Free The Confessions of Catherine de Medici by C.W. Gortner

for a foreign land.”
    I turned back to him. “Am I that obvious?”
    “To those who care to look.” He smiled again. “Your Highness needn’t worry. It seems to me that very few at this court notice much beyond their own self-interests.”
    “Catherine,” I said. “Please, call me Catherine.”
    “I’m honored.” He held out his arm. “Would you let me accompany you to the gardens?”
    I set my hand on his arm. I felt taut muscles under his sleeve, and a soothing gratitude came over me as he led us toward the château. Our heels rustled dying leaves on the loam; he pointed out a vivid red cardinal and I saw in his intent gaze that he was a man who revered nature. I wanted to share something with him and withdrew the book from my pocket.
    “I received it from Florence last week,” I told him. “Isn’t the binding exquisite? No one binds books as they do in my native city. This is a special edition, made for my family.”
    He took the slim red calfskin and gilt-folio volume. The careful way he opened the cover suggested his intellect. I was surprised, however, when he said, “I know this book. It was written for your great grandfather, Lorenzo the Magnificent.”
    “It was! Machiavelli dedicated it to him. This version was bound and then sent by the merchant guild as a gift. How did you know?”
    “
The Prince
is famous even here in France. I’ve read it several times.” He met my eyes. “‘From this arises an argument: whether it is better to be loved than feared. I reply that one should like to be both one and the other; but since it is difficult to join them together, it is much safer to be feared than loved when one of the two must be lacking.’”
    “You quote from memory,” I marveled.
    “Machiavelli’s treatise is considered one of the most elucidating on how men in power ought to behave.” He handed me the book. “Do you understand what he says?”
    I nodded. “I think so. His Majesty recently said something similar. He told me, ‘It is the way of life. Sometimes we must strike first, before we are struck in turn.’ But I think it’s always better to find compromise or, as Machiavelli would say, to be loved.”
    “Indeed.” His voice turned somber. “That is wisdom. I wish His Majesty thought the same of those in his realm who most merit his regard.”
    The air took on a chill. Around us, the trees began to thin, giving way to manicured paths and decorative herb patches. “I fear I don’t quite know what you mean,” I said, unsure I should be discussing the king, my father-in-law, in this manner with him.
    He frowned. “Have you heard of the protests in Paris?”
    “No. The court hasn’t been to Paris yet. I’ve heard the king doesn’t like to go.”
    “Yes, he would. You see, his Huguenot subjects are demanding the right to be heard before his Council because the authorities have been arresting them for importing forbidden books.”
    “Huguenots?” I echoed. I had heard only a brief mention of them in passing at court.
    “Yes. Protestants, followers of Jean Calvin. Up till now His Majesty has chosen to ignore their existence. But I fear a time fast approaches when he’ll have to take them into account.”
    I paused, my fingers tightening about my book. “You speak of heretics.” A ripple of disquiet went through me. I had not expected our conversation to take such a turn. Until now, the most controversial subject I’d faced was my husband’s attachment to his mistress, and I suddenly felt as though I’d dwelled in perfumed oblivion to the dark currents running beneath my feet.
    “Not everyone in France considers them as such,” he said. He paused, with a wry laugh. “If my uncle heard me say that, he’d flay me alive.”
    “Are you …?” I wondered what I’d do if he said he was. I’d never met a heretic before. All I’d heard about them was that they were ravening madmen who spat on our statues and desecrated our churches, and caused no end of trouble