The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

The King turned back in his saddle to look at her. “Anne, don’t be foolish.”

The Duchess turned to the groom holding her mount’s reins and pointed. “Ride faster. There, along the banks.”

The groom looked uncertainly to the King, who gave no signal, then again at the Duchess before leading her horse away from the group at a steady trot.

“Come, Your Majesty!” she called. “Give us chase!”

“Anne,” the King said again, though she was already out of earshot. His expression was slightly pained as he spurred his charger and rode after her.

I would not compete directly with Anne; I followed slowly as the King broke into a canter and easily outpaced her mare. Once he had committed himself, he did so with boyish abandon.

“Faster!” she urged her groom. “Faster!”

The other women took up the cry. The most ridiculous of races commenced, with the Duchess well behind the King and the other women following, bobbing madly on their little thrones. The Duchess was not content with a brisk trot and insisted on more speed until the nervous groom finally broke into a canter. As he did so, she leaned forward to grasp her mare’s white mane.

The result was utterly predictable. I spurred Zeus into a gallop, arriving just as the groom noticed he was leading a riderless mount; the King, caught up in the moment, was still happily cantering away.

I let go a shout, dismounted, and hurried over to the Duchess. She lay on her side, her crimson skirts and petticoat hiked up to reveal thin white legs-and much more. When Madame Gondi had first come to serve as one of my ladies of the chamber, she had remarked on my pantaloons, not just their fine lace and embroidery but the fact that French women did not wear them at all. Now I saw the proof, as the Duchess d’Etampes pushed herself up and, finding that she was entirely exposed, pulled down her skirts. I repressed a smile; her hair was not naturally copper but dull brown like mine.

She was undamaged, with her hood still in place, but would not rise until she was sure that the King had marked her fall. As the others rode up, I offered her my hand.

“So,” I said loudly, “I see that you, too, have decided to distract the King from your pretty face.”

Francois and his ladies giggled. As Anne rose, her hand in mine, fury sparked in her eye, tempered by approval that my barb had cleanly hit its mark. To ease its sting, I murmured of her bravery and took care, as we rode back over the bridge toward home, to remain well behind the King so that the Duchess could take her place beside him.

For I suspected, even then, that if I fell out of Anne’s favor, I would fall out of the King’s, and lose everything.

Eighteen

That evening the King hosted an intimate family supper, which included his children; his sister Marguerite and her daughter, Jeanne; and the Grand Master-the stodgy, grey-haired Anne Montmorency, who was included in almost everything because he was trusted with the keys to the King’s residence. Queen Eleonore came with her most trusted lady-in-waiting-Henri’s tutor, Madame de Poitiers. My husband arrived late and shared a hostile glance with his father before taking his seat between his aunt Marguerite and me. I greeted Henri eagerly; in response, he averted his gaze.

The King began to speak: He had been quite impressed by my courage in attempting a difficult jump, and the grace with which I took my fall. He related the incident with some embellishment and a good deal of humor, describing in comic detail the Duchess’s desperate bouncing upon her saddle and subsequent fall-referring to her simply as “one of the ladies” so as not to embarrass the Queen.

Henri clearly understood which lady had been indicated, however, and while the others laughed at his father’s amusing tale, he frowned.

The King went on to describe my saddle and said that, with the urging of “one of the ladies,” he had ordered the Master of Horses to have several copies of it made “so that the women of the realm might keep pace with their king.”

Queen Eleonore, Madame de Poitiers, and Grand Master Montmorency all smiled with brittle disapproval but dared not appear unenthusiastic. But Henri scowled at the story; something deeply vexed him. I tried to divert him with talk of amusing things, but the more I spoke, the darker his mood grew.

After supper, I found him in the outdoor courtyard, lingering at the foot of the steps leading to our separate apartments, I hoped with the aim of speaking privately to me. After Queen Eleonore and the royal children had made their way past us up different staircases, I confronted him.

“Your Highness,” I said softly, “you seem displeased with me. Have I offended you?”

He was growing so quickly that each day brought fresh changes. He was already taller than the day we had met, and his jaw had grown longer and squarer, making his nose less prominent and his face almost handsome. His hair had been cut quite short, but he had let it grow since our wedding so that it now fell against the neck of his collar. Though his beard was still patchy, he had managed to grow a respectable mustache.

I expected him to flush and stammer and quickly take his leave. Instead, he turned on me with heat. “That harlot, that whore-how could you befriend her? She’s a viper, a vicious creature!”

Dumbstruck, I blinked at him. I had never before heard him speak in anger, or use harsh language.

“Madame d’Etampes?” I asked. “You think I am her friend now?”

“You rode with her.” His tone was cold, accusatory.

“The King invited me to ride. I didn’t seek her company.”

“You helped her up when she fell.”

“What was I to do, Your Highness?” I countered. “Spit on her as she lay?”

“My father is a fool,” he said, trembling. “He permits her to use him. You can’t imagine… At Queen Eleonore’s coronation, my father viewed her procession through the city streets from a great window, in full public view. And she”-he could not bring himself to say the Duchess’s name-“she convinced him to let her sit in the window with him and seduced him, made him do horrid, lewd things, while everyone-while the Queen, who passed by-watched.” He fell silent and glared at me.

“Are you telling me not to ride with His Majesty when he invites me? Are you giving me an order?”

He turned swiftly, with a jerk, and began moving toward the staircase. “No, of course not,” I called out after him. “An order would require you to be a husband. It would require you to care.”

I pressed my fist to my mouth to stifle the next angry word and ran up a different set of stairs to my apartments. Without a word to my ladies, I swept into my bedchamber, slammed the door, and fell onto the bed.

Only a few moments had passed when a knock sounded at my door. Thinking that it was Madame Gondi, I called sharply that I did not want to be disturbed.

But the voice at my door belonged to the King’s sister. “Catherine, it’s Marguerite. May I come in?” When I didn’t answer, she added softly, “I saw you with Henri just now. I might be able to help.”

I cracked open the door to avoid raising my voice. “There’s nothing you can do,” I said. “He hates me, and that’s the end of it.”

“Oh, Catherine, it isn’t that at all.” Her voice held such knowing compassion that I let her in. She led me over to the bed to sit on its edge beside her.

“I had no more say in this marriage than Henri did,” I said hotly. “But I don’t hate anyone for it. Of course, he’s handsome and I’m homely. I can’t remedy that.”

“Never let me hear you say such a dreadful thing again,” she said sternly. “You make a fine appearance. It has nothing to do with you-not in the personal sense.”

“Then why does he run from me?”

Marguerite drew in a deep breath, the better to tell a long tale. “You know that the Duchess of Milan was our great-grandmother. That’s why King Charles invaded Italy, and King Louis after him, to claim hereditary properties that rightfully belonged to France.”