History's Great Queens 2-Book Bundle: The Last Queen and The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (80 page)

I paused.
How
did he know?

“His conscience is his own,” I said carefully. “Yet if we show our people that princes of different faiths can live together in harmony, perhaps they too will follow suit.”

He did not speak. I reached to the portfolio, retrieved the letter. “Just sign. After that, I’ll ask nothing more of you. If Jeanne refuses, so be it.”

I inked a quill, extended it to him. He hesitated for a moment, but he did not read the letter. Then he leaned forward and appended his signature, so close I might have touched him.

I sanded the letter. “We’ll celebrate our Christmas court in Paris this year; you’re welcome to stay. Our next Council session will be held after the New Year.”

“By your leave, I’ll spend Christmas at Châtillon with my wife and children.” His mouth shifted into what might have passed for a smile. “I wed again in La Rochelle. God has seen fit to bless me again at this late stage in my life.”

I could not look at him. “Congratulations,” I heard myself say. “I hope you’ll both be very happy. Good day, my lord.”

He bowed. As soon as he left, I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth. Birago slipped in.

“He signed,” I said. “But I want him watched. I … I don’t trust him.”

Birago retreated, clicking the door shut.

I looked at the letter, at the tight curlicues of his signature, and felt torment prowl the fissures of my heart, like a howl seeking its way out.

T
HE LETTER WORKED; JEANNE RETURNED WORD THAT SHE WOULD
come and I went to inform Margot.

She sat staring at me as if I’d uttered an obscenity before she said, “If this is a joke, it’s in very poor taste.”

“I assure you, it’s not. Queen Jeanne and her son will arrive in May. We’ll meet them at Chenonceau. If all goes as planned, you and Navarre shall marry in August.”

She came to her feet. “I think not. He’s a Huguenot, a heretic. He’s unworthy of me.”

I regarded her from my chair, unable to rise owing to another flare-up of my sciatica. I didn’t enjoy doing this to her; for all her outward maturity, to me she was still my child, whom I must sacrifice for the good of the realm. But few of us marry for love; as royal women, we must fulfill our duty and Margot was more fortunate than most, for she wasn’t being sent to a foreign court.

“You forget he’s a prince,” I said, keeping my tone gentle but firm, “and he will one day be king of Navarre; he’s therefore most worthy of you.” I preempted her protest. “And in case you’re thinking of running
to Charles, you should know that he has given his consent. He too believes your marriage can bring Huguenot and Catholic together.”

Her eyes widened. “You actually think this marriage will bring us together?”

“Why shouldn’t it? You may not share the same religion, but you’ll bear him sons and—”

“You want him to convert,” she interrupted. “This isn’t about resolution; this about winning your battle with Coligny. You want to crush him with my womb.”

Her acuity caught me by surprise, though I should have anticipated it. I would have to persuade her by appealing to her sense of purpose.

“Jeanne of Navarre is gravely ill,” I said. “When she dies, her son will become a Protestant king, overseeing a Protestant state. The Huguenots look to him for leadership. I’ll not have him plunge France into chaos. He must be brought into our fold. Who better to do this than you?”

“As simple as that,” she replied flippantly. “It all comes to pass because you wish it so? I wonder what will happen when Jeanne discovers your intent. She’ll not be pleased, I suspect, and Navarre might have a thing to say about it as well, considering he must revere his faith.”

“What can he know of faith? He was a child when Jeanne started filling his ear with Huguenot nonsense. After all is said and done, he’ll learn one sermon is as good as another.”

She laughed incredulously. “You can’t honestly believe that! You know Jeanne is pledged body and soul to her faith and has taught her son to do the same. After all these years of war, how can you not understand that their way of worship is as important to them as ours is to us?”

“We worship the same God,” I snapped, stung by her insight. This was not going as I’d planned. When had my daughter paid such close attention to doctrine? She was a dutiful Catholic, yes, but I’d always thought she viewed religion much as I did: as a necessary institution we must conform to because the alternative was chaos.

“You are a Valois princess,” I added. “As Navarre’s queen, you can bind him and his faith to us. It is your duty, and a small price to pay for a future of peace.”

Her expression wavered. Had I finally touched her pride? While
Navarre might not be her ideal, how could she resist playing a pivotal role in our welfare?

Our eyes locked. To my disconcertion, I still saw no indication that I’d convinced her. She looked at me as if she were seeing me for the first time and didn’t quite like what she found. Then she said quietly, “Very well. I’ll do as you ask. But you can’t make me love him.”

“You’ll fare better without love. We Medici always do.” As soon as I spoke, I regretted it. I’d remembered Papa Clement’s phrase exactly, used it to the same horrid purpose. I saw her flinch, take a small step back. I wanted to console her, to somehow ease the harsh reality of what I’d said. But I could not. I would not lie to her nor pretend the task I set before her was anything other than what it was: an act of submission, which could entail the loss of her youthful dreams.

“You should pack for Chenonceau,” I murmured, and with a curtsy she turned and walked out, leaving me sitting there, an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.

That night after I retired, I tossed and turned for hours.

I loved Margot. Of all my children, she and Henri were my brightest, combining the best of the Medici and the Valois bloods. Why did I now condemn her to a loveless union, when I knew how much misery it entailed? Had the past years of war and struggle hardened me so much that I didn’t think twice about sacrificing her happiness? Maybe this marriage wasn’t meant to be. I could still put a halt to it, go to Charles and—

Sharp rapping came at my door. I glanced at the candle; the hours notched on its side had dissolved in a molten pool. It was too late for visitors. Then I heard Lucrezia say, “Your Grace, Margot’s lady is here. She says Her Highness is in danger.”

I hobbled down the darkened galleries in the west wing of the Louvre, which I’d shut down for repairs. I was panting, my sciatic leg throbbing, as Lucrezia and I came before an open door.

“
Putain!
” a voice yelled. “I’ll flay you alive for this!”

At the crack of a lash, I forgot my pain and barreled in. Margot cowered
by a coffer, her scarlet bodice in shreds, her lacerated arms raised to protect her face. Charles stood over her with a hunting whip. By the shuttered window, Henri held a dagger to the throat of none other than young Guise. His distended blue eyes met mine as my son dug the stiletto against his neck, drawing a bead of blood that trickled down his strong white throat.

“Shall I do it?” hissed my son. “One less Guise makes no difference to me.”

Margot cried out, “No! Leave him alone. It’s not his fault. I asked him to meet me here!”

Only then did I notice that once again both she and Guise wore red. And I understood, with a sickening knowledge that curdled inside me. She was Guise’s lover, had been his lover for months. Their choice of color was obvious, a declaration I should never have failed to notice.

Charles lashed out with the whip, cutting into her shoulders. Her wail propelled me forward. I wrenched the whip from him. He whirled on me, snarling like one of his dogs. I saw something terrifying in his eyes, a demon blazing at me, and I backed away, saying to Henri, “Let Guise go.”

Henri withdrew his blade. A spasm shook Guise. “Madame,” he said, “I am wronged.” His gaze shifted to Henri; my son’s face darkened. “It is I who am wronged,” Henri said in a quavering voice filled with an emotion I’d never heard from him. “You have played me for a fool and I will never forget it.”

“I did not intend to,” said Guise softly, “but you wanted something from me that I could not give.”

Henri started to lunge. I lifted my voice, detaining him. “No.” I looked at Guise. “You will leave court at once. Return to your family estate in Joinville and stay there.”

He bowed, gathering his doublet about him. He shot a look at Margot before he walked out. Henri called after him, “If I ever catch you with my sister again, I’ll see you dead!”

I signaled to Lucrezia to close the door and bar it from any intrusion. With the whip still in my hands, I turned to my sons. “What is wrong with you? She is your sister. How could you—”

“She’s a whore,” spat Charles, his lower lip spraying blood, cut no doubt by his own teeth. “She’s about to be betrothed to Navarre and she goes and fucks Guise behind our backs.”

I suppressed my horror as I gazed at his twisted expression, his shoulders, thickened with muscle from his daily labors in his armory, hunched about his neck.

“Go,” I said. “Let me take charge of this.”

“Yes,” said Henri. “Let Maman take charge. I daresay Guise won’t come near Margot again.”

Charles barked sudden laughter. “Yes, and he’ll stay away from you too, brother. No doubt, your pretty bodyguard Guast will be pleased.”

Henri froze. Then he grabbed Charles by the arm and steered him out, leaving me with Margot. She forced herself to her feet, her hair catching in the clotted blood on her shoulders.

“Is it true?” I said. “Did you let that Guise whelp take your virginity?”

“No.” She was trembling uncontrollably. “I … I only wanted to see him, to … to say good-bye.” Her voice choked on a sob; she buried her face in her hands. “I love him. I love him with all my heart and now I’ve lost him forever because of you.”

I found myself unable to move. She had nearly cost me everything by giving herself to the heir of a family that was my most relentless foe; yet I could not blame her entirely, for it was my fault. I had underestimated the depths of her passion; I hadn’t realized how dangerous it could become. In a man, such impulse was permissible, even admirable; but in an unwed woman, especially a princess, it could spell her doom.

“You must never see him again,” I heard myself say, and my voice was flat, cold. “Do you understand me? Never. Guise is dead to you now. As you must be to him.”

She raised huge tearstained eyes, full of a pain that I almost couldn’t bear to see. I extended my hand to her. “Come, we must tend those wounds. Can you walk?”

She nodded and together with Lucrezia I took her to her apartments.

The next day, I wrote to the duchesse de Guise to inform her that the recently widowed Madame Porcein would make an excellent match for her son. The widow in question was in fact twice his age, but I assumed he’d informed his family of his predicament and there would be no objection. There wasn’t. Guise wed his bride in a hasty ceremony the very next week.

I went to inform Margot. Guise had not fought for her; he did not lift a single protest that she was his one and only love. The stunned expression on her face said everything.

“Now,” I added, “you can devote yourself entirely to Navarre. You will marry him, get him to convert, and bear sons that you can rear as Catholic princes. It is your destiny.”

“My destiny,” she echoed. She smiled darkly. “Is that what you call it? You and Charles have taken everything from me. You have destroyed me. I hate you both. I wish you were dead.”

I eyed her where she sat taut on her bed, like a wounded animal about to strike.

“So be it,” I said, and I yanked open the door. “But whatever you feel, you will do as I say.”

Storm clouds hovered over Chenonceau, a fanged wind ripping at our standards and our clothes as we waited for Queen Jeanne’s entourage.

My hands were numb in their lynx-lined gloves. A few steps away Margot stood in a primrose satin gown, her sable hood crumpled about her head like a ruined veil. The bruises had faded, but she was not speaking to us, her face a mask of stony indifference.