The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

Queen

March 1547-July 1559

Twenty-four

My husband was transformed by the King’s death. Henri wept for his father, but along with his grief came a curious lightness, as if all his anger and pain had died with the old man.

His first official act was to dismiss his father’s ministers and summon the former Grand Master, Anne Montmorency, to the palace. Montmorency had fallen out of favor with the King, though his friendship with my husband had remained steadfast.

Montmorency was like Henri and Diane in many ways: conservative, dogmatic, resistant to change. His very being reflected those traits: He was solid and square of build and pompous of bearing, with a long, old-fashioned grey beard and outdated clothes. Henri named him President of the King’s Privy Council, a position second only to the King. Montmorency at once moved into the apartment adjacent to the King’s-the one hastily vacated by the Duchess d’Etampes, who had fled to the countryside.

I did not like Montmorency, though I respected him. I saw arrogance in his narrowed, deep-set eyes, in his bearing and speech. He was quick to dismiss the opinions of others but was loyal and did not, like so many others, see Henri’s accession as an opportunity to increase his own wealth.

The same could not be said of Diane de Poitiers. Not only did she convince Henri to give her all of the Duchess d’Etampe’s assets but Diane asked for and received the breathtaking palace at Chenonceaux-royal property that was not Henri’s to give. In addition, Henri gave her the taxes collected upon his accession, a veritable fortune. He even gave her the Crown Jewels, an insult I did my best to bear gracefully while my friends howled at the injustice.

To me, Henri gave an annual allowance of two hundred thousand livres.

He also indulged in political matchmaking: He married his cousin Jeanne of Navarre to Antoine de Bourbon, First Prince of the Blood, who would inherit the throne upon the death of Henri and all of his sons. Bourbon was a handsome man, though very vain; he wore a fluffy hairpiece to hide his balding crown and a gold hoop in his ear. By then he had converted to Protestantism, then recanted, then called himself a Huguenot again, as it suited his political aims. I despised his inconstancy but was glad that the marriage brought Jeanne to live at Court again.

Henri also increased the status of the Guise family, a branch of the royal House of Lorraine. His closest friend was François of Guise, a handsome, bearded man with golden hair and magnetic grey-green eyes, who laughed easily. He was warm, charming, and sharp-witted, the sort of man who exuded importance and commanded attention; he could silence a crowd by the mere act of entering the room. Henri elevated him from Count to Duke, and appointed him to the Privy Council.

Henri likewise appointed Guise’s brother Charles to the Council. Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine, was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, brooding political genius known for his duplicity. Their sister, Marie of Guise, was the widow of King James of Scotland and served as regent for her five-year-old daughter, Mary, Queen of Scots.

At the time, Scotland was in turmoil, and the girl Mary was in great danger in her own country.

“Let her come to live with us in the French Court,” my Henri said, “where she may grow to her majority in safety. When she is old enough, she will marry my son, François.”

Some considered that to be a wise strategy: As a Catholic, Mary was the only monarch of England recognized by the Pope; if she married our son, he would have a claim to the English throne as well as to that of Scotland.

Mary arrived at Blois swathed in tartan, a dark-haired porcelain doll with wide, fear-filled eyes. She knew very little French; she would loose a tumble of harsh, guttural sounds, too coarse to be words, yet those in her entourage understood them. She brought with her bodyguards, brawny, kilted giants with greasy auburn hair and narrowed, suspicious eyes, who frankly stank. The Scots scorned bathing and manners-all except for Mary and her governess, Janet Fleming, a white-skinned beauty with green eyes and hair like sunlight. Madame Fleming was a young widow who quickly absorbed much of French culture and relayed it to her charge.

I was predisposed to like Mary, even to love her: I felt a kinship with this child whose own countrymen had threatened her with death and forced her to flee her home. I understood what it was to be hated and frightened and alone in a foreign land. When I learned of her arrival, I hurried to welcome her.

I entered the nursery without fanfare to see Mary standing beside François, eyeing him critically. She was slight and imperious, with a haughty lift to her sharp chin.

At the sound of my step, she turned and, in thickly accented French, demanded: “Why do you not curtsy? Do you not know that you are in the presence of the Queen of Scotland?”

“Yes,” I said easily, with a smile. “Do you not know that you are in the presence of the Queen of France?”

She was thoroughly taken aback; I laughed and kissed her. She returned the kiss, guarded little creature, with lips that smelled of fish and ale; her stiff posture conveyed an intense dislike. She was two years older than my François but already thrice as tall. At three years of age, my son looked barely two, and his intellect was even younger. At times I looked into his dull, unfocused eyes and saw the ghost of the murdered imbecile.

Henri doted on Mary, saying that he loved her more than his own issue because she was already a queen. I bit my tongue at the insult to my children. François and Charles of Guise were delirious at their niece’s good fortune: When Henri died, our son would be King and his bride, Mary, would become Queen of France as well as of Scotland.

My husband’s accession brought other changes as well. The old King’s little band of women was scattered, with the Duchess d’Etampes disgraced and living in anonymity; her closest friend, the dimpled, coquettish Marie de Canaples, had been denounced as an adultress by her husband and banned from Court. Two of the women had left for Portugal with Queen Eléonore, who had had enough of France and wished to live out her days far removed from intrigue.

On the day my husband was crowned, I sat in a tribune in the cathedral at Reims and fought not to weep as Henri marched to the altar. It was not only pride that triggered my unshed tears but also the gold embroidery upon my husband’s white satin tunic, directly over his heart: two large D’s back to back, intertwined, over which was superimposed the letter H. This was to become his symbol, as the salamander had been his father’s, and for the rest of my life I found myself surrounded by Diane and Henri’s monogram in tapestry and stone and paint adorning every château. I told myself that I did not care, that I had what I wanted most: Henri’s life, and the chance to give him children. Even so, it stung no less.

My own coronation took place two years later, at the cathedral of Saint-Denis, just outside of Paris.

I entered heralded by trumpets, my bodice glittering with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies; my deep blue velvet cloak glinted green with the play of the light. Escorted by Grand Master Montmorency and flanked by Antoine de Bourbon, the most senior Prince of the Blood, I glided to the altar. Beneath my gleaming bodice, the magician’s pearl-which had brought me thus far-hung between my breasts.

I genuflected and proceeded to my throne, mounted on a platform draped in gold cloth; the steps leading up to it were covered in the same blue velvet as my cloak. The Cardinal de Bourbon-Antoine’s brother-presided over the ceremony. I knelt and prayed on cue, my voice strong as I answered the Cardinal’s questions in the affirmative. I had wedded Henri fifteen years ago, and now I was marrying France.

The ancient crown Antoine de Bourbon set upon my head was so heavy that I could not bear it. A second lighter crown was produced, which I wore for the rest of the ceremony.

After Mass was said, I and three other noblewomen were given precious items to place upon the altar in offering before the Holy Sacrament was administered. Diane was chosen to follow directly behind me because my husband had given her the duchy of Valentinois, which elevated her rank and fortune substantially. Before the ceremony, he had also announced that she was now one of my ladies-in-waiting-a fact that offended me no small amount, as it would greatly increase the amount of time Diane would spend in my presence.

I processed down the long aisle with a golden orb in my hands; when I arrived at the altar, I deposited it with the Cardinal de Bourbon, then turned and waited for the other women.

They were long in coming. Diane was to have followed closely but instead moved at a ridiculously languid pace, her gaze directed heavenward, her face aglow with feigned beatific rapture. As she passed beneath the loge where my husband sat, she stood completely still for a long moment-drawing the attention of the entire assembly-then slowly paraded past him.

I watched with rage, though my expression remained consummately dignified. I had thought that Diane would be satisfied with obscene riches and Henri’s love-but these were not enough. She wished to steal what little attention I received, even on this day; she wished to make it clear who truly ruled the King.

I reflected, at that instant, on how very easy it would be to kill her-to ask Ruggieri for a potion, or a poisoned glove, or a spell-especially since I had broken through that seductive barrier twice before. But I would never kill to exact personal revenge, only to save those I loved, the same as Cosimo Ruggieri.

Perhaps there is a kinder place in Hell for us.

Twenty-five

The years that followed were difficult. Jeanne’s mother, the warmhearted, brilliant Queen Marguerite of Navarre, died shortly before Christmas 1549, leaving her daughter and all those who knew her bereft. Henri spent his days and most of his nights in the company of Diane, while I found joy only when I retreated into the simple pleasures of motherhood.

Henri was frugal and did not waste his days pursuing every pretty woman who caught his eye. Yet unlike his father, he possessed a zeal for persecuting Protestants-a zeal created and nurtured by Diane. Perhaps she thought that burning heretics would make God forget that she was a whore. She shrouded herself in a cloak of piety and virtue, and delighted in drawing a sharp contrast between Henri’s “morality” and his father’s debauchery. But like his father, Henri was ruled by his mistress: Diane wanted lands seized from Protestants and placed in the hands of Catholics, and Henri accomplished it. She desired to see Protestants imprisoned and executed, and so it was done-although there were many Protestant sympathizers at Court, including Montmorency’s young nephew Gaspard de Coligny, Antoine de Bourbon, and the King’s own cousin Jeanne of Navarre, who had embraced Martin Luther’s teachings during her stay in Germany. Nobility conferred protection; only commoners risked persecution.

Every morning after meeting with his advisers, Henri went to Diane’s chambers to discuss government business; he took no action without her approval and delegated so much power to her that she signed royal documents in the King’s stead.

Like his father, Henri failed to see the jealousy his mistress’s power generated among his courtiers. Nor did he see the dissatisfaction brewing in the countryside, where Protestant villagers were outraged by the new laws forbidding their form of worship. Paris was almost entirely Catholic, so Henri did not listen to the advisers who warned him that his harsh intolerance of the new religion was fostering rebellion. He listened only to Diane, who in turn listened to the Guise brothers. Like Diane, they despised Protestantism and were eager to influence the Crown.

The people’s hearts began to turn from Henri, and the Protestants grew to hate him. I spoke privately with him on the matter several times; King François had taught me the importance of earning the people’s love. Perhaps I was too direct, for Henri dismissed me abruptly, accusing me of overestimating my own intelligence and underestimating Diane’s.

I spent years eclipsed by Diane, years during which my intellect and capabilities were ignored, years when I saw the country harmed and greedy, calculating nobles rewarded by my ingenuous husband. I yearned to speak out but complained to no one, for I had purchased with the prostitute’s life exactly what I had requested: I was Henri’s wife and mother to his children-and not a whit more.

Diane continued to keep her promise and sent Henri to my bed. I did not realize then that she was so confident in her position that she had begun to shun my husband’s physical attentions, and that Henri had begun to look in other arms for solace.

Our son Charles-Maximilien-as sickly as his predecessors, with a red-violet, walnut-sized birthmark just beneath his nose-was born in 1550, three years after Henri assumed the throne. We built a large nursery in the palace King François I had renovated at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, just west of Paris, where Henri had grown up. The chateau was built around a central courtyard, with sweeping lawns that spurred Mary to chase François, but running made my elder son gasp so horribly that he fainted. In the days just after Charles’s birth, I watched from my window as Mary ran alone, a swift, solitary little figure on the grassy expanse.

My husband became a solicitous father during Charles’s early months, visiting the nursery almost daily. He abandoned the old King’s itinerant habit, keeping the Court at Saint-Germain for the children’s sake. After Diane broke her leg in a fall from the saddle and went to her château at Anet to recuperate, Henri remained with me at Saint-Germain. I admit, his choice pleased me-until I learned its true cause.

On the first cold night of autumn, I sat in my chamber in front of the mirror while Madame Gondi brushed out my hair. It was late, but I was enjoying our conversation about how little François had been allowed to hold his infant brother, Charles, for the very first time, and how he-after being convinced that the baby’s red birthmark was not catching-had kissed Charles and solemnly pronounced him acceptable.

As Madame Gondi and I were speaking, I heard a woman’s heartbroken wail coming from the nursery above us. I ran out of my chambers and up the stairs, propelled by maternal urgency.

On the landing, one of Mary’s Scottish bodyguards stood beneath the lighted wall lamp. He had heard the cry but had not reacted to it; in fact, he was restraining a knowing smirk.

I ran past him toward the double doors of the now quiet nursery. Just beyond, two figures stood in the wavering light cast by a sconce in front of the closed door of the chamber inhabited by Mary’s governess. They were arguing-and at the realization, I stopped half a corridor away in the shadows.

It was Montmorency, broad-shouldered and gray-bearded, his back pressed against the door, his hand upon the latch, and Diane, who leaned heavily upon a crutch tucked under one arm. Apparently she had just traveled all the way from Anet and had rushed into the château without pausing to remove her cloak. The lamplight revealed shadowed hollows beneath her eyes and the slackness of age along her jaw. The hair at her temples was more silver now than gold. She was dressed elegantly in a high ruffed collar of exquisite black lace, accentuated by a large diamond brooch at her throat, and ivory satin skirts embroidered with gold scrollwork. But even such sartorial glory could not hide the fact that she was worn and frazzled, her dignity replaced by shrewishness as she tucked into Montmorency.

“You insult me, Monsieur, with your lies!” she hissed, shaking her forefinger at the Grand Master. “He is in there-I know it! Open the door-or move aside, and I will do it myself.”

Montmorency’s voice was soothing. “Madame, you are beside yourself. Please lower your voice, lest you wake the children.”

“The children!” She released an exasperated gasp. “I am the only one here thinking of the children!” She lurched forward, balancing on the crutch, and reached beyond the solid Grand Master for the door. “Open it now or I will go in myself! I demand to speak to Madame Fleming!”

The door behind Montmorency swung inward, causing him to take a staggering step backward, almost colliding with the man emerging from the governess’s room: my husband. Unlike Diane, Henri was in his prime, with his father’s long, handsome face and full, dark beard, his attractiveness enhanced by the sort of deep relaxation he showed on returning from a particularly vigorous hunt. His head was bare, his hair tousled; his doublet rode up a bit at the hips. At the sight of Diane, he smoothed down the hem. The room behind him was dark as he shut the door, and Montmorency moved to block it.

At the sight of the evidence that her suspicions were true, Diane averted her face in pain. The three players stood stunned and silent in the face of disclosure until she lifted her wounded countenance again.

“Your Majesty!” she exclaimed, anguished. “Whence do you come?”

At the sight of his livid paramour, Henri directed his attention to the carpet beneath his feet.

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” he murmured, so softly that I strained to hear. “I was only speaking with the lady.” Poor guileless Henri, too slow to concoct a feasible lie.

“Speaking!” Diane hissed. “Let me go ask Madame Fleming the subject of your conversation!”

She started again for the door, but Montmorency’s bulk stymied her.

“This is unseemly,” he scolded her. “You have no right to speak so to the King!”

Henri turned on him with a dangerous look, and Montmorency fell silent at once.

“Your Majesty,” Diane said, more quietly yet no less indignantly, “you have betrayed your dear friends the Guises and their niece Queen Mary with such behavior. You have betrayed your son the Dauphin as well, for he is to marry the child who has that-that woman for a governess. As for myself-I will not even speak of the hurt.”

I marked that she had not thought to mention the betrayal of the King’s wife.

“I mean to hurt no one,” Henri said, but he could not look at her. “Please, can we discuss this tomorrow? And not here, in the hall, lest we wake the children…”

“But it is on their account I must raise the alarm.” In the most politic of strokes, Diane loosed her wrath on the Grand Master. “I was told of this. Told that you, Monsieur Montmorency, have encouraged this affair. You have betrayed the Guises, and thus His Majesty, more than anyone by facilitating an infidelity that has dishonored everyone.” She pivoted on her crutch toward Henri. “Do you not see, Sire, that their niece, innocent little Mary, is being raised by a whore? How shall they feel when they learn the truth? If the Grand Master had your interests at heart, he would advise you to avoid that woman.”

“It’s not his fault,” Henri said softly. “It’s all mine. Forgive me, Madame, and do not be angry; I can bear anything but your displeasure.”

She lifted her chin, composed and regal once more, and told Montmorency, “You have served the King badly and disgraced his friends. Do not cross my path again, Monsieur, or speak another word to me, for I will not hear it.”

Montmorency-outraged, yet biting his tongue-looked to the King for support. Henri averted his eyes and gave the Grand Master a short, dismissive nod.

A muscle deep in Montmorency’s great square jaw twitched, just above the line of his beard, but he was a man of grace and self-control. He left quickly, his gaze downcast so that he would not have to see Diane gloat.

I remained motionless in the corridor; when Montmorency passed me, he started, but I put a finger to my lips. He could well have alerted Henri to my presence, but he was still angry at Diane and perhaps hoped she might say something to further provoke my hatred. He continued on, leaving me to listen alone.

After Montmorency’s departure, Diane spoke first, raw and uncertain.

“Do you love her?”

Henri’s countenance displayed the same contrition I had seen when he had first confessed his love for Diane.

“No,” he whispered. “No, of course not.” His voice rose to a murmur. “It was purely… purely the flesh, nothing more. And I am ashamed. I had hoped to be able to end it before I hurt anyone. Before I hurt you. But now I can only beg for your forgiveness.”

Diane cooled in the face of the King’s groveling. “Do not ask my forgiveness, Sire. Ask the forgiveness of your dear friends the Guises, and of little Mary.”

He hesitated. “Promise you won’t say anything to the Guises.”

She studied him a long moment, then answered slowly, “I will say nothing to anyone if you promise that this crime will never be repeated.”

He let go a long sigh at the thought of abandoning such pleasure, then squared himself and met her gaze directly. “I swear before God it will not.”

Satisfied, she nodded, dismissing him as if she were the monarch and not he, and began to move away haltingly on her crutch.

Henri called softly to her, “Will you be…?” Awkward, he let the question trail.

Diane did not turn back to look at him. “I will be recuperating in my quarters adjacent to the Queen’s.” The words were frosted, a rebuke.

Henri heard the rejection in them; his shoulders slumped as he turned away. Diane moved toward me and the spiraling staircase that led to my wing, while my husband went in the opposite direction and disappeared quickly. Her progress was slow and her focus on the coordination of the crutch with her step. She did not see me hidden in the shadows, waiting for her to pass. I meant to gloat, to revel in the dark joy that my rival had finally tasted a sip of the bitter draught I had swallowed for so many years. Yet when our gazes met-hers startled, mine knowing-I saw only myself, wounded and unloved.

She must have glimpsed compassion in my eyes, for her own expression softened. She bowed as best she could before continuing on at her painfully slow pace. Pinned carefully at her throat to hide the slackening skin beneath, the diamond caught the lamplight and flashed.

By late December, I knew I was pregnant again and decided to share the happy news with my husband on Christmas Day. That morning, I went to the royal nursery accompanied by Jeanne, Diane, Madame Gondi, three ladies-in-waiting, and a male attendant. This entourage was required to carry all the gifts for the children, including a large rocking horse with a horsehair mane. As always, Jeanne was eager to accompany me to the nursery, as she longed for children of her own.

The day had dawned grey and cloudy; the château’s tall rectangular windows overlooked a bleak courtyard of brown grass edged by bare-limbed trees. But the nursery’s reception chamber was cheery: Scores of candles burned, their flames dancing in the windowpanes and on the marble floor; a massive Yule log blazed in the hearth. A long table was heaped with glazed chestnuts, walnuts, apples and figs, and little pastries.

The children greeted us with enthusiastic cries. François was not quite seven, with a domed forehead and wide-set, dull eyes; he was smaller than his five-and-a-half-year-old sister, Elisabeth, who was a sweet, dainty child. The two rushed to me as the wetnurse went to fetch the infant Charles from his cradle.

Eight-year-old Mary, the little Scottish Queen, remained at a distance, her expression wary. She was already quite tall, and her imperious manner made her seem far older than she was; many who saw her playing with François thought they were separated by several years. On that day she wore her hair up, several times braided and coiled and wound about with dark pearls. A tartan shawl was fastened to her chest with a round silver brooch. She reminded me of myself at that age-yearning to be a careless child, free with my affections, yet knowing that my life was threatened by those who hated me.

As I bent down to embrace François and Elisabeth, Mary called out to Diane, “Joyeux Noël, Madame de Poitiers! What word from my dear uncles?”

“They are riding with the King, Your Majesty,” Diane said, smiling. “But they will join us within the hour.”

“Good.” Mary sighed and presented herself to me for the unwanted kiss. “Joyeux Noël, Madame la Reine.”

“Joyeux Noël, Mary,” I replied. It troubled her, as it always did, that I did not address her by her title, but I preferred to remind her that she was a child, and not yet Queen of France.

The governor of the nursery, Monsieur d’Humières, emerged from one of the children’s chambers. A small, quick man given to emphatic gestures, he hurried into the room and bowed.

“Madame la Reine, a thousand pardons, but I received word that His Majesty suffered a minor fall during the hunt. He wished for you to know that he and the brothers Guise will be late as he is meeting now with the physician.”

Mary’s face fell. Poor, infatuated François tried to comfort her, but he often stuttered and could manage only a pitiful repetition of the first sound in Mary’s name: “M-m-m-m-”

She silenced him with a kiss.

I did my best to distract the children with the presents. François received his first, a wooden sword copied after his father’s real one, with a painted gold hilt. I gave him stern direction as to its careful use, knowing all the while that it was only a matter of time before someone received a minor injury. Elisabeth’s rocking horse was so popular that the children argued over who should ride it first.

Then came Mary’s present. Jeanne held the large wooden box, with holes drilled along the sides, and had remained at a distance so that the children could not hear the scratching and thumping. But as she stepped forward, a distinct whine emanated from the box’s interior, causing Mary’s sallow face to light up. The girl hurried to remove the top and freed the little black-and-white spaniel pup within.

She took it into her arms and beamed at me. “Thank you, thank you! May I keep it here, in the nursery?”

I smiled back. “You may indeed.”

The rocking horse and sword were abandoned in favor of the dog. François had to be shown how to pet it gently; Elisabeth was timid, so I showed her how the puppy could be coaxed to sit nicely for a bit of apple.

During this happy domestic scene, Mary’s governess began conversing loudly with one of her peers in the doorway of Charles’s bedroom. I paid little attention to the stream of guttural consonants and trilled r’s.

Monsieur d’Humières approached her and her companion and hissed, “Stop this rude behavior! Go present yourselves to the Queen!”

I ignored it all. Since their arrival, the Scots had proven loyal only to Mary and resentful of the due owed my husband and me; their behavior sometimes brought the members of our separate courts to blows.

Madame Fleming replied in tortured French: “I cannot be silent; I am proud, Sir, to announce that I have conceived a child by the King.”

I had been offering a piece of apple to the puppy; at that, my arm fell to my side. I caught Diane’s gaze, then Jeanne’s, and saw from their sickened expressions that they, too, had heard.

Monsieur d’Humières murmured something in a low, scandalized tone.

By this time, Madame Fleming had entered the room, her faint smile one of smug defiance. Diane had once been pretty, but Fleming was a golden-haired work of art, a radiant, emerald-eyed goddess in a green satin gown, with a shawl of blue and green tartan pinned at her shoulder.

“Madame la Reine,” she said sweetly and bowed very low. “I have heard a rumor that you are with child. If so, I understand your joy, for I, too, am pregnant by His Majesty.”

Jeanne let go a hiss of outrage. Diane was too stunned to emit a sound. Fleming tossed her head, gloating.

Monsieur d’Humières had come into the main chamber, his wildly gesticulating hands filling the air like a scattering flock of birds. “How dare you! How dare you, Madame, insult the Queen! Apologize at once!”

I gestured for Madame Gondi to attend the children and rose. With Diane close behind me, I caught Fleming by the elbow and guided her back to the nearest bedroom.

Once inside the door, I said, my voice low and not particularly pleasant, “It shows incredibly poor taste to discuss such matters in front of the children. You are an unmarried woman, and your condition is nothing less than scandalous.”

Fleming did not cower. She was tall, as were all the Scots, and she gazed down her pretty nose at me with contempt.

“You speak of scandal,” she said. “Yet you visit the children with the King’s former lover.”

Former lover… Diane gaped, incensed, at the words.

“You will regret that remark,” I said evenly. “And you are never to speak of your condition in front of the children again, or you will have me to deal with-and I am not so easily influenced as His Majesty.”

Fleming retorted, “Mary, Queen of Scots, is my sovereign, Madame. I answer only to her.”

Diane stepped forward and slapped Fleming swiftly, resoundingly. Fleming shrieked and pressed her hand to the offended cheek.

“Forgive my outburst, Madame la Reine,” Diane said, glowering at the startled governess, “but I will not suffer such heinous impertinence toward my queen.”

“You are forgiven,” I answered, my gaze fixed on the governess. “Madame Fleming, you are correct: You are Queen Mary’s subject. But I am her guardian, which makes me your employer. I would counsel you to remember that.”

I turned my back to her and called for Monsieur d’Humières, who appeared, groveling. Fleming, her eyes filled with tears from Diane’s stinging blow, her tongue bristling with Scottish curses, hurried out of the room toward the common chamber and the children.

I said, “Monsieur, please make sure that she goes to her own room and remains there until I give orders to the contrary.”

“At once, at once, Your Majesty,” he said, and the three of us returned to the common nursery.

In keeping with her abysmal judgment, Fleming had gone directly to Mary, and as the puppy and the other children quailed, stormed, and wept in front of her. Mary at first stroked the puppy in her arms, but as Fleming continued her tirade, Mary grew quite still, her expression darkening.

When Diane and I approached, with Monsieur d’Humières preceding us, the governess fell silent. Mary scowled at us.

“How dare you,” she said, her voice low and shaking. “Madame de Poitiers, how dare you strike Miss Fleming! Apologize at once!”

“There is no need for an apology,” I countered firmly. “Your governess gave ample provocation. Madame Fleming, go to your chambers and await word from me.”

Mary bristled. “She will do nothing of the kind. I want her to stay here.”

I studied the tableau-the furious girl, the weeping governess, François frightened into hiccups, Elisabeth hushed-and sighed. “Mary,” I said, “there can be no winner when two queens argue. But you are still a child, and I your guardian.” I turned to the agitated Monsieur d’Humières. “Monsieur, please escort Madame Fleming to her room.”

“No!” Mary cried. She hurled the puppy to the floor with such vehemence that the poor thing yelped.

Elisabeth picked the little dog up and saw that it was not hurt. The temperamental act-involving as it did an innocent creature-set my teeth on edge. I whirled on Mary, ready to chastise her, but she let go a torrent of words.

“She will do as I say! I am twice queen, and born to it-not a commoner, a merchant’s daughter who made a match far beyond her station!”

Thus I learned how I was perceived-by the Scots and by the Guises, who were waiting for the moment their niece would take the throne of France. Suddenly fierce, I stepped up to Mary and, gazing deep into her hostile little eyes, said very softly, “Yes, I fought my way up from a lower station-all the more reason for you to fear me, my spoiled girl. I will win.”

Her lips pursed at that, but she recoiled without answer. I turned to Elisabeth and said, “The dog is now yours.”

In the end, I summoned one of my own guards to escort Fleming to her room and prevailed upon Monsieur d’Humières to confine Mary to her own chamber. When my husband at last arrived in the nusery with the Guises, limping on his bandaged ankle but cheerful, I allowed Mary to come out so long as she agreed to behave.

Madame Fleming’s name did not surface in the conversation. But several times during that long morning, I caught Mary studying my face, her eyes narrowed by a yearning for vengeance.

Twenty-six

Given the unpleasantness in the nursery, I waited to share my news with Henri; that evening, I invited him to my chambers.

He arrived limping on a crutch, thinking that I had invited him to my bed despite his injury. Once the door was closed, I took him into my arms and returned his kiss. He smelled of wine and was flushed from having drunk more than usual, most likely to dull the pain from his ankle.

When I drew back from the embrace, I said, “Henri, before we become distracted… I have both happy and unhappy news to share with you.”

He tensed at once. “Well, then. Let me hear the unhappy news first.”

“The happy is better first this time, I think. I am pregnant again, dear husband.”

As eager as I was to tell him, I was also reluctant. Each time he had learned I was carrying a child, Henri had forsaken our marriage bed, underscoring the reality that he had relations with me solely to produce heirs.

He grinned, teeth flashing against his dark beard, and wrapped his arms around me. “Once more you delight me. And what a good mother you are; I saw, in the nursery, how well the children behave.”

He kissed me repeatedly-I giggled at the tickle of his wiry beard-then I pulled away and grew solemn.

“Ah,” he said. “Now the unhappy news?”

“Now the unhappy,” I confirmed. “Janet Fleming is pregnant as well.”

His eyes widened with shock in the instant before he turned his embarrassed gaze downward. He dropped his arms and took a step back.

I gestured at a chair. “Please sit, Your Majesty. This matter bears discussion.”

He sat down hard; the impact forced a breath from him. “How did you… How did you learn this? From Diane?”

“No. From Madame Fleming herself.”

His jaw slackened. “She said it outright to you?”

“She is quite boastful of it.”

“I had hoped you would never know,” he said, flushing. “I am not proud of it. I can only beg your forgiveness, and tell you that I promised Diane a fortnight ago that I would have nothing more to do with Janet Fleming. And I have kept my promise.”

My manner was infinitely calm. “I did not summon you to accuse you, although I can thoroughly understand Madame de Poitiers’s heartache. I ask rather for your help.”

He stared at me, astonished. “You’re not angry?”

“Only hurt. But there is a matter far more important than my personal unhappiness, or even Diane’s,” I said. “Madame Fleming is so proud of her condition that she has told everyone. Even Mary and the children know.”

“You’re jesting.” He shook his head in amazement. “I can’t believe she would speak of it so freely. How horrible it must be for you. Yet here you are, so calm and understanding…” Something in his tone made me think Diane had not reacted quite as well.

“You must send her away, Henri, at least until after the baby is born. She will only cause you embarrassment-not to mention the scandal she visits on Mary and the Guises.”

He stared out the window as he considered this. “Mary will not allow it,” he said at last. “She loves Madame Fleming.”

“Mary is a child,” I countered, “and must trust you to do what is best.”

He thought for a moment, then gave a slow, reluctant nod. “I will see Madame Fleming sent to the country for her confinement. Of course, I will see that her child is well cared for.”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“I do not deserve such a patient wife. I cannot-” He broke off, suddenly very near tears encouraged by pain and wine.

“Is all well between you and Diane?” I asked softly.

“Since I gave up Janet Fleming,” he answered, “I have been faithful to you alone, Catherine.”

Hope, an emotion long buried, stirred within me. “Did Diane cast you from her bed because of the affair?”

His cheeks grew scarlet, the way they had when we’d first met, when he was a shy, tongue-tied boy.

“Long before it, actually. Almost a year before. She…” He struggled silently as words and emotions warred. “Somehow, I lost her heart. She is so cold sometimes, so distant. I have given her property, and gold, and honors, everything she ever wanted, and more… Yet she turns me away. She tells me we are no longer children, that we no longer need indulge in even the smallest gestures of affection. I find myself begging for a smile.”

I understood his hurt too well. “You have been ill-used for years.”

“I can’t believe that,” he said. “I know that she honestly cared for me. Perhaps she still does. But she is older now, and tired, and I too impatient, so I responded to Madame Fleming’s advances. Like a fool, I convinced myself that this beautiful creature was attracted to me, not to the crown I wear. But she is nothing more than an agent of the Guises, determined to enslave me further to their cause.”

He shook his head in self-disgust. “As much as I despised my father for his faithlessness, here I am an adulterer, played for a fool by women. I should have sought love in the one place where it has always been constant and patient. Do not think I am blind to your suffering, Catherine. Do not think I am not desperately grateful for you.”

He was still seated; I put a hand upon his shoulder and kissed the top of his head. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pressed his face to my bosom. I thought that was the end of our encounter, that he would go, as he always had, and leave me to my empty bed until our child was born. Instead he rose and kissed me tenderly.

“I said once that I could easily love you, Catherine,” he whispered. “And I see now that I do.”

I drew him to the inner chamber, to my bed. There was a poignant sweetness to our lovemaking, that we should have faltered so many times before finding each other.

In the days that followed, I said nothing to anyone, though surely Madame Gondi suspected that things had changed between Henri and me. My pregnancy had been announced, yet my husband still came almost nightly to my room. For the first time, Henri noticed the pearl that hung above my breasts and reached for it-but I drew his hand away and distracted him with kisses.

Although Diane de Poitiers no longer possessed the King’s heart, she continued to possess enormous political power, and my husband lacked the will to cast off her yoke. In public, we played out a great farce: Honors were still paid to the King’s mistress, and I was treated as second to her-when, in fact, my husband and I had become lovers. In private, Henri and I discussed Diane’s pervasive control of the government and how he might reclaim it, but he lacked the will and the heart to upset her. He did, however, resist giving her any more riches and honors.

Diane’s response was to draw closer to the Guises. Unfortunately, during the Fleming affair, Henri had agreed to appoint the golden-haired François of Guise to be his Grand Chamberlain. The Chamberlain oversaw the running of the King’s apartments and was always in possession of the keys; in addition, his signature was required on certain royal documents. It was a position more of status than of power, but if anyone could use it to seize more of the latter, it was Guise.

Henri did not tell me of the appointment until it was a fait accompli. He rightly surmised that I would object and chose to wait until we were in bed together after an evening of gentle lovemaking. He kissed my belly and spoke sweetly to the child inside me. I was thoroughly charmed and smiling-until he abruptly confessed to Guise’s appointment. The news brought me out of the bed and onto my feet.

Henri waited until I had vented my displeasure, then argued that a move against Diane and François of Guise would upset the delicate balance at Court and throw the government into confusion. That was true, so I calmed and discussed with him what was best for France. Unfortunately, he did not agree that Diane’s and the Guises’ conservative Catholicism presented the greatest danger; he agreed with them that Protestantism should not be tolerated at all, which frightened me.

From that time on, I grew fearful of the conflict that would come if the Guises’ desire to persecute the Protestants was indulged, but I let myself be mollified during my pregnancy by Henri’s doting caresses and pushed away all thought of impending political catastrophe.

When our new son was born, Henri was present, laughing and squeezing my hand. Edouard-Alexandre was healthier than my other children, and Henri and I freely lavished affection upon him. Edouard was by far the most handsome, and his presence always reminded me of the loveliest days of my life. Henri and I spent much time together in the nursery, and Henri spent an hour every evening discussing affairs of state with me.

Such an idyll could not last long. When Edouard was only a few months old, my world was again shaken.

For years, my husband had exchanged insults with Emperor Charles, who had held the child Henri and his brother prisoner. A rational man, Henri resisted going to war for slight cause; however, in 1552, the year after Edouard was born, my husband yielded to pleas for help from German princes who hoped to oust the Emperor from their country. They were Lutherans, outraged by the Catholic Emperor’s attempts to suppress their religion.

To my astonishment, Henri cooperated with them, agreeing to weaken the Emperor by fighting him on France’s northeastern border with an eye to reclaiming the towns of Cambrai and Metz, among others. If Diane saw any irony in the King’s rush to aid Protestants in order to defeat a good Catholic, she said nothing. Henri decided that French soldiers would go to war.

And he intended to join them. This terrified me, for it meant that he would leave behind the safe haven created by the onyx talisman hidden beneath Diane’s bed.

My anxiety was not helped when I received a letter from the venerable Luca Guorico in Rome. Ser Luca was greatly respected for his work in judicial astrology, the branch that studied the influence of the stars on the fates of individuals. When my great-uncle Giovanni de’ Medici was only fourteen years old, Luca Guorico had predicted that he would become Pope-and indeed, Uncle Giovanni became Pope Leo X. Guorico had also predicted Alessandro Farnese’s ascension to Pope, and his death, with uncanny accuracy.

When Madame Gondi placed an envelope from Rome into my hands, I broke the wax seal with trepidation. Inside was a letter to me and a second sealed letter, folded into thirds, addressed to my husband.

Your Most Esteemed Majesty, Donna Caterina,

Please forgive my boldness in writing you, and not your husband directly. I have heard that His Majesty is indisposed to heed the advice of astrologers, and so I turn to you for help, for I know that you are quite knowledgeable about astrology and sympathetic to its aims.

I have charted the progression of your husband’s stars over the course of the next several years. As a result, I am convinced of the need to warn King Henri to exert extreme caution at certain times and in specific situations.

The danger to His Majesty is great. May I prevail upon you, Your Majesty Donna Caterina, to present the enclosed letter to him, and to use your influence to persuade him to heed its advice?

The temptation to break the seal on the second letter and read it was nearly overwhelming, but I set the letter aside and waited until Henri came to my chambers to discuss the affairs of the day.

When he entered my room, I handed him the sealed document in lieu of a greeting. “You have received a letter from Rome, Your Majesty. From Luca Guorico.”

“Do I know him?” he asked wearily, settling into a chair as he took the letter. He had spent a long day in his cabinet discussing plans for the war, first with his loyal old friend Montmorency, then with François of Guise-the two advisers were so politically opposed that Henri did not meet with them together, as the discussion would quickly degenerate into argument.

“The famous astrologer,” I prompted. “The one who said my uncle Giovanni would become Pope.”

“Ah,” he said dismissively and slipped the letter into his belt. “I will deal with the machinations of fate later. I am done with serious thinking for the day.”

“Please!” At the unintended sharpness in my voice, he glanced at me in mild surprise. “Please,” I said more gently, “will you not at least look at it?”

“Catherine, you brood too much about these things.”

“Monsieur Guorico also wrote to me.” I settled into the chair beside him. “He has discovered something in your stars and means to warn you.”

“Warn me of what?”

I looked pointedly at the letter in his hand. “He did not tell me.”

“I will read it then,” he sighed. He opened the letter and scanned it. As he read, a line above the bridge of his nose gradually deepened.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “He warns me against single combat-against duels, not battles, so there is no danger in my going to the front. And it is nothing I need worry about for many years.” He refolded the letter and stuffed it into his belt.

It was impertinent even for a queen to violate the King’s privacy, yet I could not restrain myself. “Please, Henri, I must know what he has told you.”

“Look at the fear in your eyes,” he chided. “You have gotten yourself agitated over nothing. Why do you continue to believe in such things?”

“Because astrology is like medicine, Henri-a gift from God to aid the suffering. I have seen the proof with my own eyes.”

He snorted. “It’s that sickly looking magician who shadows you like a ghost. Why do you surround yourself with such people? There’s nothing of God in him-he looks more like he speaks daily to the Devil.”

“Monsieur Ruggieri saved my life in Florence,” I countered hotly. “He gave me a talisman. I never would have survived without it.”

“You would have survived just as well with nothing.” Henri shook his head. “That man fills your head with strange notions. I’ve a mind to send him away.”

The French doors leading to the balcony were shut; night had left the glass unrevealing, but I studied a point far beyond it.

“When I was a girl,” I said quietly, “just before the rebels imprisoned me, Ruggieri gave me a talisman for protection.” Henri began to interrupt, but I stayed him with my hand. “He also told me that I would never rule Florence. He said that I would move to a strange land and marry a king.” I did not add what had finally convinced me: Ruggieri’s summoning of my dead mother, and her prediction that Ser Silvestro would rescue me. Henri remained silent, but one corner of his mouth quirked with ill-concealed skepticism.

I continued. “He also spoke to me about the dreams that have tormented me since that time. I dream that you lie bleeding and I must save you, but I don’t know what to do. You speak to me in French-and always did, even before I learned the language. The day we first met, I recognized you, because I had already known you for years.”

“Catherine…” Henri’s tone held both disbelief and dawning amazement.

“I have tried…” I faltered as a wave of emotion broke over me. “All my life, I have tried to understand what I must do to protect you. It’s what God means me to do. So don’t scoff, and don’t push me away.”

“Catherine,” he said, this time gently. He could see that I was distraught and took my hand.

Tears slid down my cheeks, though my voice remained calm. “That’s why I wanted Ruggieri to come to France-to save you from evil, not to bring it-and that’s why I’m so curious to know what Luca Guorico told you. I would die for you, Henri.”

I did not say, I have already killed.

We were silent a long time-I, struggling to gather myself, he, clasping my hand.

“Then we will not send Monsieur Ruggieri away, since his presence comforts you,” he said at last, “though I do not believe in his methods.” He took the folded letter from his belt and handed it to me. “Because you are so desperate to help, I will not hide this from you.”

I unfolded it with an unpleasant thrill.

Your most greatly esteemed Majesty,

My name is Luca Guorico. Her Majesty Donna Caterina may have told you that I am a horoscopist who focuses my art on determining the fate of illustrious persons.

After studying your stars, I must warn you urgently to avoid all combat in an enclosed space. Duels and single combat present the greatest peril, and could lead to a mortal blow to the head.

This danger remains constant but will be magnified greatly a few years hence, in your fortieth year, as the result of an evil aspect made by Mercury to Mars as the latter moves through your ascendant, Leo the royal lion. I warn you in hopes that foreknowledge and caution will allow you to survive this treacherous period. This is quite possible, for my investigation has revealed that you survived an earlier period of comparable risk without incident.

May God bless and guide you and see you safely through all hazards.

For a few moments, I sat with the letter open on my lap before turning to Henri, who now sat beside me.

“Promise me that you will never go to war again,” I begged.

His brows lifted. “Of course I’m going. I must lead the troops. Didn’t you read the letter carefully? War doesn’t occur in enclosed areas, and I’m not challenging anyone to a duel.”

The same anguished helplessness I felt in the dream tugged at me. Henri was so close, yet there was nothing I could do to keep him there beside me; he would-like my mother, my father, Aunt Clarice, and King François-slip too easily from life into shadowy memory.

“War is unpredictable. What happens if you find yourself in a building, faced by a single assailant?” I demanded. “If I lose you…”

“Catherine,” he soothed. “We’ve only just found each other, after all this time. I promise that you won’t lose me. Not now.”

“Then take a talisman with you.”

“I need no such thing,” he answered gently. “If God sent you to protect me, then He will hear you. Pray for me, and that will be enough to bring me home safely.”

He would not listen when I tried to explain that God did not hear my prayers.

Twenty-seven

Before he left for the war in the northeast, Henri appointed me his regent. With the country mine to run, I discovered that I had both the taste and the aptitude for it. My memory was keen, and I enjoyed the exercise of recalling each word uttered by Henri’s advisers. Coupled with my gentler, more diplomatic method of governing, this talent won me support and admiration. I pored over each letter Henri or his generals sent from the front and made sure that funds and supplies were constantly available for them; I even grew bold enough to offer military advice.

Victory came quickly; within months, the towns of Toul, Verdun, and Metz were ours. My husband distinguished himself in battle, as did François of Guise, and the campaign further solidified the friendship between them.

Henri left for war in late January and returned to my arms in late June, brimming with optimism. By August I was pregnant again. This time I did not remain sequestered in my chambers or the nursery but sat in on cabinet meetings with Henri and his ministers. Montmorency and Diane soon learned that I was no longer the silent, invisible Queen.

Henri began to spend more time with the First Prince of the Blood, Antoine de Bourbon. I approved heartily of this, for Bourbon despised the Guises. He was also a Protestant again by that time, as was his wife, Jeanne. I hoped that Henri’s relationship with the man would soften his prejudice against non-Catholics.

While Henri spent more time with Bourbon, I spent a good deal of time with Jeanne. She assisted the midwife at the birth of my daughter, whom I named Marguerite, in honor of Jeanne’s mother, though we all called her Margot. In the difficult hours before Margot’s birth, Jeanne confessed that she had just learned of her own pregnancy.

My dark-eyed, dark-haired Margot, as precocious and stubborn as her own mother, was born on the thirteenth of May, 1553. Jeanne’s son, Henri of Navarre-named to honor both his grandfather and my husband-was born seven months later, on the thirteenth of December. I remained beside Jeanne throughout her labor, just as she had stayed with me throughout mine. And when I first held her squalling newborn son, love pierced me as keenly as if he were my own.

Even then, I believed the two children were linked by fate. When Jeanne’s father died a year later, leaving her Queen of Navarre, she chose to remain in France for her son’s education. Little Henri, or Navarre, as I sometimes called him, grew up at the Court and spent his days playing with my children in the royal nursery and sharing their tutors. He and Margot became especially attached to each other.

For many years, I would not understand just how intricately their fates were intertwined, or how deeply both were bound to the coming bloody tide.

This is how a dozen years of my marriage passed. As I lived them, I perceived them to be difficult and tumultuous, but perspective has revealed them to be sweet and halcyon compared with the evil that followed. I was deeply relieved that Henri did not return to war, though he and Emperor Charles remained enemies. Shortly after Margot’s birth, a new queen ascended the throne of England: Mary Tudor, champion of Catholicism, determined to purge her country of the Protestant blight. Perhaps we should have been glad of the fact, but when Mary wed King Philip, uniting the thrones of England with Spain to create an invincible military giant, I grew uneasy.

Three years after Margot’s birth, I became pregnant again. My stomach grew so distended that I soon realized I carried more than one child. A strange dread settled over me during my confinement. I had labored hard to forget my crimes, but the memory of them began to overwhelm me. My fear was underscored by an event in the last moments of my last pregnancy.

Henri had continued his father’s tradition of collecting a copy of each book printed in France; my librarians knew to bring works of interest to my attention.

Such was the case with a volume titled Les Prophéties, written by Michel de Nostredame-in the Latin, Nostradamus-a physician renowned for saving victims of plague. Monsieur de Nostredame’s work consisted of hundreds of verses-four-lined quatrains-each of which contained a prophecy. The references were oblique, arcane. I understood little of what I read until I reached the thirty-fifth quatrain.

On a warm night in June, I was lying propped up against the pillows in my bed, uncomfortable and sleepless because of the weight in my belly and the relentless kicking of two pairs of little legs. I had chosen to give birth at the Château at Blois, and that night, the dank air rose from the Loire River, bringing with it the stink of decay. I had trouble balancing the heavy book on my swollen stomach and was about to give up the effort when I turned the page, and my gaze fell upon these lines:

The young lion will overcome the old, in

A field of combat in a single fight. He will

Pierce his eyes in a golden cage, two

Wounds in one, he then dies a cruel death.

I sat up with a gasp, recalling the words penned by the great astrologer Luca Guorico:

I must warn you urgently to avoid all combat in an enclosed space. Duels and single combat present the greatest peril, and could lead to a mortal blow to the head.

Fear wrung my midsection like a sponge. I cried out at the sudden physical spasm and let the heavy book slide off my lap.

The labor of childbirth had always gone easily for me, but the agony that gripped me now was malicious, dire and unknown. I climbed out of the bed, but when my foot touched the floor, pain felled me.

I went down shrieking for Madame Gondi, for Jeanne, and, most of all, for Henri.

I am stout in the face of pain, but this labor was so cruel and protracted that I thought I would die before the first infant was born.

Jeanne sat beside the birthing chair, and Henri visited me at the beginning of the labor, gripping my hands when the pains worsened and encouraging me throughout the long morning and into the heat of the summer afternoon. We pretended that the added agony I experienced augured nothing ominous, that it was only because there were two children instead of one. My longest previous labor had endured ten hours-but when ten hours had passed, then twelve, without progress, our anxiety increased. When the evening lamp was lit, I was no longer able to maintain a cheerful front. Henri paced helplessly until I grew peevish and told him to leave. Once he had gone, I lost myself to the pain, barely aware of Jeanne’s soft, perfumed hands bearing cool compresses, of the midwife’s whispered instructions. I fainted, and woke to find that I had been spirited from the wooden chair to my own bed.

The first infant, Victoire, arrived at dawn, almost thirty-six hours after the initial excruciating spasm. She was weak and grey, with a sickly mewl, but her arrival brought joy to Jeanne and the midwife, who thought that this signaled the end of my travail. But her birth brought only a glimmer of relief before the savage pain returned.

I slid into delirium. I cried out for Aunt Clarice, for Sister Niccoletta, for my dead mother; I cried out for Ruggieri. I must have called out for Jeanne, for when I came to myself, she was clasping my sweaty palm.

The hairline part at the center of the velvet drapes glowed with dying orange light. I felt the midwife’s rapid breath upon my legs, smelled a familiar perfume, heard soft weeping. I wanted to tell Jeanne that I was going to name the second girl for her but found I could not speak.

The lamplight caught the curve of Jeanne’s cheek, turned the crimped curls at her temple into a glowing halo. Her voice was stern, as if she were explaining a hard fact to an unreasonable child.

“Catherine, the midwife must remove the baby now, to save your life. Squeeze my hand, and yell if you must. It will be over quickly.”

I gripped Jeanne’s hand. The midwife’s deft hands added to my anguish; I ground my teeth when her fingers found the unborn child inside me and remained silent when I felt that child turned.

The midwife’s hands came together inside me, clutching little limbs. They moved swiftly, sharply; I heard-no, felt-the crack of tiny bones and screamed at the realization that the little girl was still alive, and they were maiming her, killing her, in order to save me. I flailed and shrieked and thrashed against those who wept as they held me down.

I wailed at Jeanne that God was punishing me because I had purchased my children with the darkest magic. I begged her to let me die instead, to put things right; I begged her to go to Ruggieri, to have him undo the spell.

I remember nothing more.

The infant Jeanne died at birth as a result of the wounds inflicted by the midwife. I hovered in feverish limbo for two weeks, then rose from my bed to learn that Victoire, the twin who had survived, was dying.

I went to my tiny, gasping daughter. For three days I sat in the nursery, holding her in my arms, staring into her pinched yellow face, feeling as though my heart were melting and spilling out all my love onto her. I whispered apologies into her perfect little ear; I begged for forgiveness. She breathed her last with her father standing close beside us.

I sat motionless by the infant’s body for hours. No one, not even the King, disturbed me.

In my sorrow, I did not see the pane of light that appeared when the nursery door was cracked open; I did not hear the feather-light tread upon the marble. But I sensed someone beside me and looked down at my elbow to see a little boy plucking my sleeve. It was Henri of Navarre, then two and a half years old, his round head covered with dark curls, his little brow furrowed with worry.

“Tante Catherine,” he lisped. “Chére Tante, don’t be sad.”

“But I must be sad,” I told him. “Your little cousin Victoire has died.”

“Ah,” he said, considering this, and fidgeted a bit before adding: “But she didn’t know us, so she won’t miss us in Heaven.”

I could answer only with tears.

Stricken at the sight of them, he exclaimed with anguished sincerity, “Poor Tante! I can pretend to be one of the babies that you lost. And I promise to be very, very good.”

I put my arms around him.

“My little Henri,” I said. “My darling, my own.”

Ruggieri and a thousand others sent condolences the following day, but I was of a mind to receive no one. Instead I summoned Madame Gondi to my cabinet and dictated a letter to Michel de Nostredame of Provence.

During the weeks I awaited a reply, I began again to dream.

Twenty-eight

I received the great prophet Nostradamus as I would a dear friend or relative: informally, in the comfort of my antechamber. As the door swung open to admit him, I sat alone beside the cold hearth-I had dismissed everyone, even Madame Gondi-and forced a wan smile.

He entered limping, leaning heavily upon a cane; evidently, God was more interested in relaying visions of an ominous future than in relieving gout. He was astonishingly unremarkable-looking: short, stout, and grey-haired, with an unfashionably long beard and drab, worn clothing rumpled by travel.

“Madame la Reine,” he said, in the soft voice of a southerner; his face was round and fair, his eyes, gentle and devoid of self-importance. He had been born a Jew, but his father had converted to Christianity and adopted the most Catholic of surnames, in honor of the Virgin. He removed his cap and, balancing precariously on his cane, bowed; his thinning hair spilled forward to hide his face.

“I am honored and humbled that you would summon me,” he murmured. “I pray to be of service to you and to His Majesty in whatever manner pleases you. Ask for my life, and it is yours.” His voice and hands trembled. “If there is any question of heresy or devilry, I can only say this: I have endeavored all my life to serve God alone, and wrote down the visions at His express bidding.”

Madame Gondi had told me that he had been obliged to move from village to village in Provence to avoid arrest; I realized, with a surge of compassion, that he was terrified. For all he knew, he was walking into an inquisitional trap.

“I do not doubt that, Monsieur de Nostredame,” I said warmly, smiling, and extended my hand. “That is why I have asked for your help. Thank you for traveling such a distance, in your discomfort, to see us. We are deeply grateful.”

He let go a shuddering sigh and tottered forward to kiss my extended hand; his hair brushed softly against my knuckles. As he straightened, he turned his head and caught sight of the window; he forgot his nerves entirely and grew very focused, very calm.

“Ah,” he said, as if to himself. “The children.”

Outside, on the sprawling grassy courtyard, Edouard and little Navarre were tearing after Margot, ignoring the warnings of the governess to slow down. It was midmorning, hot and sultry, yet strangely grey; dark clouds had gathered early over the river Loire in anticipation of a sudden August storm.

I managed a faint smile at the sight. “His Highness Prince Edouard likes to chase his little sister.”

“The two younger ones-the little boy and girl-appear to be twins,” the prophet said, his sloping brow furrowed.

“They are my daughter Margot and her cousin, Henri of Navarre.”

“The resemblance is remarkable,” he murmured.

“They are both about three years old, Monsieur; Margot was born on the thirteenth of May, Navarre on the thirteenth of December.”

“Tied by fate,” he said. He looked back at me with pale grey eyes that were very large and frankly piercing, like a child’s. “I once had a son,” he said sadly, “and a daughter.”

I had heard of this: Renowned as a healer and physician, he was famed for saving many sick with plague-but when his own wife and children were stricken, he had been unable to save them.

“Forgive me for mentioning my own sorrow, Madame la Reine, but I learned recently that you mourn the loss of two little girls. There is no worse tragedy than the death of a child. I pray that God will ease your grief, and the King’s.”

“Thank you, Monsieur de Nostredame,” I said, then changed the subject quickly, so that I might not cry. I gestured at the chair across from mine, with the footstool placed there expressly for him. “You have suffered enough on my behalf. Please sit down. Shall I tell you when the children were born?”

“You are too gracious, Your Majesty. Yes, that would be lovely.” He settled into the chair and propped his foot up on the footstool with a little groan.

“Do you require pen and paper, Monsieur?” I asked.

He tapped his forehead. “No, I shall remember. Let us start with the eldest, then.”

I told him the specifics of the boys’ births. I did not give him the girls’, as, under Salic law, a woman could not ascend the throne of France.

“Thank you, Madame la Reine,” Monsieur de Nostredame said, when we were finished. “I will give you my full report within two days. I have already done some preparations, since the dates of the boys’ births are widely known.”

He did not make as if to rise, as one might have expected; he gazed at me with those clear, all-seeing eyes, and in the silence that followed, I found my voice.

“I have evil dreams,” I said.

He tilted his head-intrigued, but not at all surprised. “May I speak candidly, then, Madame la Reine? I am not the first astrologer to chart the children’s nativities. You already have this information, do you not? You called me here for another reason.”

I nodded. “I’ve read your book,” I said and recited the thirty-fifth quatrain, about the lion dying in a cage of gold.

His gaze grew clouded. “I write what God bids me, Madame la Reine. I do not presume to understand its meaning.”

“But I do.” I leaned forward, no longer hiding my desperation. “My husband-he is the lion in the verse. I dreamt-” My voice broke.

“Madame,” he said gently, “you and I understand each other well, I think-better than the rest of the world understands us. You and I see things others do not. Too much for our comfort.”

I turned my face from him and stared out the window at the garden, where Edouard and Margot and little Navarre chased one another around green hedges beneath a hidden sun. I closed my eyes and saw instead a great scorched battlefield, where my husband thrashed, drowning, in a swelling tide of blood.

“I don’t want to see anymore,” I said.

“God does not give us that choice.”

“The King will die,” I said, with faint heat. “That is the meaning of the thirty-fifth quatrain, is it not? My Henri is destined to die too young, a terrible death in war, unless something is done to stop it. You know this; you have written of it, in this poem.” I leveled my gaze at him. “And I have dreamt, since I was a small girl, that a man who cried out to me in French would die in a pool of blood upon a battlefield. I did not know who this man was until I met my husband.”

“I am sorry, Madame,” he responded sadly. “If God has sent you these visions, you must strive to discover why He has done so. You have the responsibility.”

“I have a responsibility to keep the King safe,” I said. “I have a responsibility to my children. And I have spent my life trying to understand, trying to learn what I am to do.”

Monsieur de Nostredame lowered his gaze to the pattern on the carpet. His expression remained placid; he might have been praying.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “you are meant to do nothing. Perhaps you are meant only to write your visions down.”

My tone grew brittle. “Or perhaps not all of your prophecies come true. Perhaps they are meant as warnings, just as my dreams are warnings, so that danger can be averted. Is that not possible, Monsieur?”

He did not look up. His features had grown slack, his breathing slow and deep.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, his eyelids fluttering. “How the blood wells! How it streams from his face!”

“Yes,” I whispered, then more loudly: “Yes. But this danger can be avoided. The future can be changed, can it not?”

“Yesterday, today, tomorrow,” he murmured, “all are the same in the Almighty’s eyes. Just as one cannot change the past, so one cannot change the ordained future.”

My hands tensed upon the arms of the chair. “My husband has been warned that he could sustain a mortal wound in battle. His stars are instructive: If he avoids battle and does not lead his men into war, then he will be safe. This is the very basis of astrology, Monsieur. You must tell me whether war is coming again for France. You must tell me what can be done to stop it.”

“War comes,” he said. “War always comes, and there is little you or I can do to stop it.”

“But surely you know when,” I said. “When did you first have this vision of the two lions, Monsieur? Many years ago?” I told myself that it must have come before Ruggieri had cast the spell using the prostitute’s blood, before we had made Henri safe.

“Five years ago,” Monsieur de Nostredame replied. “But even now, I see it with the eye of spirit. The prophecy holds.”

“This cannot be true! Please, Monsieur… Henri is my life, my soul. If he dies, I would not want to live. You must tell me what more I can do.”

His eyes snapped full open. His stare was wide and frank. “One does not thwart God, Madame.”

“But God is merciful.”

“God is just,” the prophet answered softly.

“And He listens to prayer,” I countered. “Therefore, if one beseeches Him heartily enough-”

“As Christ beseeched Him, in the Garden of Gethsemane?” His tone remained gentle. “Prayed to be spared a bitter death-knowing that crucifixion was inevitable?” He shuddered, then just as abruptly went limp in the chair. When he spoke again, it was with another’s voice.

“These children,” he sighed. “Madame la Reine, their stars are marred. These children should not be.”

I put a hand to my heart, where the pearl hung, and feigned anger. “What a horrible thing to say to a mother. What a cruel thing.”

He ignored the lie. “The tapestry of history is woven of many threads, Madame. Let even one be exchanged for another that is weak and flawed, and the veil will tear.” His eyes, now fire-bright, focused on me. “The veil will tear, and blood be loosed, more blood than you have seen in any dream. Reparations must be made.”

I stared at him, sickened. No doubt, with the eyes of spirit, he saw her just as I did: the prostitute, her dull eyes wide at the touch of Ruggieri’s blade against her throat. Yet I could not bear to confess the truth aloud, even to him.

I whispered, “I do not understand…”

“You think that you are heartless, Madame,” he said. “Far from it. Beware of tenderness. Beware of mercy. Do not spare those who have your heart. Even so, restitution will not come easily. More blood will be spilled.”

Restitution: He spoke of Henri and the children, I knew. He wanted me to abandon my loved ones. He wanted me to undo the spell. I rose abruptly, forcing him to emerge from his reverie, to fumble for his cane, to struggle to his feet.

“Our audience is over, Monsieur,” I said coldly. “You are quite right-I have many astrologers and have no need of your services at this time. Please rest tonight at Blois before continuing on your way. May your journey home be pleasant, and may God protect you.”

He looked on me with empathy so deep it broke my heart.

“It was hard,” he whispered. “So hard, when I lost my wife and children. But it was God’s will, Madame. God’s will.”

It was the man who spoke, not the oracle, but I could not bring myself to reply. Seething, imperious, I rang for Madame Gondi, then watched as she led the prophet away.

I returned to my chair, lowered my face, and dug the tips of my fingers into my brow, my temples. I remained thus, my mind and emotions a swirl of confusion, until a peculiar instinct prompted me to rise.

I went to the large window overlooking the courtyard where the children were playing. There had been some emergency: Edouard and Charles were shouting and pointing at a pile of rocks while the governess comforted wailing Margot. The situation must have been serious, for Jeanne herself had appeared on the grassy lawn and was kneeling beside her son, talking to him.

Nostredame appeared, leaning hard upon his cane, and made his way laboriously across the lawn until he stood a polite distance from Jeanne. He spoke to her; whatever he said made her rise and smile, then watch curiously after him as he retreated. The sight filled me with dread: Other than Ruggieri, Jeanne was the only person who knew I had resorted to dark magic in order to conceive. How much more horrified would she have been had I confessed that I had bought my children with the blood of others?

I hurried out of my apartment and down the spiraling stone staircase to the courtyard. By the time I had crossed the grassy lawn to arrive at Jeanne’s side, the seer was gone, no doubt on his way to his guest chamber.

“Maman!” six-year-old Charles bellowed rudely, so excited that he had forgotten his manners. “Maman, Margot was almost bitten by a snake!”

My shock was genuine. “A snake? Where is it now?”

“Gone,” Edouard said, as I deflated with relief. “Margot climbed onto that pile of rocks”-he pointed-“and while she was standing there, Henri told her to get down, because the snake was near her foot, ready to bite her!”

“Henri!” I exclaimed. “How good of you to save Margot!”

Little Navarre blushed and turned back to his mother’s arms. Jeanne gave him a squeeze and beamed proudly. “He’s a brave, good boy,” she said.

I turned to give Margot a hug and listen to her excited rendition of the story; when she was done, Edouard whispered in my ear.

“The snake was under the rocks, Maman. Little Henri couldn’t have seen it. None of us could see it until Henri took a stick and pushed the rock away. But he knew exactly where it was. He told Margot to get away from it.”

I smiled indulgently, certain that I was listening to a child’s embellished tale. “How amazing.”

“Henri sees things,” Edouard hissed. “Things that aren’t there.”

“Very good,” I said, my tone dismissive. I signaled for the governess to collect the children and distract them so that I might speak to Jeanne privately.

Jeanne looked after her son with a faint smile. “The snake was more frightened than the children, I think; it escaped at the first opportunity. My Henri must have glimpsed it coiled beneath the rock.”

“Monsieur de Nostredame,” I said. “What did he say?”

“What?” She blinked. “Oh, is that his name?” Her tone grew amused. “He fancies himself a soothsayer. I was offended at first by his forwardness, but he was pleasant enough.”

“Yes,” I said, impatient, “but what did he tell you?”

She gave a little laugh. “He made the somber pronouncement that I had given birth to a king. And I said, ‘But Monsieur, I am Queen of Navarre-so of course my son shall one day be King.’ It was all rather funny. What a silly little man.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes. What a silly little man.”

Monsieur de Nostredame spent one night at Blois. His carriage left at dawn, and when I rose from my bed later that morning, I found that he had left me a quatrain, scrawled in a looping hand:

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 was sorely tempted to cast it into the fire; my heart had already been shattered by the deaths of the twins, and Nostredame had dared to pierce it again.

Instead, I refolded it and put it in a compartment hidden in the wainscoting on my cabinet wall.

Those who have never lost a child at or before birth think that the grief would be less than for an older child or an adult, but they fail to account for the peculiar ache of loving someone one has never known. I cloistered myself in the months after the twins’ deaths, refusing to hold audiences or ride on the hunt or even to eat with my family. When my husband asked whether he might resume his evening visits to my chamber, I produced excuses until he stopped asking. I endured the regular company of no one but my necessary ladies, and my friend, Jeanne.

I conferred once with Ruggieri, who could not entirely hide his jealousy that I had summoned the famous Nostredame. Even if Monsieur de Nostredame had foreseen my husband’s death, Ruggieri said, the future was malleable. The seer was wrong: God indeed heard prayers. I did not have the heart to ask him whether the Devil heard them, too.

Twenty-nine

My husband’s longtime nemesis, the old and ailing Emperor Charles, unofficially abdicated in January 1556, leaving his brother Ferdinand to rule the German countries and his son, Philip, to rule Spain, Naples, and the Low Countries. I was happy to hear the news, thinking it would bring peace.

But war came in my husband’s thirty-ninth year. One of Philip’s viceroys, the Duke of Alba, launched an attack on the entire southern region of Campania in Italy. Alba’s army secured the area with startling speed and began marching toward Rome.

The new Pope, Paul IV, remembered the horrors wrought on the Holy City by invading Imperial troops more than two decades earlier. Terrified, he begged my husband for military aid.

Henri acquiesced, and sent François of Guise to Campania in his stead, at the head of a large army. Guise was a brilliant strategist and swore not only to protect Rome but to take Naples for France. We had great hopes that the campaign would go swiftly, but our Italian allies failed to produce either the funds or the men they had guaranteed.

We soon discovered that Alba’s attack had been part of a trap: Once we sent Guise and his army to Italy, Philip’s Imperial ally, the Duke of Savoy, invaded the region of Picardy, on France’s northeastern border with the Empire.

Henri sent his old friend Montmorency to lead the fight against Savoy’s invaders. Montmorency took with him his nephew, the brilliant but arrogant Admiral Gaspard de Coligny. Before leaving for Picardy, they conferred with the King and decided upon a strategy that Coligny swore could not fail.

In the final, brutal days of August, Montmorency and his men met the Imperial invaders at the French stronghold of Saint-Quentin, near the banks of the river Somme. My husband was a day’s ride away; in spite of my protests, he had insisted on being close enough to the battlefield to stay in constant touch with Montmorency. I served as the King’s regent in Paris, only two days’ ride from the front, a fact that made the citizens apprehensive.

I was at supper with Jeanne and the children when a messenger appeared at the door. Haggard and gasping from his long ride, the young officer wore an expression of total despair; before he could utter a word, I excused myself and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind us.

“What news?” I demanded, rigid with dread.

“I come from His Majesty,” the young man gasped, and I went limp with relief.

“The King is well?” I asked.

“The King is well,” he confirmed. “But our army has suffered a terrible loss at Saint-Quentin. A third of our men were killed… and Constable Montmorency and his top officers have been captured and are on their way to a Spanish prison.”

I closed my eyes at the news. I grieved for the dead, but at least their suffering was over: I mourned more for Montmorency and the humiliation and torture he would now endure.

“The King,” I said. “Tell me that he does not plan to rally the troops, to lead them himself in the fight against the Duke of Savoy.”

“His Majesty is returning to Paris to confer with advisers. He has sworn to avenge this defeat.”

My legs threatened to give way; I pressed a hand to the wall and leaned heavily against it. “Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you…”

I heard only that Henri was coming home to Paris-to me. Tears of relief stung my eyes; I believed, foolishly, that my husband would never return to the battlefield and would be spared.

I did not know, then, that Montmorency’s imprisonment would bring about the very thing I most feared.

King Philip of Spain was not the brilliant strategist his father had been. He should have ordered his troops to march directly to Paris, which they could easily have captured; instead, he ordered his men to take several small northern towns-a waste of time that worked to our advantage. Winter loomed, forcing Philip’s men to retreat.

In the interim, my Henri returned home. I scarcely saw him: He spent the entire day closeted with his advisers, discussing plans too secret to share with his wife. Henri aged quickly during those bitter months: shocks of white appeared at his temples, lines beneath his eyes. His smile, which had once come so easily, now was infrequent and haggard.

I worried at a distance. The nursery was my only distraction-and even that joy was tempered by disappointment. François was almost fourteen, the age his father and I had been when we had married-but my son was still mentally and physically a child. His sister Elisabeth, almost thirteen, seemed years older, and his fiancée, Mary, was at fifteen a brilliant, capable young woman; I did not doubt that, when François inherited the throne, Mary would rule. My second son, Charles, suffered from abscesses and other infections, but physical weakness did not stop him from exhibiting signs of madness: He had to be restrained from biting the other children viciously enough to draw blood-and, during a momentary lapse of the governess’s attention, had managed to break the neck of the children’s little spaniel with his bare hands. My husband replaced the dog with a puppy, with the caveat that it was to be locked away whenever Charles was present. Only Edouard, then six, grew to be strong and tall and kind, like his constant companion, little Navarre.

On a cold winter’s day in Paris, with iron clouds that in any other northern city might have indicated snow, I sat with Edouard and Mary and the little spaniel in my antechamber, whose tall windows looked beyond the dull, muddy trickle that was the Seine River, to the twin towers of Notre-Dame. Mary had learned to be civil to me-she had resigned herself, I think, to the fact that I was healthy and disinclined to die soon-and began to come to my chambers to practice the art of embroidery. Edouard accompanied her that day and played nicely with the little dog, whose antics made us laugh.

On that morning, Mary and I were at work on her bridal gown-a sumptuous creation of shining silk satin in her favourite color, white. It was an odd choice for a wedding gown, especially in France, where white was the color of mourning for queens. Yet Mary stubbornly insisted on it, and I must admit that it flattered her. We were busily stitching white fleurs-de-lis on the bodice when Madame Gondi appeared in the doorway, grinning broadly.

“Madame la Reine!” she called. “Forgive me, but you have a visitor who will not give me leave to announce him! He says that you will be overjoyed to see him.”

I frowned, unable to fathom who might be so rude. “Send him in.”

Madame Gondi stepped aside. A man strode confidently over the threshold, dramatically dressed in a blue velvet doublet cut in the Italian style, with huge sleeves of gold brocade. His head was small for his body, which perhaps explained the large plumed hat covering his riotous curls. He sported a very long black mustache-curling, like his hair-and when he saw me, he beamed broadly.

“Cat!” he cried. “Oh, Cat, how grand you look! How magnificent, Your Majesty!” He doffed his hat and swept it to one side as he bowed low. Then he rose and, spreading his arms wide, approached with the clear intention of embracing me.

I stared at him stupidly for an instant, until something in his eyes, in the curls that recalled childish ringlets, made me drop Mary’s gown and spring to my feet. “Piero! My Piero!”

We embraced, laughing and weeping, while Edouard and Mary watched, astonished. When I pulled back, I pressed my hand to his face. It was no longer plump but manly and weathered from many battles.

“Piero,” I said, in French for the children’s sake. “You were fighting in Italy, with the Duke of Guise. What brings you to Paris?”

“Your husband,” he answered, his arms still about my waist. “He has called me and Monsieur Guise to France. Things were not going so well in Italy, and so he has other plans for us.” He stopped to smile politely at Edouard and Mary. “Are these your son and daughter? What beautiful children!”

“This is Mary, Queen of Scots,” I said, “soon to be the Dauphine.”

Piero’s hand still clutched his huge hat; he swept it dramatically across his body as he bowed very low, his head almost even with his knees. “Your Majesty,” he said. “Please forgive me for failing to be properly announced. I thought only one queen was present. Truly, you are as beautiful as everyone says you are.”

Mary, who was inclined to be sour toward strangers, giggled and tossed her head.

“And this is my son Edouard,” I said.

Edouard scrambled to his feet and executed a polite bow. The excited little dog began to bark at Piero; Edouard picked it up and shushed it.

“Ah, Your Highness,” Piero told him. “You are quite the young man now; you must make your mother very proud.”

I called for Madame Gondi to return the children to the nursery, then linked arms with my cousin and led him on a tour of the Louvre.

After we had wandered about for a bit, and our excitement abated, I asked Piero, “Has the King spoken to you yet of his military plans?”

“I’ve only just arrived,” my cousin said. “I don’t know the precise strategy, but I do know our aim.”

“And that would be?” I pressed.

Piero looked about to make sure we were alone, then said softly, “Why, to seize Calais, of course.”

“Calais!” I exclaimed, then at his shushing, quickly lowered my voice. “Piero, you’re joking!” The northern city of Calais had long been an English stronghold. It was considered impregnable, so much so that a well-known verse said

Then the Frenchman Calais shall win

When iron and lead like cork will swim

I could understand why my husband would want to take Calais: It was beloved by Queen Mary of England, Philip’s wife-Bloody Mary, the people called her now, because of her eagerness to see Protestants killed for their faith. Invading Calais would be a personal affront to her-and thus, to Philip and the Empire. I was terrified at the thought that Henri would provoke the combined wrath of England and Spain; besides, taking Calais was, simply, impossible.

“Not in the least,” Piero countered, a bit indignantly. “Think about it, Cat: No one will ever expect the attack, so the element of surprise will be with us. His Majesty has drawn every last one of his troops from Italy. All of us-along with some mercenaries-will take part in the invasion. We can’t lose.”

“That is what Henri said about Saint-Quentin,” I said witheringly. “Please, Piero… Talk my husband out of this. He wants revenge, because of Montmorency’s capture. But this is insanity. Fighting Spain is one thing; fighting Spain and England is quite another.”

“With all respect, Your Majesty,” Piero said, his swagger replaced by calm determination. “It is not insanity but brilliance. And we will win.”

We went on to discuss other, happier things. I said nothing to the King, who would have been livid to learn that Piero had divulged a state secret. But with each day, my anxiety grew, along with my fear that France would find herself in the midst of war-during the King’s fortieth year.

François, Duke of Guise, arrived at the Louvre later that afternoon to great fanfare. In front of the entire Court, Guise knelt before my husband, who hurried to raise the Duke to his feet and embrace him like a brother. The assembled crowd burst into hurrahs, as though Guise had not failed in Italy.

For weeks, I feigned ignorance of Henri’s plan to storm Calais in the dead of winter, when the intemperate climate discouraged anyone but the greatest of fools from waging war. And when my husband came at last to my bedchamber, late on the night of the first of January 1558, it was not in search of love but rather to confess that he had sent an army to Calais under the command of Guise, with my cousin Piero as his second.

I wanted to chide Henri severely for such a foolhardy venture-but the die was cast. I held my curses and instead told my husband I prayed for success. There was nothing left to do.

I was entirely unprepared when, only a fortnight later, Henri burst into my apartment at midday. I was embroidering with Elisabeth when the wooden door banged against the stone wall like a shot, startling me so badly that I pricked myself. I looked up from my bleeding finger to see my husband, wearing a madman’s grin.

“We have taken Calais!” he cried. “Guise has done it!”

Elisabeth screamed with happiness and dropped her sewing. I flung my arms around him and buried my face in his chest, thinking that my husband would be safe from the danger of the battlefield at last.

Peace came. Stung by the loss of Calais, Philip of Spain agreed to negotiate with Henri for Montmorency’s release; in the meantime, all hostilities ceased.

This time, when François of Guise returned from battle and knelt before the throne, Henri asked him to make whatever request he wished of the Crown and it would be granted-“in celebration of your stunning victory for France.”

By then, Guise was thirty-nine years old-my age, and my husband’s. The privations of warfare had left him looking much older, however; he was now almost completely bald, with skin pitted by the pox and scarred by the bite of swords.

“I have only one desire,” he proclaimed, in a ringing voice, “and that is to see my niece married to your son before God takes me from this life.”

“It is done,” Henri announced, to the courtiers’ roars of approval. “I hereby put you in charge of all arrangements, Your Grace. Do as you please.”

It pleased the Duke of Guise for his niece Mary to wed the Dauphin on the twenty-fourth of April.

First, however, came the issue of the marriage contract. The Scottish Parliament agreed quickly that François would become King of Scotland rather than a mere royal consort; however, if François were to die first, they wanted Mary to rule France as Queen-in violation of Salic law, which barred women from the French throne.

Normally I would have remained silent and left all negotiations to my husband, but the thought of Mary taking precedence over my own sons made me livid. I went to Henri and spoke stridently of the need to protect the Crown for our heirs. He listened silently and patiently, and when I had given thorough vent to my feelings, he smiled gently and took my hand.

“I will not see our sons slighted, Catherine. Mary will never rule France alone.”

“I would prefer she not rule it at all,” I said with asperity. I was so agitated I nearly withdrew my hand.

Henri knew, of course, that Mary and I shared little love for each other, and he wished sincerely that we felt otherwise. But in this case, he agreed with me: In the end, the contract specified that, upon François’s death, Mary’s right to the French throne would be forfeit. It was a condition that sorely disappointed the Guises, but Henri would not be moved.

The twenty-fourth of April dawned red and warm. I had slept little, having spent a good deal of the night comforting my weeping son François, who was terrified of humiliating himself by stuttering or fainting. Morning found me still sitting beside my drowsy son. His eyelids were swollen almost shut, his face was blotched and puffy. I ordered cold compresses and applied them tenderly to his eyes and cheeks.

By noon, all of us in the royal wedding party were dressed-Henri and I sedately, in shades of black and dull gold, so that Mary and our son might shine brightly. The rest of the royal children were there, all wearing their best; Elisabeth, now thirteen and a striking young woman in pale blue velvet-surely next to be married, as Henri was already considering suitors for her hand-made sure the younger ones behaved themselves as princes and princesses ought. With the exception of Mary, who waited out of sight in an alcove, we assembled at the main entrance of the palace. The bride’s uncles were outfitted grandly. The Cardinal of Lorraine wore scarlet satin and a large cross covered in rubies. The architect of the celebrations, the Duke of Guise, had dressed from head to toe in silver and diamonds, as if he were the bridegroom.

The sight of my François in his fine gold doublet was pathetically touching. His height matched that of his nearly eight-year-old brother, Charles; his head was too large for his body; and his high-pitched voice was still a boy’s. Even so, he had managed to effect an air of regal dignity. When Elisabeth bent down to kiss her older brother’s cheek and pronounced him “as handsome a man as I have ever seen,” Henri’s eyes filmed with tears, and he reached for my hand and squeezed it.

Several coaches festooned with white satin and lilies awaited us in the courtyard. Henri and François climbed into the first carriage; when they had rolled out of sight, Mary emerged from inside the palace.

She was a dazzling, dark-haired angel in white satin and sparkling diamonds, with a jewel-encrusted golden coronet upon her head; we all gasped at the sight of her. She smiled, knowing the impression she made; her massive train sighed upon the cobblestones as she made her way toward the waiting carriage, despite the two demoiselles who struggled valiantly to hold it aloft. Once she was settled inside with her two young attendants, I climbed in. We crossed the Seine to the Island of the City, the Ile-de-la-Cité. Our destination was the palace of the Cardinal de Bourbon, next to Notre-Dame.

There, our wedding party began its slow public procession. Guise had overseen the construction of a wooden gallery leading from the steps of the Archbishop’s palace to the steps of the cathedral. It was covered in purple velvet, from floor to ceiling, and decorated with Mary’s white lilies and silver ribbons; inside stood foreign dignitaries, ambassadors, princes, and courtiers, all eager to get a close look at the bride. The Cardinal led the procession with François. Mary followed a good distance behind, arm in arm with the King. I came next, at the head of my children, followed by Diane and my ladies. François of Guise and his brother came last.

The smell of fresh timber evoked memories of the day, long ago, when I was a frightened, vulnerable bride. The crowd gasped appreciatively as Mary passed them while jubilant Parisians roared outside. I smiled to see my cousin Piero, dashing in a uniform of dark blue, and was taken aback when my gaze caught Cosimo Ruggieri’s. He looked exceptionally fine-if one could say such a thing of an ugly man-in a new doublet of dark red brocade edged in black velvet. Red and black, reminders of blood and death, of what had been required to reach this place, this moment.

He was smiling brightly-an incongruous expression on such a pale, ghostly visage. I grinned back at him with a sudden welling of affection, knowing that, without him, I would not have survived, would not have seen my son born. Our glance held more intimacy than any I had ever shared with my husband.

Our party emerged from the gallery and ascended the steps of Notre-Dame in full view of the wooden amphitheater holding thousands of joyfully noisy citizens, contained by Scottish guards and fences. Guise had decided that Mary should be wed not inside the cathedral but outside, for the sake of the crowd. The Cardinal halted at the great central entrance, the Portal of Judgment, beneath the magnificent Rose West window, a medallion of stained glass and stone. François stopped an arm’s length from the Archbishop, then turned toward the crowd and waited for his bride.

When Mary arrived to stand between my son and the King, the people fell silent. The ceremony was brief. When the Cardinal demanded of the groom and bride a vow, the Dauphin miraculously answered without a single stammer; Mary’s reply was strong and assured. The King produced the ring-a simple gold band-and handed it to the Cardinal, who slipped it onto Mary’s finger. The Cardinal paused-the cue for the Dauphin to kiss his lovely new bride.

But Mary cried loudly, unexpectedly, “All hail François, King of Scots!” She knelt and bowed low, her white skirts pooling about her.

It was a brilliant bit of theater. The citizens, already dazzled by Mary’s poise and beauty, thundered their approval of such humble deference toward their future king.

I glanced over my shoulder at the nobles who had congregated behind us on the cathedral stairs. Every face radiated appreciation for Mary’s lovely gesture-save one. Cosimo Ruggieri stood unfooled and unsmiling. In his black eyes, on his white face, was the same dark intensity he had worn thirty years ago in Florence, when he had uttered an ugly word.

Betrayal…

After the ceremony, we returned to the Cardinal’s palace for the traditional feast, followed by a ball. I was standing beside Mary when her uncle François of Guise came to lead her to the dance floor. He was already inebriated and whispered far too loudly in her ear:

“You are Queen of two countries now.”

Mary seemed amused and directed a sly, feline smile at me as Guise escorted her away.

The sun was setting when we returned over the bridge to the Louvre, Mary borne upon a litter, the dying light painting her skin and dress a brilliant coral. We were exhausted when we returned to the palace, but Guise was not done with his lavish spectacle. We were ushered to the Louvre’s grand ballroom. The King made his appearance in a clever little mechanical boat decorated with lilies and white satin, and equipped with silver sails. Accompanied by nautical music, the boat glided across the marble floor as if floating upon the sea; it made its way over to Mary. My grinning husband helped her into the little boat, then the two of them slowly circled the ballroom, to the marvel of the guests.

As they sailed away from me, a second boat appeared, with my son aboard. I did not relax my public smile as I settled beside him on the velvet cushion, but I let go a weary sigh as I kissed his cheek.

“Are you very tired, Maman?” he asked. His eyes were drooping from exhaustion, but he was in good spirits and obviously greatly relieved that he had survived the ceremony.

“A little,” I said and patted his knee to reassure him. “But not so tired as you are.”

He nodded in grave agreement. “Isn’t Mary beautiful?” he asked suddenly.

“She is,” I replied and hesitated. “François… You know that Mary is a very opinionated young woman.”

“Yes,” he said, with blithe innocence. “She can be very stubborn.”

“Which is why you must learn to exert your will forcefully with her; otherwise, when you are King, she will try to rule in your stead.”

He dropped his gaze at once. “Mary loves me. She would never do anything bad.”

“I know,” I said patiently. “But when your father and I are gone, and you are King, you must remember that you alone can make decisions.”

Even as I spoke, François spied his bride riding alongside Henri and waved frantically until he caught her attention. She blew him a kiss, and he grinned stupidly at her until her little boat moved out of view.

“François,” I said, “I will ask you to make only one promise to me, ever.”

He looked up at me, his eyes wide and ingenuous; he had already forgotten what we had been discussing. “Of course, Maman!”

I drew in a long breath. “Promise me that, when you are King, you will not let Mary make the decisions. Promise me that you will listen to your advisers instead.”

“The Guises will be my advisers, won’t they? And Mary always agrees with them. So of course, I will promise you.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

“Thank you,” I said tenderly. “You are a good son.” And with a sinking heart, I realized that I could not afford to die so long as my eldest son lived.

Thirty

The wedding celebrations continued for five days, with pageantry and circus; they concluded with the customary jousting tournament. Tradition required that the bridegroom take part in the last joust of the day, but François’s ill health made his participation impossible; he sat with Mary, Diane, and me in the stands to cheer his athletic father on.

I suffered through another banquet hosted by François de Guise, then retired to my chambers. To my surprise, Henri arrived not long afterward.

He bent down as I stood on tiptoe to kiss him. His face was still flushed and his cheek warm from the joust; his skin smelled of soap. I scrutinized him carefully: He had come with no amorous intent; indeed, he sagged back in the chair and sighed with exhaustion. A tired man would simply have gone to his own bed.

“What is troubling you, husband?” I asked bluntly. We were both too fatigued by the recent celebrations to waste time with formalities.

His feigned smile fled. He turned his face toward the hearth, empty now in late spring, and sighed again.

“It’s François,” he said finally. “And Mary…”

I had not asked about the wedding night; I had been too afraid. My eldest son had miraculously survived the marriage ceremony, but I dared not hope he could survive the marriage.

“You know I was required to be a witness,” Henri began. “If it had been another boy, a healthy, normal boy, perhaps it would not have been difficult. But given that it was our François…

“It was terrible.” His voice was a low monotone as he stared dully into the blackened, empty hearth, where the chambermaid had set a large crystal bowl of white lilies in honor of the wedding couple. “I had explained things about… you know, about the marriage bed, to François. And I thought he understood well enough. But when I arrived, and he and Mary were underneath the sheets together… Well, he just lay there. I had to whisper to him that he was supposed to take her, but he answered that he was far too tired.

“I was so ashamed,” Henri continued. “I seized his shoulder and said in his ear that I was not the only one waiting; there was the Cardinal, too, who had to report to the Pope. Then he grew upset, and had one of his fainting spells, there in the bed. I had to call for the physician, who advised that we wait until morning.”

“Poor Henri,” I said, shaking my head. “Poor François… Could anything be done?”

“The next morning, François declared himself indisposed,” my husband said unhappily. “But there were other affairs to attend, and Mary wouldn’t tolerate his missing any of them. I endured endless jokes about the newlyweds’ first night together… But how could I tell anyone the truth of it? How can I ever?”

I put my hand gently on Henri’s forearm. “Did anything…”

“Did anything ever happen?” he finished for me, without humor. “Yes, something, on the second night. Let us just say that François made the attempt but lacked the determination to finish what he had started. He was frightened, poor boy, and unwell, and I left him sobbing in Mary’s arms. So I lied to them all-lied to the Cardinal, who came in after me and found them in what he assumed to be a nuptial embrace. I will swear before God to anyone who asks that the marriage was consummated. But I fear Mary might have said something to Diane. And if she knows…” He shook his head at the thought.

“Oh, Henri, how awful for all of you.”

“It is awful.” He turned toward me at last; yellow lamplight glinted off the silver strands in his hair and beard. “I’ve said everything I can say to the boy. So I’ve come to you- He loves you so, Catherine, and you’ve always been better at explaining things to him. Could you…?”

“I’ll go to him,” I said quickly. “He must understand how critical it is to produce an heir.” I put my hand upon his and smiled. “After all, I still remember what it’s like to soothe a nervous young man in the bridal chamber.” My tone grew serious again. “But you must set the Guise brothers straight on the issue of succession. They think to make themselves kings. If word gets out of the Dauphin’s behavior, the question of succession might arise. If it does, it must be clear to everyone that the Bourbons are next in line to the throne. The Guises must be put in their place. Otherwise, there will be unrest-perhaps even war.”

My husband’s expression subtly hardened. “They’ve been too full of themselves. I can scarcely bear François of Guise’s preening anymore; I do so only for Mary’s sake.”

“Mary must know,” I said smoothly, “and her uncles must know, that if there is ever a question, the Bourbons take precedence over them. If you die, if I die, how would François ever stop the two families from killing each other?”

Henri nodded thoughtfully. “What you say has merit. I will think on it, Catherine.”

I looked at him, at the faltering resolve in his eyes, and knew he would do little. Still, I had planted the seed, and could only hope that time would water it.

I rose and laid a hand upon my husband’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to our son,” I said softly. “Don’t worry. He and Mary will have sons, many sons, and this palace will be filled with our grandchildren. That I promise you.”

Henri smiled up at me. “Of course,” he murmured. “Of course.”

But when I looked into his eyes, I saw the truth that was surely reflected in my own: There would be no children.

My words about trouble with the Bourbons quickly proved prophetic: On the fourteenth of May, the First Prince of the Blood, Antoine de Bourbon, mounted his stallion and led four thousand Protestants on a march through Paris. One afternoon, I stared out the windows of the Louvre and saw what appeared to be an army of hymn-singing civilians marching over the bridge from the Ile-de-la-Cité. Henri was outraged-as were the good Catholic Guise brothers.

I summoned my friend Jeanne, Antoine’s wife, and told her I felt betrayed to think that someone in the Court knew of such plans and had failed to warn the King. Jeanne was, like me, a queen and did not take kindly to my insinuation. She had not known, she claimed, and with a burst of temper added:

“Surely you, of all people, understand that a wife cannot always control her husband’s public actions, nor can she be privy to all his secrets.”

Her remark stung. Though we parted with polite words, we became distant from that moment on.

Shortly after Henri’s visit to my chambers, I summoned Ruggieri.

“Once again, the question of producing an heir has arisen,” I told him, annoyed at my own embarrassment. “The Dauphin requires… help. To instill lust.”

The morning light was unkind to the magician, showing all too harshly his sickly pallor, his scarred cheeks, the shadows beneath his eyes. “A simple talisman, perhaps?” he asked.

“That would be suitable, yes,” I answered. The room seemed suddenly close and warm.

He nodded; a stranger would have thought his expression ingenuous, innocent. “Might it also be salutary to have two talismans: one for health, one for fertility?”

“That would be fine,” I said, a bit irritably. “So long as-”

“Yes, Madame la Reine,” he said with consummate courtesy and a nod. “So long as no one is harmed. I understand.”

“Very good,” I said. “You may go.”

Tall and still thin, in a black silk doublet that fit too loosely, he rose and bowed, but as his fingers touched the door, he turned to face me.

“Forgive me, Madame la Reine,” he said. “Forgive me, but should the talismans fail to produce a child…?”

My voice grew cold. “They will not fail.”

He cast aside his courtly manners and said bluntly, “Without blood, there can be no guarantee. The talismans of which we speak will bring mild improvement to the Dauphin’s health, and to his sexual desire. Beyond that, the rest is chance.” He did not wilt beneath my withering gaze but added, “I want only to be clear.”

I rose from my desk. “Never again. That is what I told you fifteen years ago. Do not make me repeat it.”

He bowed low and left quickly, closing the door behind him. I stood listening to the sound of his rapid steps dying in the hall.

Within a fortnight, Madame Gondi delivered a small bundle to me, wrapped tightly with ribbon. I opened it: Upon the black silk, two talismans-one of ruby, one of copper-hung from a single cord.

François accepted the necklace without question and swore that he would neither speak of it nor show it to anyone, including Mary.

The next morning, I was urgently summoned to the King’s chamber. It was early-I had not yet finished dressing and hurried my ladies in order to respond promptly.

Henri’s antechamber was decidedly masculine, paneled in wood and furnished in brown velvet and gold brocade. Over the mantel was the gilded relief of a salamander, the emblem of Henri’s father, François I. In front of the cold hearth, Henri stood waiting, silent and motionless, until the valet departed.

His lips were taut with contained rage, his eyes narrowed with fury. He was a very tall man, and I a very small woman; I sank into a low curtsy and stayed there. “Your Majesty.”

Such a long silence followed that I at last dared to lift my gaze.

Henri was holding out his hand. In his open palm lay the necklace with the ruby and copper talismans I had given François.

“What is this, Madame?”

“A simple charm, Your Majesty,” I answered smoothly. “For the Dauphin’s good health.”

“I will not have my son involved with this-this filth!” He flung it into the empty fireplace. “I will have it burned!”

“Henri,” I said quickly, rising, “it is a harmless thing. It is a good thing, made according to a science based on astronomy and mathematics.”

“It is a heinous thing,” he retorted. “You know how I feel about such things. For you to give this to our son…!”

I bristled. “How can you believe that I would give my own child something harmful?”

“It’s that magician of yours. He’s poisoned your mind, made you believe that you need him. Let me warn you now, Catherine, that things will go more easily for you if you dismiss him today, now, rather than later!”

“I have no intention of doing so,” I said, indignant. “Do you threaten me, Your Majesty?”

He let go a long, unsteady breath and calmed himself; dark earnestness replaced his anger. “Two months ago, I petitioned the Pope so that I might organize a French Inquisition.”

I froze.

“Last week, His Holiness granted my petition. I appointed Charles of Guise as head. Can you imagine, Madame, how I felt when the good Cardinal dropped that thing”-he gestured in disgust at the fireplace-“into my hand? How he must have felt when his frightened niece Mary brought it to him?”

Mary, crafty Mary; I should have known that François could hide nothing from her. “So what will you do, Henri? Will you bring your wife before a tribunal for questioning?”

“No,” he said. “But if you were wise, you would tell your magician that the King’s Court is no longer a safe place for him.”

Heat rose to my cheeks. “Were you to arrest him, would that not bring ugly attention to me? Would it not start rumors that would only harm the Crown?”

“There are ways to do it without implicating you,” he replied coldly. “You have been advised, Madame.”

I called Ruggieri to my cabinet that afternoon. I did not give him leave to sit-there was no time-but held out a velvet purse filled with gold ecus.

“The King has organized an inquisition; you will be one of its first victims. For my sake, take these,” I said. “Ride far from Paris and remain a stranger wherever you go. There is a carriage waiting at the side entrance. The driver will help you gather your belongings.”

Ruggieri clasped his hands behind his back and turned his face from me. There were no windows in my tiny office, but he seemed to find one, and looked far beyond it at a distant scene.

“For your sake, I cannot go,” he said, then settled his arresting gaze back on me. “Matters grow dangerous, Madame la Reine. The King’s fortieth year is upon us.”

“There is no war,” I said lightly. I set the velvet purse upon my desk, midway between us. “And if war comes, I will not let Henri go. You know this, Monsieur. Do not test me.”

“I would never do so,” he replied. “But consider this: There can be battle even when there is no war.”

“What are you saying?” I demanded. “Do you tell me now that your magic was worthless?”

He remained maddeningly calm. “Every spell-no matter how powerful-has its limits.”

A thrill coursed down my spine. “Why do you hurt me?” I whispered. “I’m trying to help you.”

“And I you. For that reason, I will not leave until the very moment my life is threatened.”

I made my eyes, my voice, my bearing hard and imperious. “I am your Queen,” I said. “And I command you to go.”

With unspeakable rudeness, he turned his back on me and strode to the door, then paused to glance over his shoulder. I caught a flash of wildness in his eye, of the Devil I had seen more than thirty years before, when someone in a hostile crowd had grazed me with a stone.

“And I am Cosimo Ruggieri. Devoted to you, Caterina de’ Medici. I will not desert you until forced to do so.”

He left, closing the door softly behind him.

I did not speak to Ruggieri for days; his words and his insolence rankled me at the same time that they provoked my worry, for him and for Henri. In the interim, I was not without my spies, who kept close watch over the King and the Cardinal of Lorraine.

Late one summer night, my sleep was disturbed by a knock at my chamber door and the movement of a flickering lamp. I murmured drowsily and turned my face away from the light.

At the feel of fingertips upon my arm, I opened my eyes to see Madame Gondi, her face golden in the lamp glow, still in her nightgown, a shawl thrown over her shoulders.

“Madame la Reine,” she hissed. “You must wake up! They are coming for him!”

My body woke instantly; I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat, my bare feet dangling. My mind did not respond quite as quickly.

“What is it?” I murmured. “What has happened?”

“The officers of the Inquisition. They are sending men to seize Monsieur Ruggieri-at dawn, if not sooner!”

I willed myself to consciousness. “I must go to him myself and warn him,” I said. I knew Ruggieri would listen to no one else.

Madame Gondi’s eyes widened in horror. “But, Madame…”

“A carriage,” I said quickly. “One without the royal crest. Have it brought to the rear of the palace, then come help me dress.”

The light cast by the carriage’s dual lamps was too feeble to dispel much of the darkness on that moonless night; the street was silent save for the clatter of our horses’ hooves against stone. Madame Gondi rode with me, at her insistence. Like me, she had dressed all in black and veiled her face; it hovered above her body, indistinct and ghostly behind the gauze.

We did not ride far; Ruggieri lived on the street hemming the western side of the Louvre. Our carriage came to rest along a row of three-story narrow houses, crammed side by side. After a moment of stealthy exploration, the coachman found the correct number, 83, then fetched me from the carriage. I stood beside him at the entrance as he knocked, persistently but discreetly.

After a time, the door cracked open, and a wizened old woman, her uncovered hair in a long white braid, scowled through the slit above the flame of a candle.

“For love of Jesus and the weeping Virgin,” she hissed. “What breed of mannerless bastard dares disturb decent folk at such an hour?”

“I wish to see Monsieur Ruggieri.” I stepped into the wavering arc of light cast by the flame and lifted my veil.

“Your Majesty!” Her mouth gaped, revealing a dozen jagged brown teeth. The door swung wide.

I turned to the coachman. “Stay here,” I said.

I passed over the threshold. The old woman was still kneeling, in such a state of shock that she crossed herself repeatedly with one skeletal hand while carelessly clutching the candle in the other, far too close to the disheveled braid that fell onto her bosom. I leaned forward and gently pushed the braid out of harm’s way, causing her to start.

“Is Monsieur Ruggieri still abed?” I asked softly.

She nodded, stricken.

“Do not wake him, then,” I said, “but lead me to his door.”

The sweep of candlelight revealed nothing to indicate a magician’s lair-only sparsely furnished, unremarkable rooms, punctuated randomly by stacks of leather-bound books, some open. The smells of mutton, raw onions, and charred wood emanated from the kitchen.

The old woman halted in front of a closed door. “Shall I knock, Your Majesty?”

“No,” I said. “I’ll wake him.” I shot her a pointed look. “We shall require privacy.”

I refused the candle and waited until she retreated down the hallway, then entered the bedchamber and closed the door behind me.

The curtains had been drawn, leaving the room utterly dark. Disoriented, I paused, drawing in the scents of male flesh, rosemary, and frankincense, my imagination manufacturing a thousand hideous things that might be lurking here, in a magician’s bedchamber. In the stillness, I heard not the deep, restful breath of slumber but quick, muffled gasps. I sensed movement, the sudden looming of a figure toward me.

“Ser Cosimo,” I whispered.

“Catherine?” The figure halted its approach. Quick footsteps followed, muffled by the carpeted floor, and a match flared as Ruggieri lit the lamp at his bedside.

His black hair fell tangled about his face; his nightshirt revealed a sprig of dark hair at the neck. His trembling left hand gripped the hilt of a double-edged long knife, the shorter version of a knight’s sword.

“Catherine,” he repeated, gasping. “My God, I might have killed you!” He laid the knife down on his mattress.

My words tumbled out in Tuscan, our native tongue. “Cosimo, must I explain why I have come?” And when he, still overwhelmed, did not answer, I added, “They’re coming for you before daybreak.”

He bowed his head and studied the carpet as though it contained an unutterably poignant message. His mouth worked but could not find the proper words. At last he said, “You will need me.”

“If you stay, it will only hurt us both,” I said. “What would happen to me if you were imprisoned? Or burned alive?”

He looked up at me and, for the first time, had no answer.

I fumbled for the pocket sewn into the folds of my skirt and produced the velvet purse, heavier now than it had first been. “Take this,” I said. “A horse awaits you on the street. Tell no one where you are going.”

He reached for it. I loosened my grasp, thinking he would take it-but he let it drop and instead closed his hand over mine, and pulled me to him.

“Caterina,” he murmured in my ear. “You think yourself evil. I tell you, you are better than them all. Only the strongest, most loving heart is willing to face darkness for the sake of those she loves.”

“Then you and I are kindred souls,” I said. On tiptoe, I pressed my lips to his scarred cheek and was astonished to find the skin there soft and warm.

He brushed the backs of his fingers against my face. “We will meet again,” he said. “Soon. Too soon.”

He bent down to retrieve the purse. I turned and did not look back.

As the old woman with the candle approached, I covered my face with the veil so that she could not see me weeping.

If Henri noticed Ruggieri’s disappearance, he said nothing of it to me. I suspect he was relieved that I had been spared seeing the magician brought before the Inquisition.

Once François of Guise saw his niece safely married to the Dauphin, he returned to battle in the north and snatched the town of Thionville from King Philip’s grasp. My cousin Piero rode at his side-and fell during the attack, his chest shattered by lead shot from an arquebus. He lay bleeding to death in Guise’s arms, and as Guise, ever the good Catholic, begged him to pray that Jesus would receive him into Heaven, Piero answered irritably:

“Jesus? What Jesus? Don’t try to convert me at this late hour! I am only going where all those who have ever died go.”

I wept as Guise, heartbroken by Piero’s heresy, relayed the story of my adored cousin’s death. I felt at that moment that I had lost everyone I had ever loved in my old life: Aunt Clarice, and now Piero; even Ruggieri had vanished.

But the victory brought good news as well. Grieving over the recent death of his wife, Queen Mary-whose attempt to revive Catholicism in England was being swiftly overturned by her half sister and successor, Elizabeth-and financially exhausted by constant wars, King Philip of Spain was at long last ready to make peace. This brought Henri great hope, for he was eager to free his old mentor, Montmorency, from Spanish prison.

Philip offered this: If Henri agreed never to launch another war to seize Italian properties, France could keep Calais and the other northern towns, and Montmorency would be freed. To secure the treaty, our thirteen-year-old daughter, Elisabeth, would marry Philip. After months of deliberation, Henri at last agreed.

I rejoiced that our greatest enemy should now be our friend, and that all cause for war was extinguished-for His Majesty, King Henri II, had entered his fortieth year.

Thirty-one

Elisabeth was married on the twenty-second of June, 1559, at Notre-Dame Cathedral. King Philip chose not to appear for the wedding. “The Kings of Spain,” he wrote my husband, “do not go to their wives; their wives are brought to them.” Instead, he sent a proxy, the dour and elderly Duke of Alba, Fernando Alvarez de Toledo. Don Fernando and his entourage arrived without pomp, in such plain black clothing that Henri was at first affronted, until the ambassador convinced him that this was simply Spanish custom.

We politely ignored the Spaniards’ austerity and proceeded with a ceremony almost as lavish as that of the Dauphin and Mary, Queen of Scots. Grand Master Montmorency was given a prominent place in the procession. He was white-haired now, stiff with age and gaunt in the wake of his imprisonment, but bright with joy to be home in the presence of his King.

On the wedding night, my ladies and I undressed my nervous daughter. She lay down upon the great bed, and I drew silk indigo sheets over her naked body. We ladies retreated; as I stepped out into the antechamber, I passed the Duke of Alba, Don Fernando, clothed in a black doublet, with one legging rolled up to expose a thin white calf.

The King appeared in order to watch an ancient ritual: Don Fernando lay down beside our daughter, rubbed his bare leg against hers, then got up and left the room. The marriage between Elisabeth and King Philip had just been legally consummated.

A week of celebrations followed: parades and spectacles, banquets and masked balls. Through them all, my husband and Montmorency rarely left each other’s side. Finally, the tournaments began. For the jousting lists-the lanes for the horses-workmen had lifted the paving stones from the rue Saint-Antoine in front of the Château des Tournelles, a palace in the heart of the city. They had also built tall wooden stands on both sides of the street for the nobler spectators and draped them in banners bearing the royal arms of France and Spain.

Henri was invigorated by the return of his old friend and relished the thought of participating in the joust, perhaps eager to dispel the notion that, at forty, he was no longer the athlete he had been in his youth. Many a warm day before the wedding, he spent hours engaging in mock tourneys astride his new, magnificent stallion named Le Malheur, Disaster, a wedding gift from his former enemy, the Duke of Savoy.

I, too, had recently turned forty, and the festivities left me exhausted. I did not appear at the first two days of jousting but waited until the third day, when His Majesty was to enter the lists.

The afternoon before, the day turned abysmally humid, and evening brought violent rains, ending all outdoor revels. My bedchamber was hot, and I, strangely anxious; despite my weariness, I resisted sleep. The chambermaid opened the drapes, and and I stood staring out at the dark courtyard, listening to water crash against stone.

When the rain finally eased, I fell into an uneasy dream: I stood again on the scorched battlefield, gazing at the setting sun. In the near distance stood a man, his body dark against an incandescent sky. I saw his silhouette with dazzling clarity-the ridges of armor at his shoulders, the edges of the breastplate covering his heart. His helmet trailed plumes of black and grey.

Catherine, he called.

I ran to him. How can I help, Monsieur? What am I meant to do?

Suddenly he lay wounded. As I knelt beside him, shadowy forms hovered over him, invisible hands lifted the helmet from his head. With it came gushing blood; beneath that crimson spring, a man’s lips formed a single word.

Catherine, he said and died.

I woke to the sound of my whispered scream, and a grey and sultry dawn.

On that last morning of June, I sent a letter to the King before either of us had dressed. At the same time, I tried to reason with my fear: We had ransomed Henri’s life, had we not? But how old had the prostitute been? How many years had we purchased? My mind, normally so swift at mathematical calculation, tried to count them and failed.

If you love me, I wrote my husband, forgo the lists today. I know you scoff at such things, but God has sent me an evil dream. Perhaps I am foolish; if I am, what harm can it do to set my mind at ease? Do this one thing, and I shall be ever grateful and ask for nothing more.

I did not mention the astrologer Luca Guorico’s warning, or the words of Nostradamus; certainly, I dared not write Ruggieri’s name. I sent the letter knowing that Henri would not heed it; he had spent more time in recent days in the Guises’ presence than in mine, as they planned the strokes of the new French Inquisition. His reply came within the hour:

Have no fear on my account, dear wife. You ask that I withdraw from the tournament for love of you; I beg you, for love of me, to put your fears aside and cheer me on today. Tradition bids me wear a certain lady’s colors of black and white, but I will also wear your color, green, next to my heart. This evening, when I return victorious, greet me with a kiss. It will seal our private pact that from this day forth, you will put aside all superstition and trust in God alone.

Your loving husband and most devoted servant,

Henri

When I received the message, my first impulse was to surrender to fear. My second was to calm myself, as there was little I could do: I had a responsibility to my daughter Elisabeth and her wedding guests, and there were many more functions that day requiring my attendance. I told myself that the storm had troubled my sleep and given me a bad dream, nothing more.

I repeated this firmly to myself each time panic loomed. I stood calmly while my ladies dressed me in a gown of purple damask with a bodice of gold; I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, and at my attendants, until I could recall the joy I had felt upon hearing of the truce with Philip, until the gesture became faintly genuine.

In that way, I survived the morning, and there were times as I looked at Elisabeth’s glowing young face that I forgot my worry and my heart brimmed with love.

In the early afternoon, Elisabeth and the dour, unsmiling Don Fernando made their way to the stands and a special box constructed for the “bridal couple.” The rest of us royals headed to the Château des Tournelles. One of its second-floor balconies overlooked the lists where the King would meet his opponents.

As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, anxiety seized me; my heart pounded so rapidly I could not catch my breath. I murmured an excuse to the others and walked across the landing to an open window to take in the warm, heavy air.

While I stood gasping and clutching the windowsill, something moved in the corner of my eye, accompanied by a faint murmur. It drew me, and I stepped away from the window toward it and a tiny alcove hidden from view.

In it stood Gabriel de Montgomery, captain of the King’s Scottish guard, twenty-nine years old and in his prime-tall and muscular, his dark auburn hair brushed back and face clean-shaven, the better to show the magnificent angular lines of his cheeks and jaw. His expression was intent as he gazed down at a young woman, dressed all in white, who whispered earnestly to him. As I neared, he jerked up his head and met my gaze with the wide, guilty eyes of a conspirator.

Mary broke off in midwhisper and looked over her shoulder at me. Furtiveness glimmered on her features and resolved into a disingenuous smile.

“Madame la Reine!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “I shall join you and the others directly. Captain de Montgomery has agreed most kindly to wear my colors today.”

A lovers’ tryst, I thought, and felt hurt and sorrow for my son. But I said nothing-only smiled in return, greeted Captain de Montgomery, and returned to the others.

We took our places upon the second-floor balcony to great fanfare, followed by the cheering of thousands. Every roof, every window was swarming with spectators, eager to see the King joust. I sat between Diane and the Dauphin, who was flanked by his duplicitous wife. The air was stifling and still, adance with the constant flutter of the women’s fans. François was so red-faced and breathless that Mary and I angled our fans discreetly to send him the breeze.

The lesser nobles had finished their jousting the day before. This day, Friday, was reserved for the highest-born and the King. We cheered on dukes and counts as the trumpets blared and the riders bellowed Monjoie!- the French soldier’s victory cry-when they galloped down the narrow lists, separated only by a low fence designed to keep the horses from colliding. We sat so close to the combatants that the noise of the crowd failed to drown out the pounding of hooves and the crash of wooden lances against steel armor. Clods of flying dirt struck our skirts and slippers.

Hours later, the heralds announced the King. He rode out from his pavilion on his gleaming chestnut charger, caparisoned in white and gold, and raised his lance to the roaring crowd. The sight of him, straight and strong in his gilded armor, made my heart swell; with the others, I rose and clapped and shouted my approval.

Henri broke his first lance with his old enemy the Duke of Savoy, and unseated him on the first run. On the second, Savoy’s lance struck the King square in the chest, lifting him from the saddle into the air. Henri clattered to the ground and for an instant lay so motionless that I moved to rise. Diane lightly touched my forearm in a gesture of reassurance-and indeed, in the next breath, Henri rose and waved to the applauding onlookers. The third run ended with both men still mounted. The match was a draw-the perfect outcome, given that my competitive husband did not stomach defeat well but had no wish to endanger his reconciliation with Savoy.

Henri’s second opponent was the Duke of Guise. Out of three runs, Henri was unseated once and managed to unseat Guise once, giving His Majesty another draw.

By then it was late afternoon. The sun had slipped low and heated our west-facing balcony to a beastly degree; even Diane, who rarely perspired, was forced to mop her brow with her kerchief. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the dazzling light and focused on the men below.

The King’s last match that day was with Gabriel de Montgomery, Captain of the Scottish Guard. As it was the final run of the day, the crowd thinned, and several of the noble spectators in the galleries began to leave, hastened by the relentless heat.

Diane was elegantly appointed in black velvet and white satin-the colors of the plumes upon my husband’s helmet and horse.

“Let us hope His Majesty scores a win,” she said pleasantly into my ear. “Captain de Montgomery taunted him when he replied to the King’s invitation. He was eager to break a lance with His Majesty, he said, to see whether he jousted as well in his forty-first year as in his twenty-ninth.”

I glanced at Mary, her fan pumping rapidly as she gazed down at Montgomery riding out onto field. The plumes upon his helmet were scarlet, his sleeves black, his lance striped in the same alternating shades. If he wore Mary’s color, white, I could not see it.

The red of Mars, the black of Saturn.

There can be battle, Ruggieri had said, even when there is no war.

At that instant the Duke of Nemours, who had finished jousting for the day, joined us on the balcony to pay his respects to the Dauphin and his bride. Before he could bow to me, I took his hand and drew him close.

“His Majesty has been unwell of late,” I said into his ear, “and this heat has surely undone him. Please, go to him. Tell him-no, beg him, for love of his wife, to forgo the last match and come to me.”

Nemours, a gracious man two years older than my husband, bowed deeply and kissed my hand. “Madame la Reine, I shall not return without him.”

I waited, breathless, until Nemours emerged from the Château des Tournelles to make his way across the field to the King’s pavilion, at whose entrance my mounted husband was just emerging. At Nemours’s signal, Henri bent low and listened; when the Duke had finished speaking, the King gave his swift reply.

Nemours paused for the beat of a heart, then bowed and crossed the field alone. My husband reined in his handsome steed, Disaster, and guided him into the lists, opposite Montgomery.

I sat frozen as the heralds announced the riders and the trumpets gave the signal for the charge.

“Monjoie!” my husband roared, and Montgomery echoed him. The horses thundered down the lists, and when the wooden lances thudded against steel breastplates, the animals reared, shrieking. Both riders fell. Silent, I kept my hand pressed hard to my heart until Henri pushed himself to his knees. He returned to his horse, wobbling so badly at one point that a groom rushed out of the pavilion to aid him, but my proud husband pushed him away. Montgomery had risen quickly and already remounted.

“Forgive me,” a voice said, and I glanced up to see the Duke of Nemours. “Forgive me, Madame la Reine,” he repeated. “I could not keep my promise. His Majesty bade me tell you: It is precisely for love of you that I fight.”

I could not answer; I was too alarmed by the sight of Montgomery’s weapon: Its dull metal tip, designed to keep the lance from piercing armor or splintering into deadly shards, had fallen off. Surely Montgomery had noticed, too-but rather than return to his pavilion for a replacement, he guided his charger back to the lists and faced the King. Behind him, his armor bearer noted the loss and called to him, but Montgomery seemed oblivious.

By then, my husband had climbed back upon Disaster. So intent was he on victory that he unlatched and raised his visor and, wiping the sweat from his brow, shouted at Montgomery to come at him again.

I stared spellbound, a dreamer unable to move my limbs, to find my voice. Henri lowered his visor but failed to heed the call of his armor bearer to latch it; Montgomery did not hear-or ignored-the hoarse cries of his own.

The crowd, too, had marked the unshod lance, as had the trumpeters, who, despite the King’s shouts, were too distracted to sound the call. Diane again put her hand upon my forearm-in alarm now, not reassurance-but, like the spectators, grew hushed. In the dying light, the white of her gown bled to grey.

The King, too impatient to wait for the trumpets, charged.

I rose. The world was silent save for the battle yell Monjoie! and the drumming of hooves. Montgomery and Henri hurtled at each other, two projectiles, and collided.

Separated by the low fence, the mounts collided at the shoulder and screamed. There came a loud crack like lightning: Montgomery’s lance dissolved in a firework spray of shards.

But Henri did not fall.

He reeled drunkenly and pitched forward, losing the reins, and feebly clutched Disaster’s neck. The horse carried him down the list until the King’s grooms ran out to catch the reins and guide the mount to an open area, where the earth had been torn by the lifting of paving stones and the pounding of hooves. Alongside François of Guise, white-haired Montmorency ran from the King’s pavilion. He cradled my husband’s shoulders and, with Guise’s aid, lowered Henri from the saddle to the ground.

The young lion will overcome the old, in

A field of combat in a single fight. He will

Pierce his eyes in a golden cage, two

Wounds in one, he then dies a cruel death.

He was no royal lion, the Scotsman Gabriel de Montgomery, but he rode that day for young Mary, his Queen.

Colors failed in the waning light. Against the reddening sky, dark figures worked to relieve my motionless husband of his armor. With the help of a valet, Guise pulled off the King’s gilded helmet: with it came a rush of blood. Captain de Montgomery staggered onto the scene and dropped to his knees.

Shrill screams pained my ears: They belonged to Diane, to François, to hundreds of noblemen, thousands of commoners. Beside me the Dauphin swooned and pitched forward in his chair. Mary caught him, her face a mask as white as the gown she wore, but I could not stop to accuse her, or even to help my son. I ran from the balcony down the stairs to the palace entry and out onto the paved driveway.

The black iron gate that led to the rue Saint-Antoine swung open. From the center of a swarm of onlookers, a small, grim procession emerged: Henri, bloodied and still, lay on a litter borne by Scottish guardsmen and flanked by old Montmorency and François, Duke of Guise. I pushed my way to my husband’s side and drew in a sharp breath.

One end of a jagged wooden shard-thick as two fingers, and almost twice as long-protruded from King’s right eye socket; the other end had shattered his skull at the temple and forced its way through the skin just in front of his right ear. The globe of the eye had been punctured, leaving nothing of the white or iris visible, only a dark, congealing mass of blood. A second, smaller splinter emerged from his throat just beneath the jaw, and miraculously had bled little.

I pressed my husband’s hand to my lips. He stirred at my touch and murmured faintly. My numbness fled, replaced by overwhelming horror and hope: Henri’s wound was grievous, his suffering unspeakable, yet Ruggieri’s magic had held. The King was still alive. As he came to himself, he waved for the litter to stop and demanded to be set upon his feet. Montmorency held him fast beneath the shoulders, and François of Guise held up his head; in this manner, my husband staggered over the threshold, a paragon of bravery.

The Dauphin followed on a second litter, still in a faint from which he could not be roused. Mary walked beside him, a vision in white-the color of a queen in mourning-and started as the iron gate clanged shut behind her.

Our sad party made its way up the stairs, to long-unused royal apartments; François was carried to a separate chamber, and his young Queen went with him. Henri was laid carefully upon the bed and his bloodied tunic cut away.

Upon his chest, soaked with sweat and blood, was pressed an emerald kerchief, embroidered with gold fleurs-de-lis by my own hand. At the sight of it, I cried out, then took it and put it next to my heart.

The next few hours were evil ones. The King’s doctor, Monsieur Chapelain, appeared and removed the smaller splinter from Henri’s throat, then probed the wounded eye to see whether he could dislodge the large shard. My husband would not cry out but could not keep from retching during the worst moments. The doctor afterward announced that the shard was fast situated and could not be removed.

Afternoon faded tonight. I hovered at the King’s bedside, watching as Henri’s face purpled and swelled, as his blackened eye began to bulge with trapped blood. Pain left him senseless most of the time, but there were a few moments where he came to himself and spoke sweetly to me. I was only vaguely aware that Montmorency and François of Guise disappeared, replaced by the Chief Inquisitor, Charles of Guise, and the Duke of Savoy.

At dawn, the aging Montmorency, grey-lipped and haggard, came to fetch me. He caught my arms gently and tried to coax me away, saying that I needed rest. I pulled free, stating loudly that I would never leave my husband’s bedside. My words drew Henri from his semidelirium; at his whispered insistence, I yielded and let Montmorency take me from the room. Out in the antechamber, I fell into his arms and we wept together, all differences forgotten.

At my apartments, Madame Gondi awaited me, dressed and alert. I directed her to send for Ambroise Paré, the most famed surgeon in all France. I was convinced that Henri could survive with the proper surgery, so long as he did not yield to infection. Afterward, I dozed for an hour, and woke filled with dread.

At midmorning I returned to the King’s chamber to find Montmorency and François of Guise with him. The swelling on the right side of Henri’s face had reached grotesque proportions, though the eye had been bandaged. Doctor Chapelain had worked throughout the night to keep the wound clean and drained, with some encouraging result: Henri had no fever.

When I sat close at his bedside and called his name, he turned his face toward mine. I thought perhaps he knew me-but his remaining eye, glittering in the lamp glow, wandered.

“The young captain,” he breathed, and I knew at once he spoke of the Scotsman who had dealt him the blow. “He must know I forgive him…”

“Captain de Montgomery has fled,” old Montmorency answered, shooting François of Guise a dark look; the enmity between the two men was palpable. “No one can say where he has gone.”

Later I would learn that the Guises publicly blamed the old man for the King’s injury, arguing that, as Grand Master, he was ultimately responsible for the King’s armor, and thus Henri’s unlatched visor. Montmorency, it seemed, was keenly desirous of questioning the now-missing Scotsman.

“Ah!” the King said and closed his good eye; a single tear spilled from its corner and into his ear. “Diane… Where is Diane?”

“Madame de Poitiers remains in her apartments,” the Grand Master answered. “She is indisposed, Your Majesty, and begs your forbearance.”

I reached for Henri’s hand; he returned my grip with surprising strength. He would not die, I told myself sternly, looking at his long, well-muscled body beneath the white sheets.

“I am here.” My voice caught, but I forced it to steady. “It is I, Catherine.”

“Catherine!” he murmured. “Oh, Catherine, I thought you foolish, but there is no greater fool than I. Forgive me. Forgive me for it all…”

I bent over my husband and leaned my cheek against his chest. The pulse there was the soft, rapid flutter of a bird’s wings. Tears spilled from my eyes onto the linen I felt as though I were melting into him, merging until there was nothing left of me-only his singular heart, beating wildly.

“I blame you for nothing,” I said, “and so there is nothing to forgive.”

“How I love you,” he whispered and began to weep silently. He wound his left arm around my shoulders and pressed me fast against him. I would have killed afresh for him then, would gladly have wielded the knife to shed more blood so that he, Henri, would not endure another second of pain.

That was the one moment I try to remember of those terrible days: The rest was only suffering.

The famed surgeon Ambroise Paré arrived the morning after. Even he was intimidated by so grisly a wound. By that time it had grown pustulant, and my husband feverish. The surgeon was frank: The shard was so firmly wedged into my husband’s skull that any attempt to remove it would be instantly fatal. Not removing it would inevitably lead to infection and death: In short, nothing could be done to save the King.

I sent for the Dauphin, to ensure that he saw his father one last time. Montmorency returned, shaking his grizzled head: François had refused to come. I went to get him myself. Mary sat stone-faced in the Dauphin’s antechamber while my son sat cross-legged upon his bed, moaning and rocking and striking the wall with the back of his head. I pulled him to his feet and led him to his father.

As the King turned his face toward our approach, François let go a wail: the right side of Henri’s face was so grotesquely swollen that the cheek had pressed against the side of his nose, pushing it to the left. His wounded eye-bandaged to permit the jagged shard to protrude two fingers’ width beyond his profile-stunk of rotting meat.

The Dauphin’s eyelids fluttered and his head lolled upon his shoulders; Montmorency and I caught him as he fell. The Grand Master laid him gently in his father’s arms and told Henri that his son had come. At the sound of his old friend’s voice, Henri opened his good eye, then reached out blindly to embrace François. When the boy stirred, Henri whispered: “God bless you, my son, and give you strength. You shall need it, to be King.”

At that, François let go another low wail and fainted again; Montmorency and a valet carried him from the room. Henri’s eyelid closed as he returned to his unhappy rest. I remained on my feet at the King’s side-but, overwhelmed, pressed my hands against the mattress in an effort to hold myself up.

“Catherine,” my husband whispered, his eye still closed. He fumbled for my hand, his touch hot.

I gripped his hand and kissed it. “I am here,” I said. “I will not leave you.”

He let go a groan that was also a sigh. “Promise me,” he said.

“Anything.” My voice sounded deceptively strong.

“Promise me you will protect and guide my sons. Promise me an heir of Valois will always sit upon the throne.”

“I swear it.” Ignoring the reek of pustulance, I kissed his grey lips-lightly, gently, to avoid causing him further pain.

Afterward, he sank into a deep slumber, from which he could not be roused. I kept my promise: I did not leave him but stayed at his side, still dressed in the purple gown I had worn to the tournament. For seven days, he lay blind and speechless, unable to give voice to his agony.

In the early afternoon of the tenth of July, His Most Christian Majesty King Henri II died in Paris at the Château des Tournelles. Once the doctor had pronounced him gone, a gentleman of the chamber ran to part the heavy brocade drapes and push open the window, releasing the stench of rotting flesh. Outside, the air smelled of rain.

The living move swiftly to dispose of the dying: As I lay grieving, my cheek pressed to Henri’s silent chest, Doctor Paré pulled all the bed curtains open with blunt finality. Those who had sat vigil with me that day-François of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine, the Dukes of Savoy and Nemours-left at once to spread the grim news. The corridor filled with murmurs and footfall. I heard the gentle sloshing of water and looked up: Two serving women had arrived, basins in hand, to wash the King’s body.

“Go away,” I snarled and turned from them, only to start at a gentle touch upon my shoulder.

Madame Gondi stood over me, her lovely face swollen from too many tears. “Madame la Reine,” she said softly. “You must come. Please. You will make yourself ill.”

“A few more minutes,” I told her. “Do not take me from him so very soon.”

Her lips trembled. “Madame,” she said, “you have lain here for six hours.”

I planted a kiss upon Henri’s cooling cheek and ran my fingers tenderly over his wiry beard; only then did I let myself be led away toward my apartments. On the staircase, I balked, panicked.

“The children,” I said. “They must be told. The Dauphin must know at once.”

“They already know,” Madame Gondi said gently. “Some hours ago, the Duke of Guise and his brother went to inform them.”

“It’s not right,” I said. “They should have heard it from my lips, not another’s.”

“Come up to your room now, and lie down,” she soothed. “I will have you brought something to eat.”

I had refused food for days and drunk little; when I began to climb the staircase again, the walls started slowly to spin. I gasped and turned to Madame Gondi, but there was only darkness.

I woke to find myself undressed to my chemise, lying in my own bed. The window was open to the midsummer heat and encroaching dusk. Nearby, Madame Gondi stood next to the silver-bearded, portly Doctor Chapelain. On the bedside table was a platter of mutton and boiled eggs, and a flask of wine.

“You must eat and drink, Madame la Reine,” he said, wagging a plump fore-finger in my direction. “And then you will sleep until morning.”

I said nothing. The doctor left, and I took the plate Madame Gondi proffered. I chewed and swallowed the mutton and drank the wine, but tasted nothing: Food was an offense, a bitter reminder that Henri was dead and I was alive, that I should have to eat and drink from that moment forth without him.

It would have been easy, then, to lie down and let sorrow blot out all else. Yet one small ray pierced the growing gloom: the thought of my children. For their sake, I rose from my bed, suddenly desperate to tell them gently of their father’s last hours and to offer what comfort I could. I demanded fresh clothing, so emphatically that my ladies quickly obliged me.

They produced a new dress of white silk damask studded with pearls, with a high ruffed collar of starched white lace. It was a pristine creation, an exquisite mourning gown for a French queen, with a matching hood and a veil of white gossamer. The seamstresses had no doubt worked long, feverish days since Henri’s mishap to complete it.

I spat on it and ordered them to take it away. I called for my gown of plain black silk, the one I had worn when the twins died. But before I could put on my slippers or lower the dark veil, I heard a high-pitched, anxious call in the antechamber.

“Maman…? Maman, hurry, you must come at once!”

Barefoot, I moved as quickly as shock allowed into the next room, where my darling eight-year-old Edouard stood in the doorway leading to the corridor. He was slender, with the Valoises’ long torso and limbs, and his father’s shining black eyes. His expression was one of pure panic.

“My precious eyes,” I said. “My sweet child, what is it?”

“The Duke of Guise and the Cardinal,” he said, his cheeks stained with tears. “They have told François to meet them downstairs. He is to bring Mary, Charles, Margot, and me. They are going to take us all away. They said not to tell you, that they must speak to François alone now that he is King.” His eyes narrowed; he was capable even then of understanding intrigue. “I don’t trust them, Maman. They are friends with that wicked Madame de Poitiers.”

My fingers dug into the sides of his shoulders. “When? When are you to meet them?”

“Now,” he replied. “At the entrance leading to the western gate.”

I gripped his hand. Together, we dashed from my apartments, down the spiraling staircase leading to the ground floor. On the landing, I almost collided with Montmorency. The old man was so stricken by his master’s death that he did not react at all to the fact that I had been running at full tilt down the stairs.

In a voice as dull as his bloodshot eyes, he said, “I came to inform you, Madame, that the vigil in the King’s chamber will commence tomorrow, at nine o’clock. You must rest well tonight, for the coming days will be long ones for you.”

He referred to the mourning vigil kept by all French queens: Tradition bound me to spend the next forty days at the Château des Tournelles, secluded in a darkened room beside my husband’s embalmed body.

But I had vowed to protect Henri’s sons. “I cannot stay,” I answered quickly. “The Guises are taking François away. I must go to him.”

He drew back, for love of Henri offended, but I had no time to explain. I squeezed Edouard’s hand, and my son and I ran down the stairs, through the vast, echoing reception halls to the chateau’s western entrance.

Outside, a carriage waited at the edge of the driveway. The sinister-eyed Cardinal of Lorraine, Charles of Guise, was holding the Dauphin’s elbow as my son ventured the high step into the carriage. The Duke of Guise, Mary, and my two younger children were waiting to follow them in.

Thunder rolled in the distance. François, skittish at storms, jerked and almost hit his head upon the carriage ceiling as he climbed inside. A cold drop of rain stung my cheek, then another.

“François!” I cried-sharply, but as the others turned to face me, I forced the muscles in my face to ease. “Here is the missing Edouard,” I called calmly, as if the Guises themselves had sent me to look for him. “And I shall come, too.”

The Guise brothers’ eyes widened with shock, but they dared say nothing. For an instant, Mary looked at me as though I were an asp that had just stung her, then composed herself and nodded a somber greeting. She was lovely and fresh despite the heat, a glittering vision in her white wedding gown.

“Madame la Reine,” she said. “Should you not remain with the King?”

She referred, of course, to my dead husband, but I pretended not to understand.

“That is precisely what I intend,” I answered, with a nod at François. “As I promised his father I would do.”

She said nothing more but stood silently as the Duke of Guise moved to one side of the carriage door and his brother the Cardinal moved to the other. They held out their hands to me.

“Please, Madame la Reine,” the Duke said and bowed.

“I am no longer Queen,” I told him. “That lot falls to Mary now.”

I stood my ground, holding Edouard’s hand, and waited until the Guises helped their niece-Mary, Queen of France and Scotland-into the coach, to sit beside her husband the King. At last the Guises turned to me.

By then the rain had begun to fall in earnest, slicking the pavement and bringing an abrupt chill to the summer air. I thought of Aunt Clarice-ragged and trembling, yet utterly determined on that frantic ride from the Palazzo Medici-as I set my bare foot down on the wet cobblestone and took the short walk away from the Château des Tournelles, away from Henri and my heart, away from everything past.