The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine de Medici

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  Only wait, and let events play themselves out.

  Your servant,

  Cosimo Ruggieri

  I felt abandoned, betrayed. I gave up my books, made no effort at my studies. In the refectory I sat beside Niccoletta and stared down at my porridge; food had become nauseating, unthinkable. I did not eat for three days. On the fourth day, I took to my bed and listened to the shouts of soldiers, the song of artillery.

  On the fifth day the abbess came to visit. She smelled faintly of the smoke that permeated Florence.

  “Dear child,” she said, “you must eat. What do you fancy? I will see it brought to you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “But I don’t want anything to eat. I’m going to die anyway.”

  “Not until you are an old woman,” Giustina said sharply. “Don’t ever say such a thing again. Sister Niccoletta told me what Sister Pippa said to you. Horrible words, inexcusable. She has been reprimanded.”

  “She was telling the truth.”

  “She was repeating silly rumors, nothing more.”

  Exhausted, I turned my face away.

  “Ah, Caterina . . .” The bed shuddered gently as she sat beside me. She caught my hand and took it between her own cool ones. “You have been through too much, and these are terrible times. How can I comfort you?”

  I want Aunt Clarice, I began to say, but such words were vain and heart-wrenching.

  I looked back at her. “I want Ser Cosimo,” I said. “Cosimo Ruggieri.”

  It was enough, Mother Giustina said, that she had tolerated the astrologer’s one visit and, indeed, that she had permitted me to study astrology although it was an inappropriate subject for a woman, much less a young girl. She had conveyed Ser Cosimo’s letters to me only because he had been a friend of the family. But there were rumors of his alliance with unsavory individuals, and of certain acts. . . .

  I faced the wall again.

  Giustina let go a troubled sigh. “Perhaps earlier, before your aunt died, we should have tried harder. . . . But even then, the rebels watched our every move, read every letter sent you. We could never have gotten you past the city gates. And now . . .”

  I would not look at her. In the end, she agreed to allow further communication.

  Within three days—during which I remained abed but allowed myself a few hopeful sips of broth—Sister Niccoletta arrived at my bedside, fresh from outdoors. A bitter storm had brought freezing rain; tiny beads of ice melted upon her caped shoulders. In her hand was a folded piece of ivory paper, and even before she proffered it to me, I knew its author.

  My esteemed Madonna Caterina,

  The good abbess Mother Giustina has informed me of your malaise. I pray God you will soon find health and cheer again.

  There is no cure for these uneasy times save caution and wit, but I would be happy to provide another talisman should it give you comfort. One under the augury of Jupiter would encourage, in some small way, good fortune, but

  I crumpled the letter into a ball and, while Sister Niccoletta watched wide-eyed, cast it into the fire.

  Afterward, I shunned even broth and water. Within a day, the fever came. Outside my window the wind howled, swallowing the boom of the cannon. The thrill of the sheets against my skin set my teeth chattering; my body ached from the cold, but the blankets gave no warmth. Firelight stung my eyes and made them stream.

  I began to lose myself—lose the walls and the bed and the baying wind. I traveled to the stone wall enclosing the rear of the Medici estate, where the stableboy appeared, miraculously alive, the dagger’s hilt still protruding from his neck; we argued a time over the necessity of his death. The scene shifted: I stood on the battlefield where my bloodied Frenchman lay. During my long and vague conversations with him, murmuring crows huddled before the hearth, casting long shadows over the crimson landscape, speaking senselessly. Perhaps I cried out Clarice’s name; perhaps I cried out Ruggieri’s.

  When, tearful, aching, and uncertain, I discovered I was still in my bed at Le Murate, it was still dusk. The light was still too bright, the fire too cold, the sheets too painful against my skin.

  Barbara looked down at me, one of my better gowns in her arms.

  “You’re better,” she announced. “You should sit up awhile, and be properly dressed.”

  The suggestion was so absurd that I, in my weakness, could not reply. I tried to stand but could not, and sat trembling in the chair while Barbara coaxed my body into the gown and laced it up.

  My bed was too distant, my legs unreliable. I sank back in the chair, unable to fight off the cup lifted to my lips. Cup and chair and Barbara: These things seemed solid at first glance, yet if I stared too long they began to shimmer.

  “Stay there,” Barbara ordered. “I’ll return soon.” She stepped outside and closed the door.

  I clutched the arms of the chair to keep from sliding off, and let myself be dazzled by the fire’s sparks of violet and green and vivid blue.

  The door opened and closed again. A raven stood in front of the hearth—one tall and caped with a hood pulled forward, obscuring its face. Slowly it lowered the cowl.

  I was alone with Cosimo Ruggieri.

  Nine

  I blinked; Ruggieri’s apparition did not fade. He looked older, having grown a thick black beard that hid his pockmarked cheeks. In the hearth’s orange glow, his skin took on a devilish hue.

  Delirious, I trembled in my chair. He could not be standing there, of course. The nuns would never permit him behind the cloister walls.

  “Forgive me if I have startled you, Caterina,” he said. “The sisters told me you were very ill. I see that they were telling the truth.”

  My head lolled against the chair. Speechless, I stared at him.

  “Stay just as you are,” he said. “Don’t move. Don’t speak.” He let the cloak slip from his shoulders and drop to the floor. All black, his clothes, his hair, his eyes—there was no color to him at all. On his heart rested a coin-sized copper talisman, unapologetic magic. He moved to the room’s center, just in front of my chair. Facing the fire, he drew a dagger from his belt and pressed the flat of the blade to his lips, then lifted it high above his head with both hands, the tip pointing at the invisible sky.

  He began to chant. The sound was melodious, but the words were harsh and utterly incomprehensible. As he sang, he lowered the blade, gently touching the flat to his forehead, then to the talisman over his heart, then to each shoulder, right and left. Again he kissed the dagger.

  He then took a step forward to stand an arm’s length from the hearth. He sliced the air boldly, then jabbed the knife in its center and called out a command. Four times he did the same: carving great stars and joining them with a circle. I huddled in the chair, entranced. In my feverishness, I imagined I could see the faint hot-white outline of the stars and circle.

  Ser Cosimo returned to the room’s center and flung out his arms, a living crucifix. He called out names: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael.

  He turned and knelt beside the arm of my chair, his tone gentle. “Now we are safe,” he said.

  “I’m not a stupid child,” I told him. “I won’t be soothed by lies.”

  “You’re frightened of the future,” he countered. “Afraid you don’t possess the strength to survive it. Let us learn something of it together.” He tilted his head and looked into me. “A question. Formulate your fears into a question.”

  Uneasy, I asked, “A question for whom?”

  “A spirit,” he answered. “One of my choosing, for I know those whom I can trust.”

  The skin on my arms prickled. “You mean a demon.”

  He did not deny it but gazed steadily at me.

  “No,” I said. “No demons. Ask God.”

  “God does not reveal the future. An angel might—but angels are too slow for our purposes tonight.” He looked away at the shadows veiling the western wall. “But there are others who might . . .”

  “Who?”

  He stared at me ag
ain. “The dead.”

  Aunt Clarice, I meant to say. But something raw welled up from my core, a hurt so deeply buried that, until that instant, I had never known it was in me.

  “My mother,” I said. “I want to speak to her.”

  The emotion of the moment gave me strength. I got to my feet beside Ser Cosimo and turned toward the western wall, opposite the hearth. Ser Cosimo produced a stoppered vial, opened it, and dipped the tip of his index finger in it, then traced upon my forehead a star.

  I smelled blood and closed my eyes, dizzied. I had gone too far, let myself slip again into the grasp of evil. “There is blood in this,” I whispered and opened my eyes to see his response.

  Ruggieri’s eyes were wide and strange, as if his spirit had suddenly expanded and become a force greater than himself.

  “Nothing comes without cost,” he said and traced a star upon his own forehead, leaving a dark brown smear. Then he sat down at my writing desk.

  “Paper,” he demanded.

  I took a clean sheet from the drawer and placed it in front of him. Before I could move my hand away, he caught it and pricked my middle finger with the tip of the dagger.

  I cried out.

  “Hush,” he warned. I tried to pull away, but he held my hand fast and milked my finger until a fat drop of blood dripped onto the page. “My apologies,” he murmured as he let go and I put the offended digit to my lips. “Fresh blood is necessary.”

  “Why?”

  “She will smell it,” he answered. “It will draw her.”

  He set the dagger down, then closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His head began to sway.

  “Madeleine,” he whispered. My mother’s name. “Madeleine . . .” His eyelids trembled. “Madeleine,” he said, then groaned loudly.

  His torso and arms stiffened and twitched; this continued a moment, until he slumped in the chair and released a harsh, involuntary sigh.

  Of apparent separate volition, his right hand groped for the quill and dipped the nib in the ink. For moment, the pen hovered over the page as the hand that held it jerked spasmodically. Suddenly his hand relaxed and began to write with impossible speed.

  I gaped as the letters poured onto the page. The script was distinctly feminine, the language French—my mother’s native tongue.

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

  My daughter, my beloved, my darling, I adore you

  My eyes filled with silent tears; they sprang pure and hot from a wound I had never known existed.

  A woman, yet greatest of all your House

  You will meet your benefactor

  A question

  The pen hovered over the paper; Ruggieri’s hand trembled. A pause, and then another spasm of writing:

  A question

  “Will the rebels kill me?” I asked. “Will I ever be freed?”

  The hand hesitated, then jerked and began to write.

  Do not fear, m’amie, Silvestro will see you safely returned

  The quill fell and left a dark blot upon the paper. Ser Cosimo’s hand went fully limp, then curled into a fist.

  “What more?” I cried, desperate. “There must be more . . .”

  Ser Cosimo’s head lolled upon his shoulders, then steadied. His eyes opened—blank and clouded—then slowly cleared until he saw me again.

  “She has gone,” he said.

  “Call her back!”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  I stared down at the impossible writing. “But what does it mean?”

  “Time will make it clear,” he said. “The dead see all: Yesterday, today, tomorrow are all the same for them.”

  I lifted the paper from the desk and held it to my heart; Ruggieri, the desk, the floor, suddenly began to whirl. I staggered; the room tilted sideways, and I fell into darkness.

  I woke in my bed. Sister Niccoletta sat beside me, reading the small psalter in her hands; light streamed through the window and glinted dazzlingly off one lens of her spectacles. She glanced up and smiled warmly.

  “Sweet girl, you’re awake.” She set aside her book and laid a cool palm upon my forehead. “The fever’s broken, praise be to God! How do you feel?”

  “Thirsty,” I said.

  She turned her back to me to fuss over a pitcher and cup on the nearby table. I sat up and quickly patted my chest, the last place I remembered putting my mother’s letter, but felt only the silk amulet that held the raven’s wing. I panicked. Had Ruggieri’s visit been the product of a fevered dream?

  I propped myself up with my palms behind me. They slid against the sheets and beneath my pillow, where my fingertips grazed the sharp edge of paper.

  I pulled it out quickly. It was folded in half, with the writing on the inside so that I could not make it out, but I recognized the large blot of dark ink.

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

  As Sister Niccoletta turned with the cup in her hand, I slipped the letter beneath the blankets.

  “I’m hungry, too,” I told her. “Would it be possible to get something to eat?”

  I kept my mother’s letter beneath my pillow and every night tucked my hand there, palm resting upon the only memento I had of her; the rebels had taken all else. It brought warmth and sadness and a wistful welling of affection; it brought comfort the way no talisman could.

  Christmas came and Christmas passed, and the new year of our Lord 1530 arrived. In February, Pope Clement crowned Charles of Spain Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire. Clement had fulfilled his end of the bargain; now it was time for Charles to deliver Florence into Medici hands.

  In those early months, the cannon were silent. The Imperial commander realized that his advantage lay in striking not at Florence herself but at those towns that supplied her with arms and food. The summer before the siege all crops grown outside Florence’s walls had been torched months before the harvest, all livestock slaughtered. To eat, Florence relied upon supplies smuggled from Volterra. For goods, for news, for troops, she relied upon Volterra.

  As the weather warmed, the Imperial forces attacked our lifeline. We sent a garrison to defend our sister; Volterra survived the first battle. Deciding that the Emperor’s army had been decisively defeated, our garrison commander—against orders—left for the comforts of home. Hearing this, the Prince of Orange laid siege to the town a second time.

  I was at my embroidery when Mother Giustina appeared in the sewing room doorway. Her expression was troubled but furtively hopeful.

  “Volterra has fallen,” she said.

  Without help from the French and now without sustenance or arms, the rebel leaders faced certain defeat.

  I sat listening to the sisters’ unhappy murmurs and thought very hard.

  My hair fell past my hips, fine and thin, the color of olive bark. That day it was gathered up into a large net that rested heavily on the nape of my neck. I unfastened the net and shook my hair free, then took up the scissors and began to snip. It took a long time; the scissors were made for embroidery and could take only small bites. After each cut, I carefully placed the ribbon of hair neatly at my feet.

  The thunderstruck sisters watched silently; only Mother Giustina understood. She waited in the doorway, and when I was fully shorn, she said tersely, “I’ll find you a habit.”

  I took the veil but not the vows. I was an impostor, but not even Sister Pippa complained.

  Meanwhile, citizens grew desperate. Without Volterra’s grain stores, there was no wheat; without the hunters’ catch from the forest beyond the city walls, there was no meat. The poor were hit first and hardest, and began starving in the streets. Plague flourished, prompting Mother Giustina to remove the alms box and board up the lower grate.

  In the first days of July, I received my last letter from Ser Cosimo:

  I will not be corresponding for a while. This morning I saw my neighbor sitting propped against his front door, eyes closed as though he were sleeping. I thought hunger had made him faint. Fortunately, I had
not advanced too far before I saw the buboes upon his neck. I called out to those inside but heard no reply.

  I went home immediately and bathed with lemon juice and rose water, a remedy I highly recommend. As a precaution, burn this letter and wash your hands.

  I have confidence we will meet again in the flesh.

  At dusk on the twentieth of July, I sat in the refectory flanked by Maddalena and Sister Niccoletta at the supper all sisters shared. Per custom, we observed silence as we dined on our minestra, whose broth now lacked meat or pasta.

  The eastern wall of the refectory bore a fresco of the Last Supper; the adjacent wall was broken by a large window overlooking the patio and the convent door, its grates now boarded shut.

  Atop my scapular, the work apron worn over the habit, I wore a golden crucifix, but beneath the habit I wore Ruggieri’s black amulet. I had assiduously studied my nativity until the greater details were committed to memory, and had followed the position of the planets and stars over the days and nights. Mars, hot red warrior, was conjunct Saturn, harbinger of death and destruction, and passing through my ascendant—Leo, the marker of royalty. Such a transit warrants danger and ofttimes violent ends. And Saturn, silent and dark, had sailed into my Eighth House, the House of Death. Like Florence’s, my stars boded catastrophic change.