The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Read online

  ALSO BY C. W. GORTNER

  The Last Queen

  The Secret Lion

  For Erik, who always reminds me there is more to life;

  and for Jennifer, who always makes me laugh

  Bottle! Whose mysterious deep

  does ten thousand secrets keep,

  With attentive ear I wait;

  Ease my mind and speak my fate.

  —RABELAIS

  BLOIS, 1589

  I AM NOT A SENTIMENTAL WOMAN.

  Even during my youth I wasn’t given to melancholia or remorse. I rarely looked back, rarely paused to mark the passage of time. Some would say I do not know the meaning of regret. Indeed, if my enemies are to be believed, my unblinking eyes stare always forward, focused on the future, on the next war to fight, the next son to exalt, the next enemy to vanquish.

  How little they know me. How little anyone knows me. Perhaps it was ever my fate to dwell alone in the myth of my own life, to bear witness to the legend that has sprung around me like some venomous bloom. I have been called murderess and opportunist, savior and victim. And along the way, become far more than was ever expected of me, even if loneliness was always present, like a faithful hound at my heels.

  The truth is, not one of us is innocent.

  We all have sins to confess.

  Contents

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Valois Family Tree

  Map

  Blois, 1589

  Part I - The Tender Leaf

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part II - Naked as a Babe

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part III - Light and Serenity

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part IV - The Tigers

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Part V - The Tempest

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Part VI - Scarlet Night

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Part VII - The Beloved

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Blois, 1589

  Author’s Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  Reader’s Guide

  Excerpt from The Last Queen

  Copyright

  ONE

  I WAS TEN YEARS OLD WHEN I DISCOVERED I MIGHT BE A WITCH.

  I sat sewing with my aunt Clarice, as sunlight spread across the gallery floor. Outside the window I could hear the splashing of the courtyard fountain, the cries of the vendors in the Via Larga and staccato of horse hooves on the cobblestone streets, and I thought for the hundredth time that I couldn’t stay inside another minute.

  “Caterina Romelo de’ Medici, can it be you’ve finished already?”

  I looked up. My late father’s sister Clarice de’ Medici y Strozzi regarded me from her chair. I wiped my brow with my sleeve. “It’s so hot in here,” I said. “Can’t I go outside?”

  She arched her eyebrow. Even before she said anything, I could have recited her words, so often had she drummed them into my head: “You are the Duchess of Urbino, daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici and his wife, Madeleine de la Tour, who was of noble French blood. How many times must I tell you, you must restrain your impulses in order to prepare for your future?”

  I didn’t care about the future. I cared that it was summer and here I was cooped up in the family palazzo forced to study and sew all day, as if I might melt in the sun.

  I clapped my embroidery hoop aside. “I’m bored. I want to go home.”

  “Florence is your home; it is your birth city,” she replied. “I took you from Rome because you were sick with fever. You’re fortunate you can sit here and argue with me at all.”

  “I’m not sick anymore,” I retorted. I hated it when she used my poor health as an excuse. “At least in Rome, Papa Clement let me have my own servants and a pony to ride.”

  She regarded me without a hint of the ire that the mention of my papal uncle always roused in her. “That may be but you are here now, in my care, and you will abide by my rules. It’s midafternoon. I’ll not hear of you going outside in this heat.”

  “I’ll wear a cap and stay in the shade. Please, Zia Clarice. You can come with me.”

  I saw her trying to repress her unwilling smile as she stood. “If your work is satisfactory, we can take a stroll on the loggia before supper.” She came to me, a thin woman in a simple gray gown, her oval face distinguished by her large liquid-black eyes—the Medici eyes, which I had inherited, along with our family’s curly auburn hair and long-fingered hands.

  She swiped up my embroidery. Her lips pursed when she heard me giggle. “I suppose you think it’s funny to make the Holy Mother’s face green? Honestly, Caterina; such sacrilege.” She thrust the hoop at me. “Fix it at once. Embroidery is an art, one you must master as well as your other studies. I’ll not have it said that Caterina de’ Medici sews like a peasant.”

  I thought it best not to laugh and began picking out the offensive color, while my aunt returned to her seat. She stared off into the distance. I wondered what new trials she planned for me. I did love her but she was forever dwelling on how our family prestige had fallen since the death of my great-grandfather, Lorenzo Il Magnifico; of how Florence had been a center of learning renowned for our Medici patronage, and now we were but illustrious guests in the city we had helped build. It was my responsibility, she said, to restore our family’s glory, as I was the last legitimate descendant of Il Magnifico’s bloodline.

  I wondered how she expected me to accomplish such an important task. I’d been orphaned shortly after my birth; I had no sisters or brothers and depended on my papal uncle’s goodwill. When I once mentioned this, my aunt snapped: “Clement VII was born a bastard. He bribed his way to the Holy See, to our great shame. He’s not a true Medici. He has no honor.”

  Given his prestige, if he couldn’t restore our family name I didn’t know how she expected me to. Yet she seemed convinced of my destiny, and every month had me dress in my uncomfortable ducal finery and pose for a new portrait, which was then copied into miniatures and dispatched to all the foreign princes who wanted to marry me. I was still too young for wedlock, but she left me no doubt she’d already selected the cathedral, the number of ladies who would attend me—

  All of a sudden, my stomach clenched. I dropped my hands to my belly, feeling an unexpected pain. My surroundings distorted, as if the palazzo had plunged underwater. Nausea turned my mouth sour. I came to my feet blindly, hearing my chair crash over. A terrifying darkness overcame me. I felt my mouth open in a soundless scream as the darkness widened like a vast ink stain, swallowing everything around me. I was no longer in the gallery arguing with
my aunt; instead, I stood in a desolate place, powerless against a force that seemed to well up from deep inside me …

  I stand unseen, alone among strangers. They are weeping. I see tears slip down their faces, though I can’t hear their laments. Before me is a curtained bed, draped in black. I know at once something horrible lies upon it, something I should not see. I try to stay back but my feet move me toward it with the slow certainty of a nightmare, compelling me to reach out a spotted, bloated hand I do not recognize as my own, part the curtains, and reveal

  “Dio Mio, no!” My cry wrenched from me. I felt my aunt holding me, the frantic caress of her hand on my brow. I had a terrible stomachache and lay sprawled on the floor, my embroidery and tangled yarns strewn beside me.

  “Caterina, my child,” my aunt said. “Please, not the fever again …”

  As the strange sensation of having left my own body began to fade, I forced myself to sit up. “I don’t think it’s the fever,” I said. “I saw something: a man, lying dead on a bed. He was so real, Zia … it scared me.”

  She stared at me. Then she whispered, “Una visione,” as if it was something she’d long feared. She gave me a fragile smile, reaching out to help me to my feet. “Come, that’s enough for today. Let us go take that walk, si? Tomorrow we’ll visit the Maestro. He’ll know what to do.”

  TWO

  MY MAID AWOKE ME BEFORE DAWN. AFTER A QUICK BREAKFAST of cheese and bread, which I devoured, she dressed me in a simple gown, tied back my thick auburn curls with ribbon, and fixed a hooded cloak about my shoulders. She then hustled me into the courtyard, where Aunt Clarice and the towering manservant who accompanied her on errands waited.

  I was excited to be going out into the city at long last, but I still expected us to ride in a closed litter. Instead my aunt pulled up her own hood, clasped my hand, and led me out the gates into the Via Larga on foot, her manservant close behind.

  “Why are we walking?” I asked her, even as I thought it would be much more fun to see the city this way, instead of peering out from behind the litter’s curtains.

  “We’re walking because I don’t want anyone to know who we are,” replied my aunt. “We are Medici and people will talk. I don’t want everyone in Florence saying Madama Strozzi brought her niece to visit a seer.” Her hand tightened on mine. “Do you understand? Ruggieri might be much sought after for his talents, but he’s still a converted Jew.”

  I nodded uncertainly. I knew my aunt often sent for the Maestro to concoct herbal drafts; he had even helped heal me of my fever, but now that I thought of it I realized I’d never seen him in person. Did being Jewish mean he couldn’t visit us?

  We progressed down the Via Larga. Since my arrival in Florence three years ago, I’d left the palazzo exactly four times, all for formal outings to the duomo. Each time a retinue protected my person and impeded my view, as if any intermingling with the populace would endanger my health. Now as my aunt guided me into the city, I felt as if I’d been released from captivity.

  The rising sun bathed the city in saffron and rose. In the residential districts about the palazzo, the air still reeked from the night’s carousing. We wound through narrow lanes, avoiding pools of waste. I longed to stop and admire the looming statues poised in niches along the way, to gape at the engraved copper heralds of the baptistery and the duomo’s brick facade, yet my aunt propelled me forward, skirting the bustle of the marketplace for the back streets, where old houses leaned like decrepit trees, shutting out the light.

  I saw the manservant slip his hand to the sheathed knife at his waist. It was much darker here, the air thick with the smell of ordure. I stayed close to my aunt as I glimpsed scrawny children scampering down side streets, emaciated dogs at their heels. A few old gnarled women in tattered shawls huddled on the stoops of their houses and watched us pass. After several bewildering turns, we came before a rickety timber-framed house that seemed about to collapse at any moment. Here, my aunt paused; her servant banged on the lopsided door.

  It opened to reveal a slim boy with tousled hair and sleepy brown eyes. When he saw us, he bowed low. “Duchessina, I am Carlo Ruggieri. My father has been expecting you.”

  My aunt pressed a small cloth pouch into my hand. Startled, I glanced at her. “Go,” she said. “You must see the Maestro alone. Pay him when he’s done.” She pushed me forward when I hesitated. “Do not tarry. We haven’t all day.”

  I assumed this Carlo must be the eldest of the Maestro’s sons; I could see another smaller boy peering at me from behind him. I offered a tentative smile and the little boy sidled up to me, a small grubby hand reaching for my skirts.

  “This is my brother, Cosimo,” said Carlo. “He’s four years old and likes sweets.”

  “I like sweets too,” I told Cosimo. “But I don’t have any today.” He seemed to like the sound of my voice and clung to my hand while Carlo led me into the house’s shadowy interior, filled with a strange sharp smell. I glanced at a yellowed skull on a stack of musty parchments before he took me up a creaking staircase. The smells grew stronger: I detected camphor, herbs, and a bittersweet odor that reminded me of autumn, when pigs were slaughtered.

  I heard Carlo cry out, “Papa! The Medici is here!” and I reached the landing as he pulled open a narrow door. “He wants to see you alone,” he added, and he said to his little brother, “You must let her go now, Cosimo.”

  With a pout, Cosimo released my hand. I straightened my shoulders, moving into the Maestro’s study. The first thing I noticed was the light. It streamed in columns through an open louver set high in the exposed ceiling, illuminating a room not much larger than my bedchamber in the palazzo. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with books and glass jars with murky objects in fluid. In one corner a mound of pillows were arranged about a brass-topped table. A large marble slab on a trestle dominated the room. I was startled to see a body on it, half-covered by a sheet.

  Bare feet poked up from under the sheet. I paused. A voice that seemed to come from nowhere said, “Ah, my child, there you are!” and then the Maestro shuffled into my view, his sunken features framed by a silver beard. He wore a stained apron over his black robe. He motioned. “Would you like to see?”

  I moved to the slab. I had to stand on tiptoes to see over the edge. The body belonged to a woman, her head shaved, her torso split open from neck to pelvis. There was no blood or bad smell, other than that of herbs. I expected to be disgusted, scared. Instead, I found myself fascinated by the withered blue lungs and shrunken heart nestled within in a cage of broken ribs.

  “What are you doing?” I said softly, as if she might hear.

  He sighed. “Searching for her soul.”

  I frowned. “Can you see a soul?”

  His smile cracked the crevices of his face. “Do you always need to see something in order to believe in it?” He took me by the hand and brought me to the recessed corner and pile of cushions. “Now, sit. Tell me why you have come.”

  I still wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say, but the gentle way he looked at me made me want to tell him the truth. “I … I saw something yesterday. It frightened me.”

  “Was it a dream?”

  “No, I was awake.” I paused, thinking about it. “But it was like a dream.”

  “Tell me what you saw.”

  I did. As I spoke, I felt again that horrible sense of helplessness and heard my voice tremble. When I finished, the Maestro folded his hands. “Was someone you knew on that bed?” He smiled when I shook my head. “I see. That is why you were scared. You expected to find a loved one and saw a stranger instead. He was a young man, yes, with the mark of violence on him?”

  A chill crept up my spine. “How do you know?”

  “I see it in you. Oh, you mustn’t be afraid, my child. There’s no reason for fear, providing you understand that few would accept what you’ve just told me.” He shifted closer. “What you experienced yesterday is called a presentiment. It may foretell the future or be an echo from the past.
The ancients believed it is a gift from the gods; they revered those who mastered it. But in these dark days, it is often seen as the sign of a witch.”

  I stared. “My aunt said it was a vision. Is this why I’m here? Am I cursed by evil?”

  His laughter rang out. “I’ve seen many mysteries but I’ve yet to uncover proof of any curses.” He chucked my chin with his knobby finger. “Do you believe you are evil?”

  “No. I hear mass every day and I venerate our saints. But sometimes I have bad thoughts.”

  “As we all do. I assure you, there is no curse. I cast your horoscope when you still were a babe and I found no evil there.”

  He had cast my horoscope? My aunt had never mentioned it.

  “Why did I have this … this vision?” I asked him.

  “Only God knows the answer, though I warn you, it might not be your last. For some, such visions are common. For others, they appear in times of peril. And the gift runs in your family. It was said your great grandfather Il Magnifico could sometimes see the future.”

  I didn’t like this at all. “What if I don’t want it?” I said. “Will it go away?”

  His eyebrows arched. “The Sight cannot be denied. You’ve no idea of how many would forfeit their souls for something you’d deny so freely.”

  “Do you have it?” I asked, enticed by the idea that I possessed something so coveted.

  He sighed, lifted his eyes to gaze about the room. “If I did, would I need all this? No, Duchessina. I’ve just the skill to chart the stars and interpret in their course a path for men. But the heavens are not always forthright. ‘Quod de futuris non est determinata omnino veritas’: No truth can be determined for certain that concerns the future.”

  I reflected for a long moment before I said, “You can have my gift if you want it.”

  He chuckled, patting my hand. “My child, even if you could give it to me I couldn’t possibly learn to master it in the short time I have left.” He paused. “But you can.”