The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (10 page)

“They’ve forced his hand,” the duchess went on. “Poor man, he’s always preferred to act as if this realm is beholden in its entirety to Rome and Protestants don’t exist.” She sighed. “It’s so unpleasant. I don’t see what they think they’ll achieve by this defiance. It’s not as if their Lutheran counterparts in the Low Countries fare any better. From the Netherlands to Germany, the Hapsburg domains are riddled with chaos—and all over this so-called New Religion.”

“But this is just a pamphlet,” I found myself saying. “It’s paper and ink. His Majesty must know it can do no harm—”

She leaned to me, cutting off my words. “Catherine, you must not think to interfere. François needs time for his temper to cool. And you’ve more important matters to consider.” She paused, searching my eyes. “Word has come that His Holiness your uncle has died.”

I heard the news in silence. So, Papa Clement was dead. I realized I should have felt sad, as he had been the sole remaining link with my past, but all I felt was relief. I was free now. I would never again have to endure his intrigues or influence over me. At last I could be a Frenchwoman, embrace with all my heart and soul the identity I had forged for myself.

Then I heard her say, “My dear, I know how wretched you must feel. Your uncle is gone and you’ve been left a pauper, without your dowry.”

“My dowry,” I echoed, startled. “But wasn’t it granted to the king upon my marriage?”

“No, your uncle promised much but he never actually signed the document giving François the superior claim to Milan.” She sighed. “I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid this is something you must do on your own. Only you can save yourself now.”

I raised my eyes to her. The hour I had dreaded was upon me and I must face it. I thought of the siege in Florence, of how I’d fought to stay alive even after I was torn from my aunt and how I had survived. I could survive this too. Yet, though I told myself this, I trembled as the duchess led me in silence down the corridors to the double oak doors of François’s private apartments.

I entered his study. The curtains were drawn, giving the room a murky feel; but I could tell even in the shadows where he stood that he was haggard, the toll of the last weeks etched on his face. He motioned to a chair. “Sit, my child.” Before I knew what I was doing, I said quietly, “I know my uncle has played Your Majesty false. I can offer no excuse for his behavior nor atone for the grievous damage he has done. I beg your forgiveness that my family’s treachery has tainted the great trust you have given me.”

He stood quiet, looking at me. Then he came across the room and took my chin in his hand. He lifted my face to his, staring into my eyes. “Many at court say I took you naked as a babe, that in exchange for the promises of a Medici liar I have saddled my son with a barren mare.”

His words were uttered without rancor, a mere statement of fact, and yet they plunged through me like nails. I did not flinch. I met his gaze and said, “They are wrong. While you may have indeed taken me in naked as the day I was born, the love I bear for you is worth a thousand treasures. I would die before I would ever see you or France harmed.”

He did not move for a long moment. Then a chuckle sounded low in his throat. “Yes, I know that were it up to you, you’d have handed all of Italy to me on a plate.”

“Yes,” I replied. “I would. But as I cannot, I swear to you I will not prove your belief in me wrong. Come what may, I
will
bear you grandsons.”

A slow smile spread over his pale lips. He reached out to caress my cheek and there was something in the way he moved closer to me, in the way his fingers grazed my skin and his eyes turned heavy and moist, that went right through me like a tiny bolt of flame.

“Ah, my child,” he murmured. “We could have enjoyed each other once. How cruel a trickster is fate that we should be brought together now, when I find myself in the winter of my decline and you are still budding into your first spring.”

I didn’t avert my eyes. I looked at his fallen skin, at the coarse white hair threading his beard, and then I too reached up and laid my hand on his cheek. “Trickster or not,” I said gently, “not even fate could keep us apart. I am here now, my king. And here is where I wish to stay.”

He enfolded me in his arms. “Ah, my Catherine, your uncle used us both cruelly, but you are right: at least he brought us together. I’d not exchange you for anything, no, not even for Milan.” He chuckled again under his breath. “God spare me such a choice.” He drew back. “You needn’t fear. As long as I am alive, you will always have a place here.”

I melted against his chest. “I will not forget my promise,” I said, and he replied, “I know. There are many ways to obtain our desires,
ma petite
. Remember that, for it will serve you well.”

Shortly before Lent, I was overjoyed by the arrival of the Ruggieri brothers, who had sent me a letter begging my help to escape from Florence. I’d sent them money for their passage and a safe conduct, and I greeted them in my apartments with open arms, surrounded by my Italians. Our mutual cries and embraces, tears, and eager questions revealed my household’s homesickness, the arrival of fellow countrymen always cause for celebration.

Eighteen-year-old Carlo had become a robust youth, toughened by his trials. He appeared far healthier than Cosimo, now thirteen but appearing much younger, and so weakened by the voyage that after he drank a cup of broth, he curled on my bed in my chamber and fell asleep.

My ladies made a supper from the Tuscan cheese, Sienna olives, and wine the Ruggieris had brought as gifts. As we ate, I asked Carlo about Florence.

“Madama, the Florentines speak highly of you. They say you have redeemed the Medici name by your dignity and your position here in France.”

His words warmed my heart. Though I had nothing left there, I relished the thought that Italy still remembered me. Then I saw Carlo
lower his eyes and I said softly, “You’re not telling me something. What is it? You can confide in me.”

“It’s Cosimo. He has suffered greatly. He was grief-stricken when Papa fell ill during the siege and died. I thought he’d never recover.”

I nodded sadly, remembering the last time I’d seen the old Maestro in his attic study, surrounded by the paraphernalia of his calling. His death severed another link with my past, and my hand lifted to my chest, where, under my chemise, hung the little vial he’d given me.

Carlo went on: “The authorities came and confiscated our house; they took everything. We were forced to beg in the streets until one of the convents took pity on us. The sisters let us tend their gardens and helped us send our letter to you.” He sighed. “We’ve the clothing on our backs and Papa’s scrolls. Cosimo carried them everywhere. Papa told him he had a gift. I never paid much attention to such things. What I want is to sail the seas, not be another Jew peddling trinkets. But Cosimo wants to learn. Still, he can’t serve you in any real capacity—”

“Carlo!”

We looked up. Cosimo hovered in the doorway wrapped in one of my robes, his brown hair spiked about his face. He glared. “I can serve her. I know enough to earn my keep.”

“Cosimo, she’s a French princess now. She has herbalists and physics by the dozens.”

“Wait.” I beckoned Cosimo. He dragged his feet on the carpet, pouting, like the dirty child he’d been when I’d last seen him. I poured wine, served him a plate. He sat on the floor and ate with the greed of one who would never forget hunger. When he finished, I said, “Tell me your plan.”

“I can serve you as a physic,” he said, with another scowl at Carlo. “I can make perfumes and lotions and medicinal drafts. I know about herbs, and what I don’t know I can learn.”

“Indeed?” I was amused by his earnestness. “It so happens that I lack a skilled physic, but there is no one at court I can apprentice you to.”

Cosimo rose without a word and went back into the bedchamber. When he came out, he carried a bundle of bleached leather tied at both ends. He pushed my platter aside and set the bundle before me, untying it to reveal reams of parchment covered in strange writing and symbols.

His eyes met mine. “These were Papa’s. I’ve been studying them for
months, every spare hour I could find. There are mysteries inscribed here, knowledge of the occult and divine. I can learn everything I need. I don’t need anything else.”

The chamber was plunged into a quiet so intense, I heard nothing except the quickening of my heart. I recalled the Maestro’s words:
You will fulfill your destiny. It may not be the destiny you want, but fulfill it you will
. Carlo arched his brow at me, oblivious. When I looked at Cosimo, I saw that he knew. His power enveloped us in a way no one else could feel.

“I can help you,” I heard him say, though his lips didn’t move. “I can make your husband fall in love with you.”

The intimacy dissipated. I repressed the urge to rub my arms, my skin goose-pimpling with a stir of my own gift. Cosimo had it, as well. But whereas I’d neglected it, he’d set his entire being to mastering it. What might I accomplish with him at my side? If we worked together, how easy might it be to lure Henri to my bed again so I could conceive a child? I wasn’t looking forward to enduring that humiliating act again but I must bear children, lest the court deem me barren.

Cosimo turned away, an emaciated adolescent without a single mark that set him apart. As he gathered the parchments, Carlo said, “Did he do it? Did he try to cloud my lady’s mind?”

“Yes,” I said, surprised that he had in fact noticed. “How did you know?”

“He does it all the time. He should be an actor, not an herbalist.”

“He’s exceptional. I’ll make him my personal astrologer and buy him a house in Paris where he can devote himself to learning.” I looked at Cosimo. He returned my stare, his features smudged with grime. Then I said to Carlo, “And you, my friend, will serve in the navy under His Majesty’s banner. I myself”—I lifted my voice as Carlo seized my hand to bathe it in kisses—“will speak to the king tomorrow and ask him to grant you a post.”

After that, I went to bed for a nap. Yet even from behind the walls and locked doors, I sensed Cosimo reaching for me. The sensation was feral, dangerous, and oh so beguiling.

I secured Carlo a post in the king’s navy and had Birago discreetly purchase a house by the Seine with a private quay for Cosimo.

I was seventeen years old. I had survived my first crisis in France. No one save Birago and Lucrezia knew that I stole away to visit Cosimo. I applied the perfumes and lotions he assured me would attract my husband and read books on herb lore, so I could teach myself how to crush leaves and petals into fragrant paste, which I then cooked in scented oil over a brazier.

Marguerite volunteered to be my assistant. We spent hours testing lumpy lotions and foul perfumes, the windows flung open to release the smoke from the brazier, our eyes tearing as we hunched over the pot. We scalded, exfoliated, and chaffed our faces and throats more times than I care to count, Marguerite lathering my mixtures on me until they started to burn and she raced about wetting cloths, trying to remove the offending substance before I burst into flame. She didn’t know that each time we failed to discover the aphrodisiac I sought, I almost screamed in frustration. She held my hands while my skin blistered and I muttered that I’d have to wear another high-necked gown for the rest of the week. Then she’d say, “Let’s try again, only this time add more lavender,” and we’d hunch over the pot once more.

How could I have known no amount of tincture of rose would conjure the love I craved?

After weeks of wasted experiments, I sat out the evening banquet in morose silence, a ruffled collar covering my most recent rash. The court cavorted, their ribald laughter ringing in my ears; I envied their conceits, their foolish rivalries and vanities, for at that moment all I could envision was a future devoid of all comfort. I wanted the feast to end so I could retire to my rooms and shout at the walls.

Then the hall fell silent. Heads inclined to heads; a single gasp issued and died. I froze.

Henri appeared at the head of the staircase leading into the hall, clad in a dramatic black and silver costume. I stared at the garters encircling his muscular thighs, looked up past his codpiece to his chest, where he wore a jeweled brooch of a crescent moon, entwined with a bow.

The king and the duchess were making their rounds. François paused when he saw his son, his face registering surprise that for once Henri dressed as befitted the occasion. My heart started to pound; I sensed disaster
looming, like a mass of darkness gathering at the back of my eyes. I fumbled for my goblet and tipped it over. I leapt up, yanking my skirts from the dripping mess.

At that moment, a woman stepped from the shadows behind Henri. Together, they walked down the stairs into the hall, not touching, yet so in tune they seemed to move as one.

She glided as if her feet didn’t touch the ground, her silver-ash hair swept from her narrow brow, her slim figure set off to perfection by a dramatic gown of black and white that echoed Henri’s ensemble. She wore no jewels save for the same crescent symbol on her breast, drawing every courtier’s stare as she came to stand beside my husband.

I stared at her, horrified. She was like a marble statue come to life, a mature woman at the height of her powers, all too aware of her impact on others. I’d imagined a plump, affectionate governess; a wanton with smeared lips and dyed hair; and as if she could hear my thoughts she raised her eyes to me. A smile curved her mouth. It was a smile unlike any I’d seen, mocking and triumphant, exposing that dark place in my soul where fear and envy reigned.

Clutching my skirts, I fled from the hall. I didn’t stop running until I crashed into my apartments, causing my ladies to yelp and start from their stools.

Lucrezia came to me. “My lady, what is it? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“That … that woman. Diane de Poitiers. She is here, in the hall.” And as I uttered her name, I thought the vile taste of it would stay with me forever.
“Dio Mio
, she’s not old. She’s not ugly.” I pressed my hands on my dressing table, saw my long fingers with their painted nails, laden with rings. Looking up into the polished glass, the face staring back at me was like a stranger’s—an overblown Italian in a Frenchwoman’s paint, who lived on royal sufferance.