The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (35 page)

“Bah!” I waved my hand. “I don’t care what they say about me! But what if Navarre would agree for all children born of the marriage to be raised Catholic?” I was convinced now, the idea shining like a beacon. Surely this was what Nostradamus had meant. With Navarre as my son-in-law I could both protect and mold him, depriving the Huguenots of a royal figurehead to rally behind and forcing both sides to lasting compromise.

“In time,” I went on, “we might even persuade Navarre himself to convert. He’s young, impressionable; and if he and Margot live here, at court with us, who knows what we might achieve? At the very least, Navarre won’t take a stance against us.”

“All well and good,” said Birago, “but what about Coligny? Do you think he’ll agree?”

The mention of his name darkened my mood. “I hardly see how his opinion matters either way,” I retorted, yet even as I declared my defiance I braced myself for Birago’s next words.

“His opinion matters greatly,” Birago said, “as you well know. He may be disgraced and unwelcome at court, but he still holds great standing with the Huguenots and he’ll protest any arrangement that binds Navarre to the Catholic cause. He also holds tremendous influence over Queen Jeanne, whose approval you’ll need to conclude the marriage.”

There was nothing I liked less than being reminded of my limitations. “Leave her to me,” I said. “As for Coligny, every Catholic in France would leap to earn the reward I put on his head, if I give the word. He’s in no position to gainsay me. He owes me his life.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. I feared you might still nurture affection for him.” He met my eyes with a knowing look I couldn’t avoid. “After all, not too long ago you were still … friends.”

“That was before he broke his word and nearly brought us to ruin. Whatever affection I had for him is gone.” As I spoke, I pushed aside my doubt. I would always retain a remnant of emotion for Coligny; it was unavoidable, after everything we had shared. But never again would I let passion cloud my reason.

I passed my hands over my skirts, eager to start my plan. “We mustn’t tell anyone save Charles. I’ll need his consent, of course, but I don’t want word getting out until I return from Chaumont. Is that understood?”

“Yes,
madama
. My lips are sealed.” He did not need to ask why I wished to consult Cosimo.

“Are you certain? There must be something.” I paced the observatory at Chaumont as Cosimo examined Nostradamus’s chart, my stomach empty and my back and buttocks aching from the ride in my coach from Paris. All I wanted was a roast pheasant, a goblet of claret, and to rest my bones in the bedchamber readied for me.

“I see only the marriage with the Austrian.” Cosimo raised sunken eyes.

In his forties, he’d grown emaciated, moved with the furtive scuffle of a hermit, and had developed a disconcerting tic, his left shoulder twitching in tandem with a quiver in his cheek. The château itself also felt abandoned, the many rooms and halls shuttered, the staff I’d appointed to serve him dismissed. The smell of mold was so pervasive, Lucrezia had set herself to lighting fires in the hearths and dusting the mantels, while I climbed the stairs to the observatory, where Cosimo spent his waking hours.

“Cosimo,” I said, repressing my impatience, “Nostradamus claimed that chart contains ten years of my future; he told me I must protect Navarre. I already know about the Austrian. Don’t you see any other marriages there?”

I looked at the chart, which swirled with intersecting colored lines and planetary illustrations I couldn’t have deciphered to save my life. I had the unbidden thought that perhaps I should not trust his judgment in this matter. After all, did he possess any real power beyond interpreting vague portents and devising appropriate days for coronations, or did he
seize on opportunistic moments of lucidity, random occasions when he managed to pierce the veil between this world and the next? After knowing Nostradamus, I found Cosimo’s demeanor disconcerting, as if he sought to personify the shadowy character he thought a seer should be.

He sniffed. “The chart is arcane. Nostradamus obviously didn’t study in Italy.”

“Of course he didn’t. Do you see Margot’s sun sign, at least? She is a Taurus.”

“Let’s see.” He traced a line. “Yes, her life passage moves through this quadrant.” He tapped the paper. “According to this, she will marry a Sagittarius.”

I gasped. “Henri of Navarre is Sagittarius!”

His cheek twitched. “I said passage, not union. And an eclipse in Scorpio here signals blight.”

“Blight?” I paused. “What does that mean?”

“It’s unclear.” His lips pursed. “As I said, this chart was devised by one unskilled in such matters. Perhaps if you tell me what you wish to know, I can better assist you.”

I drew in a deep breath. I might as well tell him everything or we’d be here all night.

“I want to know if I should arrange a marriage between Margot and Navarre. I need to find a way to bind Catholic and Huguenot in peace and I think this might be it.”

Cosimo regarded me with one skeletal hand caressing the strange pendant at his chest. I’d noticed it when I arrived—a silver amulet depicting a horned creature, a hole piercing its middle.

“You could marry Margot to this prince,” he said, “but peace will not come so easily.”

“Of course not; I realize one marriage won’t solve everything. But if I can manage it, the Huguenots will have to lay down arms for the foreseeable future. Navarre will be one of us; they’ll have no prince to support their cause. All I need is Coligny and Jeanne’s consent.”

“And do you think they’ll give it?” he asked.

I snorted. “I think they’d rather die.”

“Then perhaps they should.” He turned to a nearby cabinet, removing an oblong lacquer box. He set it before me. Inside, arranged like tiny corpses on black velvet, were two perfect mannequins: a man and a
woman, genitals delineated. I lifted the male form with a mixture of awe and repulsion; it felt almost like living flesh.

“One for him and one for her,” Cosimo said. “With these, you can bring Coligny and Jeanne of Navarre under your control and make them do whatever you desire.” He withdrew a cloth bag from the box, containing silver pins. He held one up. “You must first personify them by attaching an article from the person: a hair, a piece of clothing, anything that belongs to them. Then you invoke your will. It’s like prayer. You can light candles too, red for domination, white to purify, yellow to vanquish. When you wish to exert power, drive these pins into the limbs. You can cause pain, illness, and incapacitation. Even death.”

With one long finger he pried back the velvet lining to reveal a secret compartment. Unhooking its tiny latch, he uncovered a small vial filled with white powder, much like the one his father had given me in Florence.

The candlelight sent distorted shadows across his hollowed face. “They call it
cantarella:
a combination of arsenic and other secret ingredients. It was said to be the Borgias’ favorite poison. Few know how to create it. It can cause illness, madness, and death. Mixed in food or wine, it is untraceable. No one will ever know.”

I met his unblinking stare. The male figure dropped from my hand into the box. It sprawled over the female, like macabre toys about to copulate. I snapped the lid closed, as though they might leap out.

“Now,” Cosimo breathed, “you have everything you need. You cannot fail.” He took off his amulet, sidled close to slip it over my head. It hung against my breast, heavier than it appeared. “Evil against evil,” he said, “in case they seek to counter you.”

I held back my smile at the thought of Coligny resorting to black magic. Cosimo’s stare unnerved me; he was quite serious in his suggestion that I invoke spells and poison my opponents, and I had the sense I’d best not refuse his bizarre gifts. Whatever he’d been doing in this château had addled his brain; he had crossed into a place where I did not wish to follow.

“You should be careful,” I said, eager now to eat and depart. “If you were ever overheard, you’d risk arrest and prosecution for witchcraft.”

His laugh was brittle and too high-pitched. “Who will ever hear me but you, my lady?”

I nodded and took up the box. He led me onto the torchlit landing. “I leave tomorrow at first light,” I said. “If you divine anything else in the chart, you must send word.”

His eyes seemed to go right through me, as if he intuited the unspoken rupture between us.

“I’ll devote myself to it entirely.”

I didn’t look back as I descended the stairs, but I felt his stare, stalking my heels.

“You look splendid.” I stepped aside to allow my new daughter-in-law full view of herself in the mirror. Isabel of Austria had arrived a week before to a lavish reception, which she endured with stoic gratitude despite her swollen eyes and the handkerchief she clutched to her nose as she sneezed every few minutes. She’d caught a nasty cold during her travels, but when I suggested we postpone the wedding until she recovered, she shook her head.

“No,” she stated in her accented French. “I must marry as planned. Then I bear a son.”

She seemed confident and I now watched her scrutinize her reflection without vanity, her fair brows furrowed inward as she adjusted the coronet on her dark gold hair. She wasn’t as attractive as her portrait. Her oval face was marred by the jutting Hapsburg chin and her blue eyes were too small and serious. If she felt frightened or overwhelmed, she didn’t show it. Judging by her expression I’d have thought she was going to one of her three daily masses.

Resplendent in crimson brocade, her bosom displayed to the limit of decency, and her gorgeous hair spangled with jeweled combs, Margot exclaimed, “Why, you look pretty!” as if it came as an unexpected surprise.

I threw her a stony look. At eighteen my daughter had shed the last vestiges of her childhood to reveal a startling beauty; her slanted eyes seemed to absorb whatever color she wore and her naturally titian hair was the envy of every woman at court. She had become our official muse, to whom the poets dedicated reams of overblown verse. I’d perceived a predatory light in her eye as the gentlemen paraded before her in the hall, their muscled thighs in skin-tight hose, their oversized codpieces
bobbing; and I did not like it. I needed her to remain a virgin and had insisted her women accompany her everywhere. I also received reports on her activities and knew she dutifully practiced her dancing, music, and poetry; sat for portraits and endless dress fittings—all the expected activities of a princess. Still, her passion for life reminded me of her grandfather François I, kindling my fear that despite my efforts she would find a way to whet her appetite, though I’d yet to discover any proof.

“This dress”—Isabel plucked her overskirt—“it is not—how do you say it—too rich?”

Margot giggled. My other daughter, Claude, squat and fat in violet velvet and pregnant with her second child, elbowed Margot.

“It’s perfect.” I smoothed her cloth-of-silver skirt embroidered with pearl fleur-de-lis. “It suits your complexion. You have such nice skin, my dear. Doesn’t she, Margot?”

Margot blew air out of the side of her mouth. “I suppose so,” she said, and flounced to the dressing table to examine Isabel’s jewelry. “Oh. These are nice.” She snatched up a set of ruby earrings. “Look how well they go with my dress. Red is my best color. Everyone says so.”

“Take them,” Isabel said, before I could protest.

Margot plucked off her opals and clipped the rubies on her ears. As she gazed into the mirror, I thought there couldn’t have been more marked difference between her narcissistic adoration and Isabel’s indifference. As if a malign being whispered in my ear, I knew with absolute certainty that one particular admirer had told Margot to wear red.

“Aren’t you going to thank her?” I said, and Margot kissed Isabel. “Thank you, dearest sister. I adore them.”

As she skipped back to Claude to show off her trophies, I bent over to rub the stain left by her slipper on Isabel’s hem. Isabel touched my shoulder; I looked up. “That’s not important,” she said. “No one sees dirt on a bride, yes?”

She won me over with those words, testament to the common sense she’d learned as merchandise on the royal marriage market. “Indeed,” I said, and I winced as I straightened up. My kirtle was laced too tight. I shouldn’t have asked Lucrezia to yank the stays an extra notch in the futile hope of restoring something of my vanquished figure.

“You too look splendid,” she said, gesturing at my reflection.

I had no choice but to turn to the mirror. I beheld a short, stout woman in an almost-black shade of violet, my hair covered by a peaked coif, my dark eyes pleated at the corners. I’d donned sedate emeralds for my ears, an onyx brooch beneath my ruff and my black pearls. But nothing in the world could restore my youth, and I turned away.

Bells tolled. Isabel’s regal mask settled back over her face. “It is time,” I said, and I took her hand, leading her from the chamber to wed my son.

Under the vaulted ceiling, we assumed seats in the royal pews: Henri and Hercule to my right, Margot and Claude and her husband to my left. Courtiers and nobles filled the chapel to capacity, the heady aroma of perfume mingling with the harsh smoke of the candelabrums and torches on the walls, and occasional whiff of horse droppings caught on some lord’s boots. Clad in his crown and royal robes, Charles knelt beside Isabel at the altar as Monsignor the Cardinal performed the interminable ceremony.

I watched Margot out of the corner of my eye and caught her gaze straying to the pew occupied by the Guises. Young Guise certainly merited notice in his scarlet doublet, which highlighted his intense blue eyes and white-gold hair. He’d grown a mustache and beard that added gravity to his years: for a heart-stopping second, I saw the falconlike reflection of his dead father, le Balafré, and a tremor rippled through me.

Both he and Margot wore red.

All of a sudden Henri’s lips were at my ear. “There’s a ghost with us. Look. Coligny is here.”

I froze. “He … he can’t be.”

“Well, he is. Can’t you feel him? He stares at you even as we speak.”