Read Online The Confessions of Catherine de Medici by C.W. Gortner - Free Book Online
Authors: C.W. Gortner
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also have you ride the hunt with us, as an honorary member of our Petite Bande. You do ride, don’t you?”
“I do,” I said quickly. “I like riding.” In truth, I had never ridden a hunt, but I had brought a splendid gold and leather saddle from Florence with me and I thought it would stand out.
“Good. Riding
la chasse
with us is sure to bring you notice.”
“And that’s good?” I asked, for I wasn’t sure if it was the kind of notice I should aspire to.
She tossed her head, laughing. “Nothing could be better! You haveMadame d’Étampes on your side, my dear, and if there’s one thing I excel at, it’s how to win a man.”
I was thus initiated into the king’s intimate circle. It took several weeks to get my new gowns fitted, and in the meantime I began practicing my riding every day on a docile mare, using my Florentine saddle, which had a higher ridge and shorter stirrup length than customary in France and thus, Madame d’Étampes informed me, allowed me the extra advantage of being able to hike up my skirts to show off my ankles. “You do have lovely legs, my dear,” she remarked. “And the gentlemen always appreciate a hint of thigh.” She trilled laughter; I think she enjoyed grooming me, seeing me as some special project she undertook for the king.
Finally I was taken with the Petite Bande to the hunt.
I didn’t like it. The hounds barked incessantly, the men drank too much too early, and the women vied with each other for attention. I also learned to stay far from the actual killing, for the celebrated
chasse
was just an organized massacre, with grooms setting up nets in a circle while wranglers beat the bushes with rods to scare up quail, pheasant, rabbit, and other creatures and send them bounding into the nets, where, defenseless, they fell to the gleeful thrust of spears and arrows shot by the ladies on their mares. The animals’ agonized cries and their blood soaking the ground nauseated me; I didn’t understand how otherwise sophisticated people could delight in such savagery. I would have preferred to ride with the king in honest pursuit of hart or boar, but women weren’t allowed, though in my saddle I could ride as hard and fast as any man. Disregarding the calluses on my hands and on my buttocks (for these hunts consumed hours) I spent the time perfecting my horsemanship skills while the women sated their bloodlust, until one morning I set heels to my mare and spurred after the king.
I was rewarded by his astonishment, and his men’s staring disapproval, when I came to his side. “Let me ride with you today,” I said, and he looked at me before he nodded. “You’d best know how to use that bow,” he said, and he spurred his stallion forth, his hounds baying as they caught scent of prey. I followed, reveling in the sensation of the forest rushing past me, laughing aloud when a low branch snagged myriding cap and tore it from my head. Leaning in my saddle against my mare’s powerful neck, I urged her on, determined to keep pace. And there, on the edge of a clearing, I saw the hounds corner a young doe, her ears flattened against her exquisite head, her expressive eyes distended in fear as she bucked at the circling dogs with her hooves.
François beckoned me. His men were about him, yanking at their lathered steeds and watching me with disdain. “She’s yours,” said the king. “Do her proud.”
I met his eyes. I didn’t want to kill that valiant beast fighting for her life; my heart resisted even as I took up my bow and fitted the arrow. I waited until the doe rose on her hindquarters to evade a lunging dog. I closed my eyes, let the arrow fly. I heard the men gasp. The taut silence was broken by the houndsmen shouting at the dogs to stay put; when I opened my eyes I saw the doe dead on the ground, my arrow protruding from her chest.
I turned to François, who gestured for me to dismount. Cutting off the doe’s right ear, he took its bleeding edge and drew it
“I do,” I said quickly. “I like riding.” In truth, I had never ridden a hunt, but I had brought a splendid gold and leather saddle from Florence with me and I thought it would stand out.
“Good. Riding
la chasse
with us is sure to bring you notice.”
“And that’s good?” I asked, for I wasn’t sure if it was the kind of notice I should aspire to.
She tossed her head, laughing. “Nothing could be better! You haveMadame d’Étampes on your side, my dear, and if there’s one thing I excel at, it’s how to win a man.”
I was thus initiated into the king’s intimate circle. It took several weeks to get my new gowns fitted, and in the meantime I began practicing my riding every day on a docile mare, using my Florentine saddle, which had a higher ridge and shorter stirrup length than customary in France and thus, Madame d’Étampes informed me, allowed me the extra advantage of being able to hike up my skirts to show off my ankles. “You do have lovely legs, my dear,” she remarked. “And the gentlemen always appreciate a hint of thigh.” She trilled laughter; I think she enjoyed grooming me, seeing me as some special project she undertook for the king.
Finally I was taken with the Petite Bande to the hunt.
I didn’t like it. The hounds barked incessantly, the men drank too much too early, and the women vied with each other for attention. I also learned to stay far from the actual killing, for the celebrated
chasse
was just an organized massacre, with grooms setting up nets in a circle while wranglers beat the bushes with rods to scare up quail, pheasant, rabbit, and other creatures and send them bounding into the nets, where, defenseless, they fell to the gleeful thrust of spears and arrows shot by the ladies on their mares. The animals’ agonized cries and their blood soaking the ground nauseated me; I didn’t understand how otherwise sophisticated people could delight in such savagery. I would have preferred to ride with the king in honest pursuit of hart or boar, but women weren’t allowed, though in my saddle I could ride as hard and fast as any man. Disregarding the calluses on my hands and on my buttocks (for these hunts consumed hours) I spent the time perfecting my horsemanship skills while the women sated their bloodlust, until one morning I set heels to my mare and spurred after the king.
I was rewarded by his astonishment, and his men’s staring disapproval, when I came to his side. “Let me ride with you today,” I said, and he looked at me before he nodded. “You’d best know how to use that bow,” he said, and he spurred his stallion forth, his hounds baying as they caught scent of prey. I followed, reveling in the sensation of the forest rushing past me, laughing aloud when a low branch snagged myriding cap and tore it from my head. Leaning in my saddle against my mare’s powerful neck, I urged her on, determined to keep pace. And there, on the edge of a clearing, I saw the hounds corner a young doe, her ears flattened against her exquisite head, her expressive eyes distended in fear as she bucked at the circling dogs with her hooves.
François beckoned me. His men were about him, yanking at their lathered steeds and watching me with disdain. “She’s yours,” said the king. “Do her proud.”
I met his eyes. I didn’t want to kill that valiant beast fighting for her life; my heart resisted even as I took up my bow and fitted the arrow. I waited until the doe rose on her hindquarters to evade a lunging dog. I closed my eyes, let the arrow fly. I heard the men gasp. The taut silence was broken by the houndsmen shouting at the dogs to stay put; when I opened my eyes I saw the doe dead on the ground, my arrow protruding from her chest.
I turned to François, who gestured for me to dismount. Cutting off the doe’s right ear, he took its bleeding edge and drew it
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