The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

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 Francois; 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-Cite. 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 Francois, in close pursuit.

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

And Francois’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.