October 13th, 1535
October 13th, 1535
Catherine
It had been one little vial. Smelling of roses and nuts, she’d barely taken a mouthful of this potion that tore through her stomach like a thousand knives strapped to the hooves of wild horses. Laying on her side, her eyes squeezed shut, she heard them all whispering.
“What has she done?”
“It’s that Italian magic gone wrong.”
“Do we call the Queen?”
Not since the day the Emperor had laid siege to Florence had she felt so vulnerable. Then, trapped in the walls of a city ready to sacrifice her child body, she’d felt true fear. But now there was no Pope Clement to run to. She feared it’d be the end.
When might it stop?
The rush of feet around her barely registered as hands grabbed and pulled. She was sure she screamed. But without her wits, she was dragged onto the bed and stripped of her clothes and dignity.
Her foot connected with a maid’s side as a palm pressed into her distended stomach. A doctor proclaimed her poisoned. She had done it herself.
I just wanted a son.
It had been one little vial.
The man had been so confident. Cocky in a way she found comforting. With his fine clothes and new shoes, it was like speaking to a nobleman. And the promise of children had filled her heart with joy.
Her ladies told her it would come. She was barely a woman yet. But at 16, Catherine had been impatient. 100 livres seemed like a small amount for three little potions that would give her a son, a daughter, and a beautiful complexion. The last had been her first try, and her cheeks had glowed that night. By candlelight, she had walked past a polished piece of bronze and supposed herself almost pretty. Her husband had even danced with her before leaving for Normandy. Had shared her bed. If one could be successful, the other could as well. So, following the instructions, she’d waited a week since that night and drank the vial after eating a meal of beef and fish. The cow would nourish, the fish would…she couldn’t remember.
Am I dying?
The pain hadn’t been immediate. It was more like pressure at first, and nausea. But he’d told her it would be slow to activate. She’d never been pregnant before, so she’d assumed that was just the child forming. Sitting by the fire while her attendant read poetry, she’d pictured her boy.
Short. Nothing in her could image she and Henri would produce anything much taller than themselves. But he was handsome. Dark eyes and hair the colour of dirty sand. The mind of a general and the heart of a warrior. Brave and strong, louder than the soldiers he’d lead to crush the Spaniards, the Austrians, the Italians – everyone who had wronged her.
It had taken almost an hour to get her on the floor. She remembered asking for milk. Not drinking it, but maybe asking. During a brief moment of clarity, her eyes shot open and she looked for milk. There was none. But Eleonore was there. The Queen had invited her to enjoy the country air while the French did their war. It wasn’t that the Austrian was unfriendly, but uncertain. And Catherine had been glad for the company, seeing as her husband was rarely interested. But now those large eyes watched on sadly as the little Madame d’Orleans panted and cried.
It would have been embarrassing if it wasn’t so painful.
Eventually, the cries became moans. Then came sobs. Then finally, shaking breaths. Nobody could touch her. All the while, she was never alone. It wasn’t love, she knew that for certain, but there was comfort in the attention. And as she stared into the canopy of the bed, counting threads as her strength left her bit by bit, she heard her host clearly.
“It isn’t your fault, my girl. We are all foolish in love but healed in glory. So long, sweet sparrow.”
A bejewelled hand stroked her head. A priest spoke above her. The lights dimmed with every heartbeat.
It ends too soon.
The thumping became quicker, and it was like the world dropped about her. Eleonore watched on, as the rasps quickened, then slowed, then stopped. Putting the back of her hand against the young girl’s cheek, she waited a moment, then turned to the men surrounding the befouled bed.
“The Princess is dead.”
As Catherine lay there, fading out, she almost heard them mutter, as the world grappled with her demise. That empty vessel, so important to her, sat empty in a box under her bed. It had been one little vial.
---
Eleanore
There was a corpse in the chateau, and this Queen of France was not happy about it. The poor little Italian thing had followed her out to the country, where the two unwanted brides were meant to spend the next few months in quiet companionship. Mistresses ruled the court, and it was safer for brides to remain unseen rather than bothersome.
“She was barely a girl.” she had said to the maid, carrying a stinking rug.
The room smelled horrid, but Eleonore refused to leave the room until she was sure the body would be handled with care. Whatever fantasies she’d had about France before her wedding, it was clear now that this was a savage people. The doctors were even less human to her, prodding at the body of the Princess with detached amusement. When one went to move her robe, she snapped.
“Don’t you dare touch her.”
These men are no better than vermin.
Their startled looks almost gave her satisfaction.
“That is a Princess of the Realm,” her accented French sputtered out, “and she will be treated like any other member of the royal family. Not autopsied in her bed by a group of ogling simpletons.”
“Your Grace, we will need to investigate.” spoke one brave man, his hand stained the colour of wilted cabbage.
“Go talk to her maids. There is little she can tell you now. The Princess is dead.”
As she stepped back towards the body and bowed her head in a silent prayer, they shuffled out of the room. Only one dared stop at the door, and took in the scene. It was almost maternal, the woman in blue, standing over the small girl in her bed. He noted the knotted hairnet on the ground at her feet, and wondered at what point it had fallen from her head.
Eleonore stood watch for almost an hour before the body was taken away. She had the sheets burned and sent men out to find the grifter who sold the poison. But no man was punished for the death of Catherine de Medici.
Catherine
It had been one little vial. Smelling of roses and nuts, she’d barely taken a mouthful of this potion that tore through her stomach like a thousand knives strapped to the hooves of wild horses. Laying on her side, her eyes squeezed shut, she heard them all whispering.
“What has she done?”
“It’s that Italian magic gone wrong.”
“Do we call the Queen?”
Not since the day the Emperor had laid siege to Florence had she felt so vulnerable. Then, trapped in the walls of a city ready to sacrifice her child body, she’d felt true fear. But now there was no Pope Clement to run to. She feared it’d be the end.
When might it stop?
The rush of feet around her barely registered as hands grabbed and pulled. She was sure she screamed. But without her wits, she was dragged onto the bed and stripped of her clothes and dignity.
Her foot connected with a maid’s side as a palm pressed into her distended stomach. A doctor proclaimed her poisoned. She had done it herself.
I just wanted a son.
It had been one little vial.
The man had been so confident. Cocky in a way she found comforting. With his fine clothes and new shoes, it was like speaking to a nobleman. And the promise of children had filled her heart with joy.
Her ladies told her it would come. She was barely a woman yet. But at 16, Catherine had been impatient. 100 livres seemed like a small amount for three little potions that would give her a son, a daughter, and a beautiful complexion. The last had been her first try, and her cheeks had glowed that night. By candlelight, she had walked past a polished piece of bronze and supposed herself almost pretty. Her husband had even danced with her before leaving for Normandy. Had shared her bed. If one could be successful, the other could as well. So, following the instructions, she’d waited a week since that night and drank the vial after eating a meal of beef and fish. The cow would nourish, the fish would…she couldn’t remember.
Am I dying?
The pain hadn’t been immediate. It was more like pressure at first, and nausea. But he’d told her it would be slow to activate. She’d never been pregnant before, so she’d assumed that was just the child forming. Sitting by the fire while her attendant read poetry, she’d pictured her boy.
Short. Nothing in her could image she and Henri would produce anything much taller than themselves. But he was handsome. Dark eyes and hair the colour of dirty sand. The mind of a general and the heart of a warrior. Brave and strong, louder than the soldiers he’d lead to crush the Spaniards, the Austrians, the Italians – everyone who had wronged her.
It had taken almost an hour to get her on the floor. She remembered asking for milk. Not drinking it, but maybe asking. During a brief moment of clarity, her eyes shot open and she looked for milk. There was none. But Eleonore was there. The Queen had invited her to enjoy the country air while the French did their war. It wasn’t that the Austrian was unfriendly, but uncertain. And Catherine had been glad for the company, seeing as her husband was rarely interested. But now those large eyes watched on sadly as the little Madame d’Orleans panted and cried.
It would have been embarrassing if it wasn’t so painful.
Eventually, the cries became moans. Then came sobs. Then finally, shaking breaths. Nobody could touch her. All the while, she was never alone. It wasn’t love, she knew that for certain, but there was comfort in the attention. And as she stared into the canopy of the bed, counting threads as her strength left her bit by bit, she heard her host clearly.
“It isn’t your fault, my girl. We are all foolish in love but healed in glory. So long, sweet sparrow.”
A bejewelled hand stroked her head. A priest spoke above her. The lights dimmed with every heartbeat.
It ends too soon.
The thumping became quicker, and it was like the world dropped about her. Eleonore watched on, as the rasps quickened, then slowed, then stopped. Putting the back of her hand against the young girl’s cheek, she waited a moment, then turned to the men surrounding the befouled bed.
“The Princess is dead.”
As Catherine lay there, fading out, she almost heard them mutter, as the world grappled with her demise. That empty vessel, so important to her, sat empty in a box under her bed. It had been one little vial.
---
Eleanore
There was a corpse in the chateau, and this Queen of France was not happy about it. The poor little Italian thing had followed her out to the country, where the two unwanted brides were meant to spend the next few months in quiet companionship. Mistresses ruled the court, and it was safer for brides to remain unseen rather than bothersome.
“She was barely a girl.” she had said to the maid, carrying a stinking rug.
The room smelled horrid, but Eleonore refused to leave the room until she was sure the body would be handled with care. Whatever fantasies she’d had about France before her wedding, it was clear now that this was a savage people. The doctors were even less human to her, prodding at the body of the Princess with detached amusement. When one went to move her robe, she snapped.
“Don’t you dare touch her.”
These men are no better than vermin.
Their startled looks almost gave her satisfaction.
“That is a Princess of the Realm,” her accented French sputtered out, “and she will be treated like any other member of the royal family. Not autopsied in her bed by a group of ogling simpletons.”
“Your Grace, we will need to investigate.” spoke one brave man, his hand stained the colour of wilted cabbage.
“Go talk to her maids. There is little she can tell you now. The Princess is dead.”
As she stepped back towards the body and bowed her head in a silent prayer, they shuffled out of the room. Only one dared stop at the door, and took in the scene. It was almost maternal, the woman in blue, standing over the small girl in her bed. He noted the knotted hairnet on the ground at her feet, and wondered at what point it had fallen from her head.
Eleonore stood watch for almost an hour before the body was taken away. She had the sheets burned and sent men out to find the grifter who sold the poison. But no man was punished for the death of Catherine de Medici.
