why I have asked for your help. Thank you for traveling such a distance, in your discomfort, to see us. We are deeply grateful.”
His body shuddered as fear unclenched it. He tottered forward and kissed my hand; his hair fell soft against my knuckles. His breath smelled of garlic.
I looked up at the guard. “That will be all,” I said, and when he lifted a brow-why would I be so eager to forsake propriety by dismissing him?-I subtly hardened my gaze until he nodded, bowed, and departed.
I was alone with the unlikely prophet.
Monsieur de Nostredame straightened and stepped back. As he did, his gaze fell upon the window, and the scene beyond; his nervousness vanished, replaced by a calm intensity.
“Ah,” he said, as if to himself. “The children.”
I turned to see Edouard running after Margot and little Navarre on the grassy swath of courtyard, altogether ignoring the cries of the governess to slow down.
“His Highness Prince Edouard,” I said by way of explanation, “likes to chase his little sister.” At five, Edouard was already unusually tall for his age.
“The two younger ones-the little boy and girl-they appear to be twins, but I know that is not the case.”
“They are my daughter Margot and her cousin Henri of Navarre. Little Henri, we call him, or sometimes Navarre, so as not to confuse him with the King.”
“The resemblance is remarkable,” he murmured.
“They are both three years old, Monsieur; Margot was born on the thirteenth of May, Navarre on the thirteenth of December.”
“Tied by fate,” he said, thoughtlessly, then glanced back at me.
His eyes were too large for his face, like mine, but a clear, light grey. They possessed a child’s openness, and beneath their scrutiny, I felt uncharacteristic discomfort.
“I had a son,” he said wistfully, “and a daughter.”
I opened my mouth to offer sympathy and say I had already heard of this. The most talented physician in all France, he had earned fame by saving many sick with plague-only to watch helplessly as his children and wife died of it.
But I had no chance to speak, for he continued. “I do not wish to seem an ogre, Madame, mentioning my own sorrow with you here dressed in mourning; I do so only to explain that I understand the nature of your grief. I recently learned that you mourn the loss of two little girls. There is no greater tragedy than the death of a child. I pray that God will ease your grief, and the King’s.”
“Thank you, Monsieur de Nostredame.” I changed the subject quickly, for his sympathy was so genuine, I feared I might cry if he said more. “Please.” I gestured at the chair set across from mine, and the footstool that had been placed there expressly for him. “You have suffered enough on my behalf already. Sit down, and I will tell you when the children were born.”
“You are too gracious, Your Majesty.”
He eased himself into the chair and settled his affected foot onto the little stool with a faint groan. He propped the cane next to him so that it remained within reach.
“Do you require paper and pen, Monsieur?”
He tapped his brow with a finger. “No, I shall remember. Let us start with the eldest, then. The Dauphin, born the nineteenth of January, in the year 1544. To cast a proper chart, I need-”
“The hour and place,” I interrupted. Having a talent for calculation, I had already taught myself to cast charts, though I did not entirely trust my own interpretations-and I all too often hoped they were wrong. “No mother could ever forget such a thing, of course. Francois was born at the Chateau at Fontainebleau, a few minutes after four o’clock in the afternoon.”
“A few minutes after…,” he echoed, and the finger that had thumped his brow began instead to massage it, as if he were pressing the fact into his memory. “Do you know how many minutes? Three, perhaps, or ten?”
I frowned, trying to remember. “Fewer than ten. Unfortunately, I was exhausted at the time; I cannot be more precise.”
We did not speak of the girls, Elisabeth and Margot; under Salic law, a woman could not ascend the throne of France. For now, it was time to focus on the heirs-on Charles-Maximilien, born the twenty-seventh of June at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, in the year 1550, and on my darling Edouard-Alexandre. He was born the year after Charles, on the nineteenth of September, twenty minutes past midnight.
“Thank you,
He did not move to rise, as would be expected. He sat gazing on me with those clear, calm eyes, and in the silence that followed, I found my courage and my voice.
“I have evil dreams,” I said.
He seemed not at all surprised by this strange outburst.
“May I speak candidly, Madame?” he asked politely. Before I could answer, he continued, “You have astrologers. I am not the first to chart the children’s nativities. I will construct them, surely, but you did not call me here to do only that.”
“No,” I admitted. “I have read your book of prophecy.” I cleared my throat and recited the thirty-fifth quatrain, the one that had brought me to my knees when I first read it:
“I write down what I must.” Monsieur de Nostredame’s gaze had grown guarded. “I do not presume to understand its meaning.”
“But I do.” I leaned forward, no longer able to hide my agitation. “My husband the King-he is the lion. The older one. I dreamt…” I faltered, unwilling to put into words the horrifying vision in my head.
“Madame,” he said gently. “You and I understand each other well, I think-better than the rest of the world understands us. You and I see things others do not. Too much for our comfort.”
I turned my face from him and stared out the window at the garden, where Edouard and Margot and little Navarre chased one another round green hedges beneath a bright sun. In my mind’s eye, skulls were split and bodies pierced; men thrashed, drowning, in a swelling tide of blood.
“I don’t want to see anymore,” I said.
I don’t know how he knew. Perhaps he read it in my face, the way a sorcerer reads the lines of a palm; perhaps he had already consulted my natal stars, and read it in my ill-placed Mars. Perhaps he read it in my eyes, in the flash of knowing fear there when I uttered the thirty-fifth quatrain.
“The King will die,” I told him. “My Henri will die too young, a terrible death, unless something is done to stop it. You know this; you have written of it, in this poem. Tell me that I am right, Monsieur, and that you will help me to do whatever is necessary to prevent it. My husband is my life, my soul. If he dies, I will not want to live.”
I believed, those many years ago, that my dream had to do only with Henri. I had thought that his violent end would be the worst that could possibly happen to me, to his heirs, to France.
It is easy now to see how wrong I was. And foolish, to have been angered by the prophet’s calm words.
I had a responsibility to keep the King safe, I told him. I had a responsibility to our children.
“Your heart misleads you,” he said and shuddered as if gripped by invisible talons. When he spoke again, it was with the voice of another… another who was not altogether human.
“These children,” he murmured, and I knew then that even the darkest secret could not be hidden from him. I
