The Confessions of Catherine de Medici Page 6

  I was rewarded by his astonishment, and his men’s staring disapproval, when I came to his side. “Let me ride with you today,” I said, and he looked at me before he nodded. “You’d best know how to use that bow,” he said, and he spurred his stallion forth, his hounds baying as they caught scent of prey. I followed, reveling in the sensation of the forest rushing past me, laughing aloud when a low branch snagged my riding cap and tore it from my head. Leaning in my saddle against my mare’s powerful neck, I urged her on, determined to keep pace. And there, on the edge of a clearing, I saw the hounds corner a young doe, her ears flattened against her exquisite head, her expressive eyes distended in fear as she bucked at the circling dogs with her hooves.

  François beckoned me. His men were about him, yanking at their lathered steeds and watching me with disdain. “She’s yours,” said the king. “Do her proud.”

  I met his eyes. I didn’t want to kill that valiant beast fighting for her life; my heart resisted even as I took up my bow and fitted the arrow. I waited until the doe rose on her hindquarters to evade a lunging dog. I closed my eyes, let the arrow fly. I heard the men gasp. The taut silence was broken by the houndsmen shouting at the dogs to stay put; when I opened my eyes I saw the doe dead on the ground, my arrow protruding from her chest.

  I turned to François, who gestured for me to dismount. Cutting off the doe’s right ear, he took its bleeding edge and drew it down my cheek, the blood still hot. He handed me the ear. “Though you pitied her,” he said, “you did not hesitate. That is the way of life, ma petite. Sometimes we must strike first, before we are struck in turn.”

  He turned to his men with an ebullient laugh. “My daughter-in-law has brought me pride this day! She hunts as well as any man, and better, I think, than many of you.”

  As the men returned his laughter with halfhearted enthusiasm, I glowed. That day, I rode back to the château with the king at my side, the doe’s blood dry on my face and her ear weighting my belt pouch. By the time I arrived, the court had gathered in the courtyard. I smiled when I glimpsed the disbelief on the ladies’ faces as they saw me riding beside François with dried blood on my face; now they actually had something to talk about, though I wasn’t so naïve as to believe I was any safer. While I could now ride the hunt with the king, I was still a barren wife; and after the dauphin, Henri was next in the line of succession.

  I had to bear sons to secure the Valois line. If I failed, like the doe whose life I had taken today, I too could be brought down.

  I therefore contrived to be seen as often as I could, hoping to gain further notice and perhaps entice one of the ever-present gossips to send word to Henri that his wife, the duchess, was becoming quite the presence at court. I cajoled Marguerite to the galleries, the halls, and the gardens, where we sat with our women arranged about us in all their decorative profusion.

  After weeks without a sign of him, I felt like a fool, dressed to the teeth and looking all the more desperate for it. I’d have killed a thousand does rather than endure the ladies who paused to greet me with predatory smiles and the gentlemen with their exaggerated bows, all of whom no doubt went on to whisper behind their hands that la Medici was trying especially hard these days to appear as though she hadn’t just stepped off the boat. Honorary member of the Petite Bande or not, in their eyes I was still the foreigner who’d had the luck to snare a prince—though how long I’d keep him was debatable, considering he preferred the company of his mistress.

  It was then that my hatred for Diane de Poitiers took root in my heart. I had not even seen her, but if I could have I’d have poured the vial of poison Ruggieri had given me into her goblet. She had tainted my new life, turned it into something fearful, and there was nothing I could do to thwart her. One afternoon as I sat ensconced in my uncomfortable finery, a book sent to me from Florence in my hands, enduring the courtiers’ barbed regards even as I feigned to be immersed in the pages, I realized I could bear no more. I came abruptly to my feet.

  Marguerite turned to me. “Catherine, are you well?” she said, even as she looked toward an approaching group of courtiers, the type she liked to engage in banter to prove her intellectual superiority.

  “I’m restless, is all. I think I’ll walk awhile.”

  She moved to accompany me; I stopped her. “You mustn’t disappoint your friends. They’ll cry to heaven if you don’t stay and humiliate them with your knowledge.”

  She smiled. “Are you sure you’ll—”

  “Naturally,” I said before she could say anything else, and I went down the gallery to the far doors, moving as fast as I could in my stiff brocade.

  As soon as I was out of sight, I ripped the crescent hood laden with seed pearls from my head, tore off my starched ruff, and threw them aside, not caring that they’d cost a good sum. I undid the silver-tipped laces at my collar and shook out my hair from its confining net, letting it tumble over my shoulders. Tucking my book into my pocket, I made for the terrace.

  Peace. Peace and quiet was all I wanted right now, my uncertain future be damned.

  Skirting the artificial lake, I moved into the unkempt part of the palace grounds, where the manicured knot gardens faded into a dishevelment of chestnuts, willows, and ferns. There were meandering paths here, dappled with sunlight. I heard birdsong, the rustle of leaves; I saw the fiery dart of a startled fox. I’d almost forgotten how beautiful France was outside the glittering artificiality of the court.

  I’d explored this area once before with Marguerite and now sought a clearing we’d found, where the grass grew thick. I thought I’d lie there awhile and read. But I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, because I found myself in a copse of silver beech. Fontainebleau wasn’t surrounded by walls; I could get lost in the woodlands, and so I paused.

  It was then I espied a figure moving ahead of me among the trees.

  He wore a cream-colored doublet and leather breeches, with riding boots that reached to his thighs. His head was uncovered, his thick tawny hair ruffled as he moved with his chin down, hands clasped behind his back. He seemed so engrossed in thought that I started to step back, lest I disturb him. A twig cracked underfoot, unnaturally loud in the silence.

  The man froze. He turned. We stared for a long moment at each other before he bowed. My heart gave a pleasant start. It was the constable’s eldest nephew, Gaspard de Coligny.

  We walked toward each other. Though I hadn’t seen him since my nuptials, I remembered him well and it crossed my mind that our chance encounter might be misinterpreted if witnessed by others, given the court’s licentiousness. I shrugged. Who would see us here? And if they did, perhaps it would reach Henri’s ears and rouse his pride, as even he, for all his neglect of me, wouldn’t want the court saying his wife had taken to walking alone with other men.

  “Forgive me if I startled Your Highness,” he said. His voice was deep but low, his simple apparel and faint growth of beard a refreshing lack of vanity rarely seen at court.

  “Oh, not at all,” I replied, and to my ears I sounded a little breathless. “I’m glad of you. I thought I was lost.” As I met his piercing pale blue eyes, I was aware of my loose hair, the open chemise at my throat. I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “I was beginning to think I might end up lost in the forest,” I added, with a laugh. “I fear I’ve turned myself quite around.”

  His smile was gentle. “You’re a few steps away from the formal gardens. There’s little forest left on this side of the château. Most of it was destroyed to build His Majesty’s great gallery.”

  “Where his Italian paintings hang? Oh, that’s a pity—though it is a beautiful gallery.”

  “It is,” he said, but I sensed he did not share the king’s passion for art. The silence that settled between us was not awkward. Rather, I found his presence comforting, as if we’d known each other a long time and didn’t require meaningless chatter. At length, he said, “Whenever I come to court, I try to come here, to think. I’ve just arrived and already I find the noise
and crowds of people distracting. I’m not used to it.”

  It was true that I hadn’t seen him at court at all. “Do you not come often?”

  He shook his head. “Since my father died, I’ve too many obligations at my estate in Châtillon. But my uncle, the constable, would like nothing better if I took up residence here, of course, to further the family name, as sons of noblemen should.”

  “I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing,” I said.

  He inclined his head. “Thank you. He was a good father. I still miss him.”

  “You’re lucky to have known him,” I said. “My parents died within a week of my birth. I never had a chance to feel their love for me.”

  In the resulting quiet, I looked away. What had possessed me to say something so intimate to someone I scarcely knew, for all his kindness?

  He said softly, “I’ve heard of your trials in Italy. You are brave indeed to have gone through so much at so young an age. It cannot have been easy to then leave everything you’ve known behind for a foreign land.”

  I turned back to him. “Am I that obvious?”

  “To those who care to look.” He smiled again. “Your Highness needn’t worry. It seems to me that very few at this court notice much beyond their own self-interests.”

  “Catherine,” I said. “Please, call me Catherine.”

  “I’m honored.” He held out his arm. “Would you let me accompany you to the gardens?”

  I set my hand on his arm. I felt taut muscles under his sleeve, and a soothing gratitude came over me as he led us toward the château. Our heels rustled dying leaves on the loam; he pointed out a vivid red cardinal and I saw in his intent gaze that he was a man who revered nature. I wanted to share something with him and withdrew the book from my pocket.

  “I received it from Florence last week,” I told him. “Isn’t the binding exquisite? No one binds books as they do in my native city. This is a special edition, made for my family.”

  He took the slim red calfskin and gilt-folio volume. The careful way he opened the cover suggested his intellect. I was surprised, however, when he said, “I know this book. It was written for your great grandfather, Lorenzo the Magnificent.”

  “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, exchang
ing 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.