The Guise of the Queen

Chapter 3

A ghostly figure, dressed from head to toe in a monk’s coarse brown habit, moved silently along the track that hugged the river Cher. The wan light of a vernal moon reflected off the swirls and eddies of the current, surprising an occasional water vole peeking its head out of the reed bed: no sound broke the still of this dark night but the man proceeded with caution as the path widened, heralding the estate of the chateau of Chenonceau, home of Catherine de Médicis. Should he be challenged by a patrolling guard – Catherine had them, as she did spies, everywhere to protect her and report gossip from her court and beyond – his disguise would serve its purpose. He would explain, head bowed, that he had, that day, visited a poor family who bore signs of a plague infection. They had requested his presence to bless the patient and exorcise evil spirits. That, he was confident, would be sufficient to deter the guard from pursuing his enquiry. The mere mention of the word ‘plague’ filled people with horror, even if the scourge had not surfaced in the region for some time. Nobody must know of his identity nor the reason for his presence on the lady’s land in the middle of the night.

To the shrouded figure’s relief, he encountered no guard and, shortly, he reached a bend in the river. Ahead stood the imposing bridge of five spans that supported a gallery and apartments, all designed and financed by Catherine, and united the north side of the river to the chateau and its carefully tended gardens. No welcome light showed in the building but the nocturnal traveller knew what to do now because it was not his first visit to the lady of the residence.

Leaving the track, he moved through the dense undergrowth, making as little noise as possible. He soon found the fallen tree trunk he sought, then, hidden behind a hawthorn bush, a small wooden door that yielded to his touch. Inside, a flight of six stone steps ascended to the gallery, then more steps to the apartments. He had to squint in order to make out the corridor ahead, lit only by the faintest moonshine that penetrated louvre-shuttered windows. At the far end, he made out a solitary flickering candle in a wall niche that indicated Catherine’s private rooms.

Two soft knocks brought an equally soft ‘enter’ and he stood before Catherine de Médicis. He pulled back his hood and bowed.

“Good evening, my lady.”

“Evening?” she snapped, “it’s night, as dark as the world that besets me, so I trust your visions will cast light on these difficult times. You were not followed?”

“I was not, do not fear, and if I might be so impudent as to remind you that prophecies come not from the heart but from the alignment of the stars and the situation of the planets. I hold no sway over the heavens, I simply interpret their will -”

“Quite, Ruggieri. So, will you take wine with me, even at this hour?”

“With pleasure.” Côme Ruggieri, a gaunt-featured soothsayer and astrologer, with close-set eyes and grey straggly hair and beard, made his living from offering generalised prognostics to wealthy clients. He had learned his trade by word of mouth from the old master necromancer, Nostradamus, now retired on the fortune he had amassed. Ruggieri spoke in such a sincere tone that people – kings, queens, dukes or duchesses – readily believed his forecasts, especially in hours of need when they clutched at straws.

Catherine beckoned him to sit at her desk, drawn close to the warmth of the fireplace where dying embers still glowed. Taking the stopper out of a glass decanter she filled two goblets and, in her turn, sat, saying not a word. Instead, she stared hard at the man, a stare that was well practised over much dealing with men, usually of a lesser intellect than her own. She broke the silence,

“Tell me, Ruggieri, how do your stars augur for my horoscope of the year ahead?” Catherine was, by nature, pragmatic and – even if she regarded this presaging lark with some scepticism – she felt sorely in need of whatsoever reassurance for the events of August 21st to come.

The seer withdrew a small pouch from his habit, loosened the string and emptied the contents onto a parchment sheet, marked with a circle of the twelve signs of the zodiac that she had laid out earlier. A number of white raven’s bones and three talisman coins fell randomly. He leaned over the chart to better examine their pattern, glanced at Catherine, then lowered his head in silent contemplation.

“Well?”

He maintained his silence until she prompted him a second time.

“Speak, man.”

“Ma’am, your star sign is Aries, the ram. Be aware that different elements of your nature are dominant in different seasons. The crossing of the bones and resting place of the coins reveals to me that, from the present to the advent of winter, you may benefit from your intelligence -”

“Yes! Yes! But what do you see for the month of August?”

“It is not regular to anticipate the prospects of any particular month but, pray, a moment. He picked up three bones from the sheet and let them drop onto the others.

“This chart tells me that, in addition to your Arian qualities of intelligence, passion and strength, you will face any new challenge directly and will not tolerate failure.”

“Ruggieri, you have brought me good news. Here, take this.”

She pressed two gold pieces into his hand and gestured towards the door. Having put the bones and talisman coins back into his pouch, he nodded his thanks and left Catherine’s study without further ado. That was just about the easiest money I’ll ever make, he chuckled.

That was just about the easiest money I’ll ever make, Alone, she refilled her goblet, stirred the ashes in the fireplace into life with a poker, and drank more wine. Leaning back in the chair, she mused,

‘Ruggieri is right! There is, indeed, a challenge to be met and, by God, I will not tolerate failure in its pursuance, just as he said.’

‘Ruggieri is right! There is, indeed, a challenge to be met and, by God, I will not tolerate failure in its pursuance, just as he said.’The next morning, she awoke early and summoned her maidservant.

“You rang, ma’am?”

I did, Mathilde. Bring breakfast to my chamber and lay out my clothes. You will accompany me around the gardens.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

Mathilde finished brushing her lady’s hair then twisted and tied the tresses to fit neatly under a velvet bonnet. Placing a shawl around her shoulders, she fastened the gold clasp at the front.

“Thank you. Meet me shortly, outside.”

Mathilde nodded and left.

The gardens would be ablaze with vibrant colour in a month or so although, today, buds were only just appearing in the flower beds and on the trees.

“Tended by man, created by woman, do you not agree, Mathilde?”

“I do, ma’am. In bloom, they are a wonder to behold and a testimony to your name. It is not by chance that the central paths form the shape of a cross. Praise the Lord.”

“Praise Him,” Catherine responded, to then lapse into profound silence as they walked along the paths that traversed the gardens, side by side. The maidservant had known her mistress long enough to ask,

“There are serious matters on your mind, it is not difficult to see. May I be of assistance, in any way?”

“Yes, serious matters, that’s true, to put it mildly. You realise I intended the cross of the paths to symbolise the cross on which our Lord was crucified. His pain will ever be ours and I will defend his teaching and wisdom with my last breath.”

“Yours and the King’s subjects applaud your leadership and, to a man and woman, are of the same Catholic faith.”

“That is where you are mistaken, Mathilde. There are those who are not. But, enough. You must not concern yourself with a…how shall I describe it…a problem such as this.”

“I meant no offence, ma’am.”

“Nor is any taken. Worry not, my dearest servant, but I fear there are unprecedented violent times ahead. I cannot shirk my responsibilities to our fair kingdom and to our common belief.” The Queen Mother paused, raising her face heavenward, as if in supplication to her Lord.

Catherine de Médicis was now in her fifty-third year. Small of stature and thin, without delicate features but with the protruding eyes peculiar to the Médicis line, she was by no means a beautiful woman. However, that did not detract from her determination and ambition. Her political and romantic acquaintances recognised that tight lips and often sullen countenance signified a powerful lady not to be underestimated.

In Florence, city of her birth, she was known as ‘the little duchess’, in France she was referred to as ‘that Italian woman.’ She was not universally admired.

At the age of fourteen, she married Henry, the future king Henry the Second, but throughout his reign he excluded her from participating in state affairs and, instead, showered favours on his chief mistress, Diane de Poitiers. In the presence of guests at social functions he would sit on her lap and play the guitar, chat about politics or even fondle her breasts. For the first ten years of their marriage, Catherine failed to produce any children and such was her desperation that she turned to the dark arts for assistance. She eventually gave birth to ten offspring, five of whom survived infancy, and it was the fifth child, Charles, now crowned Charles 1X upon the death of his father, who would be pivotal to her designs over the coming months.

Catherine clasped and twisted her hands together in a gesture of great distress, feeling powerless to change the situation that confronted her. Turning, ashen-faced, to Mathilde, her features contorted, she beseeched,

“I ask you, what could a woman do, left by the passing of her husband with children on my arms and two families of France who were thinking of grasping my crown – my own Bourbons and the Guises? Am I not compelled to play strange parts in this theatre to deceive first one then the other, to protect my sons who have successively reigned through my wise conduct? I am increasingly surprised that I never did worse.”

“Such things are above my comprehension and station, ma’am.”

“That is as maybe, but it is you who hear gossip and rumour in Chenonceau and beyond,” Catherine said gently to Mathilde.

“My duties commenced long before you arrived at the chateau when I was, first, a scullery maid and, to speak true, my work was not rewarding. I cleaned and scoured the floors, stoves, sinks, pots and dishes. Then, I peeled vegetables, plucked fowl and even scaled fish!” Mathilde mumbled reflectively.

Catherine smiled,

“How your standing has changed, but I wager you would rather still be toiling in the kitchens than tolerating the fantasies of an old woman.”

“I regard it as a privilege,” her eyes moistened with emotion, “and long may it continue.”

“Ay to that, Mathilde. My aim is to place the honour of God before me in all things and to preserve my authority, not for myself, but for the conservation of this kingdom and for the prosperity and well-being of all my citizens.” She wrung her hands incessantly. “I am so wretched that I know, for sure, I will live long enough to see so many people die before my time. I realise that God’s will must be obeyed, that He owns everything, and that He leads us only for as long as He likes the children He gives us, if that makes sense. Come, let us go to the fountain, it never fails to calm my anguish.”

They turned and walked back towards the central feature of the gardens, an exotic sculpture of four angels spouting water high into the air, as if imploring the heavens on Catherine’s behalf.

Looking around to ensure she could not be overheard, she beckoned Mathilde to draw close.

“The day after tomorrow you will accompany me on a journey of the greatest importance: we go to Paris where I have arranged an audience with His Majesty the King. He resides presently at the Versailles palace, no doubt carousing and entertaining the strumpets of his court, just as his father did! He invites problems and is astounded when they duly arrive. Charles! Charles!” She exchanged knowing glances with her maid-servant and continued,

“I brought up that feckless youth and, to the best of my ability, I imbued in him good Catholic values. I presided over his council, decided policy and controlled state business and patronage, but not even I could control the whole country, to my chagrin. History may well decree that this Florentine princess could never have been assumed to solve the complex challenges of la belle France.”

la belle France“History is what it is, ma’am.” Mathilde’s comment was spoken with the moderate diplomacy of a long-standing confidante.

“Give instructions to the stables to prepare my carriage but do not reveal our destination. The less known about my mission the better.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

two days later at dawn

two days later at dawnAs ordered, the coachman reined the pair of fine purebred horses to a halt in front of the main chateau gate. Catherine and Mathilde, dressed in bonnets and shawls – the mornings were raw at this time of year – climbed inside and settled down for the journey, while an ostler tied a trunk securely to the luggage rack.

“Ride on’, Catherine ordered.

By late afternoon, they had made Orléans, spending the night at the house of the mayor, an acquaintance and supporter of the Queen Mother. The following day, they approached the Saint Jacques gate of Paris, the guards stepping aside as soon as they observed the lady in her carriage, allowing entry into the city. Outside the royal Louvres palace, the two travellers were greeted by the king’s steward, dressed in a worsted blue tunic tied at the waist with a gold braid cord, his sign of office.

“Welcome to Paris, my lady.”

The steward led them through the maze of corridors that constituted the royal palace and ushered her into a sumptuous guest room, Mathilde’s accommodation being the adjacent room, the two connected by a communication door. The maid-servant was unpacking the trunk when there came a knock at the door.

“Enter!” Catherine called.

“Ma’am, the King trusts you have had a safe journey and graciously requests your presence this evening for dinner. I am to inform you that he has selected a menu to celebrate your visit.”

“Tell the King we accept his kind invitation.”

The steward bowed, took two steps back, turned and left the suite. Catherine raised her arm in a gesture of exasperation.

“Charles never fails to amuse me,” she let out, “I know not whether to laugh or cry! I have not met with him for three months and his first thought is of food. Might he not wonder on the purpose of my visit?”

“You will soon discover the answer, ma’am.”

In the private royal dining room, Catherine approached her son, made a perfunctory curtsey and kissed his outstretched hand.

“Welcome to Paris, mother. I trust your room is satisfactory?”

“It is, Charles.” Her thoughts were sinking from the lofty to the abject as she stared at her offspring.

The king was tall and had inherited the same pinched smile and protruding Médicis eyes. He sported a stiff ruff around his neck, a snug-fitting doublet over black velvet breeches. She viewed him as a figure of ridicule, weak and indecisive, but to achieve her aim she had to humour him – it would be too easy to remonstrate over a list of failures in his reign since her influence on him had decreased. But that, she knew, would be an ill-chosen strategy.

They dined on a delicate consommé followed by guinea fowl stuffed with chanterelle mushrooms, then lamb’s sweetbreads accompanied by a tween of fresh vegetables. The palace sommelier served vintage red and white wines with each course and a platter of confiserie concluded their dinner. Mathilde had taken her – much less grand – food in her room. Throughout the meal, their conversation across the table was purely banal, encompassing the weather and which tapestries to hang in the Great Gallery. This concluded, Charles ushered his mother into the adjoining lounge with two upholstered armchairs either side of a blazing fire. The same sommelier poured two large brandies from a cut-glass decanter and, with a bow, departed. They were now alone for the first time.

“So, are you keeping well, mother? Your complexion is as fair as ever to me.”

“It’s kind of you to enquire and yes, I’m in rude health, most likely because I don’t endure the stench and debauchery of Paris…”

“There are some things that are not even within the gift of a king.”

“Quite, but certain other things most certainly are.”

“I don’t follow…although it’s an opportune moment to ask the purpose of your visit.”

“Pour me another brandy, Charles, and I’ll explain.” She drank then took a deep breath. “The cursed Huguenots are uprising once more and if something isn’t done, we’ll be overrun. We must act, and soon.”

Charles sipped his brandy, twirling his black moustache nonchalantly between two fingers. “What has this to do with me, mother?”

Catherine’s countenance darkened, lips pinched tight, her knuckles white from clenched fists.

“What! Are your counsellors useless? Do they tell you nothing? My own spies report to me daily and enlighten me about the hold the Huguenots are exerting on our very existence!”

“They are a…a nuisance but -”

“A nuisance? You’re a fool, as was your father before you. He bequeathed you his lethargic wayward spirit and, once again, it is I who must decide for you. The Huguenots are anathema. Let me clarify for the benefit of my royal dullard!” She took another sip of the fiery liqueur. “Our churches are finely decorated to revere God’s glory – theirs are plain and unedifying. Our priests enable us to find God – they scorn such clerical power. We believe the Bible should be only in Latin, for our priests to read out for us – they have their Bible in French and available to all and sundry. Should I continue?”

nuisanceyou.“Please do. I’m hearing things I never knew!”

Catherine was by now inflamed by the passion of her beliefs.

“Our faith proclaims sins can be forgiven through prayer or donating to the Church, but they say sins are forgiven only by God and Jesus. To conclude your education, we must consider their priests. Yes, the wretched Huguenots state they may marry a person on this earth and do not have the power to turn bread and wine into the body and blood of Jesus! How does that sit with our conviction that priests do possess that power: they are divine and should marry only their church. Unlike their vagabond preachers, our priesthood wears rich clothing, speaks in Latin and does not marry, they are subject only to Church laws. Surely you see which Church is the right one?”

do not “I do,” came the meek response from the King.

“I only hope you do! Something has to be done, if I may repeat myself.”

“What do you have in mind? I understand there have been many treaties, none of them lasting.”

“To hell with treaties! A waste of time. We must take action.”

“I’m listening.”

“The twenty-first day of August will see the marriage of their leader, Henry of Navarre, to your sister, Marguerite, here in Paris. We know half the guests will, naturally, be of the Huguenot persuasion and…” She paused to fix him with her stare and ensure he was paying due attention. “…and they will be assembled, all, in the Great Hall of this very palace for four days of banquets and festivities. It’s the ideal opportunity to be rid of the most influential heretics in one fell swoop. That done, the remaining thousands around the city will be easy pickings for our troops. Our Catholic brethren and clergy will, once more, be unhindered in their devotion.” Her voice had risen to a frightening pitch such that Charles’s jaw dropped and he gawped at his mother, marvelling at her audacious proposition.

“Is this possible?”

“It is and we have a supreme moral duty to see it through. We have time to prepare and, don’t worry, I will guide you.”

After the wedding on August 21st, the fourth, and final, day of celebrations would fall on Saint Bartholomew’s Day, August 25th.