The Confessions of Catherine de Medici (39 page)

To my relief, Navarre returned word that he would not delay his departure, and in mid-July he entered Paris under a sky scorched white by the sun.

Unrelenting heat had descended upon us; people slept on rooftops and crammed the banks of the Seine seeking relief, while cutthroats, beggars, and thieves abounded in the near-anarchic atmosphere of a city crammed to overflowing with thousands of Huguenots and Catholics
who’d come from all over France to witness the wedding. As Navarre rode in with his Huguenot suite, those of his faith lifted a cheer loud enough to drown out the few Catholics who dared shout derogatory epithets, so that it seemed all Paris reverberated with acclaim for him.

I watched his approach from my balcony. I was eager to behold him again, to see with my own eyes if he’d grown into the proud man of my long-ago vision. As he dismounted in the courtyard, a short, compact figure dressed in black, I beckoned Margot, who looked pristine as a cloud in light blue silk, pearls roped through her tresses and coiled about her collar.

We descended into the hall. It was filled with courtiers, a gaudy menagerie interspersed with the black mourning of Navarre’s entourage. Scanning the Huguenot nobles, I saw no sign of Coligny. I was relieved. The last thing I wanted was his dour visage spoiling the occasion.

Navarre stood by the dais with Charles and Hercule, the former in a bright gold doublet and plumed hat, the latter in carnelian satin. Charles spoke fervently to his Bourbon cousin, while seventeen-year-old Hercule, looking overdressed and dwarfish, gazed at Navarre curiously.

I heard Charles exclaim, “I tell you, it was the best hunt ever. I killed the boar with one shot. One shot! Coligny said he’d never seen the like. Didn’t he, Hercule?”

My youngest son shrugged. I saw Navarre toss back his head and laugh, his unruly flame-red hair spiked round his sun-reddened face. As I approached with Margot, he turned to us.

I almost came to a halt.

He looked exactly like the man I’d envisioned from the boy, all those years ago, down to the laughter shining in his close-set green eyes.

His gentlemen shifted closer to him. Just beyond their circle I glimpsed my Henri, resplendent in mauve velvet, his mane flowing to his shoulders and a pearl dangling from one ear. A sardonic smile curved his lips, his arm resting casually on his friend Guast’s shoulder.

I held out my arms to Navarre. “My child, how you’ve grown.”

“Tante Catherine,” he said, inclining his head. “It’s been a long time.”

I pulled him into my embrace. His compact body was hard; he reeked of sweat. His black doublet was faded and unfashionable, without
adornment or slashings of any kind; but as I drew back and assessed his eyes with their thick, almost girlish, lashes, his strong jaw and clever mouth, that unruly thicket of hair and impressive breadth of his shoulders, I thought he had a bucolic masculinity rarely seen in our French dandies.

“You’re the very image of a king,” I said. “It does my heart good to see you.”

“I’d rather be a prince and have my mother alive,” he replied.

“Yes, of course. The poor dear, she was so proud of you. I’m sure she smiles down on us at this very moment. Come, greet Margot.”

I stepped aside. Margot stumbled on her hem as she came face-to-face with Navarre. I saw color flush her cheeks as she muttered, “Cousin,” and leaned to kiss his stubbled cheek.

“It’s Margot, right? Not Marguerite,” he said softly, with a grin. “Or have things changed since the last time I saw you? Best let me know now, eh? We’ve a lifetime together ahead of us.”

She hesitated. She’d clearly not expected his sense of humor. “Margot is fine,” she said stiffly. “Or call me whatever you like. It’s not as though I’ve a choice.”

I laughed loudly. “Aren’t they charming?” and looked about at the watchful courtiers.

Everyone broke into applause. Charles cried, “A toast!” He snatched two goblets from a page, sloshing claret to the floor as he thrust one at Navarre. He extended the other to Margot, leaving me to reach for my own. Hercule skittered forth and almost overturned tray and page in his lunge for the last goblet. Henri’s smile widened; he did not move from his spot.

Charles raised his goblet. “To my cousin Navarre and my sister Margot!” He downed the wine; everyone followed suit. “Now, let’s eat!” With a flare of his coat, Charles turned to lead the court into the banqueting chamber. As I reached for Navarre’s hand, for I intended to sit him next to me, Margot said, “Forgive me, my lord, but my head aches. I shall retire.”

I glared at her. She ignored me, curtsying to Navarre and crossing the hall with her disgruntled women, who were obliged to attend her. Navarre arched his brow; I chuckled. “A new bride’s nerves: nothing to worry about. She’s overwhelmed.”

The moment the feast ended, Charles got up and left, as usual. Navarre and I had barely spoken, for Charles monopolized the conversation, asking Navarre about everything from the weather in his realm to his preferred ways of hunting. I noticed Navarre answered amiably but never revealed more than what he’d been asked; and while he’d drunk more than seemed humanly possible he still appeared sober as he lounged in his chair, regarding the court’s antics with interest. At his seat beside Charles’s empty throne Henri picked his teeth with a silver utensil, while Hercule set himself to consuming an entire platter of sugared almonds.

The dancing was about to start; courtiers lined up for the saltorello, an exuberant dance that allowed our ladies to show off their legs and our men their agility. A group of painted women—professional courtesans with plunging cleavage and rouged lips—sauntered in front of the dais; one brazen beauty sporting a diamond glued to her cheek winked.

Navarre sat upright from his slouch; even Hercule stopped stuffing himself with almonds.

“Who are those ladies?” Navarre asked me, his voice thick with indolence and wine.

“They are members of our court,” I said.

“Are they, by chance, ladies of your household? I’ve heard it said you hire the most accomplished women to serve you; they’re called the Flying Squadron because they ride the hunt like amazons.” His eyes glittered. “I do like to hunt. I like it very much.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Henri press a hand to his mouth in stifled mirth.

In truth, I’d never heard of this so-called Flying Squadron; but plenty of women at court made a living off men, so if the name fit, why dissuade him? I wanted our guest to feel at home.

“You should go to them,” I said. “They’re always eager for new companions to hunt with.”

He stood, passing his hands over his rumpled doublet. I met Henri’s eyes and almost burst out laughing. Jeanne may have regaled her son with sordid tales of our licentiousness, but it seemed she’d only piqued his interest, for he now regarded our lacquered whores as if they were choice haunches of venison he couldn’t wait to taste.

I snapped my fingers at Hercule. “Accompany your cousin.”

Hercule darted to his side. The instant they left the dais, the prostitutes enveloped them, red-nailed hands everywhere as they guided them away.

I leaned back in my chair. Henri sidled beside me. “Flying Squadron? That is rather quaint. Your idea, I suppose?”

“Hardly.” I pinched his cheek. “Who knows what monstrosities Jeanne told him about me? But he’s just lost his mother and if he has need of feminine comfort, who are we to deny it?”

“Those sluts are no doubt up to the task, but I wonder what Margot will think.”

“I doubt she’ll care,” I confided, taking up my goblet. “Did you see her leave the hall as if she wore a crown of thorns? You’d think I was marrying her to Satan himself.”

“She pines for Guise.” He turned his hooded eyes to the hall. “And he apparently pines for her. I’ve heard he’s outraged we’d dare marry Margot to a heretic and will protest the wedding.”

I shot him a look. “He’d best not. I’ve forbidden him from coming to court until he’s sent for. If he continues to cause mischief, he’ll find himself confined to his estate for the rest of his life.”

“When has that ever stopped a Guise?” he replied. “They’re as bad as Coligny.”

I felt disquiet as I saw his expression darken. His sudden aversion to Guise unnerved me, for until the altercation over Margot they’d been friends. I preferred it that way; Guise was not somebody I wanted left on his own, considering his father had been le Balafré.

I said, “Well, I’ll not have Guise or anyone ruin this for us. Look, isn’t that your friend Guast over there with those young men? Why don’t you join him?”

“I’m tired of Guast. He’s greedy; he’s always asking me for something. Now he wants a monkey, as if I bred them in my chamber on trees.”

“Give him your brother Hercule,” I quipped, and Henri let out a laugh. “Maman, you are too wicked!” He leaned over to kiss me and sauntered off to his covetous friend.

I sighed. My leg hurt. I wanted my bed. I rose, moved through the court, and up the staircase. At the last minute, I decided to check on Margot. I knocked on her door; one of her ladies admitted me.

Moonlight slivered through the casement. My daughter sat before it, still in her gown, the ghostly light haloing the pearls in her hair. My heart softened at the sight of her. She looked small and alone. I remembered she was only nineteen, still a girl in many ways …

“You’ll look tired tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep,” I said.

“Who cares how I look? If I want to stay awake, I will. Or do you deny me that, as well?”

I stepped to her. “My child, you’ve so much life ahead of you. Try not to grow bitter before your time. These first pains of love: they go away in time. They fade and we forget.”

“How would you know? You’ve never loved anyone.”

“That’s not true,” I said, and all of a sudden I felt so old, so tired. “You think you know me, but you don’t. I have learned that we either accept what life gives us or we die. It’s that simple.”

“Then I’d rather die.”

“But you won’t.” I leaned over her immobile form, set my lips on her dry cheek. “You will live. You can do nothing else. You are my daughter.”

The wedding day approached. I kept watch over Navarre through Birago’s spies, pleased to hear he’d taken to the divertissements of Paris with gusto. If he was bereaved over his mother, he made a fine show of hiding it, drinking in our taverns with his Huguenot comrades until all hours and bedding every whore in sight. He wasn’t seen anywhere near Coligny—which pleased me more than anything else, until Birago came to me.

“It’s His Majesty,” he said as I sat in my study attending to my endless correspondence. “One of my informants saw him slip out through the servants’ quarters, dressed in a hooded cloak. As he often goes out like that for his own amusements, no one thought to mention it at the time. It was only after he was seen again, just two days ago, that the man came to tell me.”

“Did he follow him?” I asked.

“Yes. His Majesty met up with Navarre and they …” He coughed into his hand awkwardly.

“I can imagine,” I said drily. “I hope it was an expensive brothel, at least.”

“No,
madama,”
Birago lifted troubled eyes to me. “They did not go to a brothel. They went to Coligny’s town house on the rue de Béthisy.”

I sat in utter silence. Then I said, “Do you know what they did there?”

“I’m afraid not. My spies are diligent, but I’ve not succeeded in penetrating Coligny’s personal rooms. I did manage to bribe a cook in the kitchens, but of course he’s heard nothing.”

I felt as if I couldn’t draw enough air into my lungs. “How many times have they met?”

He blinked his watery eyes. “At least two. Charles elected to go to him, after Coligny declined the offer of his old apartments at court. Coligny said he was more comfortable at his town house, as he brought guests to the wedding he could better accommodate there.”

“Guests …” I echoed. I recalled the faces of the men I’d seen when I went to visit Jeanne on her deathbed. I had recognized several prominent Huguenot nobles but at the time, given the circumstance, thought nothing of it.

“Find out everything you can,” I said. “I need to know how many of these friends of his are lodged in that house and what they plot. For they plot something, I have no doubt.”

“Yes,
madama
. What about Charles? Should I speak to him?”

“No. Leave that to me.”

Birago nodded and walked out. Feeling a sharp pain in my hand, I looked down.

I had crushed my writing quill to splinters.

I went straight to my son’s apartments. I found his room in chaos, clothing and hunting paraphernalia strewn about, his hound gnawing on a meat bone while Charles stood poised near the door, hurriedly donning a cloak. If I’d come a minute later, I’d have found him gone.

He spun to me. His face blanched. “What … what are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. Do I intrude? Are you going somewhere?”

“I … I was … There’s a new pack of deer near Vincennes, and Navarre and I …”

I planted myself at the door. “Don’t lie to me. You’re going to see Coligny, aren’t you?”

He shrank back, his expression one of utter stupefaction. Then he said nervously, “Coligny? Why would you think that? I’m not going to see him. He doesn’t like to hunt anymore.”

“Perhaps not deer,” I replied. “I know about your meetings with him. I know you’ve been going to his house in secret with Navarre.” I paused. His eyes had grown wide, his mouth working as he struggled for an excuse. “There’s no need to hide it from me,” I added. “You’ve made it clear you mean to rule as you see fit. Just tell me the truth and I will leave court today.”

“You … you cannot leave,” he stammered. “We’ve Margot and Navarre’s wedding to attend.”

I let out a taut laugh. “What wedding? If you want to go make pacts with Coligny, you risk everything. At least grant me the mercy of not having to bear witness to it.”

His expression unraveled. “But I didn’t agree to anything! I just listened. I swear it.”

“Listened to what?”

I watched the color seep from his face. He regarded me with such a terrible mixture of bewilderment and fear for a moment I wondered where I had erred, how I’d failed to recognize that my constant care of him would never defeat the influence of a man like Coligny. My son was vulnerable; he’d lost his father at an early age, watched his elder brother suffer under the Guises, and endured years of warfare; since he’d taken a whip to Margot I’d sensed something broken inside him. Now Coligny preyed on his weakness, on his desperate desire for lasting peace and his struggle to be seen as a king not dependent on his mother for guidance.