mourning for queens. Yet Mary stubbornly insisted on it, and I must admit that it flattered her. We were busily stitching white fleurs-de-lis on the bodice when Madame Gondi appeared in the doorway, grinning broadly.
I frowned, unable to fathom who might be so rude. “Send him in.”
Madame Gondi stepped aside. A man strode confidently over the threshold, dramatically dressed in a blue velvet doublet cut in the Italian style, with huge sleeves of gold brocade. His head was small for his body, which perhaps explained the large plumed hat covering his riotous curls. He sported a very long black mustache-curling, like his hair-and when he saw me, he beamed broadly.
“Cat!” he cried. “Oh, Cat, how grand you look! How magnificent, Your Majesty!” He doffed his hat and swept it to one side as he bowed low. Then he rose and, spreading his arms wide, approached with the clear intention of embracing me.
I stared at him stupidly for an instant, until something in his eyes, in the curls that recalled childish ringlets, made me drop Mary’s gown and spring to my feet. “Piero! My Piero!”
We embraced, laughing and weeping, while Edouard and Mary watched, astonished. When I pulled back, I pressed my hand to his face. It was no longer plump but manly and weathered from many battles.
“Piero,” I said, in French for the children’s sake. “You were fighting in Italy, with the Duke of Guise. What brings you to Paris?”
“Your husband,” he answered, his arms still about my waist. “He has called me and Monsieur Guise to France. Things were not going so well in Italy, and so he has other plans for us.” He stopped to smile politely at Edouard and Mary. “Are these your son and daughter? What beautiful children!”
“This is Mary, Queen of Scots,” I said, “soon to be the Dauphine.”
Piero’s hand still clutched his huge hat; he swept it dramatically across his body as he bowed very low, his head almost even with his knees. “Your Majesty,” he said. “Please forgive me for failing to be properly announced. I thought only one queen was present. Truly, you are as beautiful as everyone says you are.”
Mary, who was inclined to be sour toward strangers, giggled and tossed her head.
“And this is my son Edouard,” I said.
Edouard scrambled to his feet and executed a polite bow. The excited little dog began to bark at Piero; Edouard picked it up and shushed it.
“Ah, Your Highness,” Piero told him. “You are quite the young man now; you must make your mother very proud.”
I called for Madame Gondi to return the children to the nursery, then linked arms with my cousin and led him on a tour of the Louvre.
After we had wandered about for a bit, and our excitement abated, I asked Piero, “Has the King spoken to you yet of his military plans?”
“I’ve only just arrived,” my cousin said. “I don’t know the precise strategy, but I do know our aim.”
“And that would be?” I pressed.
Piero looked about to make sure we were alone, then said softly, “Why, to seize Calais, of course.”
“Calais!” I exclaimed, then at his shushing, quickly lowered my voice. “Piero, you’re joking!” The northern city of Calais had long been an English stronghold. It was considered impregnable, so much so that a well-known verse said
I could understand why my husband would want to take Calais: It was beloved by Queen Mary of England, Philip’s wife-Bloody Mary, the people called her now, because of her eagerness to see Protestants killed for their faith. Invading Calais would be a personal affront to her-and thus, to Philip and the Empire. I was terrified at the thought that Henri would provoke the combined wrath of England and Spain; besides, taking Calais was, simply, impossible.
“Not in the least,” Piero countered, a bit indignantly. “Think about it, Cat: No one will ever expect the attack, so the element of surprise will be with us. His Majesty has drawn every last one of his troops from Italy. All of us-along with some mercenaries-will take part in the invasion. We can’t lose.”
“That is what Henri said about Saint-Quentin,” I said witheringly. “Please, Piero… Talk my husband out of this. He wants revenge, because of Montmorency’s capture. But this is insanity. Fighting Spain is one thing; fighting Spain
“With all respect, Your Majesty,” Piero said, his swagger replaced by calm determination. “It is not insanity but brilliance. And we will win.”
We went on to discuss other, happier things. I said nothing to the King, who would have been livid to learn that Piero had divulged a state secret. But with each day, my anxiety grew, along with my fear that France would find herself in the midst of war-during the King’s fortieth year.
Francois, Duke of Guise, arrived at the Louvre later that afternoon to great fanfare. In front of the entire Court, Guise knelt before my husband, who hurried to raise the Duke to his feet and embrace him like a brother. The assembled crowd burst into hurrahs, as though Guise had not failed in Italy.
For weeks, I feigned ignorance of Henri’s plan to storm Calais in the dead of winter, when the intemperate climate discouraged anyone but the greatest of fools from waging war. And when my husband came at last to my bedchamber, late on the night of the first of January 1558, it was not in search of love but rather to confess that he had sent an army to Calais under the command of Guise, with my cousin Piero as his second.
I wanted to chide Henri severely for such a foolhardy venture-but the die was cast. I held my curses and instead told my husband I prayed for success. There was nothing left to do.
I was entirely unprepared when, only a fortnight later, Henri burst into my apartment at midday. I was embroidering with Elisabeth when the wooden door banged against the stone wall like a shot, startling me so badly that I pricked myself. I looked up from my bleeding finger to see my husband, wearing a madman’s grin.
“We have taken Calais!” he cried. “Guise has done it!”
Elisabeth screamed with happiness and dropped her sewing. I flung my arms around him and buried my face in his chest, thinking that my husband would be safe from the danger of the battlefield at last.
Peace came. Stung by the loss of Calais, Philip of Spain agreed to negotiate with Henri for Montmorency’s release; in the meantime, all hostilities ceased.
This time, when Francois of Guise returned from battle and knelt before the throne, Henri asked him to make whatever request he wished of the Crown and it would be granted-“in celebration of your stunning victory for France.”
By then, Guise was thirty-nine years old-my age, and my husband’s. The privations of warfare had left him looking much older, however; he was now almost completely bald, with skin pitted by the pox and scarred by the bite of swords.
“I have only one desire,” he proclaimed, in a ringing voice, “and that is to see my niece married to your son before God takes me from this life.”
“It is done,” Henri announced, to the courtiers’ roars of approval. “I hereby put you in charge of all arrangements, Your Grace. Do as you please.”
It pleased the Duke of Guise for his niece Mary to wed the Dauphin on the twenty-fourth of April.
First, however, came the issue of the marriage contract. The Scottish Parliament agreed quickly that Francois would become King of Scotland rather than a mere royal consort; however, if Francois were to die first, they wanted Mary to rule France as Queen-in violation of Salic law, which barred women from the French throne.
Normally I would have remained silent and left all negotiations to my husband, but the thought of Mary taking precedence over my own sons made me livid. I went to Henri and spoke stridently of the need to protect the Crown for our heirs. He listened silently and patiently, and when I had given thorough vent to my feelings, he smiled gently and took my hand.
