The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

Queen Mother

July 1559-August 1572

Thirty-two

The Guises’ carriage took my children and me to the Palace of the Louvre. François, Duke of Guise, and his brother Charles, Cardinal of Lorraine, wanted desperately to separate me from my son-now François II, King of France-so that he would refuse my advice and listen only to them and to Mary, whom he adored. But I would not leave François, and when he asked sweetly whether he might speak privately with the Cardinal and the Duke, I surrendered myself to such earnest-if calculated-paroxysms of weeping that he was too frightened to desert me.

I feared for him on more than one account. The strain of his father’s suffering and death had left François physically debilitated: even in the carriage, he laid his head upon Mary’s shoulder and moaned feebly at every lurch. He was dizzy, he said, and his ear had begun to pain him.

Nevertheless, François tried his best to understand my words about the necessity of a smooth transfer of power. By nightfall, I had convinced my son to establish a regency council whose decisions bore a weight equal to those of His Majesty. I was to share power with the Guises, who had moved into Diane’s and Montmorency’s apartments after throwing the former occupants’ belongings out onto the Louvre’s paved courtyard.

Old Montmorency-too late realizing that it honored Henri more to save his kingdom than to sit with his dead body-came to the Louvre the following day, and offered his services to François. My son thanked him stiffly, then haltingly recited a cruel speech written by the Guises: Montmorency was too old to be of use, and his position of Grand Master now belonged to François, Duke of Guise. The new King suggested Montmorency retire to his country estate.

In the days after my husband’s death, many faces changed at Court: old Montmorency, a reliable fixture, was gone; the young Scotsman, Captain de Montgomery, could not be found. Diane de Poitiers retreated to her home at Anet. At my request, she promptly returned the Crown Jewels my husband had given her in his smitten youth, along with a letter asking my forgiveness for any pain she had ever caused me.

When the jewels arrived, in a beautifully sculpted crystal casket-a wedding gift to me from Pope Clement-I took Mary to see them. I treated her politely in public, but I had not forgotten her conspiratorial conversation with the man who had killed my husband, nor François of Guise’s stray comment, at her wedding, that she was already Queen of France.

“These are yours now,” I told her. And when she brightened at the sight of them, I sidled next to her and whispered, “Regicide is the worst crime before God. Those who commit it are doomed to the worst circle of Hell.”

She glanced sharply at me, her eyes wide and perhaps frightened as her hand went to the diamond-studded crucifix at her breast.

Easily, I looked away from her, down at the glistening casket filled with rubies and emeralds and pearls. “You are a very lucky girl,” I murmured. “Fortunate that my son loves you so dearly. Fortunate that Captain de Montgomery cannot be found.”

She stared at me, her eyes owlish, her lips so tightly pursed as to be in danger of disappearing. I left her thus, pale and pinched and silent.

I don’t understand how, in those early days, I managed to do what was necessary to protect my son. They say that after a soldier loses an arm or a leg, the body insists the limb is still there, moving, touching, feeling. Perhaps that is how I survived the horror of losing my husband; I breathed and spoke and moved, thanks to a phantom heart.

In the moments I was not needed, I succumbed. I swathed my cramped apartments at the Louvre in black crepe and sat alone on the floor, clutching my skull. There are no words to describe grief: the howling madness, the bitter ache in the chest and throat, the terror caused by loss of meaning. It came in waves less predictable than those of labor but infinitely fiercer. One instant I would be issuing orders to Madame Gondi; the next, clutching her skirts as I collapsed, sobbing.

Nor are there words to describe the endless feverish workings of my mind as it sought to understand how I had failed Henri, how-despite everything-I had let him die. Why had the sacrifice of the harlot not been enough? Why had I not insisted more vehemently that he avoid the joust?

Summer turned relentless: Black waves writhed in the air above the pavement and turned to steam in the wake of afternoon showers that gave no respite. Night brought sudden storms: I woke often to the crack of lightning, hearing instead the shattering of the Scotsman’s lance.

A month to the day after the King died, Ruggieri returned to Paris. Before I hurried to meet him, I peered into my mirror and saw a haggard woman there, with a new shock of white hair at one temple and a pronounced pallor from lack of outdoor exercise. Grief did not flatter me.

Ruggieri looked better than I had ever seen him. He had grown a black beard to cover his pitted cheeks and put on a bit of weight, which suited him. He had even seen a bit of sun. The instant Madame Gondi closed the door on us, Ser Cosimo went down on one knee.

“Madame la Reine,” he said, his tone formal but heartfelt. “Words fail to express the sorrow I felt upon hearing of His Majesty’s death.”

“We meet again, too soon,” I responded.

“Too soon,” he answered, his voice and eyes sad.

I walked around my desk to where he knelt. “Rise, Monsieur Ruggieri,” I said and caught his hand.

He rose. When he stood looking down at me, expectant yet somber, I lifted my arm and, with all my strength, struck him. The gesture loosed a storm of rage: I curled my fists and pounded his chest, his stomach, his arms.

“Bastard!” I screamed. “Bastard! You made me kill a woman and her children, but it was not enough, and Henri died!”

He averted his face patiently until I was breathless and spent.

“You lied,” I gasped. “You said that Henri was safe.”

“We gave him years,” Ruggieri answered. Misery glimmered in his eyes. “I did not know how many. The stars, you understand, can be cheated only so long.”

“Why did you not tell me?” I wailed and struck out again. My fingernails caught the tender skin beneath his eye and left three bloody marks; he made no sound as I drew back, aghast.

“Would you have preferred to live those years already grieving?” he asked. “Counting the days and dreading what must come?”

“I murdered innocents for naught! How do I know the pearl isn’t useless? How do I know it keeps my children safe?”

“We purchased your husband almost two decades,” he countered. “Half a lifetime. Or would you have had Henri perish as the young Dauphin, in his father’s wars? Would you prefer that your children had never been born? The pearl has bought them time-I know not how long-that they would never have had.”

I fell silent and stared, disconsolate, at the floor. I am not certain what followed: I felt giddy and thought that the lamp upon my desk had suddenly dimmed.

When I came to myself, I was propped up on many pillows in a chair in my antechamber, my legs resting on an ottoman. Madame Gondi was fanning the air in front of my face.

“Madame la Reine, thank God!” she said, with a small smile of relief. “You have returned to us at last.” She made me sip from a goblet of wine.

I put a hand to my brow. “Where is Monsieur Ruggieri?”

“Out in the corridor. I did not think him capable of being so thoroughly frightened.”

I handed her the goblet. “Bring him in.”

She knew me well enough not to argue. She admitted Ruggieri, then stepped just outside the door. Too dizzy to risk standing, I remained seated.

At the sight of me, the magician brightened; I motioned for silence. I was too weak and ragged to waste energy on a meaningless conversation about my health.

“You did not tell me everything about my husband,” I said, “but you will tell me everything about my sons. François’s health is poor. I must know whether it will improve, whether…” I let the words hang unspoken between us.

“If you are sure that you can bear to know the truth,” Ruggieri said, “I will present to you the future, more clearly than any nativity can display it. Give me a week, perhaps two. But we will need privacy. It is not something that can be easily accomplished here in the city, where there are too many eyes.” He paused. “And if the truth is not to your liking…?”

“No more blood,” I whispered.

“I shall speak to you again soon, Madame la Reine,” he promised with a bow.

As he left, Madame Gondi remained in the doorway, watching curiously while he made his way down the corridor.

“He is a strange man, I know,” I sighed.

“Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully. “But he carried you here in his arms; he was so undone by worry, I thought that he would faint himself. I believe, Madame la Reine, that he is in love with you.”

I gave her a sharp glance: My heart was raw over Henri; I could not bear to think of Ruggieri’s odd affliction. Madame Gondi changed the subject to what I had failed to eat and drink over the course of the day, and we spoke no more of the magician.

The Château de Chaumont rests on a promontory overlooking the Loire River. A clean, new structure, it features round whitewashed towers capped with dark grey slate and views of the forested valley. I had begun to negotiate its purchase in the days before Henri’s death, thinking to turn it into a haven for my overweary husband: Now, I wanted to hide there because it held no memories of him.

Ruggieri awaited me at Chaumont. He had ridden on his own horse and arrived some days before, the better to avoid rumors. He did not greet me upon our arrival but remained closeted away, preparing for our latest crime.

I spent the remaining daylight hours restlessly inspecting my new property, wandering through empty rooms. When dusk came, a sliver of moon rose over the dark river. I stood upon my balcony, watching the light play on the rippling water.

Within a few hours, Madame Gondi’s knock came at the door. I followed her through a gallery that led outdoors to the building that housed the chapel. She took me inside, to the foot of a winding staircase leading up to the bell tower. I refused the lamp and left her there to climb the high, narrow stairs in the dark. The tall door at the top was closed, its edges limned with pale, feeble light. I pushed it open.

The room was vast, high-ceilinged, and empty, all of which conspired to give the sense of infinite, uncharted darkness. At its center, Ruggieri waited in the heart of a large circle. Candles flickered faintly at each of the four cardinal directions-one of them just behind a low, silk-draped altar, which held a small wooden birdcage and a human skull, its crown sawed away to admit a censer. Smoke streamed from its eye sockets, perfuming the air with the resinous, sacred smell of frankincense.

He moved to the edge of the pentagram but no further; a double-edged dagger glinted in his left hand.

“The circle has already been cast. Come.” He pointed at a spot just outside the black perimeter. “Stand there and do as I tell you.”

I went to it and watched as the magician wielded the dagger, touching the tip to floor at the circle’s edge and lifting it up to carve an invisible archway just wide enough to permit me passage.

“Enter now,” he whispered. “Quickly!”

I hurried through, and he performed the reverse motion swiftly, sealing the gap.

Inside the circle, the darkness was dancing, alive. Ruggieri sheathed his dagger and returned its center. The pale blur of his hand moved swiftly, and I found myself suddenly staring at an apparition: a tiny woman, dressed and veiled in black, her white face haggard with grief.

I reached toward her; my fingers brushed cold metal and recoiled. It was a large oval mirror upon a stand, draped in black until that instant. Ruggieri set aside the cloth and pulled a stool in front of the steel mirror.

“Sit,” he commanded, and I obeyed.

He moved to the altar and took a white pigeon from the cage. It sat trustingly in his hand until he reached out to wrest its neck suddenly, savagely. The dagger flashed; the pigeon’s head fell to the floor as blood gushed onto white feathers. Ruggieri lifted a quill from the altar and, dipping it into the bloody stump, painstakingly formed strange, barbarous letters upon the steel. Red sigils soon covered my reflection, until the mirror was almost filled; he set down his gruesome inkwell and quill to stand behind me.

“Catherine,” he said. “Catherine…” It was a chant, musical and strangely sensual. “You wish to know your sons’ fates,” he sang. “Let the mirror now reveal the future kings of France.”

Bitterly weary from grief, I closed my eyes and leaned back against him, passive and on the verge of slumber. My breathing grew deep and languorous; I wanted never to stir.

“Catherine,” he hissed.

I opened my eyes with a start. I was sitting unsupported on the stool, and Ruggieri had vanished. I called his name, but no answer came-only the gentle trill of the surviving bird. The slab of polished steel revealed two shining candles at the circle’s edge, nothing more.

The mirror suddenly filmed as if censed with smoke. As I stared into it, a countenance formed in the mists. I thought at first that the magician had come to stand behind me again, but the face was not his. The features were blurred and translucent, the specter of a dark-haired boy with dark eyes.

“François?” I whispered. The features, the cant of the head and shoulders, could well have been those of my eldest son.

The face gave no answer but grew slowly incandescent. It pulsed once, dazzling as fireworks, then quickly dimmed.

The mirror darkened and began to swirl. As the mists cleared a second time, a face appeared, this one in profile but again blurred and indistinct. It, too, was of a boy, round-cheeked and sullen, with an ugly red mark on his upper lip: my second son, Charles.

Let the mirror now reveal the future kings of France.

François, my poor frail boy, was doomed. I pressed my hands to my eyes in an effort to hold back tears. Ruggieri had been right; I had not wanted to know.

When I parted my fingers, Charles’s countenance was pulsating with light. Bright and dark, bright and dark alternated until I began to count the fluctuations: four, five, six… Were these increments of time? Years? If so, how many had I missed?

A black tear trickled down Charles’s ghostly cheek; I pressed my fingertips to the mirror’s cold surface. Dark liquid rushed from the top of the mirror downward, spilling like a black curtain to blot out the sight of my son. I pulled my hand away and spread my fingers-sticky, red, smelling of iron.

At once, the bloody curtain vanished. I let go a sob at the realization that Charles’s face had also disappeared; within the mirror, clouds roiled. A third face formed, one bearded and handsome, very like my husband’s.

“My precious eyes,” I gasped. Of all my children, Edouard was most suited to be King. I began to count the oscillations but did not get far: The bloody veil soon fell again.

The steel flashed as if reflecting the sun. Dazzled, I cried out and covered my eyes.

When I looked again, the mirror was clear, unclouded-a mirror, nothing more. I peered into it and saw my own reflection clearly.

Above my right shoulder hung the sun-browned face of a little boy, perhaps six years old. It was solid, not ghostly, with close-cropped chestnut curls and large eyes-green, like those of his grandmother Marguerite of Navarre, like those of his mother, Jeanne.

I whirled about, the stool skittering beneath me as I struggled to my feet. The boy stood near the door-a real boy, flesh and blood, mouth gaping at the sight of me.

“You there!” I shouted and started as a strong hand gripped my arm above the elbow. The boy dashed out the door and disappeared.

“Don’t go after him,” Ruggieri warned. “Don’t break the circle.”

“But I know him!” I said. “Henri of Navarre, Jeanne’s son. What is he doing here? He should be in Paris!”

“It’s only a groom,” Ruggieri countered, “from the stables. A curious boy who needs a beating, nothing more. Let him go. We must close the circle properly.”

“No,” I said. “Not yet. I must ask the King what this means. My husband-I know that you can summon him.”

Ruggieri sighed wearily and stared at the candle flame behind the altar and the smoke that streamed up from the skull.

“All right then,” he said at last. He took the second pigeon from the cage and wrung its neck, then wiped the mirror clean with his sleeve.

“Give me your hand,” he said. I balked until he added, “He knows you, Catherine. Your blood will draw him the fastest.”

I surrendered my hand and did not flinch when the blade stung the tip of my finger. The magician milked it a bit, then pressed it to the mirror’s cold surface.

Ruggieri sat upon the stool and began to breathe rhythmically. Soon his head lolled, and his eyelids trembled.

“Henri,” he whispered hoarsely. It was an invitation, a plea. “Henri de Valois…”

His eyes closed, and his body sagged upon the stool; his limbs began to twitch. Abruptly he straightened, though his head lolled forward, as though he were sleeping. The dagger flashed again: The pigeon’s severed head softly struck the floor as the magician’s left hand fumbled for the quill.

I watched, transfixed, as Ruggieri dipped the nib into the pigeon’s bloody stump and wrote across the mirror’s gleaming surface. The script was my husband’s.

Catherine

For love of you I do this for love of you this time I come

Ruggieri’s hand ceased its spasmodic efforts and hovered above the steel-waiting for a question.

“Our sons,” I whispered. “Will they all die without heirs?”

A pause; Ruggieri’s fingers trembled.

My one true heir will rule

“One heir?” I pressed. “François alone will rule?”

The quill steadied and did not move. François was sickly; if he was the only Valois heir, what was to become of his brothers?

“Why the blood?” I demanded. “Why was there blood on Charles’s face, on Edouard’s? Why did Navarre appear? Is it because he will kill them?”

Destroy what is closest to your heart

“Should I kill Navarre first?” I whispered. “Before he takes their throne?”

Destroy what is closest to your heart

“No!” I said. “I cannot…” I cradled my face in my hands and did not look up until Ruggieri gripped my shoulders and shook them.

“Catherine!” His voice was harsh. “I have undone the circle. We must go.”

“I can’t do it,” I sobbed. “I cannot kill Navarre, too. A sweet, innocent boy…”

“Navarre never appeared.” Ruggieri was adamant. “I saw no one but a stableboy, a black Ethiopian, with straw in his hair.”

“I thought that I was strong enough,” I moaned. “But I am not strong enough for this.”

“The future is not fixed,” the magician said urgently. “It’s fluid, like the ocean, and you, Catherine, control the tide.”

I stared up at him. “A tide of blood. Tell me how to stop it, Cosimo. Tell me how to save my sons.”

My plea disarmed him. For an instant, his composure fled, revealing infinite tenderness, helplessness, pain. Stricken, he reached unsteady fingers toward my cheek, then withdrew them and gathered himself.

“Come, Madame la Reine,” he said softly and took my hand.

Thirty-three

I returned to Paris in time to see my daughter Elisabeth off on her long journey to the welcoming arms of her new husband, King Philip of Spain. I wept as I kissed her farewell, knowing what awaited her: the loneliness of finding oneself surrounded by strangers, the frustration of wrestling with a foreign tongue. As her carriage rode away, I wrote her the first of many letters, so that she should not have to wait long before receiving a reminder of home.

During my absence, Charles of Guise, Cardinal of Lorraine, had been busy trying to put France’s financial affairs in order. The recent wars had left the country near bankruptcy-and the Cardinal, arrogant fool, decided that the best solution was to refuse to pay the French soldiers returning at last from battle. That, combined with his energetic persecution of Protestants, left him and his brother despised by the common folk.

Protestant leaders had gathered near the port of Hugues and birthed a plot to overthrow the Guises and replace them with the flighty Antoine de Bourbon. The Cardinal’s face was livid as he relayed this to me. “Those damnable Huguenots,” he said, “will not stop until they have overthrown the Crown itself.”

Worst of all, François’s health had failed in my absence. The young king’s ear pained him constantly now and exuded an evil smell; his mottled cheeks were covered with boils. Terrified, I consulted with his doctors and agreed to whisk him from the city’s oppressive heat to the Château at Blois.

By the time we boarded the coach, François was so miserable that he laid his head in my lap and groaned pitifully the entire way-pausing three times, when we signaled the driver to stop, to lean out the window and retch.

When we arrived at Blois, the Guises carried François to his bed while I sent for the doctors. I sat at my stricken son’s bedside next to Mary-she still in a queen’s white mourning, her regal composure stripped away to reveal a frightened young woman. Her affection for her young husband was not entirely feigned; she clung to his limp hand and murmured reassurances. He was fifteen years old-an age at which his father had been a man-yet the body that lay prostrate upon the bed was a child’s, narrow-shouldered and spindly, with cheeks that bore no trace of a beard.

“François!” she begged. “Speak to me, please…”

He opened his eyes a slit. “D-don’t m-make me,” he stammered. “It hurts…” And he closed them again.

Charles and Edouard entered the room, their eyes wide with uncertainty as they solemnly studied their eldest brother.

Homely and hot-tempered, with a wheezing cough that had plagued him from infancy, Charles turned to me and asked, in a loud, heartless tone: “Will he die, then? And will I be King?”

François’s eyelids flickered. Mary let go her husband’s hand and leaned past me to slap Charles’s childishly plump cheek.

“Horrid boy!” she exclaimed. “What a dreadful, ugly thing to say!”

Charles’s face contorted with rage. “It’s Edouard’s fault!” he bellowed at his younger brother, who was handsome, intelligent, tall, and endearing-everything Charles was not. “He told me what to say!” He whirled on Edouard, who cringed in my arms. “You want François to die. And me, too. You can’t wait until we are both dead, so that you can have your way in everything!”

“It’s a lie,” Edouard whispered. “François, forgive him…” He began weeping softly.

I handed the boys over to their governess, with strict instructions that they were not to come back until I sent for them.

Mary and I spent the rest of the day and night with François. Each of us gripped one of his hands and held it tightly while the doctor poured warm oil of lavender into his ear; François thrashed and howled piteously.

Hours later, he sat upright and shrieked; a foul-smelling yellow discharge trickled from his affected ear. Mary and I were horrified, but the doctor was pleased: The abscess had burst. If the patient could be strengthened with tonics, he might still overcome the infection.

With the swelling and pain reduced, François fell asleep at last. Relieved, I took the doctor’s advice to go to my bed, where I dropped into fitful slumber.

I dreamt: Again I stood staring out at a field-the torn lists in front of the Château des Tournelles, I thought at first, but there was no palace, no stands, no spectators-no one, save myself and the black, silent form of the man at my feet. The barren ground stretched to the horizon and the fading sky.

My Henri lay dying. I did not call to him or ask how I might help: This time I knew there was nothing I could do save hear him whisper, Catherine, and watch him die.

When his final breath was free, blood bubbled up from his wounded eye and flowed forth onto the earth. Farther and farther it spread, streaming outward, until the ground was covered and a thousand separate pools appeared.

From each pool grew a man, in his final anguished throes. And from each man, a fresh spring gushed forth, to form more and more soldiers, each one mortally wounded. A groan slowly rose in strength until it became a roar, until I pressed my palms against my temples to crush the noise echoing in my skull:

Madame la Reine, aidez-nous

Help us, help us, help us…

Tell me what I must do, I demanded. Only tell me what I must do!

My voice was drowned out by the rising crescendo. I began to shout, more loudly, more insistently, until I woke in my own bed, to a crushing realization.

My sons were not the only ones endangered. Henri’s death had marked not the end of the bloodshed but, rather, the beginning.

I saw the future keenly in the moment after waking: How François would soon die, how his brother ten-year-old Charles would replace him. But Charles was too young to wear the crown; French law required that a regent rule the country until the King reached his majority at the age of fourteen.

By law, an assembly of nobles chose the regent, and given the growing resentment over the Guises’ ascendancy, there was little doubt the assembly would hand the regency to the First Prince of the Blood, Antoine de Bourbon.

François’s death would strip Mary of her French crown and the Guises’ connection to it. They would not permit Bourbon to claim his rightful place, as he would surely cast them from power. Bourbon, in turn, would lead a Huguenot army against them-and the Guises would call upon all good Catholics to fight the heretics. France would be torn apart by civil war.

I rose and called for Madame Gondi, and directed her to send for Bourbon at once.

The days before Antoine de Bourbon’s arrival were colored by tentative hope. François’s fever abated somewhat; he sat up briefly and ate a bit of barley gruel. Relieved, I went outside alone to take the cold autumn air. I covered the courtyard lawn in good time, came upon the enclosed tennis gallery, echoing with the shouts of boys and the ball’s report as it struck the walls, and remembered the hours I had spent watching my young husband and his brother playing tennis.

Another shout came: Tenez! At the same instant, a ball sailed past me, prompting me to turn and look behind me at the sprawling lawn. A surge of nausea seized me; I put my hand to my eyes, and when I drew them away, a mass of naked, mutilated bodies lay piled upon the grass.

I was too stunned to do anything but stare at them. They wavered in the light, then vanished in the wake of running footsteps coming from the direction of the gallery.

I turned to see six-year-old Henri of Navarre, a racquet in his hand. He had stopped several arms’ lengths away, to stare, his eyes stark with fear, at the very spot where I had seen the corpses.

I motioned to him, and he began to run away.

“Henri, wait!” I cried.

He paused, allowing me to draw close enough to speak to him.

“You saw them, too, didn’t you?” I asked, amazed. “You saw them…”

He looked over his shoulder at me; his face abruptly crumpled, and he ran back into the gallery.

The minute I returned to the palace, I called for Ruggieri.

When the magician sat before me, pale and ageless, I said, “Henri’s death was not the end of it. My dreams brought me to France not only for his sake: There are more who will die, thousands more, unless I take action. We must discover what I am to do.”

Ruggieri’s gaze did not meet mine. He stared beyond me and said, “The lives of your sons were bought with the blood of others. Surely you do not mean to slay a thousand men so that a thousand more might not die.”

“Of course not,” I snapped. “But I am already doing everything that I can, on a practical level, to prevent war between the Catholics and the Huguenots. You are the magician, the astrologer; you are my adviser. Surely you know of something more that can be done-short of shedding blood.”

“I told you before that talismans avail little in the face of overwhelming catastrophe. Eventually, the stars will have their way.” He inclined his face gently downward, strangely diffident. “I have studied those stars recently; they have changed since the day I gave you the pearl. I had thought that…” An emotion I had never seen in him-guilt-rippled over his features. “Your husband’s death should have put an end to your dreams, Madame. It should have put an end to the blood. The impact of one child upon the future was, I thought, safe, but three…”

The words of the prophet echoed in my memory:

The tapestry of history is woven of many threads. Let even one be exchanged for another that is weak and flawed, and the veil will tear-and blood be loosed, more blood than you have seen in any dream.

Madame la Reine, these children should not be…

“No,” I whispered. “I am a mother who loves her children. What are you saying? That I should blame my sons? That I should lift my hand against them? Surely you are not, Monsieur, for if you were, I would lift my hand against you.”

His head was bowed; in the cant of his shoulders, I read sorrow and defeat.

“You want me to kill them, don’t you?” I whispered. “You’re asking a mother to destroy her own children… Damn you. Damn you to Hell!”

Ruggieri drew in a long breath and leveled his gaze at me, his expression mournful, urgently tender. “The time will come, Catherine. And if you fail to do what is necessary, there will be unspeakable carnage. It may already be too late.”

“How dare you speak so vilely to me,” I said, my voice trembling as I got to my feet. “How dare you speak so of my children. If you will not help me in the manner I desire, perhaps the time has come for you to leave my employ.”

He rose. The sadness left his features, replaced by the elegantly composed mask. He bowed, the consummate courtier.

“As you wish, Madame la Reine,” he said.

By the following morning, I had convinced myself that my memory of our conversation was faulty, that Ruggieri was not capable of saying such awful things. I had misunderstood him, certainly. When I sent for him again, my courier returned to say that his apartments were already vacant, and his serving woman did not know where he had gone.

I blotted Ruggieri’s impossible words from my mind and turned it to more practical concerns. I worried that rumors of the young King’s poor health might have circulated and alerted Bourbon that the moment had come for him to rally his followers and march upon the palace. Happily, he arrived only three days after my summons-in the company of his valet and two lesser nobles, no more.

On the threshold to my cabinet, Bourbon balked when the guards there informed him that his friends would have to remain outside. I sat behind my closed door and listened to his vehement curses: Subtlety and self-possession were traits he lacked.

Yet when he calmed-and the door to my office was opened-he smiled brightly at me and bowed with an unctuousness verging on the comical. He doffed his velvet cap, revealing a goodly number of white hairs and his fluffy grey hairpiece. He wore more jewelry than I: a gold earring studded with diamonds, a ruby pendant, and several glittering rings.

“Madame la Reine!” he said. “I stand ready to be of service. What shall I do to please you?”

I held out my hands to him. He was the husband of Henri’s cousin Jeanne and the father of little Navarre, though-involved with scurrilous politics and women-he rarely saw them. On the occasions we met, we treated each other as family.

“Come,” I said, “and sit with me. It has been so long since we have spoken.”

He took my hands eagerly and kissed the back of each one, then settled happily into his chair. I smiled also, but it faded quickly. I was too hollow after Henri’s death to waste time with pleasantries. My tone turned serious.

“I have heard, Monsieur, that the Protestants have grown disaffected. That there was a meeting at the port of Hugues, and that the overthrow of the Guise brothers was discussed.”

His eyebrows lifted in surprise; the fine skin of his brow wrinkled easily into a dozen shallow creases. For a moment he stared, quite speechless, at me, then stammered, “Ah, Madame la Reine… Ah. It is nothing personal, you see. It is only that my rights, as First Prince of the Blood, must be protected.” He paused and, in a pitiful attempt to switch the subject, said, “On my arrival here, I inquired after His Majesty and was told he is indisposed. I am sorry to hear this; is he unwell?”

“He is troubled,” I said, “by the actions of the Huguenots. By the thought that men would conspire to take up arms against him-”

“Not him!” Bourbon waved his hands as if to ward off the very idea. “No, Madame la Reine! I would rather die than act against the King!”

“But you would lift your sword against Grand Master Guise, whom my son himself appointed, and against his brother, the Cardinal of Lorraine, whom my husband named Grand Inquisitor. Is that not treason, Monsieur?”

Bourbon’s eyes widened in dismay; whatever he had expected from me, it was not this. “No! Madame, I beg you, it is not!”

“How is it not?” I demanded.

“We do not take up arms against the King. But we wish to show, most emphatically, that the Guises have overstepped their bounds.”

“You would show His Majesty,” I said, my voice growing lower and ever more dangerous, “with arquebuses. With swords and cannon. You would shed blood, to force him to oust the ministers he and his father chose. That is not loyalty, Monsieur de Bourbon. That is treason.” I rose, forcing him to rise with me.

“No! I swear before God!” He wailed and wrung his hands. “Madame la Reine, please listen to me-”

“I have heard enough,” I said coldly. “Step aside so that I can call the guards.”

At that, he fell to his knees-blocking my path-and quivered, a weak, disgusting thing.

“For the love of God!” he shrieked. “What must I do to convince you? I will order them all to disband. I will disavow them. Only tell me what His Majesty wishes, and I shall do it, to prove that I am loyal only unto him.”

I sat down. I slid open my desk drawer and drew out a piece of parchment covered in a copyist’s perfect script. Bourbon could disavow the Huguenots all he wished-but he was only a figurehead. The rebellion could easily continue without him.

“Get up,” I told him, “and sign this.”

He pushed himself to his feet and peered uncertainly at the paper. “Of course, Madame la Reine. Only what is it?”

“A legal document surrendering your rights to the regency in the event of King François’s death,” I said, “and transferring them to me.”

Revelation dawned in his eyes as he stared down at the writing; the color returned to his cheeks and increased to a full-out flush. He had been played, and he knew it. “The regency?” he whispered, then more loudly said, “Do not tell me our young King is seriously ill.”

I answered nothing. I did not want to call for the guards to haul him to prison-but I would, if necessary, and Bourbon sensed it. Beneath my ruthless gaze, he began to fidget. Wretched creature, I thought. God help France if you ever become King. I found it hard to believe he had produced such a fine son.

I dipped a fresh quill in the inkwell and proffered it across the desk.

He stared at it as though it were a scorpion. Yet after a long moment, he took it, and asked, “Where shall I sign?”

I pushed the parchment toward him and pointed to the spot.

He leaned over and scribbled rapidly: the A and B were huge, dramatic, looping. Afterward, he sat back with a long sigh of self-loathing.

I took the document and waved it a few times to dry the ink before setting it back into the drawer. Then I stood, prompting him to do the same.

“Your Highness,” I said, as though finally remembering that I was speaking to a prince. “Your heroic act of self-sacrifice shall not go unmarked. When the time comes, I shall tell everyone how you have put the good of France far above your own.”

We both knew, of course, that neither of us would mention this again-I, out of the need for secrecy; Bourbon, out of a sense of shame.

Even so, I continued warmly: “Please stay with us awhile at Blois. You are among family here, and ever welcome.”

He murmured barely coherent phrases about his gratefulness for my hospitality, about his pressing need to return to Paris. I offered him my hand and repressed a shudder when his lips touched my flesh.

I did not need Cosimo Ruggieri, I told myself. I had just averted a potential war using my wits, and nothing else. Yet after Bourbon had sidled out the door and closed it behind him, I lowered my face to the cool, smooth surface of my desk and sobbed.

After my meeting with Bourbon, I made my way down the winding staircase that led to the King’s apartments. The Duke of Guise was bounding up the steps and was so distracted that we nearly collided. He was gasping, his native arrogance overcome by blind panic; in his eyes, I saw the death of dreams.

Abandoning protocol, he seized my arm. “Madame la Reine! We have been searching everywhere for you! Doctor Paré needs you to come to the King’s bedchamber at once!”

We flew. I kept pace with Guise on the stairs and pushed past the solemn assembly in the corridor to enter the royal antechamber. I was met by Doctor Paré’s bleak, weathered face. Mary stood beside him, a wide-eyed wraith with a twisted kerchief in her restless hands-waiting, all this time, for me and for her uncle the Duke of Guise, who put his arm about her shoulder.

Doctor Paré did not waste time with pleasantries; he was a man unimpressed by titles and, certainly, by Mary, Queen of France. He understood that a mother’s love trumped that of a political wife and so addressed himself to me.

“His Majesty has worsened, Madame,” he said. “Within the last two hours, his fever has risen sharply. The infection has spread to his blood.”

I closed my eyes. I had heard the same words from Doctor Paré before, when they had sealed my husband’s doom.

“What does it mean?” Mary demanded. “What must be done now?”

“There is nothing more I can do,” the doctor told her. “It is a matter of hours now, at most a day or two.”

She lunged at him; the motion caused me to open my eyes just as she was raising her hands to claw the doctor’s face. The Duke of Guise struggled to hold her back as she screamed, “He cannot die! You must not let him!”

While the Duke and Doctor Paré did their best to calm her, I went into the sickroom to sit vigil beside my son. François lay with his eyes tightly shut and crusted, his cheeks flushed an unhealthy violet hue. A heavy fur throw had been drawn all the way up to his chin; even so, his teeth chattered. I crawled into bed beside him and wrapped my arms around him, pressing my body against his in an effort to warm him. I remained there even after a calmer Mary entered and sat nearby. Her face hung over us, a wan and anxious moon.

There is little more to tell. François never came to himself, though at times he groaned with pain. At the end, his body convulsed pitifully, again and again. He fell still to the sounds of Mary’s whispered recitations of the Ave Maria and Pater Noster, and when he let go his last rattling breath, citrine pus streamed from his nostrils.

Only then did I open my arms and climb slowly from the bed. Mary had given up praying to gape with horror at her husband’s body; she remained limp and unresisting as I embraced her, only long enough to whisper in her ear: “Go home to Scotland now. I promise you, it will be safer for you there than here.”

I left François to Mary and the Guises’ hysterical ministrations and went off to find my surviving children. The prescient governesses had dressed the children in black and assembled them in the nursery. Charles was sitting impassively watching Edouard, Margot, and little Navarre throw a tennis ball for the spaniel, who fetched it, safely beyond Charles’s reach. At the sight of me, Charles glanced up, scowling.

“Is he dead, then? Is François dead, and am I King?”

I could only nod. Edouard threw his arms around Margot as she and little Henri began to cry, while Charles’s lips curved in a self-satisfied smirk.

“You see?” he told Edouard. “I am King, after all, and now you shall have to do everything I tell you!”

At the sight of the children’s tears, I had been on the verge of loosing my own, but Charles’s words drew me up short.

“No, he doesn’t,” I corrected him. “You are King in name only, Charles. It is I who rule France now.”

Thirty-four

After François’s death, Mary wisely sailed home to Edinburgh. In an effort to tighten their loosening grip on the Crown, the Guises formed an ultra-Catholic group dedicated to eradicating the Huguenots. Because of Antoine de Bourbon’s reconversion to Catholicism, his wife, Jeanne-Queen of the now-Protestant kingdom of Navarre-separated from him. Although she remained at Court, the growing political tension caused her to avoid my company.

Bourbon’s younger brother Louis, the Prince of Condé-a man of more impressive constancy-took his place and proved an able leader alongside Admiral Coligny. Protestantism continued to spread. Many intellectuals at Court-all sincere, rational people-were drawn to it; I therefore failed to sense the enmity growing beyond the palace walls.

The Guises threw themselves wholeheartedly into their zealous anti-Huguenot campaign. One Sunday the Duke of Guise was riding through the countryside when he heard the distant singing of psalms. With his entourage of armed guards, he discovered the source: a barn, packed with Huguenots worshiping in secret.

Under French law, heresy was punishable by death-a technicality that my husband and his father had often chosen to overlook. But Guise loosed his guards upon the singers, slaughtering seventy-four innocents and leaving a hundred more savaged but alive.

The Huguenots took revenge swiftly. Catholic Paris remained at peace, but battles were fought in the countryside. Condé and Coligny led the Huguenots, Guise and the inconstant Bourbon the Catholic royalists.

For a year, fighting was fierce. I argued in favor of negotiation, but Guise, a popular war hero, argued strenuously against it and garnered enormous support. Resigned, I went to rally the troops; when I walked the ramparts, old Montmorency scolded me: Did I not realize the terrible danger I had put myself in? I laughed, not knowing that, just outside the walls, Antoine de Bourbon had taken an arquebus shot to the shoulder while relieving himself beneath a tree. He died shortly thereafter, leaving his nine-year-old son, Henri, King of Navarre.

His widow decided that it was time for her and her son to return permanently to the tiny country Henri now ruled.

“No tears,” Jeanne warned sternly, as I embraced her in the instant before she boarded the coach.

I obeyed and kissed her solemnly, and put my arms around little Henri.

“Whatever frightening things you see,” I whispered into his ear, “you mustn’t be afraid. They appear in order to guide you. Write to me about them if you wish, and I will try to help.”

As I pulled back, he nodded shyly. I put a copy of Italian poetry into his hands-Tasso’s Rinaldo, a fine adventurous romance for a precocious boy-then stepped back as the Queen and her son boarded the carriage.

Bourbon was not the only loss suffered by the royalists. The Duke of Guise once again distinguished himself in war by capturing the Huguenot leader Condé in battle-only to die a few months later outside Orléans, shot in the back by Gaspard de Coligny’s spy.

I used the opportunity to prevent further bloodshed. Over the protests of Guise’s family, who craved revenge, I negotiated with the rebels. In exchange for Condé’s release and a limited right to worship, the Huguenots laid down their arms. I appointed Guise’s son Henri to his late father’s position of Grand Master and welcomed the Huguenots back to Court. During those years of peace, my children grew.

Margot became a high-spirited creature with dark, glossy ringlets and expressive features. When she smiled, her dark eyes came alive and made otherwise sensible men swoon. Supremely healthy, she adored riding and dancing, and proved herself a prodigy at mathematics.

Edouard-now the Duke of Anjou-grew to be tall, with his father’s long, handsome face and black eyes. He also showed a Medicean taste for elegant clothing and favored jewelry, the more glittering, the better. With Edouard, I shared all that I knew about governing, and he proved himself an apt pupil, quick to understand intrigue and the more delicate nuances of diplomacy.

Charles grew, but I cannot say that he ever became a man. His chin was weak, his eyes and forehead too large; this unfortunate combination of features was not improved by the glaring birthmark beneath his nose. The slightest exertion left him pale and gasping. He was angered by his poor health and slow-wittedness, and deeply jealous of his brother’s good looks and brains, and often flew into incoherent rages.

I thought that he would outgrow his fits of angry mania, but over time the frequency and intensity of them worsened. When His Majesty reached fourteen-the age of majority-he continued to rely on me to govern the country; I passed a law requiring him to have the approval of his Privy Council before issuing a command. In public, Charles did a fine job of parroting the speeches I wrote for him. But he made a show of rebelling against me in every other way, and on his fourteenth birthday he insisted, against my wishes and those of his physicians, on joining the hunt.

Edouard, almost thirteen, and his younger sister, Margot, rode alongside the King and me. It was late June, and the Loire Valley rolled out before us, lush and alive. Even white-haired Montmorency had accepted our invitation to the hunt, adding to the feel that it was just like old times.

It was difficult for me not to cast a thousand nervous glances in Charles’s direction, or to call for a halt when his breath grew wheezing. But the chase filled him with such excitement that he spurred his mount to go faster and burst into unrestrained laughter, his eyes wide and bright.

I had told the Master of the Hunt to make the chase short and the prey easily taken. In half an hour, the hounds trapped our target in a thicket: a wild hare, the least threatening victim for a sickly boy.

“I have it!” Charles crowed, as the Master called the hounds off. My son dismounted and began to thrust a spear savagely into the thicket. When the hare emerged, Charles skewered the creature through its stomach, pinning it to the ground. By then, Edouard and Margot and I had dismounted and approached, in order to congratulate Charles on his first kill-but the odd light in my son’s eyes silenced us.

The hare struggled to free itself, legs scrambling, yellow teeth bared. Laughing, Charles crouched down to touch the animal’s wound and the hare bit him.

He let go a terrible howl and feverishly worked his fingers into the creature’s wound, then pulled outward until the hare screamed; its skin tore, revealing glistening red muscle beneath. This excited Charles even more; he reached inside the dying animal and pulled out its entrails. With a maniacal grin, he held them up-intestines trailing from his fingers-for the world to see.

As the other riders arrived behind us, Charles lowered his face to his hands. Against a backdrop of alder leaves and evergreen, he looked up, his eyes bright, his teeth bared in a ferocious grin. From between them, the entrails-sinister red, like the birthmark above his lips-dangled.

He growled and tossed his head like a dog snapping the neck of its prey. I stepped in front of him, vainly trying to shield the others from the sight.

“My God,” Edouard whispered.

He strode up to Charles and, with a hard blow, sent the King reeling. Charles roared and choked on the gore, then spat it out.

“Damn you to Hell!” the King bellowed. “How dare you strike my person!” He lunged at Edouard.

I tried to position myself between them: Charles struck out blindly, forcing me away, while Edouard tried to grab his brother’s arms. Old Montmorency appeared in the middle of the melee; in the scuffle, Charles was knocked down and Edouard pulled off.

The King shouted incoherently. Tufts of sod flew as his fingers and teeth tore spastically at the grass, as if he meant to murder the innocent ground.

The other hunters left quietly. In the end, Charles exhausted himself and had to be carried away on a litter. He coughed so long and so hard that his kerchief grew soaked with blood.

I sat at his bedside that night, his only attendant besides Doctor Paré, who could not entirely mask his alarm at the sight of the blood. Fortunately, Charles developed no fever and, during breaks in the coughing, became his usual sour self.

“I shall die young,” he announced gloomily, “and everyone will be glad.”

“Don’t speak so!” I chided. “You know very well that, if you were ever to die, it would break my heart.”

He lifted a thin brow. “Surely you would rather Edouard be king.”

“What a horrible thing to say! I love all my children equally.”

“No, you don’t,” he said wearily. “You love Edouard best. And that is sad, Maman, because when I am dead, he will show himself as the monster he really is.”

None of my well-reasoned arguments could convince him otherwise; soon, I gave up trying altogether.

When the King reached his seventeenth year, and the Duke of Anjou his sixteenth, trouble developed in the Netherlands and Flanders, ruled by Philip of Spain. The inhabitants were Protestants-Huguenots, as we called them all-and they rebelled at the harsh repression of their religion. Philip sent hundreds of Spanish troops to quell the uprising, but they were not enough to stop what had become a war.

On a cold winter morning in Paris, the Spanish ambassador, Alava, announced that Philip was sending twenty thousand troops to the Netherlands: Would I permit them to march through France?

I would not. Our relations with French Huguenots were strained enough without putting twenty thousand Catholic soldiers in their midst. As a precaution, I hired six thousand Swiss mercenaries to guard the border. I did not for an instant think that Philip intended to invade France, but I did not trust his army.

I never expected that the Huguenots would be alarmed by the Swiss soldiers at the border, nor did I consider that they would launch a rumor: While Philip quashed the rebellion in the Low Countries, I would send the Swiss to slaughter the Huguenots.

Indeed, with the Swiss watching over our borders, I felt confident-enough to take His Majesty, whose health was still poor, to the village of Montceaux, southeast of Paris.

On a cool September day just before noon, Margot, Charles, and I were sitting on the balcony looking out at the little carp-filled pond in the courtyard below. Beyond, the forests spread out in shades of crimson, rust, and saffron.

Edouard appeared suddenly on the balcony, sweating and flushed.

“They’re massing,” he gasped, “in the very next town. We have to leave at once!”

“It’s only rumor,” I chided. There had been talk earlier that the Huguenots were planning an attack, but I judged it unfounded. “Calm down and sit with us.”

“I was off riding, Maman. I saw them myself!”

“Who?” Charles asked, but I was on my feet before Edouard finished talking.

“Where are they?” I demanded. “And how many?”

“Two villages away, to the west-hundreds of infantrymen. I’ve already sent scouts. If we’re lucky, they’ll report within the hour.”

I drew in a steadying breath and reminded myself that an army moved with a fraction of the speed as a rider on horseback.

Charles thumped his fist on his chair’s armrest. “I am the King. Will no one answer my question?”

Although Margot’s features were slack with fear, she put a soothing hand upon her brother’s arm. “The Huguenots, Your Majesty. We might need to take precautions.”

Charles got up from his chair. “You’re dreaming,” he said to Edouard. “Surely you misunderstood-”

“They were carrying swords and pikes,” Edouard retorted, “and the cavaliers had arquebuses. They spoke French, and there are no royal armies nearby. Who else would they be?”

I turned to Charles. “If there are indeed Huguenots on the march, we must protect your person. There is a fortress half an hour’s ride from here, at the town of Meaux. We should go there at once.”

“Edouard lies,” Charles grumbled. “If anyone at this Court loves to start rumors, it’s he.”

But I was adamant. Within an hour, we boarded a coach and left behind all but our most valuable possessions to head straight for Meaux.

Encircled by a long-dry moat, the keep at Meaux was an intimidating bulwark topped by jagged battlements. We rode inside its gaping jaws and flinched at the earsplitting squeal of the ancient iron gate as it was lowered behind us.

The castle rooms were dank and bare, the gatekeeper deaf and unwelcoming. For the next several hours, Edouard paced the battlements with our Scottish bodyguards, while Margot and I sat with Charles. In between fits of coughing, he insisted that this was all a cruel practical joke of his brother’s.

Night fell. His Majesty fell asleep with his head in Margot’s lap. I wandered up and down long, dank corridors, blaming myself for my family’s peril, wondering how I should ever get them safely back to the Catholic stronghold of Paris. Well past midnight, a figure hurried toward me, a lamp in his hand.

“Maman!” Edouard hissed. “They are coming!”

“Who?” I asked.

“The Swiss,” he said, “or the rebels. Either way, we shall know the answer soon.”

He led me up to the battlements. The wind at the top of the tower was strong and cold; I pressed my hand against the stone to steady myself and my flapping skirts, and gazed down.

Beyond the grassy meadow in front of the castle stood a forest; steadily approaching lights twinkled between the black limbs of its trees. The bearers of a hundred blazing torches emerged onto the meadow below; the wind in my ears swallowed their footfall. The lights slowly moved up to the edge of the dry moat and assembled themselves into a perfect square.

Far beneath us, one of our Scotsmen bellowed at the gate. “Who goes there?”

I seized Edouard’s arm. The answer was garbled by the wind, but I understood the gist. The Swiss army had arrived, to serve at the pleasure of the King.

The immaculately courteous commander, Captain Bergun, wore the same uniform as his men, a plain brown tunic with a square white cross upon the breast. He and his mounted officers flanked the infantry that had come to our rescue. Bergun politely ordered us back into the coach and instructed our driver how to proceed to Paris.

Our carriage was situated at the center of a formation of one hundred men. A row five men deep marched ahead of us and behind us, and a row five men deep marched on either side of us, each holding a pike. I peered out the carriage window at a sea of gleaming steel blades moving to a rhythmical chant in Swiss German.

For a quarter hour, we rumbled along slowly; I fell into an uneasy reverie, which was interrupted by the crack of an arquebus. One of our horses reared; the drivers’ curses were drowned out by Captain Bergun’s shouts. Torchlight swept wildly over the dark landscape as another arquebus fired. The ball struck our carriage door, prompting Margot to pull the terrified King’s head into her lap.

Outside, a blond, downy-cheeked pikeman stumbled and struck the wheel with his shoulder, his cheek and upper lip blown away. He fell, trampled by the others as they hurried to close the gap.

From the darkness came the battle cry: Monjoie!

Margot crossed herself while Charles wailed in her lap; Edouard and I stared out at the play of torchlight on the pikemen’s backs as they lowered their blades in unison. An arquebus sounded again; our driver fell sideways to the ground as our horses screamed. The carriage tilted backward, slamming my shoulders against the interior wall; Margot fell on top of me. Charles and Edouard became a tangle of limbs until the carriage righted itself with a jerk.

I scrambled to the window and stared out at the dancing pikes. The wounded screamed: One Swiss fell, then another, and I began planning how to convince the rebels to spare my children.

Lead shot whizzed past my ear, and Edouard yelped. He pressed a hand to his shoulder and drew it away, bright with blood. I rose, thinking to shield him with my body, but he caught my arm and yanked me hard against the seat.

“For God’s sake, Maman, sit down before they blow your head off!”

The Swiss closed ranks about us again; an officer abandoned his mount to take the reins of our coach. We rolled on for a bit, then stopped as Captain Bergun rode up alongside.

Leaning low in his saddle, he called, “It was a Huguenot scouting expedition; two escaped and will return to tell their superiors of our location. We cannot continue at this pace. They will send more cavalrymen with arquebuses.” He peered beyond me at Edouard. “Monsieur le Duc, you are injured!”

“Only grazed,” Edouard called back.

I craned my head out the window. “How far are we from Paris, Captain?”

“An hour, if we move swiftly,” he replied. “My officers and I will ride with you, though we cannot offer as much protection as the pikemen.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Tell the driver not to spare the horses.”

We rode so fast and hard that the carriage shuddered mercilessly, forcing us to cling desperately to our seats.

“God damn every Huguenot ever born!” Charles gasped. The effort to hold on left him ashen and breathless, but no less furious. “We must hunt them down to the last man-and I will draw and quarter the wretch who ordered this attack myself!”

Like Edouard, I remained darkly silent on that frenzied ride, my hand pressed to his shallow wound as I nursed my growing hatred. Before that night, my life had been devoted to keep the peace at all costs, but this attack on the persons of Anjou and the King was beyond forgiving. I stared past Charles and Margot toward the future, and the war that was surely coming.

We arrived at the Louvre forty-five minutes later, an hour before dawn. Montmorency awaited us: I had sent a message saying that he was needed to head an army. When I saw him-white-bearded but still square and resolute-with Doctor Paré in the driveway, I felt gratitude. I had never much cared for Montmorency, nor he for me, but he had led my husband to victory in battle.

He and Doctor Paré were alarmed to see the blood on Edouard’s upper sleeve and were not easily convinced that the Duke of Anjou was not seriously injured. As the doctor herded my sons off, I took Montmorency’s huge hands in mine.

“You were right, Monsieur, and I wrong,” I said. “The rebels were ready to kill the King and Anjou. If I learn who is behind this-”

“The Prince of Condé,” he answered at once. “My spies say that my nephew”-by whom he meant Admiral Coligny, a name he uttered only with great shame-“disapproved and did not lend his support.”

“But Condé is a traitor,” I said, “and I will not rest until he meets a traitor’s end.”

I never saw my bed that night but summoned my generals and advisers. Montmorency’s scouts had determined that Condé’s army was marching from the northeast toward Paris.

Over the next month, we rallied an army sixteen thousand strong while Condé’s men camped on the banks of the Seine just outside the city, effectively cutting off our supplies. I swallowed my hatred and sent emissaries to Condé-whom he returned with the message that the good people of France were “tired of paying taxes to support the lavish lifestyles of foreigners, especially Italians.”

Oh a drab November day, The Battle of Paris began. In the Louvre’s courtyard, Montmorency and his commanders mounted their horses to salute the King before riding off to the front. Impetuous Charles, eager to spill blood, ran to one of the saddled steeds, but Montmorency hurried over and seized the bridle. “Your Majesty,” he said, “your person is too dear to us, and the Huguenots have demonstrated their desire to capture you. Do not tax us; we would need at least ten thousand more men to protect you properly.”

Even Charles could not argue with such logic. We royals remained inside the Louvre; never before was I so grateful for its reinforced walls and iron gates. I climbed up to the roof and looked northeast, though buildings blocked my view of the battle. Edouard-who had casually dismissed the gouge left in his shoulder-soon discovered me; together we watched as storm clouds converged overhead, driven by cold winds.

The armies engaged each other at three o’clock in the afternoon. Condé had amassed ten thousand men against our sixteen thousand; our victory seemed assured. After an hour, scouts brought word that the rebels had taken heavy losses; the second hour brought news that we had suffered equally. My mood darkened with the clouds, which now blotted out the sun.

The third hour brought cold rains, and a messenger soaked to the bone. “Constable Montmorency is at the western gate!”

I frowned, confused: Were we so lost that Montmorency had abandoned his troops? I hurried down to the gate, where an exhausted rider and horse trotted up, dragging a litter in the rain.

Montmorency was strapped to the litter; the blanket beneath him was covered with blood, though I saw no wound. His helmet had been removed, and his white hair was slicked to his scalp; the rain was falling earnestly, and I leaned down to shield him.

“Montmorency,” I said. “Dear Constable…” I put my hand upon his filthy one, and his eyelids fluttered.

“Madame la Reine,” he croaked. “I have failed you.”

“No, Constable, did you not hear?” I forced a great smile. “Our troops are victorious! You have routed the enemy; you have saved France.”

“Is it true?” he whispered.

“Yes,” I answered, “yes!”

At that, he let go a long sigh and closed his eyes. Edouard had followed and was already shouting for Doctor Paré. I took the old man’s hand as others carried the litter inside and had him laid in my bed.

He died there the next day, without coming to himself again. I had him entombed near Henri, the King he had so loved.

Thirty-Five

Within four days, our army forced Condé to retreat. The rebel forces marched southwest into the countryside and were joined by those of Montmorency’s heretic nephew, Admiral Coligny. Our spies reported that the Huguenots were hiring German mercenaries to increase their ranks.

We had no choice but to recruit mercenaries of our own. But I faced an even greater dilemma: Montmorency’s death had left a critical vacuum-that of Lieutenant General, head of the French army-yet none of the candidates for the position filled me with confidence.

At the end of a long day spent with my advisers, Edouard came calling at my chamber door.

“Make me Lieutenant General,” he said.

I laughed. He was only sixteen, dressed in a scarlet velvet doublet and a ruffed collar of spidery ecru lace; large pearls hung from his ears. The thought of him smeared with grime on the battlefield was ludicrous.

“You’re mad,” I said.

His manner was intensely serious. “I’m not. Look at me, look at Charles-we’re spoiled and cosseted, living in splendor while the people suffer the brunt of this war. Yet we ask them to die for us. Charles, with his evil temper, is hardly the sort to inspire loyalty, and I waste my days fencing and playing the fop.

“Let me give the people a Valois worth fighting for, Maman, one who will inspire devotion. I’ll give up my pretty clothes to play the heroic soldier. I’m not afraid to fight. And I will win this war for you.”

“You have no military experience,” I said flatly. “You cannot lead an army.”

“True. But if you give me someone experienced as my second, I’ll listen to him-just as Father listened to Montmorency.”

“Where will I find such a person?”

He answered very quickly. “In Marshal Tavannes.”

I lifted an eyebrow, impressed by Edouard’s choice. A man of unquestionable loyalty, Tavannes had begun his career as a page to old King François, defending his master at Pavia even as enemy Spanish troops surrounded and captured them. Tavannes then served Henri and played a large role in the victory at Calais. Although nearing his seventh decade, and blind in one eye, Tavannes was as sharp-witted as ever.

But the thought of sending my much-loved son to war caused an old, familiar fear to well up within me. Edouard read my thoughts in a glance.

“Make me Lieutenant General,” he said lightly, “and I shall make you a promise.”

“What is that?” I asked cautiously, and he replied: “I won’t die.”

He spat into his palm and held it out to me.

Slowly, reluctantly, I spat into my own, and clasped his hand.

Months passed, during which time Edouard educated himself in the art of war. On the day he left for the front, I smiled bravely as I kissed him good-bye-but afterward, I fled to my chambers and loosed a torrent of tears.

For more than a year, the fighting was fierce. Edoward’s confident letters failed to ease my maternal fear; the strain soon left me feeling exhausted and unwell.

On a Monday afternoon, I sat with the Cardinal of Lorraine and other members of the war council discussing the upcoming battle: The Huguenots were massing outside the town of Jarnac, and my son and Marshal Tavannes were leading ten thousand troops to intercept them. In two days, the fighting would begin. My throat and head throbbed so badly that I had difficulty following what the other councillors were saying.

I was listening to one of the Cardinal’s tirades against the Protestant heretics-closing my burning eyes from time to time, for the light pained them-when Madame Gondi appeared at the door and announced that the Spanish ambassador, Alava, wished to see me privately. I did not trust my son-in-law, Philip, or his ambassador and sent a pointed message back: If Alava wished to speak to me, he must do so in the presence of the other Council members.

Shortly afterward, Alava-a short, rotund man with fingers like sausages-entered, a letter in his plump hands. From my daughter Elisabeth, I thought, for one bright instant hopeful before I looked again at the ambassador’s sorrowful eyes.

“Madame la Reine, forgive me for being the bearer of terrible news.”

I pushed myself to my feet and stared at the letter in his grip, addressed in Philip’s own hand.

“I am so sorry, Your Majesty,” Alava said, “so very sorry.” He proceeded to tell a hideous tale about a young woman giving birth to a stillborn daughter and bleeding so much afterward that she grew white as chalk and died.

I forgot about the hushed Council members and the ambassador. I saw only the evil letter, written in a foreign tongue, in a King’s bold script; I walked around the table and snatched it from Alava’s hand.

I did not open it. I pressed it to the pearl at my heart as though it were Elisabeth herself and sank to my knees, moaning.

I do not remember fainting; I only remember staring up at the ceiling in my bedchamber and hearing Madame Gondi’s distant, incomprehensible murmurs. My body and emotions melted and mingled, resolving into one agonizing, singular ache.

I was out of my head with grief, with fever: I clenched my teeth in a futile effort to stop their chattering. Margot’s and Charles’s voices floated above my bed, but I had no strength to parse their words.

The shadows on the ceiling blurred and shifted, taking on the shapes of soldiers, swords, and cannon; women’s whispers took on the cadence of battle cries and screams. For hours, I endured scenes of men slaying and slain, of armies defeated and victorious, of blood spilling and congealing and drying to ash.

When I finally woke, Margot sat at my bedside; nearby, Madame Gondi sprawled in a chair, snoring.

“Maman! Thank God you are with us at last!” Margot caught my hand.

“Is it already morning?” I whispered.

“Morning of the fifth day, Maman. We thought you would die, but your fever has broken. Doctor Paré says you will recover quickly now.”

“Five days!” I said. “Then what of the battle at Jarnac?”

A curious look crossed her features. “You were talking, Maman, as you dreamed. You saw a great battle in which many men died. Suddenly, you cried out, ‘Look! The Prince of Condé has fallen-and they have killed him!’ And then you said, ‘God, no, Edouard has fallen…’ Then, ‘Look! He has gotten back to his feet! Look, my son is victorious! The enemy flees!’ ”

I reached for her arm. “Damn my dreams! What news of Jarnac? Have we engaged the enemy?”

Margot stared at me, her eyes wide. “It’s all just as you said, Maman. The Prince of Condé is dead, and Edouard is victorious.”

Despite the loss of their commander, Condé, the Huguenots refused to surrender. The surviving leader, Gaspard de Coligny, took his followers to the southern kingdom of Navarre, where they were welcomed by Jeanne and her son, Henri, now a young man. Navarre was enormously personable and well-liked; the Huguenots looked to him to replace his fallen uncle Condé.

With Condé gone, my desire for revenge evaporated: It had been he, and not Coligny, who had ordered the attack at Meaux; Coligny wrote me saying that he and his followers denounced the attack on the King and wished only to practice their religion in peace.

Half a year passed. In August, my beloved Edouard returned victorious from the wars. I climbed to the roof of the Louvre, hot and shimmering in the later summer heat, and at the sight of the cadre of soldiers winding through the streets, I ran down to the palace gate.

Unjeweled and unshaven, Edouard rode with masculine grace at the head of his troops. His shoulders had grown muscular and his face sun-browned; his eyes were hardened, the result of seeing many men die. But his grin, upon spotting me, was still brilliant. He dismounted and ran to me, and I to him.

“I did not forget my promise, Maman,” he said.

We embraced tightly; I drew in the scent of sun and aged sweat.

“You stink,” I said, laughing.

The following evening, I held a reception for him at Montceaux. Every corner of the château’s ballroom sparkled with jeweled men and women; to slake their collective thirst, three fountains flowed with champagne. I hired singers, musicians, dancers, and a hundred nubile girls dressed as fairies. Lest the King grow too jealous, I arranged for Charles to make a grand entrance announced by heralds and trumpets; he was hailed as “the great victor, who has brought peace to France” by a well-known poet, who then offered up an ode that credited all our current fortune to King’s wisdom.

Charles listened, sighing with faint disgust. When the poet had finished, the King sneered, “Save your pretty words for my brother.”

Soon after, the heralds announced Monsieur le Duc, Lieutenant General of France. Edouard appeared-no longer the weary soldier, but a courtly confection in pale blue velvet spangled with lace. His hair had been carefully curled, the fat ringlets brushed back to reveal heavy clusters of diamonds at his ears.

Beside me, Margot-herself a jewel, in a gown of sapphire-sighed dreamily at the sight of him. When he had gone off to war, Margot had written her brother almost every day; through their correspondence, they grew closer than ever. When he appeared, she hurried to embrace him.

As Margot was speaking excitedly to Edouard, the Cardinal of Lorraine and his young nephew Henri approached to pay their respects. I watched, unable to hear their conversation over the gurgling fountains.

At twenty, Henri, Duke of Guise, possessed the easy confidence of a man used to power. He was not handsome: his pointed goatee emphasized his sharp chin; his tiny eyes held the same arrogant ambition I had seen in his father’s. Yet Guise was very witty, and as he spoke, Margot giggled and lifted her fan to hide her nervous smile. Twice Guise leaned over her hand and kissed it-then held on to it, as though reluctant to let it go. At times, when Guise leaned close enough to kiss her, Margot, crimson-faced, wound her arm around her brother’s, unconsciously seeking protection.

Charles came up beside me and said hotly, “If he moves a fraction closer to her, I’ll knock him to the ground.”

My tone was light. “I think he means to court her, Your Majesty, and if he does, I’ll help you knock him down myself.”

He let go a snort. “Not Guise! It’s Edouard… Look how he fawns over her.”

I clicked my tongue in exasperation. “For God’s sake, Charles, he misses his sister only because he has been so long at war! As for the Duke of Guise, you must understand that your sister is of marriageable age now; I have been studying prospective matches for her. And for you.”

Charles let go a groan. “I’m miserable enough already, Maman.”

“You must think of the throne,” I said. “There must be heirs.”

He looked sourly at his brother, who was laughing with Margot and the young duke. “Let him give you heirs,” he said and turned on his heel.

I returned to watching Edouard. He was joined by two young men-one called Robert-Louis, the other Lignerolles, both recently appointed gentlemen of the chamber to the Duke of Anjou. Margot’s eyes flashed with carnal appreciation as she studied Lignerolles. He was clean-shaven, the better to show off his fine, high cheekbones, flawless complexion, and the handsome cleft in his chin. He genuflected to Edouard and Margot in a manner as spare and elegant as his dress.

The same could not be said for Robert-Louis, whose blond hair was almost white. His nose was small and round, his lips coarse; he wore a white satin doublet with a rose velvet mantle. His bow was swift and cursory, and he grabbed Anjou’s arm and told some joke that made the Cardinal of Lorraine lift his grey eyebrows in disapproval. But Edouard laughed and slapped Robert-Louis on the back. The latter smiled at the others with smugness that verged on mockery.

After hours of socializing, I encountered Edouard alone near one of the fountains. I sidled next to him and was nearly overpowered by the fragrance of orange blossom.

“You smell better, thank God,” I teased.

He smiled at me, preoccupied as he stared at Charles and Margot, who paraded through the chamber arm in arm. “It seems my sister has her hands full these days.”

“Charles says he will not marry,” I said softly. “He says I must rely on you for heirs.” I paused. “I’ve thought a great deal about the right woman for you. I’ve written Elizabeth of England, and she’s responded with interest.”

He emerged from his reverie with a start. “That cow? If it’s heirs you want, you’ll have to do better than a balding hag with a bad leg.”

“Edouard,” I admonished, “you would be King of England.”

He let go a long sigh. “I would do anything for you, and for France, Maman-except that.”

I scowled. “If not Elizabeth, then who?”

“No one at all,” he said quickly and returned to Guise and Lignerolles, both of whom were still fawning over Margot.

I dismissed Edouard’s refusal as impudence and resolved to speak to him again that night, but guests interrupted me at every turn. It grew late, and revelers-including Edouard-still lingered. So did I, for I wanted him to hear me out.

Our victory at Jarnac had eventually led to promising negotiations with the Huguenots. I had welcomed the détente joyfully, believing that the war was truly over.

Yet the night before, I had fallen into a dream filled with thousands of innocent screams. I woke terrified and spent the rest of the night in feverish thought: How was I to avert more war between Huguenots and Catholics?

Reason brought the solution: My daughter Elisabeth’s marriage to Philip of Spain had ended a war lasting two generations. Marriages of diplomacy were often used to make friends of former enemies. But Charles, with his surly temperament, was likely to insult or even harm a Protestant bride. Edouard had the mental suppleness to woo such a woman and win her. And Elizabeth of England seemed the only candidate worthy of him.

Henri and I had married when we were both fourteen: Charles was now twenty, and Edouard nearly nineteen. As a mother and a queen, I had been patient, but I could wait no longer.

I wandered out onto the balcony. Below, the courtyard was dappled by fireflies and a hundred lamps nestled in the boxwood mazes; moonlight glinted off the spray from the fountain. I closed my eyes and thought suddenly of my husband-how handsome he had looked when he had stood beside that very fountain, a young soldier returned from war.

A rustle below prompted me to open my eyes. In front of a low hedge, two dark masculine forms moved stealthily toward each other. Their fingers touched, and one man pulled the other into a hard embrace. Their faces merged for a lingering kiss. The smaller man pushed himself free and began to whisper-too faintly for me to hear, but the cadence held shame and sorrow.

The other listened, then spoke his piece, low, reasonable, yearning. He fell silent, and the pair stood still as statues-only to lunge at each other in the next instant.

The tall man led his fellow to a low hedge and swung him about so they faced the same direction. The smaller looked over his shoulder to protest but, at his lover’s touch, bent forward at the waist, his cap tumbling onto the lawn as he rested his elbows upon the clipped hedge.

The tall man slipped behind him and fumbled with clothing. A thrust of the hips, and the shadowed forms merged again into a single, many-limbed silhouette. The bent man let go a sharp sensual cry of pain; his partner clapped a hand over his mouth. As the bent man clawed at the hedge, the taller rode him.

I should have left them to their passion, but I was frankly curious. Viewed from the outside, their encounter seemed no different from that between a man and a woman. The rhythm of the act was the same: a trot, then a canter, then full gallop. At the end, the rider gripped his mount’s hips and reared back, his face inclined toward the moon, and let go a ragged gasp.

The tall rider staggered backward; his paramour straightened and covered his face with his hands.

The tall man took him in his arms and spoke gently until the shorter had composed himself. They parted with a kiss before walking briskly back toward the building.

I retreated into the shadows as the smaller man neared. The torchlight by the entrance glinted off his face-his fine, smooth, clean-shaven face with its dimpled chin. Lignerolles put a hand to his dark hair, realized that he had forgotten his cap, and sprinted back toward the hedge to fetch it.

The taller man continued on. As he passed by the torches, I saw his face quite clearly, with its long, straight nose and black eyes that glittered like the diamond pendants hanging from his ears.

My Edouard, my precious eyes. I was not scandalized, only sad to know that the royal House of Valois was in danger of dying.

Hours before dawn, a guttural roar expelled me from my bed. Madame Gondi heard it, too, and came rushing out from the closet. The shouting grew closer, and soon I recognized the King’s voice.

“Bitch! Whore! How could you have betrayed me?”

A thud and a woman’s incoherent screams followed. By the time I peered out my antechamber door, Charles was in the corridor, dressed in silk leggings and an undershirt. He clutched Margot’s arm, and when I opened the door wider, he flung her at me.

“Go to your mother, whore!” he screamed. “Tell her how you have shamed us!”

Margot fell to her knees and grabbed my hands. She wore only her cotton nightgown, her hair falling down her back in unfettered waves. “He has finally gone crazy, Maman! Help me!”

I smoothed back a dark, errant lock at her cheek and saw that the shoulder of her gown had been torn. Beneath, the red, swelling skin bore marks in the shape of my son’s upper jaw.

I glared at Charles. “You have hurt her!”

“Tell her why!” he commanded her, and when she remained silent, he struck the back of her skull. “Tell her why!”

She let go a wail; I put an arresting palm in the King’s face. “Stop!”

Margot wept into her hands, utterly undone. “He spies on me, Maman. He watches me in my bed!”

“Because you are a whore!” Charles roared. “Because there was a man in your bed, and you were fucking him!”

He grabbed the hair at the nape of Margot’s neck and pulled her head backward to expose her throat. Lightning fast, he reached for a slender, gleaming object at his waist. His eyes shone with the same inhuman light I had seen at the hunt, when the entrails of the hare had dangled from his teeth.

“You don’t understand-I love her.” He waved the dagger a finger’s breadth above Margot’s tender skin. “At least, I did-until she betrayed me! Was it your first time with a cock between your legs, my sister? Did it hurt? Or did you revel in it, like a whore? Tell the truth! It was Henri of Guise, wasn’t it?”

“It was no one,” Margot sobbed.

As Charles lifted the dagger, I shielded Margot with my body and struck his arm. The dagger clattered to the marble floor and skittered toward the doorway.

He twisted Margot’s hair tightly and jerked her backward; she screamed and hit the floor. Charles raised the long, thick ribbon of hair in his fist like a trophy.

Margot pressed a palm to the back of her head; it returned covered in blood. I tried to push her brother away.

Swift as an asp, he struck out; the blow landed on my jaw and sent me reeling. I fell, my skull striking hard marble. For a moment, I was winded, paralyzed-yet aware of someone coughing hoarsely, uncontrollably.

I sat up. Margot was pressing both hands to the back of her bleeding head; Charles was hunched over, retching blood-speckled phlegm onto the floor even as he staggered toward the fallen dagger.

I stumbled toward my son; he reached the dagger first and shot me a gloating glance before bending down to retrieve it.

At the instant his fingers closed around the hilt, a bootheel slammed his wrist to the floor. I looked up to see Edouard, still in the clothes he had worn to the reception.

“Maman, Margot-my God, he has hurt you!” Edouard spotted the long, dark hank of hair-one end sticky with blood-on the floor and winced as though it had come from his own head.

“I found a man in her bed!” Charles shouted. “She was fucking him, I know it!” He began again to cough.

Edouard stared down at the dagger with dawning horror. “You meant to kill them…”

“Get off my damned hand!” Charles wheezed. “I command you, as your King!”

Edouard abruptly reined in his emotions. “I’ll lift my foot when you let go of the dagger, Charles.”

“But there was a man in Margot’s bed! Guise, I know it was Guise! Now get off my hand!”

Edouard folded his arms resolutely and remained still until Charles’s fingers slowly uncurled and let the dagger drop.

Edouard bent down and picked up the weapon, then lifted his foot; Charles crawled away to sit on the floor.

“I’ll have your head for this,” he croaked.

I hurried to Margot’s side and pressed a kerchief to her scalp; her shoulders and hair were soaked with blood. She had stopped trembling, and her tone was challenging. “There was no man in my room!”

“Lie all you wish,” Charles said, “but I know what I saw.”

“What did you see?” Edouard asked softly.

“Margot, in her nightgown,” Charles said. “And beside her, a naked man crawling out the window.”

“You didn’t see his face?” I asked. “How do you know it was Guise?”

“I…” Charles grew flustered, then defensive. “Maman, you saw the way he was flirting with her last night!”

“And you didn’t look out the window to see where he went?” Edouard pressed. “Or were you too busy jumping to conclusions?”

Charles huffed indignantly. “Margot blocked me from seeing who it was!”

“Charles,” I said reasonably, “if Guise despoiled a royal princess, it would cost him his head. However besotted he might be with Margot, he wouldn’t be so stupid.”

“For God’s sake,” Margot added irritably, “I detest the man!”

“Tell all the lies you want,” Charles hissed. “I’ll uncover the truth soon enough.” He glowered up at Edouard. “As for you… Before God, one day, I will kill you.” With that, he turned his back and strode off.

I let go an exhausted sigh. When Margot and Edouard believed my gaze to be focused on their departing brother, they shared a look: hers, grateful; his, comforting.

In that fleeting instant before their expressions grew fraternal, there was something else on their faces, something calculating and unmistakably conspiratorial.

Thirty-Six

I told myself that I had been mistaken about Edouard and Margot plotting together. Margot’s ladies insisted that nothing untoward had happened in her bedchamber, but the single complicitous glance between brother and sister haunted me: I could not risk Margot becoming pregnant, and certainly could not risk her marrying a radical anti-Huguenot like Guise.

There was one obvious solution, for the good of my daughter and a united France. After the ugly encounter with Charles, I wrote a letter to my friend Jeanne, Queen of Navarre.

Why must we fight? Please come visit us, knowing that you are loved as family. I pray you are well, and happy; please reply quickly.

Her answer arrived several days later.

We are well, and as happy as those can be who are denied the freedom to worship God. Henri is a man now, as brave in battle as his namesake, your husband. He is morally strong and honest-traits that are sadly uncommon at the French Court-and devoted to the Protestant cause. He greets you and says that he hopes to see you again someday.

But he also says that such a day will not come until Protestants enjoy total freedom of worship.

I also penned a letter to Gaspard de Coligny, the Huguenot leader and nephew of old Montmorency. I was not surprised by Jeanne’s refusal, but I was delighted by Coligny’s reply:

We have no choice but to trust each other. Let me be the first to foster goodwill by putting my life in your hands.

No doubt you have formed an opinion of me based upon the reports of others; you will find that the reality is very different. I yearn to prove to you that His Majesty has no more devoted servant than I.

Admiral Gaspard de Coligny came to the Château at Blois in mid-September, when the oaks and poplars had just begun to turn, giving the valleys a golden cast. The morning his carriage arrived, I was sick with fever. I had tried several times to stand and be dressed, but my legs kept giving way.

A messenger from Edouard brought news that the Duke of Anjou, too, was unwell. The thought that Charles might receive the Huguenot leader alone unnerved me. The day before, the King had thrown a tantrum upon learning of Coligny’s visit.

I pointed out that the late Prince of Condé had attempted to capture us-Gaspard de Coligny had openly disapproved of the act. The King would not be jollied, however.

When I received Edouard’s message that he was ill, I changed our careful plans. A chaise longue and two chairs were placed beside my bed, and I settled, chattering with fever, beneath my blankets.

Edouard appeared early, in a dressing gown of lavender velvet and accompanied by a little dog with an opal collar. He was so weak that two attendants half carried him to my apartment. We rehearsed what we could say to reconcile Coligny and the King.

After a few hours, the Admiral was announced, and I sent for the King. Charles returned a message that he would not come, but I replied with another saying if he did not want Coligny under his roof, he should be brave enough to tell the Admiral so in person.

My strategy worked. Charles appeared soon afterward, lower lip thrust out in a pout, arms folded. Once he was settled into his chair, I gave the signal for our guest to be admitted.

Gaspard de Coligny entered. He was a short man, lean but thick of bone, with a swordsman’s powerful shoulders. Half a century of soldiering had weathered his handsome face. His pale hair was cropped short; his chin beard had been brushed out to give it a downy appearance. He sported no jewelry; his worn black doublet was better suited to a country priest than a nobleman, and his square cap was of plain brushed cotton. Yet his manner and movements were those of a man who expected the world to grant his every desire.

His first act was impressive: Ignoring the growling dog in Edouard’s lap and the King’s threatening glare, Coligny walked up to Charles, sank to his knees, cap in hand, and bowed his head, revealing a balding, sunburned crown.

“Your Majesty,” he said, “there are no words to express my gratitude at your invitation. Your generosity, forgiveness, and trust overwhelm me. Thank you for the opportunity to show you that I, and those who share my faith, revere you as our sovereign lord.”

Coligny delivered his pretty speech with such apparent genuineness and humility that Charles was mollified: His scowl was replaced by an expression of hesitant curiosity.

“Welcome to Blois,” he muttered and gestured impatiently. “Get up, get up.”

Graceful and strong, Coligny rose without using his hands to steady himself. His blond eyelashes were barely visible, giving the impression of a naked, guileless gaze. I shared a surreptitious glance with Edouard that relayed our favorable impressions and our skepticism.

The Admiral’s attention was so thoroughly fixed on Charles that Edouard and I might as well have been absent. “I firmly believe, Your Majesty, that God directed you to send for me, so that peace could be restored to France. As your former enemy, let me congratulate you on your military acumen. You have proven, time and again, which of us is the better commander.”

Charles’s lip curled faintly. “Don’t patronize me, Monsieur. You know very well that my brother won the battles.”

“Yes,” Coligny allowed, “but it is a wise king who surrounds himself with talented men. Ultimately, you are responsible for every victory.”

At this, the muscles in Charles’s face and body softened. “Admiral,” he said, gesturing, “this is my brother, the Duke of Anjou.”

For the first time, Coligny’s gaze acknowledged Anjou. The little dog on Edouard’s lap bared its teeth, but the Admiral seemed not to see it. He bowed very low, and when he straightened, he said, “Monsieur le Duc. His Majesty was indeed wise to appoint you Lieutenant General. What a pleasure to meet the worthy adversary who made my life so miserable for so very long.”

Despite Coligny’s flattery, a subtle ripple of disapproval emanated from him as he-so strong, square, and plain-stared down at my bejeweled son in lavender velvet, with his glittering little dog.

If Edouard realized he was being judged, he did not show it; he laughed easily. “I could well say the same to you, Admiral. I’m glad to finally have you on our side.”

“And this,” the King announced, “is our beloved mother.”

Coligny stepped to my bedside and kissed my hand. His beard was soft against my skin.

“Madame la Reine,” he said solemnly. “Only a great mother could raise such great men. May God grant you and the Duke a swift return to health.”

“Admiral,” I said, smiling despite my feverishness. “I’m pleased to call you friend. I look forward to discussing how we might strengthen the Treaty of Amboise.”

Coligny faced my elder son. “Your Majesty, I would like nothing better, but such negotiations are best limited to two people. I look forward to discussing it with you man to man.”

Smoothly, Edouard interjected, “Being the wise sovereign, my brother relies heavily upon our mother’s advice. She was pivotal in negotiating the treaty.”

Again, Coligny turned to Charles. “Should you wish to appoint your mother as your emissary, I shall speak to her. Only give me direction, Your Majesty.”

Charles bloomed. “Tonight we shall dine privately and will speak of the Treaty.” He patted the seat beside him. “Come, sit and take some refreshment.” He snapped his fingers at a chambermaid, who hurried to fill a goblet with wine.

“I am honored, Your Majesty,” the Admiral replied. “But I drink no wine, lest it interfere with my ability to serve my God and my king.”

I marked the pious pride in that announcement. Coligny’s words were calculated to give the impression of humble honesty, which made me trust him not at all. He sat down beside Charles, who seized his arm and quipped: “We have you now, mon père, and we shall not let you go so easily!” He laughed at his own wit.

Coligny laughed, too, without a shadow of the unease such words might have inspired in a less confident man. We chatted about his journey, the loveliness of the Loire Valley, and his new young wife.

Within the first quarter hour, Coligny became the King’s fast friend. The two left together, as Charles was eager to show the Admiral the palace. Edouard and I stared after them.

“There goes trouble,” Edouard murmured, once they were well out of earshot.

“I believe I have made a terrible mistake,” I answered softly, “by asking him to come.”

Once Edouard and I had recovered, we held a formal reception in Coligny’s honor, inviting three hundred dukes, cardinals, and ambassadors. Charles was pleased by the fuss.

The festivities began shortly before dusk. The massive outdoor spiral staircase overlooking the courtyard was festooned with silver brocade and gilded leaves. As our guests watched from the steps, a bevy of young women, scantily draped in gossamer, waved tall plumed fans in the air, then gathered in a circle to touch the tips of the plumes together. These were lowered dramatically to reveal the newborn Venus, standing upon a large “shell” of painted wood.

The nymphets spun away. Venus performed a short dance, after which Mars-Edouard’s Lignerolles, in a white toga and scarlet mantle-appeared, brandishing a sword. After a threatening display, Mars pursued the frightened Venus. When he captured her, she kissed him, rendering him a docile creature. The pair promenaded happily, to much applause.

The reception moved inside, where swaths of sheer silk hung from the ceiling; from time to time, the nymphets stirred the fabric to recall the undulating sea. Amid this oceanic backdrop, the King and his family were formally announced, followed by the guest of honor.

As he walked into the hall, Coligny’s composure was formidable, his appearance less so: He wore a new doublet of black silk but no ruff, as fashion required, only a plain white collar. It was a brilliant strategy: Against the satins, velvets, and gems, drab Coligny stood out dramatically. He knelt at Charles’s throne and, eschewing His Majesty’s proffered hand, instead kissed his slippered foot.

Not only was the hostile Catholic crowd impressed, but Charles was giddy at such a show of loyalty. Grinning, he drew Coligny to his feet and kissed his cheeks.

“We are convinced of Admiral Coligny’s fealty and goodwill,” the King announced, his arm around the Huguenot’s shoulder. “We love him as a faithful subject and a friend; whosoever lifts a hand against him, lifts it against us.”

Coligny bowed to the Duke of Anjou. For the Admiral’s reception, Edouard wore rose damask studded with pearls and a huge ruffed collar of pink lace; his white lapdog wore a matching pink ruff. To my amusement, sly Edouard took the Admiral’s hands and kissed him on the mouth like a blood relative; only someone paying careful attention would have noticed how eagerly Coligny disengaged from the embrace.

At a nod from Charles, the lutists and violists began to play. The King was as cheerful and garrulous as I had ever seen him; he took Coligny’s arm and marched off to display his new prize.

Margot, Edouard, and I also left our thrones. I hurried over to the Guises-the young Duke, Henri, and his uncle the Cardinal of Lorraine, who had the most cause to be offended by the honors heaped upon the Admiral, because Coligny’s spy had murdered Henri’s father, the elder Duke of Guise.

The Cardinal took my proffered hand; his own was cool and weightless, and his lips kissed the air just above my cheek.

His nephew the Duke of Guise wore a white ruff collar larger than his head; the stiff lace scraped my skin as he kissed my hand. He smiled, but the gesture was far from genuine; his posture was coiled and tense.

“Gentlemen,” I said warmly, “I am so grateful to you both; the circumstances are not easy for either of you, but you put the good of France ahead of any personal considerations. I will remember your graciousness.”

“You are too kind,” the young Guise said, but his tone was distracted; he was watching Charles’s and Coligny’s gradual approach.

I opened my mouth to say something further, but the King’s loud, jovial voice interrupted.

“Ah, the Messieurs Guise! Here he is, gentlemen: your worst enemy in all the world, Admiral Gaspard de Coligny!”

I turned. There was grinning Charles, arm in arm with the Admiral, oblivious to the others’ discomfort.

The Cardinal and the Duke froze. Coligny stood a full head shorter than the young Guise, who stared down his aristocratic nose at the Admiral.

“I must tell you,” Charles announced, “that the Admiral swears he had nothing to do with François of Guise’s death. His spy was not acting under his orders when he murdered François.”

The Cardinal of Lorraine turned to stone. A muscle in young Guise’s jaw spasmed as he said, “Since you are such a good friend of the King, Admiral, I must welcome you to Court.”

“I fought beside your father on many occasions,” Coligny said softly. “There was never a finer man and soldier. When I heard of his death, I wept.”

Guise’s eyes flared. He lurched toward Coligny, but his uncle put a warning hand on his shoulder, and he stilled again. In the pregnant silence, Charles began to speak again, loudly, carelessly.

“So what is this I hear about our cousin the Queen of Scots? Mary has been scheming again, and gotten herself into trouble… Is it true?”

“She is being held in England,” the Cardinal answered stiffly. “Elizabeth is convinced that Mary and the Duke of Norfolk were plotting to assassinate her.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Charles demanded. “Mary always felt the English Crown belonged to her.”

“And well so, Your Majesty,” the young Guise countered darkly. “Elizabeth is a heretic”-he glanced at Coligny-“and a bastard, and therefore has no rights to any throne in Christendom.”

“Well, Mary certainly is pressing her luck, isn’t she?” Charles asked blithely. “Plot after plot… and all of them discovered. I tell you, she’ll wind up losing her head.”

With that, he walked off with the Admiral. I remained with the Guises for a few more minutes, trying vainly to undo the damage.

The affair lasted well into the night. At one point, I spied Coligny taking the air on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, and went to him.

The balcony was blessedly cool, quiet, and deserted. Coligny leaned against the railing, his expression faintly troubled as he stared out at the dark horizon. At the sound of my footsteps, he turned and forced a smile.

“So serious, Admiral,” I said cheerfully. “I had hoped that this evening would be a relaxing one for you.”

He laughed. “Old soldiers can never completely relax, Madame la Reine. It is one of the costs of battle.”

“A pity,” I said, “for you are truly safe among us here.”

His tone grew wry. “One would not think so, looking at the Duke of Guise.”

“He will learn to call you friend. I am determined to reconcile your followers and ours-so much so, that I have come to ask a favor.”

He lifted his golden brows, pleasantly expectant.

“Contact Jeanne of Navarre,” I said. “Tell her that I must see her here at Court to discuss the marriage of my daughter Margot to her son, Henri.”

His expression resolved into one of mild surprise. “Are you serious, Madame?”

“Quite.”

“You must understand,” he countered, “that my followers warned me against coming to Court. The Queen of Navarre has even more reason to be cautious. Were she killed, she would leave behind a country and a young son.”

I let go an honest sigh. “Jeanne has less reason to fear for her safety than you do. I wouldn’t marry Margot to her son in order to harm her.”

“An excellent point,” he allowed. “But do I, Madame la Reine, have reason to be concerned for myself?”

“No,” I answered emphatically. “The Duke of Anjou has arranged for fifty bodyguards to attend you and transferred a sizable sum to your bank accounts. I hope it reassures you that I am serious about peace.”

He tilted his head. “Does His Majesty know about the marriage plans?”

“Marital arrangements are women’s work. But nothing will be finalized without the King’s approval.”

“I see.” He looked back out at the night; when he turned to me, his expression was resolute. “If you wish to be a friend to us, consider this: the Spanish are murdering our fellow Protestants in the Netherlands. I need five thousand soldiers to show Philip that France will not permit the slaughter of innocents.”

If I sent French soldiers to the Netherlands, King Philip would consider it an act of war. His army was larger and stronger than ours; we would be quickly defeated. But I kept my features bland, my expression agreeable.

“I should like to discuss it more with you once Margot and Henri are married,” I said easily. “First, however, I need you to send a message to Jeanne.”

“Very well, Madame la Reine,” he said. “I am your servant.”

We returned to the reception, I resting my fingers lightly on his solid forearm. He had aged well, save for his balding crown. Although I didn’t trust him, I appreciated his intelligence and poise.

As soon as we walked inside, Charles hurried toward us.

“There you are, mon père!” he exclaimed. “The Florentine ambassador is eager to meet you. Come!” He took Coligny’s hand and drew him into the crowd.

I proceeded to lose myself in a dozen conversations with as many luminaries. The hour was late by the time I found myself chatting with the Spanish ambassador, Alava, a potbellied, unctuous soul. He was in the midst of relaying an anecdote about my former son-in-law, Philip, when we heard a sudden furious shout.

“Liar! Liar!”

I turned. Beside the gurgling fountain, Henri of Guise stood, his body shuddering with barely contained anger. Coligny, an arm’s length away, uttered a measured, inaudible reply.

Whatever he said inflamed Guise, who struck out with the back of his hand; Coligny staggered. Guise would have struck him again, but Edouard saw the attack and caught Guise’s arm. The young Duke struggled as Edouard held him fast.

“Poltrot de Mére was your spy!” Guise shouted, his face flushed with rage and drink. “Do you expect us to believe you didn’t order him to kill my father? I demand satisfaction!”

Charles arrived, red-faced and angry; he would have lunged at Guise himself, but the Admiral waved him away.

“I do not duel.” Coligny’s breath was coming quickly, but his voice and expression were tightly controlled. “God frowns on gambling, whether it be with lucre or with lives.”

“Coward!” Guise roared. “Hide behind your piety, if you wish, but you will pay for your crime!”

“If I die too soon,” Coligny answered coolly, “it will be defending the right of men to worship God-not defending myself from scurrilous charges.”

His Majesty seized the huge ruff at Guise’s neck. “You would be wise, Monsieur,” Charles snarled, “to be a friend to the King’s friend… lest I label you my enemy.”

Guise’s eyes went wide. Charles pushed him back into the arms of his uncle, the Cardinal. As he marched past Guise with Coligny in tow, Charles hissed:

“And if you come near my sister again, I shall kill you with my bare hands.”

Thirty-Seven

The next morning, I went early to the King’s chambers, expecting to find him abed; to my surprise, Charles was in his cabinet. I would have gone in unannounced, but the guard stopped me at the door.

“Forgive me, Madame la Reine, but His Majesty gave orders he was not to be disturbed. Admiral Coligny is with him.”

“Tell the King I am here,” I commanded, “and that I must speak to him at once, privately.”

The young Scot reluctantly knocked upon the door. Charles cursed the poor man roundly and would have sent me away, but I heard Coligny reasoning with the King. Eventually the Admiral emerged from the cabinet and-after bowing to me-strode away.

My irate son sat at his desk, its surface cleared save for a document that had been overturned to hide it from curious eyes. Charles rested his fist on it and glowered across his desk at me.

“This had best be urgent, Maman.”

“It is, Your Majesty,” I said. “I came to tell you that the Admiral is going to ask Jeanne of Navarre to visit us.”

“Ah,” he said, bored. “Well, that’s no reason to interrupt our meeting.”

“No,” I allowed. “I’m inviting Jeanne in order to arrange a marriage between her son and Margot.” I was confessing my plan to Charles now because he was infatuated with Coligny and his Huguenot friends and thus, for the first time, likely to approve it.

“Well, I suppose it’s a good match,” he said, with surprising mildness. “Henri is after all a king.”

“Wonderful!” I hesitated. “I’ve also come for another reason, Charles. I must warn you about Coligny.”

He clapped his hands over his ears. “I will not hear it! He is a good man!”

“He’s also a persuasive man,” I said loudly. “And I’ve discovered the reason he came to us: He wants soldiers to fight the Spanish in the Netherlands.”

As I spoke, Charles put his palm upon the mysterious document, firmly, as though he feared I might take it from him.

I looked down at it. “May I inquire as to the contents of that document?”

“I am a man now, Maman. I don’t have to tell you everything.”

“But you do,” I retorted. “I’m your senior councillor-and you can take no formal action without your Council’s approval.”

I snatched the document from him. It was a royal order authorizing the deployment of five thousand troops to the Netherlands under the command of Admiral Coligny. I should have known within the first few minutes of meeting Gaspard de Coligny that he was determined to drive a wedge between me and my son-yet I was surprised and furious, and lost my temper.

“Fool!” I brandished the document at Charles. “This is tantamount to a direct attack on Spain! Do you know what will happen if Philip retaliates?”

“We will defeat him at last,” Charles said; his eyes held a madman’s gleam.

“No!” I shouted. “We will be the ones defeated. Spain’s navy is unmatched; she has more soldiers at her command than we do.”

“But the Admiral-” Charles began to protest.

“The Admiral wants to see us trapped in a losing war-because if our soldiers are busy fighting the Spanish, there will be no one left to protect you from the Huguenots. They could destroy us. They could set their own leader on the throne!”

Charles’s features hardened into a sullen mask. “Coligny loves me as a son. He would never do such a thing.”

I rolled up the incriminating decree and leaned forward.

“If you value Coligny’s word over mine, then I am no longer of any use to you. Send troops to the Netherlands, and I will retire from the government. I will not stay to see the House of Valois fall!”

Fear flashed in Charles’s eyes. If I abandoned him, the truth-that he was incapable of governing-would become resoundingly obvious to all.

“Don’t leave, Maman!” he said, suddenly penitent. “I won’t send the troops.”

“Indeed you won’t,” I said, straightening, and tore the paper to pieces. The shreds fluttered into a pile on the King’s desk.

I walked out, still furious with Coligny but pleased with the way I had played Charles. Foolish woman: I was happy over winning the battle. I did not realize that I had already lost the war.

The old year passed, and a new one, 1572, took its place. I was happy, in those days before the maelstrom, because I thought I had convinced Charles not to trust Coligny, because I thought my daughter’s marriage to Navarre would bring peace to France. I was happy, too, because early spring brought Jeanne to Blois.

An hour after her arrival, I went to her guest apartments; when the attendant answered the door, I lifted a finger to my lips and slipped inside the antechamber. As I stole toward the inner room, Jeanne called out: “Who knocked?”

I hurried to the threshold. “No one at all, Madame.”

She was standing over a basin, frowning into a mirror as she patted her cheeks dry with a towel. Her French hood and ruff collar had been removed, leaving her in the unstylish black gown favored by Huguenot women. When I spoke, she glanced up, startled, then broke into a broad smile.

Almost ten years had passed since we had set eyes on each other. Jeanne’s hair was frankly grey, and deep lines had insinuated themselves into her brow and around her mouth. More ominously, she had lost so much weight that her features were skeletal; the effect was not helped by her consumptive pallor.

But her green eyes were still full of life. They brightened at the sight of me, and she set down the towel and genuflected. “Madame la Reine,” she said graciously.

I bowed, low and humble. “Madame la Reine.”

We held our poses an instant, then rose laughing and embraced. She was frail and feather-light in my arms.

“Catherine!” she said. “I thought I might be uncomfortable seeing you again, but it is as though the last decade never happened.”

“I am so glad that you’ve come,” I answered honestly.

“All of your reassurances that I would be safe made me smile,” she said. “I’ve never believed the rumors that you eat little children.”

“You haven’t dined with me yet,” I countered, with mock darkness, and we laughed again.

Supper was as cordial as I dared hope. Charles called Jeanne Cousin; Edouard kissed her on the lips. Her eyes widened at her first glimpse of his sartorial excess, and she pulled away from the embrace coughing-partly from consumption but also from the overwhelming scent of orange blossom, which Edouard had applied liberally that night.

Fortunately, it was Jeanne’s opinion of Margot I most cared about, and my daughter did not disappoint me. She appeared in a gray gown of smart but modest cut and had forgone face paint, with the effect that she looked freshly scrubbed.

“Margot!” Jeanne exclaimed, as my daughter curtsied respectfully. “What a beautiful woman you have become!”

Margot lowered her lashes as though embarrassed by the compliment. “We’re so honored by your visit, Madame la Reine! I’m glad for the chance to see you again-I was so young when you left that I should like to know you better, as my mother speaks of you so fondly.”

The meeting continued in convivial fashion. Jeanne presented Margot with a present from Henri: a modest-size diamond pendant. My daughter displayed delight at the humble gift, and Edouard rushed to fasten it around her neck.

Over the course of the evening, Margot showed herself to be demure and well-versed in the poetry written by Jeanne’s mother, the late Marguerite. Only one sour note was struck: When Jeanne inquired what Margot knew of the Huguenot faith, my daughter grew somber.

“Enough to know that I am at heart a Catholic,” she answered, “and will remain so until I die.”

Jeanne fell silent, and the conversation lagged until I asked how Henri most preferred to spend his time.

“I can answer you in three words,” Jeanne said. “Riding, riding, and riding. He doesn’t like anything that he can’t do astride a horse.”

We all laughed politely, and Jeanne smiled, but a crease had appeared between her eyebrows and remained there for the rest of the evening. She retired early, begging exhaustion. At the first chance after supper, I took Margot aside.

“What possessed you to become, overnight, an ardent supporter of the Church?”

“You never asked,” she said, with sudden heat. “You never ask me anything, Maman, because it doesn’t matter what I think! I won’t go to Navarre! I won’t live among oxen and dress like a crow!”

Tears filled her eyes. There was more she wanted to say, but she could not bring herself to give it voice. Guise, I thought with amazement, she is in love with him. Why else would she have displayed such uncharacteristic enthusiasm for her faith?

I moved to put a hand upon her shoulder, but her face crumpled and she lifted her skirts and ran away.

I did not follow. Only time-and Henri, perhaps, if he was as kind a man as he had been a boy-could help her.

I spent the rest of the evening with Charles in his downstairs study, trying to undo the damage wrought by Coligny. It grew late, and I left for my chambers.

I climbed the spiraling outdoor staircase, shivering at the March chill. On the landing I stopped to catch my breath and stared out at the courtyard, remembering an instant, decades past, when I had paused on the first floor of the same palace to see the Duchess d’Etampes cavorting naked with King François. I was recalling my terror of repudiation when muted voices brought me back to the present.

I looked up. The staircase was hemmed by ornately carved railings; through them, I glimpsed the arms and averted faces of two figures, indistinct in the darkness, on the landing above. Their voices floated down, the words incomprehensible, though the emotions-the woman’s tearful rage, the man’s determined calm-carried easily.

Unpleasant scenes between romantically entangled courtiers were common, but I had no patience for them. I was on the verge of clearing my throat and pressing onward when something-the timbre of the young woman’s voice, perhaps, or the man’s placating gesture-held me fast.

I watched as the woman loosed a stream of heated words, her fingers spread in hopeless anger. The man-tall, composed-grasped her hand and, curling it in his own, pressed it to his lips. She stopped to listen as he spoke, softly, reasonably-but when he finished, she pulled something from her neck and cast it from her.

It fell, softly striking the landing below her-an arm’s length from my feet. The man pulled her to him, and they kissed fiercely. I leaned down, grateful for their distraction, and picked up the glittering object from the stone.

It was the diamond necklace Jeanne had given Margot.

I closed my fist over the gem and looked up, riveted; by then, the embrace was over. Margot hurried inside to her chambers; the man began to descend the stairs. Panicked, I slipped from the landing inside the square archway and drew back into the shadows.

The man made his way rapidly down to the very place I had been standing and paused there. At the instant he arrived in full view on the landing, I closed my eyes.

I remained motionless and sightless for the long minutes he slowly walked the course of the landing, looking for the missing gift. At last he muttered a curse and proceeded farther down the stairs.

Only then did I open my eyes, but it had not been enough to shield me from what I could not bear to know. In the cold air lingered, unmistakable and cloying, the fragrance of orange blossom.

For hours I grappled with what I had witnessed. My mind, I decided, had tricked me: I had been so certain I looked upon quarreling lovers that I had injected passion into a kiss that had been only fraternal. Edouard, after all, was far too taken with his gentlemen to fall in love with a woman, least of all his sister.

But I grew more devoted than ever to seeing Margot married off to Henri-and I didn’t care if she spent the rest of her life in backward Navarre.

The negotiations began early the next morning. The fire had already warmed the council room, and the open curtains admitted the feeble sun. Jeanne wore the same plain dress of Huguenot black. Her smile was not so bright as when I first saw it; she settled into the chair with a sigh, already exhausted.

I suggested that we begin by writing down the points we deemed important. When it was done, we exchanged papers. Jeanne’s contained no surprises: Henri was to hold fast to his faith, and Margot was to convert so that they could be married in a Protestant ceremony in Navarre. The couple would spend most of the year there.

I, of course, wanted Henri to convert to Catholicism and marry Margot in Notre-Dame. Given that Henri was King of Navarre, I was willing to let the couple spend half the year in that tiny country.

As Jeanne read my list, her expression grew cold and regal.

“He will not convert,” she said flatly. “This is not Catholicism; he was not born into his faith. He came to it through self-examination and God’s grace.”

“And Margot,” I said, “would be excommunicated if she renounced her faith. She would lose her royal status.”

“He will not convert,” Jeanne repeated. From the set of her jaw and the hardness in her eyes, I saw she was serious and so moved on to a different issue: where the couple should live.

“Henri will spend as little time as possible at the French Court,” Jeanne said, with the same air of finality.

“Being First Prince of the Blood and heir to the throne, Henri has a responsibility to the French people,” I argued. “He will wind up spending half the year in Paris anyway, so it hardly seems reasonable-”

Jeanne cut me off. “There is too much moral laxity here in Paris. God does not smile on ostentation, adultery, and drunkenness.”

“You cannot tell me, Jeanne, that every single soul at your court in Navarre is pure and devoted to God.”

She was silent for so long that I took offense. “Margot seems to be a fine young woman. Let her come live with us, then decide for herself whether our ways suit her.”

“Margot has already told me that she prefers to remain in Paris,” I said. “She is used to a sophisticated lifestyle. It isn’t fair to make her spend her days in a place so… provincial.”

She lifted her chin, haughty. “Provincial, perhaps, but not corrupt.”

“Have we forgotten so quickly that we are friends?” I asked. “Henri and Margot have known each other since they were children. They were born in the same year; she is Taurus, and he Sagittarius, so they are compatible.”

“Please do not inflict your astrology on me,” she said. “Deuteronomy, chapter eighteen: Witchcraft, sorcery, spells, and necromancy-all are an abomination to the Lord.” There was no sanctimony in her; she seemed tormented, on the verge of crying.

Ma fille, m’amie, ma chère, je t’adore

For love of you I do this, for love of you this time I come

The hairs on the back of my neck lifted; I put a hand to the pearl at my heart. She had remembered, after all these years, what I had confessed in the agony of childbirth: that I had bought my children with the darkest magic.

We stared across the table at each other. “So you consider me damned,” I said hoarsely. “Jeanne, I was mad with pain when I cried out those things about Ruggieri…”

“I thought that you were raving-until I learned you had corrupted my own son.” Her features twisted with the effort to hold back tears. “I intercepted letters he tried to send to you, Catherine. You made him believe that both of you saw secret visions, of horrible, bloody things. I made him beg God for forgiveness and forbade him to speak of them again.”

I felt sickened, exposed. “If you look on me with such horror, why are you here?”

“I am here because I must protect my son’s rights as First Prince of the Blood.”

She spoke the truth: If she balked, I had only to petition the Pope to excommunicate her son. As a result, Henri would lose his right to the succession, which would fall to the Duke of Guise.

“And so you cut me to the quick,” I said. “You demonize me. You do not ask me what the truth is; you judge and send me straight to Hell.”

She wavered. “I’ve told no one what you said to me. And I never will.” She opened her mouth again, but I rose and silenced her with a gesture.

“I will hear no more,” I said heavily. “And I want no more of these deliberations.”

Thirty-eight

I left Jeanne and went straightaway to my chambers. Her accusations had shaken me deeply, but I had been shaken before and was determined to distract myself with pressing business. I sat at the desk in my antechamber and reviewed my correspondence-reports from diplomats, requests for the King’s favor.

But anxiety gnawed at me until I could no longer sit still. I was filled with dread, convinced that something terrible was about to pass. The letter in my hand began to quake; I closed my eyes and was abruptly transported to the Palazzo Medici in Florence, many years past. I heard the clatter of stones against glass, and a workman’s shout:

Abaso le palle! Death to the Medici!

Troubled, I sent for an astrologer in my employ, Guillermo Perelli. I had assigned him the task of choosing an auspicious day for Margot’s wedding.

Perelli was a nervous young man, with bulging eyes and a neck so long that it extended far beyond his ruffed collar. He was not a genius, but he was capable enough, and quick.

“Tell me,” I asked him, “what evil alignment of the stars is coming? Is there an aspect that bodes ill for the royal family?”

“No time soon,” he said, then hesitated. “Perhaps… in August, I believe, Mars will enter Scorpio, enhancing the possibility for violence. I would be happy to prepare a charm for the King or for Your Majesty, which would offset any ill effects.”

“Please do so,” I said. “And look at our stars in light of the coming transit, to see what August holds. This must be done at once. I… had a dream that something awful is going to occur.”

It was no secret among the courtiers that I had foreseen my husband’s death and Edouard’s victory at Jarnac. At my words, Monsieur Perelli leaned forward, intrigued.

“You must help me, Monsieur,” I said. “Something terrible is coming, I know it…” I realized, to my embarrassment, that I was on the verge of tears.

Perelli sensed it. “I am completely at your service, Madame la Reine, to do whatever I can to protect your family. Let me set to work at once.”

“Thank you,” I said. I sat at my desk and watched, without confidence, without hope, as the door closed behind him.

I lost myself in work. By late afternoon, I was calmer and asked one of the ladies to fetch my embroidery and invite Margot to join me in my antechamber. I waited for her by the fire, until a knock came at the door. It was Jeanne; her head was slightly bowed, her voice low and humble.

“May I speak to you privately, Catherine?”

“Of course.” I gestured at the chair beside mine.

“Thank you,” Jeanne said and sat; after an uncomfortable pause, she said, “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness.”

My cautious smile did not waver. “You mustn’t blame yourself,” I replied smoothly. “You’re tired from travel. I can see that you’ve been ill.”

“I have been ill,” she allowed. “But that doesn’t excuse my harsh words. I’ve spent the hours since our encounter in prayer. I see now that I’ve wronged you.” She drew in a breath. “I’ve been afraid of how the French Court would influence my son because I myself was corrupted.”

I laughed. “Jeanne, if anyone was corrupted by our decadent ways, it surely wasn’t you.”

She colored. “I was wicked. You cannot imagine, Catherine-you, who were always faithful to your husband, always honest with your friends… I think sometimes you’re too good-hearted to see the evil that surrounds you.”

“But I deal with sorcerers,” I said softly. “I read the stars.”

She looked down at her hands, folded primly in her lap. “I know that if you became entangled in such things, it was for good reason. That is why”-her voice broke-“that is why I must ask your forgiveness. It was wrong of me to judge you.”

She began to cry. She wanted to say more, and tried to wave me away, but I embraced her and let her sob in my arms.

She dined with us that night, and in the morning, the marriage negotiations began afresh. I could not call them cordial, but they were civil; the memory of them remains a small, bright spot of hope before the descent into madness.

Jeanne stayed with us at Blois well over a month and remained steadfast in her demands: Henri would not reconvert to Catholicism, nor would he be wed at Notre-Dame. Weeks passed without progress, and we grew irritable with each other.

One afternoon, the young astrologer, Perelli, came to inform me that Mars would move into the constellation of the Scorpion in the latter half of August, and form a square with Saturn on the twenty-third and twenty-fourth. This could lead to arguments with diplomats and foreign powers. He had cast four protective rings, one for me and one for each of my children.

I thanked him and directed Madame Gondi to pay him but had no faith in his feeble charms. Nevertheless, I gave the rings to my sons and daughter to wear; my own went into a drawer.

The first week of April passed without event. I remained determined that Margot should be married at Notre-Dame, while Jeanne was just as determined to see the couple wed in a Protestant ceremony. My nerves grew frayed, for with each passing night, my dreams of bloodshed grew more intense. I felt that the only way to avert war was to see Margot and Henri wed quickly.

After one particularly frustrating session with Jeanne, I visited Edouard, hoping for fresh insight to break the impasse. I went to his quarters, knowing that no one would search for me there, and settled into a chair. At Edouard’s invitation, I began to speak of my difficulties with the wedding negotiations, and Jeanne’s stubbornness.

As we were conversing in his bedchamber, a knock came on the door in the room beyond us. I heard Robert-Louis’s unctuous response and Madame Gondi’s muffled, anxious reply.

Shortly after, an apologetic Madame Gondi entered and curtsied. “Madame la Reine, forgive me, but an urgent message has come for you.”

She handed me a small package wrapped in a letter. I excused myself and hurried to my bedchamber, where I sat down and removed the letter; beneath, wrapped in black silk, was an iron ring with a clouded yellow diamond. I set the ring in my lap and broke the letter’s seal.

Most esteemed Madame la Reine,

Given the placement of your natal Mars and your skill at reading the sky, I suspect you are already aware of the approach of catastrophe.

Herewith is a talisman named the Head of the Gorgon, called by the ancient Greeks Medusa. In the skies, she is represented by the star Algol, which the Arabs call ra’s al-Ghul, the Demon’s Head, and the Chinese call the Piled-Up Corpses. No star in the heavens is more powerfully evil. Algol brings death by decapitation, mutilation, and strangulation-not to one victim but to multitudes.

Two hours before dawn on the twenty-fourth of August, the star Algol will rise in the sign of Taurus-your ascendant, Madame la Reine-and precisely oppose warlike Mars while the former is strengthened in the sign of the Scorpion. France has never been in greater danger; nor have you.

Long ago, I gave you the Wing of Corvus, which served you well; with similar hope, I give you now the Gorgon’s Head. When carefully channeled, the Demon Star provides courage and bodily protection.

On that distant day at the Palazzo Medici, I said that your stars revealed a betrayal that threatened your life. I see betrayal coming again, Madame la Reine, and warn you to take extreme care, even among those you most trust.

As for what might be done to prevent the coming calamity: My opinion on the subject has not changed since we last spoke. I doubt you would want me to reiterate it here.

Ever your humble servant,

Cosimo Ruggieri

I put my hand to the pearl beneath my bodice and closed my eyes. My memory traveled to the moment, a dozen years past, when Ruggieri had last sat with me in my cabinet.

The stars have changed since the day I gave you the pearl.

The time will come, Catherine. And if you fail to do what is necessary, there will be unspeakable carnage.

The letter bore no return address. I slipped the ring on the middle finger of my left hand and stared out at the courtyard, at the future ghosts of Piled-Up Corpses. Intuition told me Ruggieri was not far away. He was lurking, waiting, watching to see if I had the courage to avert the coming bloody tide.

The next morning, I asked Jeanne to join me in my antechamber. When she arrived, I invited her to sit by the fire. Tense and wary, flushed from a recent coughing spell, she settled stiffly in the chair next to mine and looked askance at my smile. During her visit, she had lost even more weight; her eyes were fever-bright.

“These negotiations have grown too unpleasant,” I said kindly. “They’ve made us forget we are, despite everything, friends. Let us dispense with them.”

“Dispense with them?” Her brows lifted in dismay. Was I quashing the marriage?

“The King asks for only two things,” I said. “One, that Margot remain a Catholic, and two, that Henri come to Paris to be wed outside Notre-Dame. Your son need never set foot inside a cathedral; a proxy will accompany Margot inside for the Catholic ceremony.”

She frowned, unable to entirely believe what I was saying. “And the couple will spend several months of the year in Navarre?”

“As many as you like. If you wish, the couple can be wed afterward in a Protestant ceremony.”

Her features softened, revealing a glimpse of her old sense of humor. “You’re too sly, Catherine. There’s something you’re hiding.”

“There is,” I admitted. “The wedding must take place on the eighteenth of August.” I did not want the ceremony to fall even a day closer to Algol’s influence. Before the evil star rose, I wanted to solidify the peace between Huguenot and Catholic.

“August? But it will be beastly hot in Paris then. May is a much better month for a wedding, or June.”

“We haven’t time,” I said softly.

“This August?” She gasped so hard that she fell into a fit of coughing. When she could speak again, she said, “It would be impossible to make all the arrangements! A royal wedding-with only four months to prepare?”

“I’ll take care of everything. You need only bring yourself and your son to Paris.”

“Why such haste?” Jeanne pressed.

“Because I fear another war between your people and mine. Because I believe this marriage will bring an end to bloodshed, and therefore cannot take place quickly enough.”

The deal was struck. We stood and kissed each other on the lips to seal the bargain; I prayed she did not sense my desperation.

Thirty-nine

Soon after the marriage contract was signed, Jeanne left Blois. Although she spoke eagerly of buying wedding gifts, she looked desperately ill. By the time she reached the Paris château of her Bourbon relative, her health was failing. Nonetheless, she persisted in preparing for the upcoming wedding throughout the month of May. The overexertion proved fatal; she took to her bed the first week of June and never rose from it again.

I expected her son to ask that the wedding be delayed. To my surprise, Henri never made the request; he attended his mother’s funeral on the first of July and appeared in Paris on the eighth with an entourage of almost three hundred Huguenots, among them the Prince of Condé, his young cousin.

The King privately welcomed Henri of Navarre to the Louvre on the tenth of July. Charles sat flanked by me on his left hand and Edouard on his right as Navarre, accompanied by his cousin, entered. At eighteen, Henri sported powerful shoulders, a narrow waist, and the muscular legs of horseman. His curls had been tamed into dark waves about his face, and he wore a goatee and thin mustache after the current fashion. Though he dressed in the drab black doublet of the Huguenot and wore no jewelry, his grin was dazzling and his expression relaxed, as if he had been separated from us by mere days, not years of enmity and blood.

In stark contrast to his cousin’s genuine warmth, young Condé’s manner exuded distrust. He was slighter than Navarre, with a blandly attractive face, but his smile was reserved and faintly sour.

“Monsieur le Roi,” Henri proclaimed cheerfully; he did not bow, as he was himself a king. “I’m overjoyed to see you and your family again, and to enter the Louvre as a friend.”

Charles did not smile. “So you’ve come, Cousin. You’d best treat our sister well; we have methods for dealing with heretics who test us too sorely.”

Navarre laughed graciously. “I’ll treat her like the princess she is, and the queen she’ll soon become. I’m aware that I stand on enemy soil-and, more frighteningly, that I stand before my intended bride’s brothers-and that my every act must prove my honorable intent.”

Charles grunted, satisfied. Admiral Coligny had the highest regard for Navarre and had spent the past several weeks regaling the King with stories of his intelligence, courage, and honesty.

Edouard rose and greeted his cousin with a proper kiss. Navarre, half a head shorter, robust, and plain, was no match for the willowy Duke of Anjou, who had swathed himself in emerald Chinese silk embroidered with dozens of tiny, glittering gold carp.

“Welcome, Cousin,” Edouard said, smiling.

“I hear you are a formidable foe at tennis,” Navarre said. “I would far prefer opposing you in the gallery than on the battlefield.”

“Perhaps a match can be arranged.” Edouard put a hand upon Navarre’s shoulder, directing him to face me. “My mother, the Queen.”

Navarre turned his warm, open gaze on me. “Madame la Reine.” I hurried to him and threw my arms about him.

“I am so very sorry about the death of your mother,” I murmured into his ear. “She was a dear friend to me.”

He tightened the embrace at my words, and when he drew back, his eyes were shining. “My mother always loved you, Madame la Reine.”

“Tante Catherine,” I corrected him and kissed his lips.

He laughed, dispelling our shared grief. “Tante Catherine, I never had the chance to thank you properly for the copy of Rinaldo. I loved it so much that I must have read it a hundred times.”

“After all this time,” I marveled, “you remembered.” I took his arm and gently turned his attention to the double doors. “But you didn’t come all this way simply to talk to your old aunt.”

Margot entered, a dark-haired, dark-eyed vision in deep blue satin overlaid by gossamer cangiante silk, which shimmered first blue, then violet. A talented coquette, she lifted her chin to make her neck as long as a swan’s, then tilted her head and gazed at Henri with a playful smile. He was honestly transfixed before looking down, a bit abashed to be caught leering.

“Monsieur le Roi,” Margot said, with a small curtsy, and extended a hand as white and velvety as milk.

Navarre pressed his lips to it. As he rose, his composure regained, he said, “Your Royal Highness. Can you still run faster than I?”

She laughed. “Most likely, Your Majesty. Unfortunately, I am now impeded by these trappings.” She gestured at her heavy skirts.

“Ah.” He feigned disappointment. “I had so hoped for a contest after supper.”

She laughed and drew him to her for a chaste kiss upon the lips, as befitted cousins. We then welcomed the Prince of Condé; the greetings were more restrained on both sides. Afterward, we proceeded to the dining room.

Henri’s company was a delight; the conversation grew increasingly punctuated by laughter. After the meal, I led him to the balcony overlooking the Seine. In the last week, summer had descended upon the city with a vengeance, and the muddy river offered no breeze, only the faint odor of decay. Nonetheless, Henri leaned against the railing and looked out at the Seine and the city, with the yearning of a long-unrequited lover.

After a time, I spoke quietly. “Your mother said that you wrote me letters, but she would not send them.”

Henri’s expression did not change, but I sensed a sudden caution in him. He shrugged. “I suppose my… youthful imagination frightened her. I had questions about things she didn’t understand.”

“That day you were chasing a tennis ball,” I said, “it seemed you and I were possessed of that same imagination. Was I wrong?”

He didn’t answer for a time. “My mother was obsessed with God and sin. But unlike my fellow Huguenots, I’m not a religious man; I fought beside them because I believe in their cause. As for me, I believe in what I see: the earth, the sky, men and beasts…”

“And visions of blood?” I asked.

He turned his face away. “And visions of my comrades dying horribly.”

“I don’t see their faces, but my dreams and visions have grown worse of late. I’ve always taken them to represent a warning, a glimpse of a future that can be averted. But if you don’t believe in God, perhaps you believe them to be without meaning.”

He met my gaze soberly. “I believe, Madame la Reine, that this marriage presents us with an opportunity-to ruin France, or to save her.”

“How startling,” I said, “that we should both have come to the same conclusion.”

His stare grew unsettlingly intense. “I came here against the advice of my advisers and friends, who fear this wedding is an elaborate trap meant to destroy us. I have come because I trust you, Tante Catherine-because I believe, most irrationally, that we have seen the same evil coming and intend to avert it.”

I lifted my hand, heavy with the iron Head of the Gorgon, and set it upon his shoulder.

“Together, we will stop it,” I said and turned at the footfall of the Prince of Condé and his attendant, who had come to fetch their king.

The first days of August were stifling; beyond the ancient walls of the Louvre, heat hung like black, writhing specters above the pavement. The door to my windowless cabinet was always open, not only in the hope of catching the breeze but also to admit a constant stream of guests, advisers, seamstresses, and others. One morning found me sitting at my desk across from the Cardinal de Bourbon-the groom’s uncle and brother of the spineless Antoine de Bourbon, whom the Cardinal had long ago disavowed. The Cardinal’s disposition was admirably steady and his health sound: At the age of fifty, he had not a single grey hair.

We were discussing the steps involved in the wedding ritual-both inside and outside the cathedral-when a guard knocked on the lintel.

“Madame la Reine,” he said. “The Spanish ambassador waits outside. He requests a private audience immediately.”

I frowned. I didn’t know the new ambasssador, Diego de Zuñiga, well, but his predecessor had been given to overly dramatic proclamations. Perhaps Don Diego was similarly inclined.

I rose and went out into the corridor, where Zuñiga waited, cap in hand, at the entrance to my apartments. He was a small man, middle-aged and severe. His hair, slicked back with pomade, was very black and thin at the temples.

I faced him without smiling. “What matter, Don Diego, is so dire that it requires me to abandon the Cardinal de Bourbon?”

He responded with the most cursory of bows; his manner was outraged, as if he were the offended party. “Only a deliberate act of war, Madame la Reine, committed by France against Spain.”

I stared at him; he stared back, combative. Beyond the entrance to my apartments, the Louvre’s narrow corridor bustled with servants, courtiers, and Navarre’s guests.

I put a hand on Zuñiga’s forearm. “Come.”

I led him to the council chamber and settled into the King’s chair at the head of the long oval table.

“Speak, Don Diego,” I said. “How has Charles offended his former brother-in-law?”

Zuñiga’s brows lifted in surprise as he realized I truly did not know what event he referred to.

He drew a long breath. “On the seventeenth of July, five thousand French soldiers-Huguenots-trespassed onto the soil of the Spanish Netherlands. Their commander was your Lord of Genlis. Fortunately, King Philip’s commanders learned of the coming attack and intercepted your forces. Only a handful survived, among them Genlis.

“Forgive my candor, but I suggest you have a frank discussion with His Majesty, considering that his action was a violation of his treaty with Spain, and an act of war.”

I pressed my hand to my lips in an effort contain the invective that threatened to spill from them. Coligny: The deceitful, arrogant bastard had over-reached himself, had dared to send troops to the Netherlands in secret, hoping for a victory that might convince Charles to support an insane war.

“This is the work of a traitor,” I said, my voice shaking. “France would never encroach on the sovereignty of Spain. I assure you, Don Diego, that Charles neither knew of this incursion nor approved it. We shall see that the responsible party-”

Zuñiga risked the extraordinary act of interrupting a queen. “The responsible party is outside the King’s chamber now, awaiting an audience. No doubt the meeting will be cordial; it is said Genlis bears upon his person a letter of support from Charles.”

I rose. “That is not possible,” I whispered.

“Madame la Reine, it is so.”

I left the chamber and pushed my way down the stiflingly hot corridor, past sweating, genuflecting bodies and the black-and-white blurs of startled Huguenots. I stopped at the closed doors to the King’s private apartments, where a small group of men had gathered.

Coligny was among them, his hand on the shoulder of a weathered Huguenot nobleman with a pockmarked face and thick red hair; a black silk sling cradled his injured arm. With them was the young Prince of Condé, for once wearing a genuine smile.

Henri of Navarre had just joined them. As I watched, he threw his arms around Coligny and kissed the Admiral affectionately upon each cheek. Coligny then presented Navarre to the stranger, who attempted to kneel until Navarre stepped forward and raised him to his feet. The two shared an embrace-a cautious one, owing to the stranger’s injury-after which Navarre and the stranger kissed, then launched at once into an animated conversation.

I see betrayal coming, Ruggieri whispered.

I stepped forward into the men’s line of sight and ignored their bows. I did not acknowledge Navarre or the others; I had eyes only for the stranger.

“Tell me, sir,” I asked, “do I have the honor of addressing the Lord of Genlis?”

The other men grew still as the stranger’s mouth worked. After a time, words emerged: “You do, Your Majesty.”

“Ah!” I reached toward the black sling and let my hand hover just above it. “Your wound… Is it so very terrible, Monsieur?”

Genlis’s cheeks and neck were scarlet. “Not at all, Madame la Reine; it is almost healed. I wear this”-he nodded at the sling-“only at my doctor’s insistence.”

“Thank God you did not suffer the harsh fate of so many of your fellows.” I summoned the foolish smile of a superstitious woman and confided, “No doubt it is due to the lucky talisman you wear.” I had heard, in more diplomatic terms from Madame Gondi, that the Huguenots regarded me as a witch who consorted with the Devil.

“Talisman?” He cast about, perplexed.

“The letter of support for your enterprise from His Majesty,” I said. “Do you have it with you, even now?”

He glanced desperately at Coligny, but the Admiral’s eyes revealed nothing. Perhaps Genlis sensed my determination, or perhaps he suffered an astounding lapse of stupidity.

“I do,” he said.

I held my hand out expectantly as he struggled with the sling and fished the letter from a pocket.

I snatched it. The wax, impressed with the royal seal, had been broken; the creased paper was limp and stained, as though Genlis had anointed it with his sweat.

The barrier that housed my burning fury fell away as I opened the letter, read it, and saw my son’s signature there. Without a word I abandoned the men and, clutching the letter, advanced on the pair of guards who barred entry to the King’s chambers.

“Stand aside,” I commanded.

When they did not obey, I forced myself between them and pushed the happily unlocked doors apart. I stormed past servants and nobles into the royal bedchamber, where His Majesty Charles IX sat upon his chamber pot as one of his gentlemen read poetry aloud. One glance from me and the gentleman closed his little book and vacated the room. I slammed the door after him and, waving the letter, advanced on Charles.

“You fool,” I hissed. “You magnificent, impossibly witless fool!”

Charles clumsily pulled up his leggings with his right hand while sliding the cover over the chamber pot with his left. He was accustomed to inflicting anger upon the world but had so rarely witnessed it in others-least of all, his mother-that he raised his arm defensively and cringed.

“Five thousand French soldiers, dead in service to sheer stupidity!” I shouted. “And the Spanish King knew of them before I did! His ambassador came to warn me today that Philip considers this… this madness in the Netherlands an act of war!”

“What of it?” Charles challenged weakly.

“What of it?” I echoed, aghast. “Are you so mad as to think we could win a war with Spain?”

“The Admiral says we can,” he ventured. “Do not hurl insults at me, Madame.”

I lowered my voice. “You dream of military glory-but you will not find it in an ill-conceived war. You will find defeat and shame. The people will rise against you and put a Huguenot on the throne.”

“Coligny loves me,” Charles said, “as he loves France. War against a common foe will unify the country.”

“I have lived a long time, my son, and I have seen what war with Spain brought this country. Your grandfather suffered a horrible defeat, and your father spent over four years as a prisoner. Philip’s army is too strong. Do you not see how Coligny plays you? How he tries to turn you against me?”

Charles’s jaw grew set, and his eyes rolled upward in a madman’s gaze. “The Admiral said that you would say this. It is unnatural for a woman to command such power as you have; you have usurped me for too long.”

I clenched my jaw and swallowed the bile that rose in me at Coligny’s words, so obligingly parroted by my son.

“If you’re so convinced that France’s best interests would be served by war with Spain,” I said quietly, “then Admiral Coligny must present his proposal to the Privy Council so that it can reject or approve it. If the Admiral’s reasoning is sound, then the other members will be swayed to his point of view. Why not speak openly to all? It would be impossible to wage a successful war in secret.”

Charles nodded as the idea took root. “I will tell the Admiral. We will prepare a presentation.”

My tone lightened at once. “Good. There’s only one thing you must bear in mind.”

He frowned quizzically at me.

“You must abide by the Council members’ vote. If they agree with the Admiral, you can wage your war in public. If they don’t, the idea must be put to rest-permanently.”

He pondered this, then said, “Very well.”

“Excellent! I will notify the members and set a date for the meeting, and I will rely on you to tell Admiral Coligny to prepare his argument.”

I left Charles’s bedchamber wearing the falsest of smiles. It was still on my lips when I passed into the corridor, where Coligny and Genlis remained conversing with Navarre.

Coligny was first to turn and acknowledge my appearance with a bow. We smiled, though surely he had overheard my shouting. In his eyes I saw smug challenge: He was waiting for my departure, at which point he would go in and speak to the King.

As I passed by, Navarre also smiled. I turned away, unable to bear the sight of his eyes.

Forty

Eight days before the wedding, the King’s Privy Council convened. It had rained steadily the previous night, and Sunday morning brought no respite from the storm. Despite the downpour, the windows had been opened a hand’s breadth to let in the sweltering air, which steamed the windowpanes and turned the stack of papers at my right hand limp.

I sat at the head of the long oval conference table, flanked by Edouard and Marshal Tavannes-now sixty-three years old, completely bald and almost toothless. Tavannes had fought beside François I at Pavia and had been taken prisoner with his king. The battle had cost him the sight in his left eye; the clouded eye now roamed constantly, always at odds with the right. I loved Tavannes because he had once offered to kill Diane de Poitiers for her arrogance; I loved him more because he had led Edouard to victory at Jarnac.

Beside Tavannes sat his peer and fellow soldier Marshal Cossé, who had served during the wars as my envoy to Jeanne. In contrast to Tavannes, Cossé was still meticulous, with a neatly trimmed white beard.

Across from Cossé sat the dashing Duke of Nevers, a diplomat by the name of Louis Gonzaga, born in Tuscany but educated in Paris. As a youth, Gonzaga had fought with Montmorency at Saint-Quentin. The final member of the Council was the gouty, aging Duke of Montpensier, whose wife had long ago been part of King François’s little band of women.

Admiral Coligny entered several minutes late with the cheery comment that God demanded rest upon the Sabbath-but perhaps the Almighty would forgive him when “it is, I hope, God’s work we do here today.” His pious pronouncement met with silence and a roll of distant thunder.

A gust caused the lamps to quiver as I said, “Gentlemen. Admiral Coligny shall present his case for war, after which there will be a vote.”

I nodded at the Admiral; Coligny rose and, resting his fingertips lightly upon the table, began to speak.

“Five years ago,” he began, “King Philip sent his general, the Duke of Alba, to occupy the Netherlands and to inflict upon its people a reign of terror. Since that time, ten thousand have been slaughtered for nothing more than their desire to worship God as they see fit.” He turned toward me. “You, Madame la Reine, have always been for France the voice of tolerance. Let France stand against tyranny and for freedom.

“Save, now, the innocents to our north; for if we fail, the blood of tens of thousands more shall be spilt. Stop, I beg you, this swelling tide of blood.”

I was speechless: Coligny had appealed so brilliantly to my beliefs that I had been moved. Even more, he had played on my darkest fears, as though he knew of my terrible visions. Impossible, I thought-until I remembered Navarre, leaning against the railing to stare out at the Ile-de-la-Cité. And visions of my comrades dying horribly…

I stared down at the table’s dully gleaming surface in an effort to contain the bitterness that welled up in me. When I had regained my composure, I lifted my face to the Admiral.

“Would that I could help them,” I said, “save for the inescapable fact that France lacks the means to displace Alba. Both the Huguenots and the royal army have taken heavy losses and left the country nearly bankrupt after years of civil war. We simply do not have the men or arms or money to take on so great a foe. Even if we tried to help them, those innocents of yours would perish-along with thousands of Frenchmen.”

“That would not happen,” Coligny countered swiftly, “because we would not fight alone. The Prince of Orange will fight alongside us, and he has recently secured aid from Germany and England.”

“But it has already happened,” I said. “Five thousand of our soldiers died. French blood has already been spilt.”

“I submit,” the Admiral said, “that war with Spain is inevitable. We can face her now, in the Netherlands, or later, upon our own soil, when Philip finally yields to the craving to expand his empire by straying over our border. That is why we must strike now-while we have the support of Orange, England, and the German princes.”

Tavannes spoke in a low growl. “I have seen two kings make the error of starting foreign wars with hopes of conquest. They, too, were given promises of support. In the end, we retreated after heavy losses, only to return to a country in financial ruin. A foreign war will claim more lives and gold than we have to spend.”

“I fought beside Montmorency at Saint-Quentin when I was a callow youth,” Gonzaga, the Duke of Nevers, added passionately. “I went into battle filled with dreams of an easy victory. I came to my senses when the Constable and others-including myself-were captured by the Spanish.”

“I was there at Saint-Quentin,” Coligny muttered, indignant.

Gonzaga’s tone was deprecating. “Yes, you were there-responsible for the city’s defense, as I recall. Why, then, should we trust you to take more of our soldiers to war, when five thousand have already died as a result of stupidity?”

All the other men in the room began speaking at once. Gonzaga offered the Admiral another insult, while the Duke of Montpensier railed about the damage another war would inflict upon the economy. In the end, old Tavannes shouted them down and, when the room was silent, asked:

“Admiral Coligny, have you anything else to offer?”

“Yes,” Coligny said. “When His Majesty King Henri II listened to the advice of his privy councillors, he was obliged to consider it carefully-but he was not required to obey it. Such is not the case with King Charles; he is obliged by law to follow this Council’s bidding.

“This was understandable when the King ascended the throne as a boy of ten, but he is a man now, twenty-two years old. It is an insult to him to force him to accept the rule of his elders, even when it goes against his judgment.”

Coligny continued. “I am a Huguenot, speaking before a group of Catholics. Yet I know every one of us would agree that Charles is King because God set him on the throne. Is that not so, gentlemen?”

Tavannes and Montpensier allowed that it was; Edouard and I exchanged dark glances, while Gonzaga refused to reply to a question whose answer was known.

“If Charles’s will is thwarted by this Council,” Coligny said, “then God’s will is thwarted. And it is Charles’s will to go to war with Spain.”

I gasped at the man’s audacity, at his wild reasoning.

Coligny directed a pointed look at me. “Her Majesty gasps. Yet I tell you now that government is the business of men, not women; such is the rule of Salic law. And I ask you: Who rules France? Who rules this Council? And who rules Charles?

“Each man sitting here must look into his own heart for the truth: Listen to the small, still voice of God within you. Is it right that the will of our King should be foiled by a womanish fear of war?”

My face burned. Beside me, Edouard muttered a barely audible curse.

“By God, you are a lunatic,” Tavannes said, “and a mannerless cur to speak so of our Queen.”

I did not look at him, or my fellow councillors; I could only stare at the bright piety in Coligny’s eyes, at the beatific self-righteousness that glowed upon his face, stoked by the internal fires of madness.

“It is a holy war,” the Admiral said; his voice paled to a whisper. “A war to free men who wish to worship in freedom. I tell you, it is God’s own war; only the Devil would bid you not to wage it.”

The room was silent until I gathered myself and asked coldly: “Is that all, Admiral? Have you finished your presentation?”

“I have,” he said, with an air that said he was most pleased with it, and with himself.

The Duke of Montpensier interjected, “Your Highness, Your Majesty, I should like to move that we dispense with any further discussion. Admiral Coligny has presented his viewpoint sufficiently and heard the major objections to it. I see little point in revisiting these in an exchange that is likely to grow heated. I suggest a vote be taken immediately.”

“Point well taken,” I said. “Gentlemen, are there any objections?”

There were not. Coligny-confident that his appeal had swayed hearts-was asked to wait in the corridor. He went happily, though he paused on the threshold to direct a smug, triumphant look at me.

What followed did not take long. The members were in such obvious agreement that the paper ballots went unused and a voice vote was taken.

I rose and put a hand up to stay my fellow councillors from their impulse to spring to their feet with me. “I should like to tell Admiral Coligny myself.”

I went alone into the corridor. Aside from a pair of bodyguards, there was no one within earshot. Coligny leaned against the opposite wall, hands folded, head bowed in prayer; at the sound of the door opening, he looked up eagerly.

At the sight of my face, his own went slack with surprise, then slowly hardened.

“So,” he said. “I should have realized their ears were closed. After all, you chose them because they were loyal.”

“I chose them because they were wise,” I retaliated, “and loyal to my son-who was born without the temperament needed to rule. Should you persist in taking advantage of this fact, Admiral, I will banish you from Court.”

His eyes-starkly blue inside a fringe of golden lashes-narrowed with the same sullen, bitter obstinacy I had so often seen in Charles. He took a menacing step closer, to remind me that he was a large man and I a small woman.

With the slow, emphatic delivery of a bully, he said, “Madame, I cannot oppose what you have done, but I can assure you that you will regret it. For if His Majesty decides against this war, he will soon find himself in another from which he will not be able to escape.”

Though he loomed in my face, I refused to take a single step backward. Imperious, unafraid, I scowled up at him.

“We welcomed you as a guest. And you dare threaten us-under the King’s own roof-with another civil war?”

“You would not be fighting me,” he said, “but God.”

He turned his back to me without taking his leave and strode away. When he had moved out of view, I closed my eyes and let go a sigh as I leaned back against the wall.

Under the jaw, like this, Aunt Clarice whispered and closed her hand over mine, around the hilt of the stiletto.

Forty-one

I charged the fearless Tavannes with reporting the results of the Privy Council’s vote to the King. I then took Edouard aside to tell him of the Admiral’s threat.

I convinced the Duke of Anjou to accompany me to our estate at Montceaux, a day’s hard ride from Paris. We left immediately without informing the King, so that he would be surprised by our departure and assume I had made good on my threat to abandon him. I prayed that Charles would rush to Montceaux to beg me to return-thus allowing me to keep him out of Coligny’s clutches, at least until the wedding celebrations commenced.

Within three hours of the Council meeting, Edouard and I were in a carriage moving south out of the crowded city. The rain had ended, and the wind chased slate clouds away to reveal a scalding August sun; the streets were once again crowded with merchants, nobles, clerics, beggars, and the black-and-white garb of Huguenots, strangers to this Catholic city, come to celebrate the marriage of their leader, Navarre.

I leaned back against the wall of the carriage and stared out the window, too pensive to acknowledge Edouard’s lengthy diatribe against the Admiral or the whining of his dog, a spaniel perched in a jeweled basket that hung from the Duke of Anjou’s neck by a long velvet cord. I remained silent as the air grew sweeter, and the clatter of the wheels was muted by the mud of country roads. Stone buildings gave way to the dark green, trembling leaves of late summer; mist rose from the road ahead like vaporous souls streaming heavenward.

I could not yet digest my final conversation with Coligny. As the carriage rocked, I closed my eyes and imagined Aunt Clarice beside me, shaken to the core yet fearless, in her tattered, glorious gown.

“Such hubris!” Edouard railed; the little dog in his lap cringed, and he began to stroke it carelessly. “He thinks he is Moses, and we Pharaoh!”

I opened my eyes. “He thinks he is Jesus,” I said, then fell silent at the implications of my own analogy.

My son stared across the carriage at me. “He will not stop, Maman. You saw his eyes: He is a lunatic. We must stop him.”

I shook my head. “What can we do? We cannot arrest him now, before the wedding. Think of the outcry: He is an honored member of the wedding party. Think of the embarrassment to Navarre, to us…”

I had not permitted myself to reflect on Navarre for days. I had loved him as a son; I was going to marry my daughter to him. Now I looked on him with distrust. Had he come here knowing what Coligny was planning?

“Coligny is sincere in his desire to see our troops sent to the Netherlands,” I added, as though trying to convince myself. “He has spent a great deal of time ingratiating himself with the King. It would not make sense for him to attack us now.”

“Attack us?” Edouard leaned forward abruptly. “Are you saying that everything he has done is simply a distraction? That he means us harm?”

I stared out at the changing countryside and thought of Paris’s streets, flooded with Huguenots, and of the Louvre, its corridors brimming with black-and-white crows.

“No,” I answered. “No, of course not, unless…”

… you will regret it. For if His Majesty decides against this war, he will soon find himself in another.

“Unless this is part of a greater plot,” Edouard finished. “Unless Coligny and Navarre and the rest of them came here with the thought of capturing the Crown. Henri brought an entourage of hundreds, and thousands of his followers have descended on the city. Every inn in Paris is overflowing with Huguenots; they have even opened the churches to house them all.”

My fingers found the heavy iron ring of the Gorgon’s Head and began to worry it. “They could not be so foolish,” I murmured.

“We are speaking of Coligny, who is fool enough to admit he thinks God has sent him here,” Edouard reminded me, a look of sickened distrust settling over his long, handsome features. “And he will do whatever ‘God’ bids him. Even if he is not guilty of plotting a revolution-even if he means us no real harm-he will continue to manipulate Charles. We must do something.”

“If we do something now, in a city crowded with Huguenots and their resentful Catholic hosts,” I said slowly, “there will be a full-scale riot.”

“Maman”-Edouard clicked his tongue in exasperation-“we cannot sit back and let a madman drag us into war.”

“We will discuss it at Montceaux,” I said. “I don’t want to think about it now.”

I closed my eyes again, lulled by the rocking carriage, and saw the prophet’s round full-moon face.

Beware of tenderness, he said. Beware of mercy.

Charles arrived at Montceaux in the middle of the night. I feigned mute, sulking anger when I was summoned from my bed by a desperate King, but I could scarcely hide my gratification when Charles fell to his knees and, wrapping his arms about my legs, swore to abide by the Privy Council’s vote and begged me to return with him to Paris.

I insisted Charles stay with us at Montceaux for four full days. During that time, Edouard and I spent endless hours trying to convince the King that Coligny had coldheartedly manipulated him. At many points, Charles sobbed like a child or let loose venomous, spittle-laced rage, but by the third day, he was spent and began to listen to our point of view. I made him agree to avoid Coligny until after the celebrations.

Only then did we return to the city-on the fifteenth of August, the day before the betrothal ceremony. Since the tenth, the withering sun had hung unobscured in a faded blue sky; our carriage kicked up clouds of dust on the return journey.

I climbed from the carriage exhausted. At Montceaux, I had spent long days with Charles and long evenings discussing Coligny with Edouard; we had resolved nothing, only that we should wait to take action until after the wedding.

As I climbed the stairs to my apartments, I spied Madame Gondi-still beautiful, but worn and in failing health-waiting for me at the top of the landing. She did not smile when she caught my gaze but tightened her grip on something in her hands: a letter.

When I arrived at the landing, I held out my hand for the letter. Once I had it, I broke the seal, unfolded it, and, walking alongside Madame Gondi and her lamp, began to read.

The handwriting was masculine but not Zuñiga’s. It belonged to the Duke of Alba, that dastardly persecutor of Huguenots, and it was dated the thirteenth of August.

To the most highly esteemed Queen Catherine of France

Your Royal Majesty,

I understand that King Philip’s ambassador to France, Don Diego de Zuñiga, has informed you of the incursion of French soldiers into the Netherlands under the command of one of your Huguenot generals, and that this said Huguenot general is a confidant of your son, King Charles.

You might wish to ask your son whether he or his Huguenot friend has any knowledge of the three thousand armed French troops who arrived at our shared border early this morning. And you would do well to consider the fact that my own sources-who are very knowledgeable about this Admiral Coligny and his activities-informed me within the last hour that he is actively mustering an army of no fewer than fourteen thousand troops.

It is said that most of these heretics are now in Paris to attend the wedding of their leader to your daughter, King Charles’s sister, and they have brought with them arms so that they might leave immediately afterward for the Netherlands.

Don Diego also reports that you claim to be entirely unaware of this situation-that in fact, Charles’s own Council has voted against Admiral Coligny’s invasion. If that is true, then your family is in no small amount of danger; perhaps I should lend Your Majesty a few of my own reliable spies, who say that the metalsmiths in Paris are working day and night to produce swords and armor for the Huguenots and that, shortly after the Council vote, Monsieur Coligny publicly bragged that he does not recognize its authority and that he will come to the Netherlands, with or without his King’s approval, and defeat me with his army of fourteen thousand Frenchmen.

My King would say that this is Your Majesty’s reward for allowing heretics to dine at her table.

I have not retaliated because Don Diego is certain that King Charles will wish to deal with this matter internally, and has urged me not to take up arms against France but to advise Your Majesty of this grievous offense against Spain.

I have sent this by my fastest messenger, who is with you now, awaiting your reply.

Your servant, by God’s grace,

Fernando Alvarez de Toledo

Duke of Alba

Governor of the Netherlands

I had reached my antechamber by the time I finished reading Alba’s letter; I sank into the chair at my desk and glanced up as Madame Gondi set the lamp down beside me.

“Please,” I said, “invite the Duke of Anjou to visit me at once, in my chambers. Tell him it is a matter of pressing urgency.”

When she had left, I laid my head wearily upon the desk, my cheek resting against the cool wood. The lamp flickered, casting my leaping shadow against the far wall; I thought suddenly of my aunt at her desk, writing letters late into the night despite her injured wrist, on the day we had fled Florence.

No more blood, I had told Ruggieri. No more blood, but the House of Valois-my blood-was now at risk.

I thought of the stableboy’s eyes, wide with shock and mute reproach, and hardened.

The next morning, a Saturday, the betrothal ceremony took place in the Louvre’s great ballroom, officiated by the groom’s uncle, the Cardinal de Bourbon. In full view of some three hundred guests, Navarre and Margot prepared to sign the thick marriage contract.

As Margot hovered over the final page of the contract, quill in hand, she let go a wrenching sob, then threw down the quill and covered her face with her hands. I moved forward and put my arms about her, then smiled up at the Cardinal.

“Nerves,” I said to him, then whispered in Margot’s ear: “Do not think-simply do it. Now.”

I placed the quill in her fingers and closed my hand over hers. Her shoulders shook with repressed tears, but she lowered her hand and scrawled her signature.

Navarre kept his pleasant, dignified gaze focused on the Cardinal, politely ignoring the incident. Like the reluctant bride, I could not bear to look at him: At the same time, I reminded myself I had no real evidence that he was abetting the Admiral and his war. If I called off the wedding, I would quash any real hope for lasting peace, and signal my intent to act against Coligny.

Instead, I wrapped my arm around Margot and stood beside her as the Cardinal made the sign of the cross over the couple and intoned a blessing. When it was done, I kissed my daughter, then Henri, and welcomed him into the family.

“You are my son now,” I told him.

During the reception afterward, I caught the arm of the Duchess of Nemours, an old friend. “Will you come to see me tonight, in my cabinet?” I whispered into her ear.

She bowed graciously in assent. She had spent her entire adulthood at the French Court and was known for her scrupulous discretion-a quality on which I planned to rely heavily.

Night found us alone in my cabinet, with the door closed and barred, despite the stifling heat; I had not invited Edouard, for if the conversation went awry, I did not want him implicated.

The Duchess sat smiling placidly across the desk from me, fanning herself. She was forty-one years old, soft and plump, a woman who possessed no natural beauty and therefore appeared to change little as she aged. Her eyes were large and her nose and lips small; folds gathered easily beneath her receding chin, a gift from her grandmother, Lucrezia Borgia. Her eyebrows were so heavily plucked as to be invisible.

She had been born Anna d’Este and raised in her native Ferrara until she was married at the age of sixteen to François, Duke of Guise. She quickly mastered the subtleties of courtly life and proved an able helpmeet to her ambitious husband. When François was assassinated by Coligny’s spy, the Duchess did not retire quietly into widowhood. Seething with outrage, she demanded that Coligny be prosecuted for the murder and brought so many petitions before the King that an exasperated Charles declared the Admiral innocent and forbade her to bring up the matter again. But like her son Henri of Guise, who had inherited the title of Duke from his late father, she continued to despise Coligny and to denounce him vehemently whenever she could. Six years ago, she had married Jacques de Savoie, the Duke of Nemours, a staunch Catholic who had fought bravely against the Huguenots.

“Anna,” I said, speaking to her in Tuscan to indicate the intimate, delicate nature of our conversation, “I know that it must be difficult for you to smile so graciously in the company of Huguenots. On behalf of the King, I thank you for your civility in Admiral Coligny’s presence.”

“He is no less a murderer, Your Majesty; today I felt as though I had fallen into a nest of vipers.” She said this softly and with complete composure, as if we were discussing the most mundane of subjects. “I can only pray that His Majesty and France suffer no harm as a result of your association with him.”

“This is precisely what I wish to speak to you about,” I said, “for I have come to realize that the Admiral does indeed wish His Majesty harm.”

Her composure did not waver. “I am not surprised to hear this.”

“Then perhaps you will not be surprised to hear that Admiral Coligny has violated the King’s order forbidding the deployment of troops to the Netherlands.”

She snapped her fan shut. “The Admiral boasts to everyone that he is leaving for the Netherlands as soon as the wedding celebrations end, and that he will be taking many troops with him. Troops who are here in Paris, armed for war. I fear, Your Majesty, for the safety of the King.”

“As do I.” I drew in a long breath, then said, “His Majesty will no longer protect the Admiral from the justice that is due him.” I leaned back in my chair and studied her intently.

She was still as a portrait for several seconds before she finally glanced down at her hands, one of which held the fan. When she looked up again, her eyes held tears. “I have waited many years. I made a vow to my dead husband’s soul that I would avenge him.”

“It must happen on the twenty-second,” I said, “the day after the celebrations end. There will be a Council meeting that morning, which Admiral Coligny will certainly attend.” I paused. “It must be done in such a way that the King and the royal family are not implicated.”

“Of course,” she answered softly. “That would be disastrous for the Crown.”

With that, she indicated that the House of Guise would take full blame for the assassination. It would be seen as the result of a blood feud, an isolated incident for which the King could not be blamed.

“I will see you and your family protected from any backlash, though your son would do well to quit the city when it happens. I will send for you tomorrow morning to discuss the details. Tonight, speak to no one save your son; you and he must consider how our aim might be skillfully accomplished.”

I dismissed her and went out to my antechamber to find Madame Gondi.

“Will you please invite the Duke of Anjou to visit me in my cabinet?” I asked her.

When Madame had left, I returned to the tiny, airless room and sat at my desk, leaving the door open behind me. I stared down at the backs of my hands and marveled at their steadiness. Unlike Anna d’Este, I shed no tears.

The night brought no breezes, only a suffocating dampness that settled over me as I lay on my bed, the sheets kicked away. When the darkness finally eased, I rose and directed Madame Gondi to invite Anna d’Este and her son the Duke of Guise to visit me as soon as possible that day.

Wedding preparations followed. I visited Margot’s apartments with Edouard-who had an artist’s unerring eye-to oversee the final placement of jewels on the wedding gown and its dazzling blue cloak and train. My daughter’s eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, though I pretended not to notice. When the last diamonds had been carefully sewn in place, Margot stood before a full-length mirror and studied herself with awe.

Unable to contain himself, Edouard jumped up from his chair. “How stunning you are! You will be the most beautiful queen in all the world!” He took both her hands and kissed her on the mouth-lingering, I thought, a bit longer than a brother ought. Margot flushed and giggled, just as she had when Henri of Guise had flirted audaciously with her.

Once the cloak was prepared, three princesses-one Guise, two Bourbons-were ushered into the room to practice holding the train, which was so long that one girl stood holding its end in Margot’s bedchamber, while two stood out in the antechamber to lift the middle and Margot herself laughingly walked out of her apartment and down the corridor before the train was taut enough to lift off the ground.

I left my daughter laughing with the three young princesses and took Edouard to my apartments, where Henri of Guise and his mother waited in my cabinet.

Our efficient conversation lasted less than a quarter hour. The Guises owned property on the rue de Béthizy-a house that Anna d’Este herself had once occupied. As chance would have it, Gaspard de Coligny had rented a hostel on the same street, only a short walk from the Louvre.

The Duke of Guise’s eyes burned with a cold, bitter light as he said, “Coligny walks past our property every morning when he goes to meet with the King, and returns every afternoon the same way.”

Chance smiles on you, Catherine.

“There is a window,” Anna added, “from which a shot could be fired.”

“And the shooter?” I asked.

“Maurevert,” the Duke replied.

“I know him,” Edouard said. “During the war, he infiltrated the Huguenots”-he turned to explain to me-“in order to assassinate Coligny. He was not able to reach the Admiral, so instead he shot one of his closest comrades, a man named de Mouy. De Mouy had been Maurevert’s tutor at one point; they had known each other for many years, but Maurevert pulled the trigger without a second thought.”

“Cold-blooded,” I said, nodding. “He will be perfect. There remains the matter of timing: This must not mar the wedding celebrations, which end on the twenty-first. I will arrange a Council meeting the next morning requiring Coligny’s attendance. I will send a messenger to you with the time. Tell Monsieur Maurevert to be ready, for we may not have another opportunity.”

“Very good,” young Guise replied. “Before it is done, however, I would humbly request one thing of His Majesty…”

“You will have royal protection,” I said. “Secretly, of course. You would be well advised to quit Paris immediately afterward, if not sooner.”

When the Duke and his mother had been escorted out, Edouard signaled for us to remain behind.

“The situation in Paris has grown volatile,” he said. “I have ordered the deployment of a few troops to keep the peace, but I believe our good friends the Guises are fomenting trouble. Most of the priests in the city are denouncing the Huguenots and stirring up the Catholics against them. Let us hope that the wedding distracts the people from their hatred.”

I unfurled my fan and fluttered it rapidly; the room felt as close as an oven. “It will,” I said shortly. “It must.”

At dusk, I accompanied Margot to Cardinal de Bourbon’s palace, where she was to spend the night. As our carriage rolled over the ancient, creaking bridge to the Ile-de-la-Cité, Margot looked behind us at the Louvre palace and burst into tears.

“My darling,” I said kindly, “you will sleep at home tomorrow night. Very little will change.”

“Except that I will be the wife of a Huguenot,” she said, “and if there is another war… Neither my husband nor my family will trust me.”

She was right, of course, and the realization broke my heart. I put my arm around her and smoothed the tears from her cheeks.

“Sweet girl,” I said and kissed her. “Sweet girl, there will never be another war, thanks to you.” I paused to lighten my tone. “Did you know that the day I married your father, I despised him?”

She stopped crying long enough to frown at me. “Now you are teasing me, Maman.”

“But it is true. I was in love with my cousin, Ippolito.” I smiled, remembering. “He was so tall, so handsome-older than your father and far more sophisticated. And he said that he loved me.”

Margot dabbed at her nose with her kerchief. “Why didn’t you marry him?”

I sighed. “Because my uncle Pope Clement had different plans. He delivered me to France in exchange for prestige and political backing. And so I married your father. He was only fourteen, shy and awkward, and he resented me, a stranger from a foreign land. We had not yet learned how to love each other.

“I am glad now that I never married Ippolito. He was brash, foolish… and a liar. He didn’t really love me; he meant only to use me as a pawn in his political schemes.”

Margot was listening, wide-eyed. “How awful, Maman!”

I nodded. “It was terrible. You must understand, Margot, that there are men willing to use you only to further their aims. Luckily, Henri of Navarre is not such a man. Things are not always what they seem; and although you might not appreciate Henri now, in time, you will come to love him if you open your heart.”

Margot leaned back against her seat, her expression thoughtful. We were both exhausted, and the rocking of the carriage lulled us into a drowsy silence.

With feigned offhandedness, I said, “I am concerned about your brother Edouard. He and Charles despise each other so; when the King learns that his younger brother favors something, he immediately opposes it. Edouard has often confessed to me that he wished he had a useful spy, one to whom the King opened his heart.

“You are so very close to them both, my daughter; does Edouard ever speak of such things to you?”

Margot’s cheeks flamed; she turned and looked out the window with eyes so full of guilt that I closed my own, unwilling to see more.

She had been a gift to me, a child not bought by blood. A child who, I hoped, had been heaven-sent, to undo the evil wrought by the purchase of her brothers’ lives.

Sweet Margot, they have corrupted you.

We rode the rest of the way in silence.

Forty-two

On Monday I woke to a joyous cascade of church bells exhorting the citizens of Paris to rise and ready themselves for this most festive day. I went to the open window in the hope of a hint of morning coolness. But the sky was already bleached by a harsh, fast-rising sun. The Louvre’s courtyard was filled with grooms fastening bright carapaces to the horses that would pull the royal carriages; the palace itself was alive with voices and footfall.

The ritual of dressing soon began: My nightgown was pulled over my head and replaced by a chemise of sheer lawn, which was followed by two voluminous crinoline petticoats and a corset with wooden stays laced cruelly tight. I stepped into my aubergine gown and held out my arms as huge sleeves were laced to it. My hair was brushed out, then braided and wound into a thick coil at the base of my neck; the whole was covered with a French hood, its band of purple damask edged with dozens of tiny seed pearls. I was already melting by the time the corset was laced; by the time the hood was set in place, I was drenched.

After a dozen long strands of pearls were hung round my neck, and diamonds affixed to my ears, Madame Gondi pronounced me ready. I went down to the courtyard, where Edouard and Charles stood watching Navarre’s beribboned carriage roll out the gate.

My sons wore matching doublets made from pale green silk heavily embroidered with silver thread. Edouard had added a toque adorned with peacock feathers and pearls the size of raspberries. The Duke of Anjou was of good cheer, the King dismal and distracted.

We climbed into our carriage and rode over the bridge through the pressing, curious crowds, punctuated by black flocks of Huguenots; the Duke of Anjou and I leaned out the windows and waved to them while Charles sat back, sulking.

We arrived shortly at the episcopal palace next to Notre-Dame, where the Cardinal de Bourbon greeted us, already accompanied by Henri, who wore the same pale green with silver embroidery as my sons. The King of Navarre was accompanied by his mentor, Coligny, and his cousin Condé. The Admiral wore finery that matched Condé’s: a doublet of dark blue silk damask with gold velvet piping and breeches of blue satin striped with red. Coligny was giddy, one moment laughing and cuffing Navarre upon the shoulder, the next, wiping away tears. He seemed not to notice the King’s reticence, or the way Charles averted his eyes every time the Admiral glanced at him.

“I am as proud of him as I would be of my own son,” Coligny said, referring to Henri. “Proud of his bravery as a lad, prouder still of the man he has become. He is an inspiration today to all Huguenots.” He impulsively wrapped his arm around the young king’s neck and kissed the side of his face.

Navarre responded with a queasy smile and silence. He looked grand in his silver costume and ruby-encrusted crown, but nerves had bested him: He kept wiping his hands on the sides of his doublet and responding to questions or comments with monosyllables. He returned Edouard’s enthusiastic embrace mindlessly, and did not notice when the King failed to greet him.

At last we took our places before the massive wooden doors at the front entrance of the palace. Trumpets blared as the doors opened to reveal the crowds, cheering and jubilant despite the heat.

The youngest relatives of the bride and groom-two grinning girl twins and a trio of timid boys-went first, scattering rose petals. They were followed by the Cardinal and at some remove Navarre, flanked by Condé and Coligny.

Once Henri and his party had begun to descend the palace stairs, Margot emerged from her hiding place with her attendants bearing the long, rustling train. A thousand diamonds glittered on her cloak and gown; a hundred encircled her long throat. Her eyes were so swollen and red that I knew she had spent the night weeping. I told myself it did not matter: Few would be able to see her as closely as I could; they would notice only the gown, the cloak, the jewels, and her regal manner, and deem her a proper queen.

With her brothers flanking her and her three attendants in tow, my daughter slowly walked down the steps of the palace. After several paces I followed her; the remaining princes and princesses of the blood from the Houses of Bourbon and Guise came after me.

At the base of the palace steps stood the entrance to the gallery, which stretched from the Cardinal’s palace to a small, roped-off opening in front of a high platform. This platform had been built atop the steps at Notre-Dame’s western façade so that it was level with the cathedral doors and extended fifty paces outward, rendering it entirely visible to the throngs filling the plaza. The gallery was constructed of tall wooden posts-carpenters’ families ate well the year of a royal wedding-set upright into the ground, connected by crossbeams, and covered with a canvas roof. It was draped inside and out with garlands of red roses and swags of billowing pale blue silk to match the bride’s attire.

I forced a dignified smile as I processed behind Margot, past the rows of lesser nobles who stood inside the gallery. The canvas roof provided shade from the fierce midmorning sun, though the air inside was a cloying mix of the essences of rose, sweat, and fresh-cut timber. Sunlight streamed in the gallery’s eastern side and fell on the glorious train of moiré silk. I stared at it, entranced by the way the blue fabric shifted in the dappled light like an undulant, shimmering ocean; tiny diamonds, sewn a finger’s width apart, flashed in the sun.

The noise of the crowd suddenly dulled, as if I had been submerged in water; its cheers became muted shrieks of terror, its cries of encouragement faint mortal groans. I looked out of the gallery into the ruthless sun and saw not joy upon the thousands of faces but grimaces of fear and pain.

A torrent of blood gushed out from under Margot’s glorious blue train, past the ankles of the girls who held it aloft. It swept past me, soaking my slippers and the hem of my gown, rushing out to fill the width of the gallery. I stared at the nobles who stood inside the gallery, watching. Their self-conscious grins were unchanged. They did not see the blood; they did not hear the screaming.

I looked down at the fierce red current and thought, It will stop the instant Margot says yes. It will stop the instant they are married.

I set my slippered foot down and watched it disappear beneath the dark stream. I could see the blood but not feel it: My heel struck dry cobblestone. I lifted my gaze and forced my lips to curve in a parody of a smile. I did not look down again.

I survived the long procession through the gallery and emerged into daylight and an open space that led to the platform in front of Notre-Dame. The area was cordoned off, heavily guarded, and blessedly unbloodied; Henri and his men awaited us there. Two sets of steps led up to the platform; Navarre’s group ascended the northern stairs, Margot’s the southern. Both groups met at the center of the platform, where the Cardinal de Bourbon stood waiting behind a prayer bench. A row of chairs had been placed nearby so that the wedding party could sit and watch the proceedings; we filed in front of them and sat at the Cardinal’s signal. Margot and Henri knelt at the bench, and the ceremony began.

The ritual had been stripped to the bone, and the Cardinal was efficient. He carried no breviary, but recited from memory from Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians:

“If I speak in the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I am as a ringing brass or clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and knowledge, but have not love, I am nothing… Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth.”

The full sun was brutal: Beneath swaths of damask and layers of petticoats, I melted. Perspiration trickled down my forehead; I quashed the urge to wipe it away. My eyelids fluttered as the Cardinal’s face began to shift, growing rounder, fuller, paler.

What was done out of fear must now be done out of love. Madame la Reine, these children should not be.

I shook off my dizziness and refocused my gaze until I saw the Cardinal’s features again. He was addressing Navarre.

“Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love her, and cherish her, so long as you both shall live?”

Navarre’s strong voice carried over the hushed, breathless city. “Yes.”

The Cardinal looked to my daughter. “And do you, Marguerite, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To honor and obey him, so long as you both shall live?”

The crowd waited. Margot bowed her head and answered nothing. After a torturously long pause, the Cardinal-assuming that heat or emotion had overwhelmed the bride-repeated the question.

Margot did not reply. Her lips were pressed together tightly, her face flushed from something other than the heat. Her groom resolutely fastened his gaze on the Cardinal.

“God be damned,” Charles muttered beside me. “God be damned, haven’t I endured enough?” He leaped from his seat; beside me, Edouard tensed as the King marched up to Margot. He put his hand firmly upon her jeweled crown and began to pump it up and down, forcing her to perform a parody of an affirmative nod.

Margot’s features crumpled with humiliation and fury-but the relieved Cardinal took it as an answer and pronounced the couple man and wife. The crowd’s response was thunderous. The couple rose, and the Cardinal presented them to the assembly-Henri de Bourbon, King of Navarre and Prince of France, and his wife, Marguerite de Valois, Queen of Navarre and Princess of France.

I rose to embrace my daughter and her husband. But as I stood up, daylight suddenly flickered. I looked down at my feet and saw there a dark, spreading stain. It traveled quickly until the entire platform bled crimson.

Margot had married the Huguenot king, but it was not enough.

Something prompted me to look over my shoulder and down. On the northern edge of the platform, an arm’s breadth from the halberd-bearing Swiss, was Cosimo Ruggieri.

He stood near a group of black-clad Huguenots and might well have been mistaken for one of them were it not for the red satin stripes on his black sleeves and breeches. The past thirteen years had taken their toll: His blue-black hair was streaked with silver, his shoulders markedly stooped. In the midst of the jubilant revelers, he alone did not smile. He stared somberly, intently, directly at me.

I wanted to run to him, to ask him if he, too, saw the river of blood. But I could only stare fixedly at him until Edouard hissed at me: The time had come to go into the cathedral for the proxy ceremony. While Navarre and his party waited outside, I reluctantly entered the church with the others.

When the ritual was over and we came back out onto the platform, accompanied by the deafening chorus of Notre-Dame’s five bells, I turned my searching, anxious gaze to the crowd, but Ruggieri had vanished.

A banquet followed at the Cardinal’s palace; afterward, the sated diners headed for the Louvre’s ballroom. I ate and danced and kept an anxious eye on my daughter, who had apparently resigned herself to her fate; she danced and smiled with apparent sincerity, though she scrupulously avoided meeting the admiring gaze of her husband.

I had unwisely joined in a vigorous saltarello and was returning to my chair, fan pumping madly, when Ambassador Zuñiga caught my eye and motioned me aside. He, too, had just performed the jumps and twists of the challenging dance; his face was streaked with rivulets of perspiration.

“Madame la Reine, forgive me,” he gasped. “I do not mean to dampen the joy of this celebration, but I must lodge a protest.”

I looked at him from behind my frantically gyrating fan. “What now, Don Diego?”

“It is that ill-bred boor Coligny. Go and listen to him now: He is bragging openly that he will return victorious from the Netherlands and present Charles with the captured banner of Spain. How can I listen idly to this blatant affront to my King?”

My fan stilled. “He is a traitor,” I said softly, “and he will soon pay for his crimes against our King, and yours. But not today, Don Diego. Today, we will celebrate my daughter’s wedding.”

The intrigued tilt of the ambassador’s head indicated that he could guess very well what I had not said, and that it would be to his benefit to forget our conversation.

“Thank you, Madame la Reine,” he said and kissed my hand. “In that case, I must apologize for interrupting your joyful day.”

I was tempted to go and hear Coligny’s boasts for myself but decided against it: I did not want to be seen reacting to his arrogance. I sat in my chair listening to the music for the rest of the evening, until most of the guests had left.

Near the end of the revels, an exhausted Navarre approached me. “Tante Catherine,” he asked, “might I have a private word?”

“Of course.” I patted the empty chair beside me. “You are my son now.”

He sat down and handed me a small velvet box and a letter. “These are from my mother. She asked me to give them to you after the wedding.”

I took them from him. The sealed letter was addressed to me in Jeanne’s careful hand; I knew it well, from all the many lists of demands we had shared with each other during the marriage negotiations.

“I will read this later, in private,” I said and slipped it inside my sleeve.

I opened the dusty little box. Nestled inside, against white silk that had yellowed with age, was a brooch made from a large, perfect emerald surrounded by clusters of diamonds.

“This is exquisite,” I murmured. “And it must be worth a small fortune. But I never saw your mother wear it.”

“Nor did I,” he admitted. “I don’t know how she came by it, but she wanted you to have it. Her gentlewoman told me she wrote the letter on her deathbed.”

“Thank you,” I said, touched, and kissed him upon the cheek. He flushed with charming shyness; I took advantage of the moment to speak frankly.

“So,” I said, closing the box, “will you be going with the Admiral to the Netherlands after the celebrations?”

His eyes widened before he caught hold of himself and frowned. “No,” he said firmly. “I must apologize for him, Madame la Reine. He has overstepped his bounds. I have made my opinion known to him, yet he ignores me.”

“What would that opinion be?” I asked.

Henri’s expression hardened. “It is mad to bait Spain; it can bring only disaster. We are just recovering from years of war. Now is the time to recover and rebuild, not tear down.”

“Well put,” I said, though I did not believe he had meant any of it.

The smiling Cardinal de Bourbon, with Margot and Charles in tow, approached us and leaned down to speak into my ear.

“The time has come, Madame la Reine.”

I led Margot upstairs to her own chamber, outfitted as a bridal suite, with satin indigo sheets and pale blue velvet hangings. With my ladies, I dutifully scattered handfuls of walnuts over the antechamber floor. Then I helped my daughter undress and settle beneath the silk sheets. As she pulled the top sheet over her breasts, tears slid down the sides of her face. I embraced her tightly.

“My darling,” I whispered, “you will be happy, and this marriage will bring us peace.”

She was too overcome with emotion to answer. I went out to the antechamber to find the Cardinal and Edouard looking troubled.

“His Majesty refuses to come witness the consummation,” Edouard said irritably. “He insists I do so in his stead.”

The Cardinal was shaking his head. “This is unheard of,” he said. “The King must sign the contract as a witness, to verify that the act took place.”

“And he will,” I told the Cardinal and turned to Edouard. “Tell him that he must come!”

“I did, Maman,” Edouard said. “He refuses to listen.”

I let go a sound of pure exasperation. “Where is he?”

“In his bedchamber. I tell you, he will not come,” Edouard said.

I was already out the door. I found His Majesty huddled in his bed with the sheet pulled up, fully dressed in his wedding garb.

“Get up, Charles,” I said.

“I won’t do it,” he whined. “You don’t understand, Maman. No one understands me… no one, except Margot. And now this-this Huguenot bastard means to take her from me.”

“Don’t be a child,” I said. “Get up. The Cardinal is waiting.”

Tears came to his eyes. “Everyone is trying to take her away from me. Edouard, Henri… and now you. Don’t you see, Maman? I love her…”

I slapped him so hard that his skull struck the headboard.

“How dare you!” he snarled. “How dare you touch the person of the King!”

I moved to strike him again, but he raised an arm defensively.

The words tumbled out of me. “We all must do things we despise, my son-but I would remind you that your sister is not your wife. She belongs to another man-rightly so-and you will now behave as a good brother ought, and do what tradition demands.”

A spasm of grief contorted Charles’s face; he let go a wracking sob. “I want to die,” he gasped. “No one else can abide me… no one else is kind to me, because I am so wretched. What will I do without her?”

“Your Majesty,” I said, “you speak as though she is lost forever. You forget that she is, even now, under your roof-and she will likely remain here for years to come. Now that Henri’s mother is dead, he will spend little time in Navarre.”

Charles looked up at me, his face damp; mucus had collected on his dark mustache. “You are not lying to me?”

“I am not lying,” I said, without trying to hide my irritation. “Charles, if you ever speak of her again as though she were anything more than your sister… I will do worse than strike you. Now get up, and perform the duty all French kings have performed before you.”

In the end, he came with me to the antechamber and went, trembling, to sit beside the Cardinal while Henri and his bride performed the nuptial act. The Cardinal later confessed to me that Charles had spent the entire time with his hands over his eyes.

When the King emerged from Margot’s bedchamber, he looked down at me with red, swollen eyes. “By God, I will kill him,” he whispered. “I will kill him, too…”

Three days of nonstop festivities followed-although the more vigorous entertainments, including the joust, were canceled after too many of the participants fainted in the merciless heat. On the last day, the twenty-first, Edouard reported to me that he had witnessed a confrontation between Coligny and the King outside the tennis gallery. Coligny had demanded an audience; Charles had stalled him, saying, “Give me a few more days of celebration, mon père-I cannot think with all these parties going on.”

“If you will not see me sooner, then I shall be obliged to leave Paris,” Coligny reportedly responded. “And if I do, you will find yourself embroiled in a civil war rather than a foreign one.”

The comment prompted Edouard, as Lieutenant General, to station troops at strategic points around the city, ostensibly to keep the peace between the Guises and Coligny. It also worried me that our victim might quit the city too soon-but the Admiral had responded with an emphatic affirmative when I asked him later that day whether he would attend the Council meeting on the following morning. Poor fool; he actually believed he still could sway us.

Late in the evening, against the backdrop of distant music and laughter coming from the final masked ball, Edouard and I met with Marshal Tavannes, whom we had entrusted with the news of the coming assassination, as well as Anna d’Este, her husband, and her son the Duke of Guise. Anna’s husband, the Duke of Nemours, reported that the arquebusier, Maurevert, had already arrived on the rue de Béthizy property and was busily determining which location gave him best access the street.

The conspirators’ expressions displayed grim exhilaration and the occasional pang of conscience. I felt nothing, only the sense that everything around me-the conversation, the faces, the music and voices of the gay revelers in the distant ballroom-was unreal.

That night I lay abed in a pool of sweat and struggled to relax my limbs, my quickened breath, my curiously throbbing heart. A sickness settled over me, the same burning chill I had often experienced during pregnancy just before a bout of retching. This time, I could not expel what troubled me; this time, I was not giving birth to life.

I did not dream because I did not sleep. I did not sleep because I feared the dreams that had dogged me for so long. I stared up into the darkness, praying that the stifling air above me would not suddenly transform itself into blood and spill down on me like mortal rain, drowning me in my bed.

I wish now that it had.

Forty-three

Friday, August twenty-second-the day the government resumed its business-dawned the hottest of them all. There had been no rain since the previous Sunday; in the streets, carriage wheels and horses’ hooves kicked up clouds of dust. The air was heavy with unspent moisture: I traded my soggy nightgown for a chemise and petticoats that immediately clung to my shining, damp skin.

Edouard and I had agreed that the best course of action on that fateful day was to make as many public appearances as possible, so that it was clear we royals were consumed by far happier things than an assassination. I went to early Mass at the nearby cathedral of Saint-Germain-l’Auxerrois with Anjou and Margot-who was exhausted but remarkably cheerful-as well as all the Catholic members of the wedding party.

Edouard and I returned for the Privy Council meeting scheduled for nine o’clock; we arrived early, and the Duke of Anjou took the King’s place at the head of the long oval table. I sat beside him. I had already warned His Majesty that Coligny would be present and would again press Charles to support his Netherlands war, more vehemently now that he realized he was in danger of losing the King’s tacit blessing. As a result, Charles decided to linger cowardly in his bed that morning and left the running of the meeting to his brother.

Coligny arrived at the stroke of nine, just after the white-haired Duke of Montpensier, and before the dashing young Gonzaga, the Duke of Nevers, and the aging soldier Marshal Cossé. Last to enter was the bald, near-toothless Marshal Tavannes, whose years of service had earned him the right to keep royals waiting.

I studied Coligny, knowing this would be the last time I should see him. His once sun-browned skin had faded after his prolonged absence from the battlefield, and he had gained a bit of weight on the Court’s fine fare. Despite his talent for duplicity, he had been unable to fully mask his disappointment at the King’s absence. I felt no anxiety at the sight of him, only a curious relief at the knowledge that he would be dead on the morrow. If I hated him, it was only as a mother might hate a viper that threatened her children; there was no personal animosity, only a desire to protect my own.

After giving the assembled a chance to share complaints about the abysmal heat, the Duke of Anjou called the meeting to order. Coligny asked to present his argument for war in the Low Countries again. Just beyond our northern border, he claimed, fresh atrocities were being committed in Flanders. Given the location, we could deploy troops quickly there, and the victory would give us the needed momentum to move farther, into the Netherlands.

Edouard listened to his request with exquisite composure, then said, “The matter of war with Spain has already been discussed, and a vote taken. There is no need to revisit the issue. Are my fellow councillors agreed?”

We were.

Fury flickered brightly in Coligny’s eyes and was replaced by hard determination. He had prepared for this probability; his decision had already been made. The meeting continued another two hours. During that time, the Admiral sat with his fist against his chin and stared out the window as he plotted war. Upon adjournment, he left quickly, without a word.

Afterward, the Duke of Anjou and I made our way to a public lunch. The shutters had been opened and the curtains drawn in order to light the vast, high-ceilinged chamber. Dust hung in the air and glittered in shafts of harsh sunlight.

Edouard and I sat at one end of the long dining table. Guards hovered discreetly at intervals between us and the standing crowd of nobles. While Edouard and I were served the first course, an octet performed a pair of songs that spun witty tales of love peppered with misunderstandings, double entendres, and jokes, all of which led to happy endings. The crowd applauded them enthusiastically.

As the music died, cathedral bells throughout the city marked the time: eleven in the morning, the hour of Coligny’s death. In the Guises’ château on the rue de Béthizy, Maurevert was lifting his arquebus and taking careful aim.

I looked to my son. As we directed our attention to our bowls, Edouard seemed lighthearted and at ease. If Lorenzo, the wise-eyed boy from the mural on the Medici chapel walls, could have seen us, I wondered, would he have approved?

We began our meal in silence. I was keenly aware of every sight, sound, touch: of the clang of my spoon against the porcelain bowl, of its handle, quickly heated in my hand, of the ripples in the broth when the edge of the spoon broke its surface. Edouard’s black eyes were very bright, his hands steady.

“I should like to take Henri to the château at Blois,” I said languidly. “It would be much cooler there than in the city. I hope to go as soon as business allows.”

“An excellent idea,” my son replied. “I would enjoy taking Henri on the hunt.”

We soon finished the first course. Given the weather, I had little appetite and sent it back to the kitchen half-eaten. The second course-one of my favorites, eels in red wine-was delivered piping hot, and the steam from it prompted me to draw back in my chair and wave my fan. As it cooled, Edouard and I exchanged a few more inanities.

My Edouard, I thought. My precious eyes… I could not bear this without you.

How could Ruggieri have been such a monster? How could he ever have suggested that I harm my beloved child?

A plate of cold pickled beef had just been set before me when I saw the Duke of Anjou glance up sharply; I followed his gaze.

Marshal Tavannes was moving urgently through the crowd of waiting nobles. Of all those assembled, he alone did not smile, but was discreet enough to contain his shock so as to avoid catching the attention of those around him. I caught sight of his eyes-guarded, intense-and I knew.

I forced myself to smile as he neared. He could not bring himself to respond in kind but bowed and asked permission to approach.

He came to me first and leaned down to speak in my ear, so quietly that even Edouard could not hear him.

Admiral Coligny had been shot in the arm. His men-some of them guards Edouard had given him upon his arrival at Court-had carried him to the safety of his lodgings at the Hôtel de Béthizy.

The smile was still on my lips, frozen there by shock. “Is the wound fatal?” I whispered to Tavannes.

“They think not, Madame la Reine.”

“Who else knows?”

“The Admiral sent two of his captains to inform the King immediately. I understand that Henri of Navarre is speaking to the King this very moment.”

Tavannes said more, surely, but his words were muffled by an insistent, growing drumming in my ears, like that made by the hooves of approaching horses. I put a hand upon my son’s forearm.

“Edouard,” I said softly. I rose and indicated that I wished Tavannes to accompany us.

As we walked sedately through the great reception hall, nobles parted to let us pass. I lifted my skirts and did not look down; I did not have to. This time, I could feel the blood.

Here is the story, pieced together from Marshal Tavannes’s report, as well as those of witnesses:

Immediately after the Council meeting, Admiral Coligny went in search of the King. To his chagrin, Charles was in the tennis gallery, playing a set with Coligny’s brother-in-law, Teligny and-as luck would have it-the young Duke of Guise. Charles was embarrassed; Coligny, put out, since the King had promised to hear Coligny out as soon as the wedding celebrations were over. The Admiral demanded a private audience on the spot; when the King refused, Coligny grew outraged and strode off.

He left by the Louvre’s guarded northern gate and made his way to the rue de Béthizy. Following him were four Huguenot captains and ten Scottish guards. As he neared the property owned by the Guises, he took from his pocket a pair of spectacles and a letter written by his young wife, who had recently given birth. He was reading it when he walked into the assassin’s sights. At that instant, he stopped in his tracks upon realizing that an inner binding in one of his shoes had come loose.

Unaware of the binding, Maurevert fired.

Simultaneously, the Admiral bent down to inspect his shoe.

The ball tore through Coligny’s left arm and very nearly severed his right index finger, which hung, dangling, from a flap of flesh. The Admiral promptly fainted.

His men closed ranks around him. All of them had heard the shot and agreed it came from the nearby property owned by the Guises. Three of them forced their way inside and discovered the smoking arquebus. By then, Maurevert had escaped.

I was prepared to deal with the outcry following Coligny’s assassination, but I had never considered the possibility that he might survive the attempt.

Edouard and I entered Charles’s antechamber to discover a dozen outraged Huguenots, clustered so tightly together that I could not at first see the King. At the sound of our step, the black-clad nobles turned and, upon seeing us, glared in disapproval even as they grudgingly made way to reveal Charles sitting at his desk, with Henri and Condé standing beside him.

At the sight of us, Condé recoiled; Navarre was so preoccupied with the King that he appeared not to notice our arrival. Charles huddled in the chair, clutching his skull. Tears of rage ran down his cheeks, flushed scarlet after his vigorous tennis game.

“Leave me!” he howled. “Leave me, I cannot think! Why does God torment me so?” He began to beat his forehead against the surface of his desk.

Navarre glanced up and caught my gaze. He had too much self-possession to recoil as Condé had, but I saw mistrust and veiled fury in his eyes.

“Madame la Reine,” he said, with distant formality. “Monsieur le Duc. You must help us. Admiral Coligny has been shot, and His Majesty has lost himself. But justice must be done! Now, before violence erupts!”

“I am lost,” Charles agreed with a groan. “Too much trouble…” He squeezed his eyes shut and began to rock slowly back and forth in the chair. “I can bear no more!”

“It is only the heat,” I said protectively. “The heat and the terrible shock.” I flicked open my fan and directed the breeze onto his face. “Dear Charles,” I said, “you must listen to me.”

His eyes snapped open; he looked up at me with utter desperation.

“Why do they torment me?” he moaned. “Please make them stop, Maman. Make them go away and die!”

“I can make it stop,” I soothed, “if you will help Admiral Coligny.”

“ “But what must be done?”

“You must denounce the criminal who has committed this heinous act,” I said, glad to have Huguenot witnesses, “and make it clear that the Crown will not rest until he is brought to justice. There must be a full investigation.”

Edouard sidled closer to us. “Coligny’s surroundings must be secured,” he said briskly. “I will clear all Catholics from the neighborhood surrounding the rue de Béthizy, to reduce the risk to the Admiral and his men. And I will send fifty of my best arquebusiers to surround the Admiral’s hotel.”

“Yes,” Charles said, with a gusting sigh of relief, though his eyes were still wild. “Yes, see that it is done.”

“Is there anything else, Sire?” I asked gently.

“Yes.” Charles put his heels on the edge of the chair, knees bent, arms wrapped about his shins, and slowly rocked. “Doctor Paré…” The surgeon who had tried, and failed, to save my husband’s life now served as the King’s personal physician. “Send Paré to the Hôtel de Béthizy.”

“It is done,” I said.

Charles suddenly stilled and looked up at me. “I must see the Admiral, and beg his forgiveness for failing to protect him. I must let him know that I have not deserted him. Let us go now, Maman.”

“I would ask only one thing, Your Majesty,” I said.

He scowled up at me.

“Permit the Duke of Anjou and me to accompany you.”

It was of course too soon to hurry to Coligny’s side; Doctor Paré had yet to perform surgery on the wound. But by midafternoon, a party-Navarre, Condé, ten bodyguards, Anjou, the King, and I-had assembled near the Louvre’s northern gate. I also invited old Tavannes, who had heartily approved the assassination plot, yet possessed the nerve to accompany me and feign sympathy for Coligny in the midst of a crowd of Huguenots. Navarre was politely distant, Condé still too angry to say a word to us.

I had suggested that we make the short walk to Coligny’s surroundings, as it would be good for the people to see our concern for the Admiral. In addition to Navarre’s guards, our group was accompanied by a dozen Swiss soldiers to protect the King.

After two guards lifted the thick iron bar from the latch, a trio of grooms swung open the heavy gate. The soldiers surrounding the palace parted for us as we headed into the street.

We soon left the Louvre behind and passed on to the overheated cobblestones of the rue de Béthizy, where scattered flocks of black-clad pedestrians caught sight of us and coalesced into a single wave, which surged toward us. Tavannes and Edouard instinctively flanked me, while Condé and Navarre did the same for the King.

“There goes the Italian woman!” a man shouted, no more than five paces away. “She greets her friends in Florentine fashion: with a smile on her face and a dagger in her hand!”

The mob roared in affirmation. A jumble of black linen and pale flesh loomed abruptly. On my left, old Marshal Tavannes staggered; his shoulder struck mine and threw me off balance, against Edouard. The Swiss troops seized their halberds and leveled the shining blades at the onrush of angry spectators.

“Do not harm them! Let them be!” I shouted; a fatal incident could easily provoke a full-scale riot.

The King, Navarre, and Condé paused to look over their shoulders at us: The crowd had not touched them.

“Let them pass!” Navarre shouted, and the black swarm receded.

We began to move again, at a quickened pace, and arrived at the Hôtel de Béthizy without further trouble, though the crowd dogged us the entire way, their murmured curses forming a single ominous rumble.

The outer perimeter of the hotel was patrolled by more than fifty restless men in black-some of them hard-bitten troops with unshaven faces, others well-groomed nobles. All of them greeted Navarre with courteous bows but had only sullen, stony glances for the Duke of Anjou and me. Ambassador Zuñiga had been right: They were all armed for war, some with long swords, others with arquebuses. The four men standing watch on the front steps sweated beneath heavy chest armor. Navarre ascended the steps alone and spoke to them; they moved aside to let us pass.

Inside, a score of guards and noblemen choked a sunny, stuffy vestibule, some weeping, others ranting, all outraged. At the overpowering smell of unwashed flesh and of sausage scorched upon a nearby cookstove, I pressed my scented kerchief to my nose. The Huguenots reacted to Navarre with expressions of hope, gratitude, and respect; at the sight of Anjou and me, their faces turned away, lips twisted with disgust, as if they had just looked on something vomitous.

We proceeded up the creaking wooden stairs to the second floor, the whole of which served as the Admiral’s vast, open bedchamber. Although the room was larger than my own bedchamber in the old, crumbling Louvre, its low ceiling gave the impression of more cramped quarters; the effect was enhanced by some fifty men who had congregated around their wounded leader’s bedside.

Navarre led the way. His fellows parted willingly for him, with murmurs of gratitude, yet were it not for Navarre’s warning gaze, they would have hissed at me. We made our way to Coligny, in a bed of ornately carved cherrywood.

The Admiral was markedly pale as he lay propped up by pillows. His right hand, cradled carefully in his lap, was heavily swathed in bandages; Doctor Paré had been obliged to cut away the dangling index finger while the patient was fully conscious, and Coligny was exhausted from pain and blood loss. His blond hair, dark with sweat, clung to his scalp; his eyes, narrowed with misery, did not brighten as we approached. Paré stood at the head of the bed, white-haired and leonine, his yellowed gaze protective. The windows had been shut for fear a breeze might bring a chill and hasten infection; the room was stifling. I could smell the blood.

“Your Majesty,” the Admiral murmured at the sight of Navarre; when Charles stepped forward, Coligny repeated the phrase.

“My father,” Navarre said softly and bent down to kiss the top of the Admiral’s head. “I have not ceased praying since I heard the news. Is the pain bearable? Is there anything the doctors can do to ease it?”

“It is not so bad,” Coligny whispered, but his grey lips trembled. I had wanted only to kill him; I had not meant for him to suffer.

“I have sent fifty bodyguards to you,” Navarre said, “so that you will be safe and can spare your own men to find and punish whoever has done this.”

“Mon père!” Charles exclaimed. “May God himself strike me dead if I do not find the bastard who has done this to you, and see him drawn and quartered! Forgive me! If I had only listened to you this morning, this would not have happened…” He began to sob.

Coligny held out his left hand, the fingers spread and trembling; Charles clasped it.

“There is nothing to forgive,” the Admiral whispered. “It is God’s will.” Relishing his role as martyr, he directed a feeble, beatific smile at my son.

“I swear to you, mon père,” the King gasped, “I will not rest until you are avenged.”

We have lost him, I thought as I stared at Charles; it had all turned upside down. Had Coligny been killed, the King would have grieved but ultimately accepted the death. Wounded, Coligny could play upon the King’s sympathy; the situation had grown more dangerous than ever.

“My heart breaks to see you suffer, Admiral,” I said loudly as I stepped closer to the bedside. “His Majesty is right-a full investigation will be launched and the perpetrator brought to justice. I, too, have been praying all morning for your protection and recovery.”

Coligny’s face lolled toward mine. “Have you?” he whispered.

Though dulled by pain, his gaze bore through me. He knew, I realized. He knew and was determined to exact revenge, but I kept my head high and did not flinch beneath his scrutiny.

Edouard sidled closer to the bed. “The perpetrator will be found quickly,” he said. “I, too, have sent men to help you-fifty of my finest arquebusiers. The street has been cleared of Catholics; you are surrounded by friends. Already we have launched our inquiry: As you know, the shot was fired from a property owned by the Guise family. We are attempting to locate the Duke for questioning.”

Charles unclenched the Admiral’s hand. “Guise? Impossible! I was playing tennis with him this morning.”

“We must not rush to conclusions,” Edouard replied calmly, “but we must examine all the possibilities.”

“Admiral,” I asked, “what of your hand?”

“Ah,” he said. “The finger… I wish the doctor’s scissors had been sharper. It took three attempts, but the finger is gone.” He paused as Charles, Edouard, and I groaned at the thought. “Forgive me, but I must request permission to speak to His Majesty in private.”

Coligny, damn him, knew that we had no choice. I turned to Charles, floundering about for the right words to make him refuse the Admiral without revealing my guilt. There were none.

Charles waved dismissively at Edouard, at me. “I’ll call for you when we are done.”

I could do nothing save take Tavannes’s proffered arm and, with Edouard flanking me on the other side, turn my back to Coligny.

We took three steps away from the bed and were obliged to stop. A giant with an arquebus slung by a strap over his shoulder stepped into my path and stared down at me, his tiny eyes full of loathing.

“Make way for Her Majesty,” Tavannes snapped.

When the giant did not yield, the old Marshal shoved him. Edouard immediately filled the gap, and we managed to push our way forward a few more steps-men in wrinkled black linen encircled us and began to close in. They did not genuflect to us royals; their glares revealed hatred, and their hands rested upon the hilts of their swords.

One of them-a haggard man of thirty-approached us. He, too, had his hand upon the hilt of his long sword, and as he neared, Edouard tensed beside me. I touched the Dauphin’s arm in warning, lest he draw out a hidden dagger: We were outmanned and would quickly lose any fight.

The Huguenot’s face was thin and sharp as a hatchet; when he spoke, his red chin beard wagged.

“There will be Hell to pay for what you have done,” he hissed. His breath was so fetid, I turned from it.

Someone behind him added, “God punishes murders.”

A different man, with a goiter the size of a tennis ball on his neck, stepped forward to stand beside the red-bearded soldier. “We don’t need God.” His eyes were blue, like Coligny’s, and just as mad. “We will strike them down.”

He swung an arquebus from his shoulder and nestled the stock against his chest. He took a step closer and touched the elbow of my sleeve with the barrel.

Now they will kill us, I thought. I was furious with myself for not realizing how dangerous the situation had become.

“Mannerless bastard!” Edouard shouted. “Touch the Queen’s person again, and I will kill you!”

“Do you want war?” the red-bearded soldier hissed. “We will give you war!”

The owner of the arquebus cried out, “You lure us to your Catholic city, so you can slaughter us like swine! But we will kill you first!”

“I married my daughter to one of your own,” I countered haughtily. “How dare you suggest that we would harm the Admiral! The King loves him as a father!”

My voice must have carried. I heard Navarre’s shout; the men dropped their hostile gazes to the floor and withdrew as he hurried to my side.

“Madame la Reine,” he asked, with disturbing formality, “did they harm you?”

Edouard pointed. “He touched her with the barrel of his arquebus!”

Navarre turned to the implicated man and drew his arm back to slap him; I caught his upraised arm.

“Don’t punish him,” I said. “Feelings are running high enough.” I looked back in Coligny’s direction. “Please,” I said to Navarre, “will you escort me back to the Admiral?”

When I arrived, Charles was sitting on the edge of the bed, his jaw set, his brows knit in a formidable frown. He looked up at me, his eyes narrowed with mistrust.

“Your Majesty,” I said softly, “Admiral Coligny is surely exhausted. We must let him rest.”

Charles was ready to contradict me, but Doctor Paré, who had been standing at the head of the bed, spoke up suddenly.

“Yes,” he said. He caught my gaze and immediately looked away, as if afraid his own might be too revealing. “It is difficult enough for him, with all his men here. It would be best, Your Majesty, if he were able to be quiet for a time.”

“Very well,” Charles said, with sullen reluctance, then turned to Coligny. “But I shall return soon, mon père. God keep you in the interim. You have all my prayers and my love.”

“As you have mine,” I said to the Admiral.

Coligny gazed up at me. He was trembling, his brow beaded with sweat, but I saw triumph in his eyes.

Given the hostility in the streets, Edouard sent one of our guards to fetch a carriage. Navarre and Condé remained at the Hôtel de Béthizy, while the King, Anjou, Tavannes, and I rode back to the Louvre at a slow pace, our carriage surrounded by the guards who had accompanied us on our walk to Coligny’s lodgings.

Charles remained darkly silent, refusing to look at his brother or me, though we tried several times to draw him into our conversation.

Exasperated, I finally demanded, “What, precisely, did Admiral Coligny say to you that has upset you so?”

He lowered his face, taut with rage. “Only that I cannot trust either of you. Only that you wish to subvert my will, to use me as it suits your purposes.”

Edouard flared. “Have you considered, my brother, that he says such things because he cannot be trusted? Because he means to subvert your will, by using you to further his insane war? He speaks ill of us because he knows we want to protect you from his cold-blooded manipulation.”

“Enough!” Charles shouted. “Enough lies, lies, lies!” He clapped his hands over his ears.

By then we were slowing on our approach to the palace. Suddenly, one of the horses shrieked; I heard the drivers’ curses, followed by a furious, deafening clatter of hail on the carriage walls and roof.

Outside the window, a hundred black-clad protesters stood at the northern gate, some pelting rocks at us, others waving swords and screaming at the Swiss soldiers who now stood, two men deep and armed with arquebuses, around the Louvre’s walls. A fresh contingent of Swiss had marched into the street to form a human barricade. Just beyond them, a few dozen peasants-ragged, starving men with pitchforks, shovels, stones-had gathered.

Death to heretics! the distant peasants screamed, while the Huguenots at the gate cried out:

Murderers! Assassins!

We are striking back, and will kill!

Another volley of rocks struck the carriage; one sailed in through the window like a shot and buried itself in the padded seat beside Charles, abruptly checking his anger.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

“So it begins,” I said, staring out at the raging crowds, remembering Ruggieri’s final words to me.

It may already be too late.

Forty-four

Under a hail of projectiles-stones, bricks, rotting garbage-our carriage dashed inside the palace gates, thanks to the guards who held back the onrush of angry Huguenots. We were met immediately by one of Edouard’s commanders, who reported that “disturbances” had erupted in several neighborhoods, provoked not only by outraged Huguenots but by fearful Catholics convinced that they must rid themselves of a growing threat. Edouard responded by deploying more troops to key locations throughout the city, ostensibly to keep peace.

I was shaking when I returned to my apartments but insisted on going down that evening for a public supper an hour after the sun had set. The Duke of Anjou was preoccupied with his commanders, and Charles so distraught he took to his bed; Margot had joined her husband at Coligny’s bedside. I went to dine alone.

It was a tense affair. In light of the Admiral’s misfortune, no entertainment was offered that evening; the dozen nobles who had gathered were intense, brooding, silent. In the absence of conversation, the clatter of the spoon and knife, the clink of the glass, echoed in the still chamber. I forced myself to chew, to swallow, to appear as though I enjoyed a meal grown bitter.

As I stared down hopelessly at a pair of freshly delivered roasted doves, a shout shattered the silence.

“Madame la Reine!”

A noble I had often seen at Court but whose name I could not recall-he was a baron, I believe, and a Huguenot-stood three arms’ lengths away from my table. My solitary guard had caught his elbow, but the baron-a giant, tall and broad as an oak, with a great long face framed by a streaming cloud of white hair-would not be moved. He did not genuflect; he did not bow. His large yellow teeth were bared, but not in a smile. He shouted my name as though it were an accusation.

“We will not rest, do you understand?” His face was very red against his white hair. “We will not rest until the murderers are brought to justice. We will not rest until they hang!”

My guard tried vainly to push him back. “Show the Queen respect, you cur!”

“I do not bow,” the baron announced, “to a bloodstained Crown! Enjoy your supper while you can, Madame!”

He shook off the guard’s grip at last and, turning his back rudely to me, stalked out of the dining chamber. No one followed him; no one rushed to my defense or offered apologies. The few nobles standing in attendance murmured among themselves, then turned their eyes to me.

I stared down at the little corpses on my plate and pushed them away. I rose and left the chamber slowly, regally, on unsteady legs.

Instinctively I went in search of Edouard. He was just leaving the war room, on the ground floor beneath the King’s apartments, after a meeting with Marshals Tavannes and Cossé, and the city’s Provost of Marchands. As my son crossed the threshold, our gazes met; his expression was as mine must have been-stricken-and I knew at that instant that we had finally arrived at the same conclusion.

He stopped in the doorway and, when I approached, took my hand and guided me inside the chamber, then closed the door softly behind us. The lamp had been snuffed; he gestured in the darkness for me to take a chair at the long conference table. I sat and watched as he struck the match and held it to the wick, which caught with a flare.

“It is worse than I thought,” I said huskily. “I have been called a murderess to my face, here, in the palace. We aren’t safe, Edouard.”

“Maman,” he said. He was trying to gather himself, to voice difficult words. “Maman…”

In the end, he could not utter them but set a piece of paper in my hands-a missive penned in an unfamiliar masculine script.

Strike at dawn Monday, it began, when Notre-Dame first marks the hour. We will strike inside the palace at the same instant, sparing Charles-as a public abdication would serve us-but not his mother and brother, as they are a danger to-

I let go a soft cry and pressed my fingertips to my lips. The letter fluttered to the table and stayed there. I turned my face from it; I wanted suddenly to retch.

Edouard brought his face close to mine. “Written by Navarre, Maman, to his commander in the field. The provost intercepted it at the city gate. Our scouts say that five thousand Huguenots are on the march toward Paris and will encamp outside her city walls on Sunday night.”

“No,” I said and closed my eyes.

He said nothing more, only hovered next me; like the lamp, his unseen face emanated warmth. In the room’s heat, the smell of orange blossoms grew suffocating. Reason abandoned me. I had loved Navarre since his birth, and trusted him as I would a son; now, he had betrayed me. Whose blood had he seen in his visions? Had it been my children’s, and my own?

I opened my eyes to stare down at my hands, at the ring infused with the power of the Gorgon’s Head. The star Algol, which the Arabs call ra’s al-Ghul, the Demon’s Head, and the Chinese call the Piled-Up Corpses.

Two hours before dawn on the twenty-fourth of August, the star Algol will rise in the sign of Taurus… and precisely oppose warlike Mars… France has never been in greater danger; nor have you.

This was Friday night, the twenty-second.

I thought of the huge entourage Navarre had brought with him to the wedding-most of them housed here, at the Louvre. Military commanders, captains, generals, all of his former comrades-in-arms-three hundred men.

“I welcomed him into my home,” I whispered, “and he brought his army with him, in open daylight. Coligny may truly want his war in the Spanish Netherlands, but Navarre sent him here only to distract us. They are lying in wait for us. They mean to kill us in our beds.”

“We must stop them,” my son said softly.

I looked up at him. Edouard’s eyes, infinitely black, glittered in the lamplight. I had worked so hard for peace, not knowing that we were already at war.

“We must strike first,” I said.

I spent the next few hours with Edouard in the Council chamber, planning the attack. I recruited him to send a discreet messenger to the young Duke of Guise, directing him to gather men for an attack on Coligny’s lodgings at the Hôtel de Béthizy. Coligny must be assassinated, and every one of his commanders killed. With my guidance, Edouard wrote the secret orders for the Swiss troops who protected the palace and the Scots who guarded the King: At the same instant that Guise moved against Coligny, our soldiers would attack the Huguenots sleeping at the Louvre.

To avoid mass slaughter, Edouard and I wrote down the names of those fated to die, all of them military commanders or strategists. I wanted no revenge, only the swift, if ruthless, execution of those who could bring war. With their leaders gone, the Huguenots would be crippled, unable to threaten the Crown or the city.

It was all to begin before dawn’s light on Sunday, the twenty-fourth of August, when Saint-Germain’s cathedral bell struck the third hour after midnight-one hour before the demon star, Algol, moved into precise opposition to warlike Mars.

When the list of the victims had been written, I looked somberly up at Edouard. “We must tell Charles,” I said. Without the king’s signature upon such a gruesome order, the guards would not obey it; and once the killing began, it would no longer be secret.

Edouard nodded. “It will be safer for him. We will have to reconcile him to our viewpoint.”

“But not tonight,” I said, sighing, and fell silent as Saint-Germain’s bell signaled midnight and the first seconds of the Eve of Saint Bartholomew.

We parted then. Both of us were exhausted by the strain and retired to our separate apartments.

I did not dream that night; my long nightmare had grown waking now. I abandoned my bed and pulled a chair to the window to stare out at the brooding darkness and listen to the occasional faint shouts of angry men in Paris streets. I thought of Aunt Clarice’s strength in those awful hours before we escaped the Palazzo Medici; I thought of Ruggieri’s cruel words during our final conversation, and my response:

The impact of one child upon the future was, I thought, safe, but three…

What are you saying? That I should blame my sons? That I should lift my hand against them?

The veil will tear, Nostradamus had whispered, and blood be loosed…

I answered them silently with Clarice’s words. Sometimes, to protect one’s own blood, it is necessary to let the blood of others. The House of Valois must survive at all costs.

I had made my choice; I would not sacrifice my own.

Outside the Louvre’s gates, the shouting began in earnest at sunrise and grew steadily in volume throughout the day. As soon as it was light, I dressed and went to find Edouard. He was in the Council room with Marshals Tavannes and Cossé, commanders of the Paris militia, and the city provost; the guards at the door insisted they were not to be disturbed. I left word for the Duke of Anjou to come to my chambers after his meeting and went to my cabinet to write a message to Anna d’Este about the specifics of our plan. I did not dare write her son the Duke of Guise directly but instead trusted Anna to relay the information to him; she would no doubt be delighted to tell her son that he had been chosen to lead the strike against Coligny. I instructed her to send his confirmation as soon as possible.

Edouard arrived an hour later in my antechamber looking haggard. He had not slept at all either but had roused Tavannes and Cossé and read them Navarre’s letter. Both men heartily approved of our decision to strike first. At dawn, Edouard was visited by the provost and militia commanders, who revealed that street fighting had increased. Gangs of armed Huguenots were roving the city, alarming citizens. Merchants had boarded up their shops, innkeepers their taverns. Members of the militia were quietly distributing arms to Catholics eager to protect themselves from the growing threat.

We agreed that Charles should be told that evening, after supper. The King was fond of crusty old Tavannes and, of all our confidants, trusted him best; I insisted that Tavannes be the one to tell Charles the truth. Once he had time to recover from the shock, Edouard and I would appear with the fateful royal order and its list of victims, for the King’s signature.

At midday, when Navarre and his cousin Condé returned from their vigil at Coligny’s bedside, a scuffle broke out between his Huguenot bodyguards and the King’s Scotsmen, fueled by incendiary comments on both sides. I did not witness the fighting, which quickly broke up-though not before one of Charles’s senior guards lost an ear.

I saw Charles briefly after lunch. His conversation with Navarre and Condé had left him elated; he revealed eagerly that Doctor Paré was very pleased with the patient’s progress. Coligny’s wound showed no signs of infection and was already beginning to heal.

“As soon as he is well enough,” Charles said cheerfully, “I will move him to the Louvre and care for him myself.” His features suddenly went cold with anger. “Did they tell you, Maman, that they found the man who led the assassin onto the Guise’s property? He has confessed that the shooter was Maurevert. It’s only a matter of time before we apprehend him.

“But it was Guise after all who ordered the killing-what nerve, playing tennis with me that very morning and smiling at the Admiral!”

I shook my head and feigned shock but said nothing.

By late afternoon, my nerves were utterly frayed. For appearances’ sake, Edouard and I were required to separate and attend to our usual business-he to discuss the matter of military pensions with his advisers and treasurers, I to hear petitions and, afterward, to take Margot to my chambers for an hour of embroidery. Despite the palpable tension at the Louvre, my daughter was obliviously cheerful. At my mild statement that she appeared in good spirits, Margot blushed and smiled primly.

“Henri is very kind,” she said. “You were right, Maman-it is not so terrible after all.”

Had we been speaking about any other man, my smile would have been genuine. I waited until the subject shifted, then put my hand upon my daughter’s arm.

“I’m troubled,” I said, “by the violence in the streets. Ever since the Admiral was shot, I worry that something else terrible will happen. It might be wise…” I paused. “Perhaps it would be better, Margot, if you slept in your own room tonight.”

She looked up from her embroidery with a start. “You don’t really think Henri is in danger, do you?”

I looked away quickly, casting about for words that warned but did not frighten. “Not that anyone is in danger, but that we should be cautious. Perhaps you heard that there was a fight between your husband’s guards and your brother’s today. I’m merely saying…” Anxiety stole my words, my breath. I stared down at my sewing, suddenly terrified for my daughter, and aware that I had no idea how to protect her. I dared not take her into my confidence; she would have been aghast, disgusted, she would have gone directly to Navarre.

She saw my panic and dropped her sewing in midstitch. “Maman! Did you have a dream? Is something dreadful going to happen to Henri?”

I looked up at her, for an instant speechless; then habit overcame me, and I managed a feeble smile. “Of course not,” I said. “Nothing bad is going to happen. I’m simply worried, as any mother would be, with all that has happened. Indulge me, Margot. Retire early tonight, to your own bed.”

“All right, Maman,” she said, but her eyes were narrowed; she saw through my false cheer, with the result that I dared say nothing else to her about the matter.

After supper, Edouard, Tavannes, and I went in search of Charles. Outside the guarded, half-ajar door of the King’s apartments, we stopped, and the Duke of Anjou handed Navarre’s incriminating letter to the Marshal. We had agreed that Tavannes would lead Charles to his office; after allowing time for the Marshal to break the news to the King, Edouard and I would present the list of those to be executed.

Tavannes went inside while Edouard and I drew back, carefully out of the King’s sight; I glimpsed Charles as he and Tavannes passed through the corridor. As the old Marshal held open the door to the cabinet, I heard him murmur something to Charles, who stopped on the threshold and let go a panicked cry.

“Dear God! Don’t tell me he is dead!”

Tavannes murmured reassurances; the King went inside, and the Marshal closed the door behind them. Edouard and I scurried inside the apartment and-ignoring the King’s bodyguard who stood watch-lingered just outside the door, like the guilty conspirators we were. I strained my ears but heard little save for the calm, steady rumble of Tavannes’s voice.

It was interrupted suddenly by a shrill howl, then an angry curse. Edouard abruptly dismissed the guard. As he did, something hard and heavy thudded loudly against the cabinet’s interior wall. Edouard moved to open the door, but I stayed his hand; I had thought that Charles would not dare strike old Tavannes, but I also knew the Marshal was rugged enough to handle the King’s physical outbursts.

I knew the precise passage in Navarre’s letter that had prompted the violent reaction:

Coligny’s injury complicates matters, but I, too, have earned the King’s trust and can guide him easily into our clutches and, once there, convince him to abdicate. Without his mother and brother, he will be quite helpless.

There followed wracking sobs, and coughing, and finally, gentle weeping. At the last, I nodded to Edouard, and we entered quietly.

Tavannes stood in front of the King’s desk, a dark, liquid slash across the breast and shoulder of his dull gold doublet. He was wiping his face with a handkerchief, and when he looked up at me, his blind, clouded eye roving wildly, he lowered the cloth to reveal a brown stain on his clean-shaven chin. Behind him, the far wall held a large, irregular splatter of the same dark brown liquid; on the floor just below, a silver inkwell lay on its side, bleeding onto the carpet.

Charles was nowhere to be seen, but soft whimpers emanated from behind the desk. I hurried round to find my son huddled beneath it, rocking; I pushed the chair aside and knelt beside him.

“Lies,” he moaned, his baleful gaze rolling up at me; tears coursed steadily down his cheeks. “You mean to break my heart with lies.”

“Your Majesty,” I began calmly-but at the sight of his suffering, and at the sheer horror of what I had to do, I broke, put my face in my hands, and wept myself. For several breaths, I failed to master my emotions; Edouard and Tavannes watched, hushed.

I caught my breath finally and looked up at poor Charles.

“It is awful, Your Majesty,” I admitted, with complete sincerity. “And it wounds me to bring such horrible news. But we could not spare you such ugliness; too much is at stake.”

“It isn’t true,” he countered fiercely, but his features crumpled at once and he cried with renewed fervor. “How could he betray me so? He loves me, Maman, as the son he never had. He told me so…”

I leaned forward to take his hand and was gratified when he did not pull away. “Charles, my darling, this is a hard truth, a terrible truth, but you must be brave now. You are our King; we look to you to save us.”

He cringed. “But what can I do? I cannot believe this, Maman! I don’t know whom to believe anymore! Coligny warned me-”

“He warned you,” I said smoothly, “that Edouard and I wished him ill-precisely because he knew that, if we uncovered his plot, this moment would come.”

He shuddered from another ragged sob. “But I don’t know what to do!”

“That is why we are here.” I reached into my sleeve and pulled out the fatal document, then glanced up at Tavannes. “Marshal, if you would be so kind…” I nodded in the direction of the overturned inkwell; the old man hurried off in search of a fresh one.

“There is a way to prevent this, and the war that would certainly follow,” I crooned, unscrolling the paper. “You can stop it with your signature. We must finish, Your Majesty, what Maurevert began.”

He blinked suspiciously at my own flawed, irregular scrawl on the white page and recoiled faintly.

“An order, Your Majesty,” I said, “striking at the Huguenots before they strike at us. The names of the conspirators are listed here. We must do more than cut off the Hydra’s head; we must remove all those who would bring war against us in Paris.”

He snatched the list from me and squinted down at it for a long moment. I feared he would quail at the stark reality it represented, but the skin beneath his eye began to twitch rapidly as he passed easily from tortured sorrow to incandescent rage.

“They would lock me in prison,” he muttered bitterly, “and steal my crown. They would murder my family…”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Do you remember now, Charles, what you said to me in the carriage on our dreadful escape from Meaux? They would have killed us all then. They have been waiting all this time for another opportunity… And I gave them one. I trusted them.” I paused. “What sort of man is Gaspard de Coligny-daring to threaten you if you do not yield to his will? Daring to violate an order forbidding the movement of troops to the Netherlands-an order signed by your own hand? He has never shown the proper respect to you, Your Majesty. He has laughed at you privately all this time.”

Charles grimaced with fury. “Then kill them all,” he whispered, his voice raw and ugly. “Why spare any of them, Maman?” His voice rose to an impassioned roar. “Kill the bastards! Kill them all! Kill them all!”

At that moment, Tavannes reappeared with the inkwell; I glimpsed the troubled face of the dismissed guard, who had also reappeared. He had heard the King’s cries but remained outside as the Marshal closed the door on him.

I motioned for Tavannes to set the inkwell on the floor beside me as Edouard handed me the quill.

“Let us show ourselves to be better than our enemies,” I told Charles. “We will not, as they would, kill the innocent.”

He calmed a bit to study the order. “When will it happen?”

“Tonight,” Edouard answered. “In the hours just before dawn. You would do well to keep to your bedchamber. I have arranged for extra security; we will not let you come to harm.”

Breathing heavily, Charles looked up at him, then back down at the list in his hand. “May they all die miserably,” he said, “and their souls go straight to Hell.”

Solemnly, I handed him the pen.

Forty-five

Edouard and I remained with Charles for a few hours to calm him, and to ensure that he did not leave his apartments. By eleven o’clock, my younger son and I went to our separate apartments; it would be best, we decided, to retire as usual to avoid stirring anyone’s suspicions. I struggled to hide my growing anxiety as my ladies dressed me for bed; I dismissed them before my nervousness grew too apparent.

I climbed into my bed but was not able to hold still, much less sleep; my window overlooked the Louvre’s courtyard, and I was terrified of what I might soon see. After two hours of fidgeting, I lit the lamp, slipped into my dressing gown, and made my way through my darkened apartments to my closet.

The windowless little room was hot and stale, but it offered a sense of security; in it, I could not see or be seen. I locked the door and resolutely began to leaf through a stack of correspondence-some letters from our diplomats abroad, others from petitioners-then settled down to read. The attempt was futile: I stared at one letter from our ambassador to Venice for almost an hour without making much sense of it; foolishly, I attempted to write a reply, but words eluded me and I dropped the quill. The heat left me light-headed. I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes, and almost dozed, but instead of dreaming, I drifted off into memory.

I thought of Margot in her beautiful wedding dress, and of how she had bewitched Navarre with her smile. I remembered Ruggieri, standing at the edge of the crowd at the wedding-how his hair had grown streaked with silver, how he had not smiled at the sight of me; I wondered whether he was still inhabiting Paris’s dangerous streets.

I thought of Henri of Navarre: how, as a little boy, he had run out from the tennis gallery onto the courtyard lawn and seen, with me, the piled-up corpses of Algol; I wondered whether he saw them now.

The bell of Saint-Germain tolled twice, for each hour past midnight, and my pulse quickened. In an hour, the killing would begin.

I forced myself to breathe, forced my limbs to relax in the chair, and summoned the past again. I thought of all my children when they were young: my poor, sweet Elizabeth, feeble François; and Charles-even then surly and cruel; my darling Edouard, my little Margot, and even Mary, Queen of Scots, with her sour, disdainful smile. They moved and laughed and spoke in my memory, and I smiled and wept and sighed with them. I thought of my husband, Henri, how he had loved them all, and gathered them into his arms.

Rivulets of sweat, mingled with tears, trickled down my cheeks.

I saw Navarre, leaning against the railing looking out toward the Ile-de-la-Cité. I have come because I trust you, Tante Catherine-because I believe, most irrationally, that we have seen the same evil coming and intend to avert it.

I saw Jeanne, standing on the lawn beside three-year-old Henri, staring after Nostradamus with a curious smile. What a silly little man.

I opened my eyes to the lamp’s flickering yellow glow. In the furious preparations for Margot’s wedding, I had never read the letter that Jeanne had written me on her deathbed, as I had not wanted grief to interfere with the joyful celebrations; but even grief would be a welcome distraction from intolerable dread.

I took a key from the top drawer of my desk and turned to the carved wainscoting near my elbow. Down the span of a hand, and another span to the left, almost hidden by the leg of my desk, was a small keyhole. I unlocked it; the wood panel sprang open, revealing the small secret compartment built into the wall.

Inside were documents I had almost forgotten: the yellowed bit of parchment that bore the words my dead husband had dictated to Ruggieri at Chaumont, and the quatrain in Nostradamus’s hand, written shortly before he had left Blois. There were jewels, as well-including a priceless ruby and a pearl and diamond choker that Pope Clement had given me for my wedding; there was also the small velvet box from Jeanne, which held the exquisite emerald brooch.

Beneath it rested her letter, still sealed. I picked it up, broke the wax, and began to read.

I am dying, dear friend, and must now confess my sins to you, although the pain of doing so is so great I can hardly grip the pen.

I told you that I had been tarnished by the decadence of the French Court. Perhaps it is truer to say that I yielded to my own wicked heart. When I said you were faithful but surrounded by evil, it was to myself I referred. I, who called myself your friend, betrayed you.

I loved your husband, Catherine, and after years of resisting each other we fell into sin. Though Henri surrendered to the temptation of the flesh, his every thought and word revealed that he possessed for you a far greater love than that shared by mere paramours. Even now, I cannot say why it was we sought each other out, or why sanity and virtue failed us so. It is the greatest regret of my life, and as I go to meet death, I desire your forgiveness more urgently than I do God’s.

My Henri, my only son, was the product of our fall. I know that you love him, and I am glad for it. Please, do not divulge this painful truth to him; let it die with us. His heart will be broken badly enough by my death. I should not want to harm him further from the grave.

My love for the King was not my only transgression. I am guilty of withholding this truth so that my son would be able to marry his half sister, Margot. Perhaps you understand better why I was devoted to protecting Henri’s rights as First Prince of the Blood, and eager to see him wed into his father’s family. As a Bourbon by name and a Valois by blood, he is doubly entitled to the throne. Your husband, I think, would have approved.

Forgive me, my friend-and if you cannot, at least show kindness to my Henri. He has inherited his father’s honesty and tender heart, as well as his sincere affection for you.

I go now to God with prayers for you upon my lips.

Jeanne

The letter fell into my lap; I raised my hands to my face and let go bitter, wracking sobs, strangely unaccompanied by tears. I felt deep, poignant sadness-not because of the betrayal but because of the suffering the three of us had endured in our efforts to find happiness. For some time I sat, overwhelmed by sorrow, before a stark and dreadful revelation brought me to my feet.

In my memory, the Duchess d’Etampes’s laughter tinkled as she ran nearly naked into the night, with her lover, King François, in close pursuit.

Louise is a lovely girl, don’t you think?

And François’s irritable reply: Don’t vex me, Anne… Henri’s cousin Jeanne-she’s of marriageable age, and brings with her the crown of Navarre.

Had I allowed myself to be repudiated-had I not spilled blood to purchase children-might Jeanne have taken my place? Would her son now be King?

My surroundings fell away: I stood suddenly in the courtyard of the Louvre, my bare feet on warm cobblestones. In the blackness, a man lay prostrate, his face turned from me.

Catherine, he groaned. His head lolled toward me, and I saw him clearly. His face was long, bearded, and handsome-like my late Henri’s, like his father’s-the very face that had always visited my dark dreams.

I sank beside him and touched his cheek. “How can I help you, Navarre,” I whispered, “when you would kill me and my children?”

Venez a moi. Aidez-moi. A spot of black appeared on his brow, between his eyebrows, and spread like a stain. It spilled down the sides of his face and pooled upon the stone.

I came back to my cabinet with a start and at once bent down to reach into the compartment. I pulled out the other papers-the message from my dead husband, the seer’s quatrain-unfolded them both and set them side by side on my desk.

Catherine, for love of you I do this for love of you this time I come

My one true heir will rule

Destroy what is closest to your heart

Destroy what is closest to your heart

One skein still runs true

Restore it, and avert the rising tide of evil

Break it, and France herself will perish

Drowned in the blood of her own sons

I looked up from the pages and closed my eyes. In my mind, Navarre still lay groaning at my feet, gripped by the final throes of mortal anguish. His lips trembled as they struggled to form a single word:

Catherine

I bent down and put my fingers on them, to stop him from uttering his last.

“I have come all the way from Florence, Monsieur,” I whispered, “too far to let you die.”

I lay reason down like a burden and went out into the night.

When I stepped out of my apartments into the corridor, the three royal bodyguards flanking the door turned to regard me with surprise.

“Madame la Reine,” the senior of them hissed, as he and his fellows executed cursory bows. He was no more than eighteen, a clean-shaven, gangling youth with russet hair and a face full of freckles to match; the knees beneath the hem of his red kilt were likewise spotted. “The hour is about to strike! Please, it would be safest for you to remain in your chambers.”

“Where is your captain? I must speak to him at once!”

“Madame, forgive me,” the Scot replied, “but he is intensely occupied at present; it may be some time before we can bring him to you.”

“But there is no time!” I hesitated and peered down the shadowed corridor. Since the trouble in the streets had begun, the wall sconces had remained lit at night, the better to aid the patrols. “I’ll go to him myself. Where is he?”

My challenger hesitated and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “Madame, he awaits the signal outside the lodgings of the King of Navarre.”

I frowned, staring down the dim, narrow hallway. Beyond it, out of sight, lay the long gallery that joined the old fortress to the new southwestern wing, where Navarre and his party were housed. If I went at top speed, I could arrive at my destination within minutes; even that might not be soon enough.

I lifted my skirts and began to run. The senior guard followed, whispering furiously.

“Madame la Reine! Please! I am bound to keep you safe!”

“Then do so!” I snapped but did not slow.

He outpaced me easily and positioned himself in front of me, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

“Swear to me,” I panted, “that you will help me find Navarre, and keep him safe! It is all a horrible mistake-he must not die!”

“Madame,” he said, “I will.”

We hurried down the stairs to the second floor, where the King and Anjou were housed, and proceeded west through the old Louvre’s cramped, low-ceilinged corridors. They opened finally onto the broader halls of the long gallery leading to the new wing built by my father-in-law.

The gallery was blocked by a barricade of soldiers facing west: four Swiss halberdiers, each wearing the square white cross upon the back and breast of his tunic, all bearing tall pikes topped with razor-keen blades. Four kilted Scots accompanied them-two with arquebuses, two with broadswords.

“Make way for the Queen!” my man gasped as we approached.

Eight men whirled about to regard us with disbelief.

“Jesus,” one whispered.

A ripple of rapid, barely perceptible bows followed.

“Madame la Reine!” the head bodyguard exclaimed sotto voce. Sweat trickled from beneath his cap and glittered in the light from a hall sconce before he wiped it with the back of his hand; his eyes were bright with nerves. “You cannot come here! Please return to your chambers.”

“I must speak to your captain,” I said impatiently. “Navarre must be spared. Let me pass!”

The highest-ranking Swiss said, “The hour is upon us, Madame la Reine. We dare not let you through.”

I began to push past them, taking advantage of their reluctance to touch my royal person, but the halberdier stepped into my path.

“I cannot argue!” I said, not bothering to lower my voice. “It is a matter of life or death! If you love your own neck, you will step aside now.”

“Let me relay a message then, to the captain of the guards,” the halberdier said, “for your own safety, Madame.”

His manner was unctuous, his gaze insincere. If I trusted him, Navarre would die. I took a step to my right, and he matched it, polite but determined.

“Get me through!” I demanded of my freckled young guard.

He put a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

A sound penetrated the palace walls, causing the men to freeze: the low, dolorous toll of Saint-Germain’s bell. It rang once, twice…

On a nearby Paris street, the Duke of Guise and his men were breaking down the doors of the Hôtel de Béthizy.

In my mind, Ruggieri whispered, It may already be too late.

On the third chime, I propelled myself past the guards; my young Scot came to himself and followed. The others dared not desert their posts; we ignored their muted calls and dashed into the gallery.

It was a long, arduous run, past paintings, statues, dazzling murals framed by Cellini’s gilded molding. To our right, tall windows looked onto the paved courtyard, where Swiss halberdiers and crossbowmen waited beneath a great marble statue of the god Vulcan reclining on his anvil, his freshly forged spear lifted heavenward. The raised windows admitted a sultry breeze, which stirred the sconce flames, casting looming shadows on the walls. My side pained me; my breathing grew ragged, but I dared not slow. As we neared the southwestern wing, I heard shouting: The attack had already begun.

The gallery ended abruptly at a corridor that also served as a staircase landing. As I passed, two men in nightshirts hurtled screaming down the steps from the floor above.

Aidez-nous! “Help us!”

They almost collided with my young Scot, who drew his sword and bellowed, “Make way for the Queen!”

The wild-eyed victims seemed not to hear him, or to see me at all; they fled shrieking down the stairs that led out of the palace to the courtyard.

Ignoring the frantic footfall behind us as others fled down the stairs, we continued on, and made our way into the hallways of the new wing. Soon we were at the entrance to Navarre’s antechamber. Across its open threshold, a naked man lay on his side-pale-haired, with the handsome, sculpted muscles of youth and a bloody gash at the juncture of his neck and shoulder; dark rivulets coursed across his hairless chest and ribs onto the marble floor. From beyond him, in the antechamber, came the shouts and groans of the battlefield.

“Madame la Reine!” my young Scot ordered. “Put your hands upon my hips, and cling to me! Do not lift your head!”

I obeyed without a blush, pressing myself against his sweat-soaked back. We took two staggering steps forward into the chamber, dark save for lamplight coming from the open door of the bedchamber beyond. I glimpsed movement in the dimness, the flailing of limbs, the whistling sweep of swords, the lurching of torsos, all accompanied by grunts, screams, curses. The room had becoming a writhing mass of bodies, but I did not try to interpret them. I ducked my head and held fast to the thick leather belt encircling my savior’s narrow hips. The muscles in his back bunched as he hefted his weapon; I winced as it crashed against another’s sword.

Death to the Huguenots! a man cried out, and was answered hoarsely:

Death to Catholic assassins!

“Navarre!” I cried, my words swallowed by the young Scot’s flesh. “Navarre, it is Catherine!”

“We come in peace!” my Scot bellowed, as he struck out, again and again. “Make way for the Queen!”

A horrid gurgling came from in front of us; my man’s muscles suddenly relaxed as he lowered his sword and we advanced two steps. On the second, I nearly stumbled over a body and was forced to let go of the leather belt for an instant in order to lift my tangled skirts and hop clear.

Everywhere around us, innocents screamed for help. The Scot collided with one of his own and spoke frantically in Gaelic; I made out the word Navarre. The leather belt pulled me along as he turned toward the door to the bedchamber. I stumbled again over a sprawling limb and lost my grip. My man quickly turned to offer me his hand.

As he did, I glimpsed up. Limned by the window, a man’s black form stood; a tiny flame, smaller than that of a lamp, floated in front of his shoulder. I caught the smell of burning match cord just as my Scot cried out.

A deafening boom followed, accompanied by the tang of gunpowder. My guardian fell backward onto me, knocking me to my knees. I struggled from underneath his limp weight; in the dimness, I made out his open eyes and reached for his chest. My fingers fumbled, searching for the rise and fall of breath, for a beat, and found neither; they slipped into a warm, hot chasm near his heart and recoiled instantly.

I pushed myself up just as the arquebusier was reloading his weapon and staggered into the bedchamber. It was brighter there, given the bedside lamp, but no less chaotic: a dozen bodies-of Huguenots, naked or in thin nightshirts, of Swiss soldiers, of Scottish royal guards-sprawled on the floor, while the survivors fought on.

On the far side of the bed, the captain of the guards, his sword wielded in battle against a bald, cursing Huguenot, caught sight of me.

“Madame la Reine! My God!”

He dared not disengage to rush to me but returned his attention to his combatant. Nearby, at the foot of the bed-five fighting men away-stood Navarre.

He was still in his white undershirt and black leggings, as though he had not dared to undress completely. His damp shirt clung to his chest and back, his hair to his scalp. He was grimacing, his eyes ablaze, his face gleaming with perspiration as he wielded his sword against that of an equally fierce Swiss soldier. At the captain’s cry, he glanced up quickly at me, and his face went slack with shock.

I ducked my head at the whizzing blades. “Navarre!” I scrabbled past another pair of fighting men, and another. I held my hand out to him, not knowing whether he would grasp it or cut it off. As I did, a figure stepped into my path.

It was the white-haired giant of a Huguenot who had threatened me two nights before, at my public supper; he gripped a short sword at the level of his waist. He leered down at me, baring his great yellow teeth, and drew it back, the better to plunge it forward and run me through. I staggered backward; my foot caught on a prone body, and I went down, arms flailing.

The grinning giant bent over me, then just as suddenly toppled sideways, encouraged by the flat of a sword against his skull. Navarre appeared beside me, his eyes wild with rage, confusion, and despair. I looked on him with infinite hope: He had not killed me.

“Catherine!” His voice was barely audible over the roar.

“I’ve come to help! Follow me to safety,” I shouted, but he shook his head, unable to hear, and gave me his hand.

As he pulled me to my feet, I glanced over the slope of his shoulder to see a white equal-armed cross looming; as the Swiss swordsman lunged toward him, I cried out. Navarre turned swiftly to him and reared backward from the waist in an effort to avoid the oncoming blade. He failed; the tip split his brow with a thud and he dropped to the floor.

I fell to my knees beside him as his eyelids fluttered.

“Help us,” he whispered and fell still.

Bright blood welled up from his forehead and spilled onto the carpet. Gasping, I unfastened my dressing gown, gathered up what I could of the hem, and pressed it hard against the wound. Above us, the Swiss soldier bent his elbow and pulled his weapon back, ready to deliver the final blow.

I crawled atop Navarre and lay my body atop his.

“Kill him,” I shouted, “and you kill the Queen!”

Beneath me, Navarre stirred and groaned. The stunned soldier lowered his weapon and stepped back. He, too, fell suddenly away, and I looked up to see the young Prince of Condé, his features slack, his eyes very wide. At the sight of Navarre bloodied, he let go a short cry, then pulled off his nightshirt and flung it at me. I pulled my sodden dressing gown away; the wound was still bleeding, and the victim’s brow swelling, but the skull had not been split. I tied the shirt around Navarre’s head and looked up at Condé, who leaned his ear toward me.

“Help me get him to safety!” I cried.

Condé did not hesitate. He pulled me up, and together we dragged Henri to his feet. Navarre was dazed, unsteady, but he understood enough to wrap his arms about my shoulder and stagger with me behind Condé, who raised his sword and slashed his way past the Swiss and Scots-some of whom drew back, chastened and confused, at the sight of me.

“Why?” Henri sobbed as we lurched into the antechamber, where the fighting had abruptly stopped. A score of his comrades lay slaughtered on the marble. “Why?”

I did not answer as we headed into the corridor but addressed Condé, whose eyes were guarded but free from the rancor that I had always encountered before. “This way.” I pointed east.

We passed the staircase-quiet now-and entered the deserted gallery. A humid breeze had found the drapes and softly stirred them. Two floors below us, out in the courtyard, victims cringed in Vulcan’s colossal shadow. Henri let go a wail and stopped to stare through the window, his eyes stark with horror.

More than a hundred terrified Huguenots had fled from the palace into the courtyard, only to discover the Swiss waiting with their crossbows and halberds. Mounds of bodies were heaped along the western wall; in the glare of torches, a dozen screaming men huddled together as the crossbowmen forced them, step by step, back over the blood-slicked cobblestones onto the waiting blades of the halberdiers. I pressed a fist to my lips, to stifle bitter nausea and grief. I had ordered this because I feared war, because I had not wanted men to die.

Condé watched darkly, too stricken for words.

“Why?” Henri moaned again; he turned to me. “Why do you do this to us?”

“We must not stop here like this,” I said. “If we do, they will find us and kill both of you. Come.”

I stole a lamp from its sconce and guided them to a small door at the midpoint at the gallery, which hid a narrow, spiraling staircase-an escape route known only to the royal family. The stale air inside was wilting, and Navarre swaying, but we managed to make our way down three flights to the blessedly cool cellars. I led them past great, ancient wine barrels to a prison cell and took the rusted key hanging from the wall to open it. Condé helped his cousin to one of the hanging planks that served as a bed; Henri sat down and leaned heavily against the earthen wall while I lingered outside-then closed the bars and locked them. Both men started as the metal clanged shut.

Condé flared. “What do you mean to do with us? A public execution?”

“I mean to keep you here,” I said, “until I can determine my next action. It is the one place you will be safe. Before God, I will not harm you.”

Henri pulled the blood-soaked undershirt from his head and stared down at it, disbelieving. “Why do you kill our fellows?” His tone was mournful, dazed.

“Because you meant to kill us,” I answered fiercely. “Because your army is marching on Paris even now. Because you meant to kill the Dauphin, and me, and steal my son’s throne.”

He and Condé stared at me as if I had suddenly stripped off my nightgown.

“You’re mad,” Condé whispered. “There is no army.”

Navarre put a hand gingerly to his swelling brow and squinted as though the feeble light of the lamp pained him. “Whose lies are these?”

“I have your letter to your commander in the field,” I said, “revealing the plot to make war on Paris and force Charles’s abdication.”

“You lie!” Condé said. “You lie to make war on us! Pardaillan, Rochefoucauld, all my gentlemen-you have killed them for a lie!” He began suddenly, bitterly, to weep into his hands. Navarre put a hand upon his shoulder and turned to me.

“Bring this letter to me,” he said, “and I will show you a forgery. We have committed no crime, save to tolerate Coligny’s boorishness on the matter of the Spanish Netherlands. Madame la Reine, for the love of God you must stop this. All my men”-his voice broke-“fifty of them came from their own quarters to sleep upon my floor, because they feared for me after the attempt on the Admiral’s life. And now they are dead…” He let go a gulping sob, and lowered his face.

“What of your army?” I demanded. “Edouard’s scouts say that it is on its way and will encamp outside our walls tonight.”

“There is no army!” Condé cried out. “Anjou and his scouts lie! Madame, your younger son is as crazy as his brother-but more dangerously so!”

“Don’t insult him!” I cried, but my anger was tinged with growing confusion. I gripped the bars separating us. “You came here armed for war. You came here ready to fight.”

Henri lifted his face, so contorted by grief that he could not open his eyes to look on me. “We came here afraid for our lives,” he said and bowed his head.

Muted by stone and earth, Saint-Germain’s bells marked the fourth hour after midnight. Up in the heavens, the star Algol moved opposite Mars: Coligny and some two hundred Huguenots who had patrolled the area around the Hôtel de Béthizy were dead. My grip on the bars loosened; my palms slid against the cool metal as the weight of my actions forced me to my knees. I was the author of this-I, and my fierce love for my misbegotten sons.

“God help me,” I whispered. “God help us all.”

Forty-six

I found the back stairs leading up from the cellar to the second floor of the south wing and the secret passageway to the Duke of Anjou’s apartments; several times, my knees buckled, and I was obliged to lean against the wall and rest. I arrived, trembling, in the closet off Edouard’s bedroom. Lignerolles was dozing on the small bed there and sat up with a gasp as I pushed open the creaking door. He lit the lamp at once and, at the sight of Henri’s blood on my gown, shrieked.

“Who goes there?” Edouard called from the bedchamber. Dressed in a thin nightshirt, Lignerolles jumped up and took my elbow; by then, I was shaking so much I could hardly stand.

Edouard appeared in the archway, wrapping a silk robe over his bare flesh. I looked on him as if for the first time: His face was not, like mine, drawn and tortured and dazed by guilt, but he gaped at the sight of me and caught my arm. We hurried from the bedroom-where the yellow-headed Robert-Louis sat wide-eyed and naked, the covers pulled up to his chest-to the antechamber, where my son sat me in a chair.

“My God,” he cried. “Maman, you are bleeding!” He wheeled on Lignerolles, and the guards and valets who suddenly appeared. “For God’s sake, get her a doctor! And fetch a basin and linens at once!” He turned back and crouched beside my chair. “Where did they hurt you?”

I rested a violently trembling hand on his forearm. “No doctor,” I said. “I’m not hurt.”

“But the blood-” He touched my hair; I looked down at the braid falling over my shoulder and saw that it, too, was stained with Henri’s blood.

“I was foolish,” I said heavily. “I made the mistake of leaving my chambers. There were Huguenots… they stained me with their blood.”

“But how… Where did you come from?” He looked in the direction of the closet; I averted my eyes and did not answer.

Lignerolles arrived with a basin of orange blossom water and a towel; Edouard dabbed the towel in the basin and smoothed it over my face. It came away bloodied.

“Look at your lovely dressing gown,” he clucked soothingly. “It’s ruined… How did you come across so much blood? This is not like you, Maman, to be so reckless.” He set my dirty hand in the basin and gently washed it. “What in God’s name were you doing?”

I looked up at him. “Edouard… the letter from Navarre to his commander in the field. I must see it at once.”

He paused to wring out the towel. “Why?”

“Because it might be a forgery.”

His gaze, which had been so keenly focused on me, retreated subtly inward. “That would be impossible.”

“Why? It was the Provost of Marchands, was it not, who gave it to you? Can he be trusted? Can your scouts?”

“If he could not, I would not have him in charge of the city’s defenses. Of course he can be trusted-and the scouts, too! What kind of question is that?”

“I would like to see Navarre’s letter, please,” I said. “Certainly it is still in your possession.”

He scowled, incredulous, and loosed an exasperated gasp. “I have no idea where it is. I will ask my secretary to find it in the morning.”

“And I should like to speak to your scout,” I said. “The one who reported that the Huguenot army is on its way to Paris. I would be curious to learn where it is now.”

“You don’t believe me,” he said. He gave a short, nervous laugh, the way that my cousin Ippolito had when I had asked him about all the other girls.

“I only want to see the proof for myself,” I told him.

Just as Ippolito had, he grew abruptly furious. “What is the point of all this? What can be gained now from studying evidence that has already proved damning? They are all dead; nothing will bring them back to life! Even if we have made a terrible mistake, it is for the best-they can never again wage war against us, never!” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You have been talking to someone. Who?” His fingers dug into the tender flesh of my upper arms. “Who tells you these lies?”

I stared into his faithless eyes, and my heart broke; he had played me as easily as he had his innocent sister. I gazed beyond him then, at the windows overlooking the haunted courtyard. He knew, of course, that Charles was sickly and could not live much longer; Navarre and the Huguenots would have been the only real threat to his reign. Coligny had merely presented him with an opportunity to rid himself of his chief rivals.

I should not have been surprised by my son’s ruthlessness, knowing what I did of his mother.

“Cosimo Ruggieri,” I whispered. “He said that I would be betrayed.”

The bodies of the dead lay in the courtyard for more than a day, as the soldiers who had slaughtered them were needed to defend the palace. In the relentless sun, the stink grew intolerable; we shut the windows despite the heat, but the flies found their way inside along with the smell, which clung to our clothes and hair. I pulled the drapes and could not be coaxed outside.

The battle continued on the streets of Paris for five days while we fearful royals huddled inside the reinforced walls of the Louvre, listening to the screams and savage fighting outside the palace gates. The people misunderstood the assault on the rue de Béthizy and the dispensation of arms to Catholics for self-protection. A rumor began that the King had ordered citizens to attack the Huguenots, and it spread with a vengeance.

Over the course of a week, seventy thousand innocents died in Paris and the countryside. Responsibility for the attack was laid, rightfully, at my door: Madame la Serpente, they call me now, the Black Queen.

I will not stop them from telling the truth. But now my adopted countrymen believe that I had planned the attack from the very beginning, luring first Coligny, then Navarre, as part of my scheme to eradicate the Huguenot movement.

Guise’s attack on the Hôtel de Béthizy was a resounding success. Two of his common soldiers kicked down the door to the bedroom where Coligny lay with Doctor Paré at his bedside. When asked to identify himself, Coligny did so freely but looked on the soldiers with disdain, saying, “I should be killed by a gentleman, at least, and not these boors.” In answer, one of the boors ran his sword through the Admiral’s chest and flung him out the window. The body chanced to land right beside the delighted Duke of Guise.

By then, vengeful Catholics had taken to the streets; they castrated the body, dragged it through the city, and hurled the mutilated corpse into the Seine. Guise proudly delivered the head to me, in a silk pouch that failed to contain its overpowering stench. I turned away in horror and ordered it embalmed.

I managed to keep Henri of Navarre and his cousin the Prince of Condé out of Anjou’s clutches. On the day Coligny died, I went secretly to Margot and told her of her brother’s deception; together, we went to Charles and presented the evidence of Navarre’s innocence. His Majesty was then easily convinced that Navarre and Condé-being Princes of the Blood-must be spared and issued a royal order. Afterward, once the fighting had eased, I went to the Provost of Marchands, who verified that no Huguenot army had ever arrived and that he had not been the one who personally intercepted the letter to Navarre’s field commander. Edouard had produced it; the Provost, like Marshal Tavannes and other military leaders, had relied on the Duke of Anjou’s word.

Edouard never came up with the incriminating letter supposedly written by Navarre, nor did we ever again confide in each other. I warned Navarre of Anjou’s guile; he was grateful, though ravaged by grief at the loss of his companions and coreligionists, and resentful of the fact that, for his own protection, he was required to reconvert to Catholicism and remain at the Louvre under courteous house arrest.

The massacre born on Saint Bartholomew’s Day broke Charles. He began-no doubt to Edouard’s glee-to spiral down toward death.

September came, bringing with it relief from the heat and the violence. When the palace gates were again opened-a week and a day after Admiral Coligny’s assassination-I received my first visitor behind the closed doors of my cabinet.

Cosimo Ruggieri was no longer ageless: The lamplight showed too clearly the silver in his hair and beard, the deep, wrinkled folds under his black eyes, the slackness of age beneath his jaw. He was gaunt, even skeletal, the ugliness of his irregular features enough to send the bravest child running to its mother. He had given up his customary red and now dressed all in black, like a Huguenot.

He entered to find me sitting at my desk as always, as if little time had elapsed since our last encounter, and as he always had, he bowed low. But when he raised his face to mine and the time came for him to utter a greeting, the words died upon his lips. Stricken, he stared at me.

“Cosimo,” I said, rising. I came around my desk-perhaps to take his hand, perhaps to embrace him, I cannot say. But before I could reach him, my legs and my nerve at last gave way, and I sank to my knees, senseless with grief.

He knelt beside me. I clung to him, broken, weeping.

When I could speak, I gasped, “They have come again-the evil dreams. The dead are not even all buried, and yet the dreams have come. I will do what I must: I will kill my sons, by my own hand if I must, to make it stop. You warned me, and I would not hear. But I am listening now.”

His expression was open and raw, free from the magician’s dark glamour; the play of lamplight on his unshed tears dazzled me. “There is no more need of blood,” he murmured. “Only set the demon free, and let the stars take their course.”

I shook my head, not understanding.

He echoed my husband’s words to me: Destroy what is closest to your heart.

It was a simple matter, accomplished in Ruggieri’s temporary lodgings nearby: the casting of a circle, the placing of the bloodied pearl upon the altar, the invocation of the barbarous name. When the demon appeared-its presence announced by the sudden leaping of the flames and the prickling of gooseflesh on my arms-the magician thanked it and released it from its task. With all supernatural support withdrawn, my sons would meet their ends quickly.

Ruggieri would have disposed of the disempowered pearl himself, but I put my hand on it first. “This falls to me,” I said.

My carriage rolled through quiet streets up to the banks of the river Seine, and the nervous driver waited while Ruggieri and I picked our way through scattered refuse down to the muddy shore.

The sky was cloudless that day, the air fresh; the previous day’s storm had washed away the dust and the smell of decay that had permeated the city. For a moment, I stood looking south at the twin towers of Notre-Dame and the dainty spires of Sainte-Chapelle-sights that had filled my husband’s namesake Henri of Navarre with such longing. And then I lifted my arm and hurled the pearl into the dark waters; it skipped twice and sank beneath the surface without a sound.

I, too, sank silently. Had it not been for Ruggieri’s restraining arms, I would have fallen.

“I kept my promise,” I whispered. The magician did not reply; he knew I did not speak to him.

“I kept my promise, my love,” I repeated, my voice stronger. “A son of Valois will always sit upon the throne. Your one true heir will rule.”

My blind selfishness, my unwillingness to step aside and release my husband to find his rightful wife had birthed incomprehensible misery. Beneath its weight I could neither stand nor walk, but Ruggieri nonetheless returned me to the carriage before I dissolved completely, like the spell.