The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

by Jeanne Kalogridis

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Is it already morning?” I whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You stink,” I said, laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It was no one,” Margot sobbed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What did you see?” Edouard asked softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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