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

by Jeanne Kalogridis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Thirty-eight

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

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

  Abaso le palle! Death to the Medici!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “May I speak to you privately, Catherine?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Most esteemed Madame la Reine,

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ever your humble servant,

  Cosimo Ruggieri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “We haven’t time,” I said softly.

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

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

  “Why such haste?” Jeanne pressed.

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

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

  Thirty-nine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Welcome, Cousin,” Edouard said, smiling.

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

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

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

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

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

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