A woman dressed as a milkmaid drifted towards me in a gown cut low in the bodice so that her breasts were almost spilling out. She looked at me sidelong from under her mask; for a moment I thought she meant to speak, but as she moved past with uncertain steps I saw that her eyes were glazed, unfocused. An empty glass – not her first – dangled from her hand. She might have been the Duchess of Montpensier for all I knew. Those women had speculated that she was here; the one thing I might usefully do tonight would be to watch her under cover of my Doctor’s costume, but first I would need someone to identify her, and that would require me to find one of the few people at the ball to whom I could reveal myself.
The castrati took their bows to polite applause, though only those nearest the stage showed them much attention; the rest of the crowd remained intent on their own conversations at a volume that filled the hall like the roar of a cataract. Piqued, the eunuchs stalked off stage and I drew myself up straighter, eager to see Francesco and his friends make their entrance. Instead, the cold, clear note of a trumpet cut through the noise; a deferential silence descended and the guests fell back on either side to create a path through the room for the royal party.
She entered on an open litter borne by four strong men dressed as Saracens, naked from the waist up and walking at a stately pace, the timing of their steps impeccable despite the veins straining in their muscled arms and the sweat beading their brows and chests. Catherine de Medici sat in her chair proud as a martial statue, head erect, eyes fixed straight ahead. She had made no concession to the demands of a costume ball. Instead she was dressed, as always, in a high-necked gown of black velvet with a neat white ruff and a black collar fanning stiffly behind her neck, her hair scraped back under a black hood and draped at the back with a black lace veil, the sober widow’s uniform she had worn since her husband was killed in a joust a quarter-century ago. Her heavy-jowelled face was bare of cosmetics, though I noticed her brows had been artfully plucked, and she wore no jewellery except her wedding ring and a signet ring. I bowed the knee along with the rest of the company as she passed, sneaking a glance at her marble composure. Here was a woman who truly deserved to be called ruthless, though I could not help but admire her: she had fought to preserve the throne of France for her sons with the ferocity of a she-wolf defending her cubs, and the strain of those twenty-five years showed in the furrows of her brow and the pouches beneath her eyes. If, at sixty-six, she was losing her appetite for the fight, you would never guess it from her demeanour, just as you would never know the constant pain she suffered from gout and rheumatism; she rode through the crowd with her face set like a general riding into battle, as consummate a performer as any of the acts who would appear before her on stage.
Walking behind her, Henri’s neglected wife Queen Louise cut a sorry figure; she had never been a robust woman, but she seemed to have faded since I last saw her, perhaps as a result of the endless fasting and pilgrimages she undertook in the hope of bargaining with the Blessed Virgin to give her a child; all wasted efforts if it was true that her husband never visited her bed. She was dressed tonight as a lady from a chivalric tale of centuries past, in a high-waisted green gown which accentuated the angles of her spare frame. Her shoulders and collarbone jutted sharply through the fabric; the tall conical headdress with its drifting veil appeared too heavy for her slender neck. She walked as if it pained her to lift her head and her eyes were ringed with purple shadows. Three young women carried her train, all pink-cheeked and vital by contrast with their mistress, who stumbled more than once in her progress towards the thrones like an old woman, though she could not be much above thirty. I thought of the gossip who had said she would take poison if she were married to Henri. One might be forgiven for thinking Queen Louise had been doing exactly that. Of her husband the King there was no sign; I presumed his mother had sent him to get changed.
The silence lasted until the royal party had settled themselves into the thrones on the dais, with a gaggle of courtiers and ladies strewn artfully on cushions at their feet. Catherine rose with some effort and stood at the front of the platform; as if on cue, the assembled guests erupted into rapturous applause and cheers, which she accepted with a nod and an inclination of her head to either side. When she had taken her
