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

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  “Lies,” he moaned, his baleful gaze rolling up at me; tears coursed steadily down his cheeks. “You mean to break my heart with lies.”

  “Your Majesty,” I began calmly—but at the sight of his suffering, and at the sheer horror of what I had to do, I broke, put my face in my hands, and wept myself. For several breaths, I failed to master my emotions; Edouard and Tavannes watched, hushed.

  I caught my breath finally and looked up at poor Charles.

  “It is awful, Your Majesty,” I admitted, with complete sincerity. “And it wounds me to bring such horrible news. But we could not spare you such ugliness; too much is at stake.”

  “It isn’t true,” he countered fiercely, but his features crumpled at once and he cried with renewed fervor. “How could he betray me so? He loves me, Maman, as the son he never had. He told me so . . .”

  I leaned forward to take his hand and was gratified when he did not pull away. “Charles, my darling, this is a hard truth, a terrible truth, but you must be brave now. You are our King; we look to you to save us.”

  He cringed. “But what can I do? I cannot believe this, Maman! I don’t know whom to believe anymore! Coligny warned me—”

  “He warned you,” I said smoothly, “that Edouard and I wished him ill—precisely because he knew that, if we uncovered his plot, this moment would come.”

  He shuddered from another ragged sob. “But I don’t know what to do!”

  “That is why we are here.” I reached into my sleeve and pulled out the fatal document, then glanced up at Tavannes. “Marshal, if you would be so kind . . .” I nodded in the direction of the overturned inkwell; the old man hurried off in search of a fresh one.

  “There is a way to prevent this, and the war that would certainly follow,” I crooned, unscrolling the paper. “You can stop it with your signature. We must finish, Your Majesty, what Maurevert began.”

  He blinked suspiciously at my own flawed, irregular scrawl on the white page and recoiled faintly.

  “An order, Your Majesty,” I said, “striking at the Huguenots before they strike at us. The names of the conspirators are listed here. We must do more than cut off the Hydra’s head; we must remove all those who would bring war against us in Paris.”

  He snatched the list from me and squinted down at it for a long moment. I feared he would quail at the stark reality it represented, but the skin beneath his eye began to twitch rapidly as he passed easily from tortured sorrow to incandescent rage.

  “They would lock me in prison,” he muttered bitterly, “and steal my crown. They would murder my family . . .”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “Do you remember now, Charles, what you said to me in the carriage on our dreadful escape from Meaux? They would have killed us all then. They have been waiting all this time for another opportunity. . . . And I gave them one. I trusted them.” I paused. “What sort of man is Gaspard de Coligny—daring to threaten you if you do not yield to his will? Daring to violate an order forbidding the movement of troops to the Netherlands—an order signed by your own hand? He has never shown the proper respect to you, Your Majesty. He has laughed at you privately all this time.”

  Charles grimaced with fury. “Then kill them all,” he whispered, his voice raw and ugly. “Why spare any of them, Maman?” His voice rose to an impassioned roar. “Kill the bastards! Kill them all! Kill them all!”

  At that moment, Tavannes reappeared with the inkwell; I glimpsed the troubled face of the dismissed guard, who had also reappeared. He had heard the King’s cries but remained outside as the Marshal closed the door on him.

  I motioned for Tavannes to set the inkwell on the floor beside me as Edouard handed me the quill.

  “Let us show ourselves to be better than our enemies,” I told Charles. “We will not, as they would, kill the innocent.”

  He calmed a bit to study the order. “When will it happen?”

  “Tonight,” Edouard answered. “In the hours just before dawn. You would do well to keep to your bedchamber. I have arranged for extra security; we will not let you come to harm.”

  Breathing heavily, Charles looked up at him, then back down at the list in his hand. “May they all die miserably,” he said, “and their souls go straight to Hell.”

  Solemnly, I handed him the pen.

  Forty-five

  Edouard and I remained with Charles for a few hours to calm him, and to ensure that he did not leave his apartments. By eleven o’clock, my younger son and I went to our separate apartments; it would be best, we decided, to retire as usual to avoid stirring anyone’s suspicions. I struggled to hide my growing anxiety as my ladies dressed me for bed; I dismissed them before my nervousness grew too apparent.

  I climbed into my bed but was not able to hold still, much less sleep; my window overlooked the Louvre’s courtyard, and I was terrified of what I might soon see. After two hours of fidgeting, I lit the lamp, slipped into my dressing gown, and made my way through my darkened apartments to my closet.

  The windowless little room was hot and stale, but it offered a sense of security; in it, I could not see or be seen. I locked the door and resolutely began to leaf through a stack of correspondence—some letters from our diplomats abroad, others from petitioners—then settled down to read. The attempt was futile: I stared at one letter from our ambassador to Venice for almost an hour without making much sense of it; foolishly, I attempted to write a reply, but words eluded me and I dropped the quill. The heat left me light-headed. I leaned back in the chair, closed my eyes, and almost dozed, but instead of dreaming, I drifted off into memory.

  I thought of Margot in her beautiful wedding dress, and of how she had bewitched Navarre with her smile. I remembered Ruggieri, standing at the edge of the crowd at the wedding—how his hair had grown streaked with silver, how he had not smiled at the sight of me; I wondered whether he was still inhabiting Paris’s dangerous streets.

  I thought of Henri of Navarre: how, as a little boy, he had run out from the tennis gallery onto the courtyard lawn and seen, with me, the piled-up corpses of Algol; I wondered whether he saw them now.

  The bell of Saint-Germain tolled twice, for each hour past midnight, and my pulse quickened. In an hour, the killing would begin.

  I forced myself to breathe, forced my limbs to relax in the chair, and summoned the past again. I thought of all my children when they were young: my poor, sweet Elizabeth, feeble François; and Charles—even then surly and cruel; my darling Edouard, my little Margot, and even Mary, Queen of Scots, with her sour, disdainful smile. They moved and laughed and spoke in my memory, and I smiled and wept and sighed with them. I thought of my husband, Henri, how he had loved them all, and gathered them into his arms.

  Rivulets of sweat, mingled with tears, trickled down my cheeks.

  I saw Navarre, leaning against the railing looking out toward the Ile-de-la-Cité. I have come because I trust you, Tante Catherine—because I believe, most irrationally, that we have seen the same evil coming and intend to avert it.

  I saw Jeanne, standing on the lawn beside three-year-old Henri, staring after Nostradamus with a curious smile. What a silly little man.

  I opened my eyes to the lamp’s flickering yellow glow. In the furious preparations for Margot’s wedding, I had never read the letter that Jeanne had written me on her deathbed, as I had not wanted grief to interfere with the joyful celebrations; but even grief would be a welcome distraction from intolerable dread.

  I took a key from the top drawer of my desk and turned to the carved wainscoting near my elbow. Down the span of a hand, and another span to the left, almost hidden by the leg of my desk, was a small keyhole. I unlocked it; the wood panel sprang open, revealing the small secret compartment built into the wall.

  Inside were documents I had almost forgotten: the yellowed bit of parchment that bore the words my dead husband had dictated to Ruggieri at Chaumont, and the quatrain in Nostradamus’s hand, written shortly before he had left Blois. There were jewels, as well—including
a priceless ruby and a pearl and diamond choker that Pope Clement had given me for my wedding; there was also the small velvet box from Jeanne, which held the exquisite emerald brooch.

  Beneath it rested her letter, still sealed. I picked it up, broke the wax, and began to read.

  I am dying, dear friend, and must now confess my sins to you, although the pain of doing so is so great I can hardly grip the pen.

  I told you that I had been tarnished by the decadence of the French Court. Perhaps it is truer to say that I yielded to my own wicked heart. When I said you were faithful but surrounded by evil, it was to myself I referred. I, who called myself your friend, betrayed you.

  I loved your husband, Catherine, and after years of resisting each other we fell into sin. Though Henri surrendered to the temptation of the flesh, his every thought and word revealed that he possessed for you a far greater love than that shared by mere paramours. Even now, I cannot say why it was we sought each other out, or why sanity and virtue failed us so. It is the greatest regret of my life, and as I go to meet death, I desire your forgiveness more urgently than I do God’s.

  My Henri, my only son, was the product of our fall. I know that you love him, and I am glad for it. Please, do not divulge this painful truth to him; let it die with us. His heart will be broken badly enough by my death. I should not want to harm him further from the grave.

  My love for the King was not my only transgression. I am guilty of withholding this truth so that my son would be able to marry his half sister, Margot. Perhaps you understand better why I was devoted to protecting Henri’s rights as First Prince of the Blood, and eager to see him wed into his father’s family. As a Bourbon by name and a Valois by blood, he is doubly entitled to the throne. Your husband, I think, would have approved.

  Forgive me, my friend—and if you cannot, at least show kindness to my Henri. He has inherited his father’s honesty and tender heart, as well as his sincere affection for you.

  I go now to God with prayers for you upon my lips.

  Jeanne

  The letter fell into my lap; I raised my hands to my face and let go bitter, wracking sobs, strangely unaccompanied by tears. I felt deep, poignant sadness—not because of the betrayal but because of the suffering the three of us had endured in our efforts to find happiness. For some time I sat, overwhelmed by sorrow, before a stark and dreadful revelation brought me to my feet.

  In my memory, the Duchess d’Etampes’s laughter tinkled as she ran nearly naked into the night, with her lover, King François, in close pursuit.

  Louise is a lovely girl, don’t you think?

  And François’s irritable reply: Don’t vex me, Anne. . . . Henri’s cousin Jeanne—she’s of marriageable age, and brings with her the crown of Navarre.

  Had I allowed myself to be repudiated—had I not spilled blood to purchase children—might Jeanne have taken my place? Would her son now be King?

  My surroundings fell away: I stood suddenly in the courtyard of the Louvre, my bare feet on warm cobblestones. In the blackness, a man lay prostrate, his face turned from me.

  Catherine, he groaned. His head lolled toward me, and I saw him clearly. His face was long, bearded, and handsome—like my late Henri’s, like his father’s—the very face that had always visited my dark dreams.

  I sank beside him and touched his cheek. “How can I help you, Navarre,” I whispered, “when you would kill me and my children?”

  Venez a moi. Aidez-moi. A spot of black appeared on his brow, between his eyebrows, and spread like a stain. It spilled down the sides of his face and pooled upon the stone.

  I came back to my cabinet with a start and at once bent down to reach into the compartment. I pulled out the other papers—the message from my dead husband, the seer’s quatrain—unfolded them both and set them side by side on my desk.

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

  My one true heir will rule

  Destroy what is closest to your heart

  Destroy what is closest to your heart

  One skein still runs true

  Restore it, and avert the rising tide of evil

  Break it, and France herself will perish

  Drowned in the blood of her own sons

  I looked up from the pages and closed my eyes. In my mind, Navarre still lay groaning at my feet, gripped by the final throes of mortal anguish. His lips trembled as they struggled to form a single word:

  Catherine

  I bent down and put my fingers on them, to stop him from uttering his last.

  “I have come all the way from Florence, Monsieur,” I whispered, “too far to let you die.”

  I lay reason down like a burden and went out into the night.

  When I stepped out of my apartments into the corridor, the three royal bodyguards flanking the door turned to regard me with surprise.

  “Madame la Reine,” the senior of them hissed, as he and his fellows executed cursory bows. He was no more than eighteen, a clean-shaven, gangling youth with russet hair and a face full of freckles to match; the knees beneath the hem of his red kilt were likewise spotted. “The hour is about to strike! Please, it would be safest for you to remain in your chambers.”

  “Where is your captain? I must speak to him at once!”

  “Madame, forgive me,” the Scot replied, “but he is intensely occupied at present; it may be some time before we can bring him to you.”

  “But there is no time!” I hesitated and peered down the shadowed corridor. Since the trouble in the streets had begun, the wall sconces had remained lit at night, the better to aid the patrols. “I’ll go to him myself. Where is he?”

  My challenger hesitated and lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “Madame, he awaits the signal outside the lodgings of the King of Navarre.”

  I frowned, staring down the dim, narrow hallway. Beyond it, out of sight, lay the long gallery that joined the old fortress to the new southwestern wing, where Navarre and his party were housed. If I went at top speed, I could arrive at my destination within minutes; even that might not be soon enough.

  I lifted my skirts and began to run. The senior guard followed, whispering furiously.

  “Madame la Reine! Please! I am bound to keep you safe!”

  “Then do so!” I snapped but did not slow.

  He outpaced me easily and positioned himself in front of me, his hand upon the hilt of his sword.

  “Swear to me,” I panted, “that you will help me find Navarre, and keep him safe! It is all a horrible mistake—he must not die!”

  “Madame,” he said, “I will.”

  We hurried down the stairs to the second floor, where the King and Anjou were housed, and proceeded west through the old Louvre’s cramped, low-ceilinged corridors. They opened finally onto the broader halls of the long gallery leading to the new wing built by my father-in-law.

  The gallery was blocked by a barricade of soldiers facing west: four Swiss halberdiers, each wearing the square white cross upon the back and breast of his tunic, all bearing tall pikes topped with razor-keen blades. Four kilted Scots accompanied them—two with arquebuses, two with broadswords.

  “Make way for the Queen!” my man gasped as we approached.

  Eight men whirled about to regard us with disbelief.

  “Jesus,” one whispered.

  A ripple of rapid, barely perceptible bows followed.

  “Madame la Reine!” the head bodyguard exclaimed sotto voce. Sweat trickled from beneath his cap and glittered in the light from a hall sconce before he wiped it with the back of his hand; his eyes were bright with nerves. “You cannot come here! Please return to your chambers.”

  “I must speak to your captain,” I said impatiently. “Navarre must be spared. Let me pass!”

  The highest-ranking Swiss said, “The hour is upon us, Madame la Reine. We dare not let you through.”

  I began to push past them, taking advantage of their reluctance to touch my royal person, but the
halberdier stepped into my path.

  “I cannot argue!” I said, not bothering to lower my voice. “It is a matter of life or death! If you love your own neck, you will step aside now.”

  “Let me relay a message then, to the captain of the guards,” the halberdier said, “for your own safety, Madame.”

  His manner was unctuous, his gaze insincere. If I trusted him, Navarre would die. I took a step to my right, and he matched it, polite but determined.

  “Get me through!” I demanded of my freckled young guard.

  He put a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  A sound penetrated the palace walls, causing the men to freeze: the low, dolorous toll of Saint-Germain’s bell. It rang once, twice . . .

  On a nearby Paris street, the Duke of Guise and his men were breaking down the doors of the Hôtel de Béthizy.

  In my mind, Ruggieri whispered, It may already be too late.

  On the third chime, I propelled myself past the guards; my young Scot came to himself and followed. The others dared not desert their posts; we ignored their muted calls and dashed into the gallery.

  It was a long, arduous run, past paintings, statues, dazzling murals framed by Cellini’s gilded molding. To our right, tall windows looked onto the paved courtyard, where Swiss halberdiers and crossbowmen waited beneath a great marble statue of the god Vulcan reclining on his anvil, his freshly forged spear lifted heavenward. The raised windows admitted a sultry breeze, which stirred the sconce flames, casting looming shadows on the walls. My side pained me; my breathing grew ragged, but I dared not slow. As we neared the southwestern wing, I heard shouting: The attack had already begun.

  The gallery ended abruptly at a corridor that also served as a staircase landing. As I passed, two men in nightshirts hurtled screaming down the steps from the floor above.