day wed my son. I had no doubt Diane knew what she was talking about where Janet Fleming was concerned; after all, she had her spies and I’d experienced for myself how much she liked to watch in the bedroom, but I doubted Montmorency was involved.

I kept my thoughts to myself, however, enjoying the sight of her in a frenzy over another woman’s immorality. “It must be stopped! And Montmorency must be banished.”

“He does what is in most men’s nature, madame.” I consulted my fingernails. “Surely you don’t suggest that I should reprimand him for indiscretion in his private affairs?”

She waved her hand. “No, no. Monsignor will shoulder that task. Only he and his brother le Balafré require His Majesty’s consent to send Montmorency away and …”

I looked up. “Yes?”

“Well, His Majesty must first be persuaded of the gravity of the matter.”

“And you want me to inform him? If so, I should remind you that I could not do so unless I’d seen this indiscretion for myself—which of course is out of the question.”

She leaned to me, teeth bared. “It’s not as out of the question as you might think. They meet tonight in Montmorency’s chamber. I know how to catch them in the act.”

I felt as if she’d spewed acid on me. I considered ordering her out. I did not because if Lady Fleming was engaged in a carnal affair, I needed to know. Nothing must blemish my son’s bride. Besides, if I was right and Montmorency wasn’t the culprit it would give me the perfect opportunity to prove Diane wrong. She’d be in my debt for a change, and I’d make certain to exact a hefty price.