The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

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 Hotel de Bethizy.

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.

Aidez-nous! “Help us!”

They almost collided with my young Scot, who drew his sword and bellowed, “Make way for the Queen!”

The wild-eyed victims seemed not to hear him, or to see me at all; they fled shrieking down the stairs that led out of the palace to the courtyard.

Ignoring the frantic footfall behind us as others fled down the stairs, we continued on, and made our way into the hallways of the new wing. Soon we were at the entrance to Navarre’s antechamber. Across its open threshold, a naked man lay on his side-pale-haired, with the handsome, sculpted muscles of youth and a bloody gash at the juncture of his neck and shoulder; dark rivulets coursed across his hairless chest and ribs onto the marble floor. From beyond him, in the antechamber, came the shouts and groans of the battlefield.

“Madame la Reine!” my young Scot ordered. “Put your hands upon my hips, and cling to me! Do not lift your head!”

I obeyed without a blush, pressing myself against his sweat-soaked back. We took two staggering steps forward into the chamber, dark save for lamplight coming from the open door of the bedchamber beyond. I glimpsed movement in the dimness, the flailing of limbs, the whistling sweep of swords, the lurching of torsos, all accompanied by grunts, screams, curses. The room had becoming a writhing mass of bodies, but I did not try to interpret them. I ducked my head and held fast to the thick leather belt encircling my savior’s narrow hips. The muscles in his back bunched as he hefted his weapon; I winced as it crashed against another’s sword.

Death to the Huguenots! a man cried out, and was answered hoarsely:

Death to Catholic assassins!

“Navarre!” I cried, my words swallowed by the young Scot’s flesh. “Navarre, it is Catherine!”

“We come in peace!” my Scot bellowed, as he struck out, again and again. “Make way for the Queen!”

A horrid gurgling came from in front of us; my man’s muscles suddenly relaxed as he lowered his sword and we advanced two steps. On the second, I nearly stumbled over a body and was forced to let go of the leather belt for an instant in order to lift my tangled skirts and hop clear.

Everywhere around us, innocents screamed for help. The Scot collided with one of his own and spoke frantically in Gaelic; I made out the word Navarre. The leather belt pulled me along as he turned toward the door to the bedchamber. I stumbled again over a sprawling limb and lost my grip. My man quickly turned to offer me his hand.

As he did, I glimpsed up. Limned by the window, a man’s black form stood; a tiny flame, smaller than that of a lamp, floated in front of his shoulder. I caught the smell of burning match cord just as my Scot cried out.

A deafening boom followed, accompanied by the tang of gunpowder. My guardian fell backward onto me, knocking me to my knees. I struggled from underneath his limp weight; in the dimness, I made out his open eyes and reached for his chest. My fingers fumbled, searching for the rise and fall of breath, for a beat, and found