or had simply disappeared.
I wrote Piero at once, inviting him to come with his family to France, as I longed to see them; in truth, I also wanted them to see me happy.
In King Francois, I had found the father I had always longed for. To my delight, he invited me to his morning meetings with his councillors, so that I might see how the business of the nation was transacted. I learned how the King worked with Parlement, the Treasury, and his Grand Council.
Every day at his lunch, the King bade me sit nearby, a special honor. When the King’s reader was silent, we conversed about His Majesty’s building plans for Fontainebleau, or about which Italian artisan he should hire for a particular project, or about a work of literature we both had read.
He was as affectionate to me as he was to his own daughters, whom he visited regularly. He would gather them both upon his lap, although they had grown too large to fit. When he sat smiling at us, I glimpsed the same bright, loving boy I had seen in my Henri. At the same time, he was ruthless in the council chamber; the well-being of the nation took precedence over any individual claim of the heart.
And though I heard often about his insatiable lust, he guarded his family from it, though there were times when I came up unawares to find him with his hand in a courtier’s bodice or up her skirts. Madame Gondi told me that when she had first come to Court, His Majesty had cornered her and caressed her, saying that he could not live without her love.
“Did you submit?” I asked, shocked.
“No,” she said. “His Majesty’s weakness is women, and when a woman weeps, he becomes utterly helpless. It’s how the Duchess d’Etampes controls him. And so I wept as I told him that I loved my husband and could not betray him. His Majesty accepted my explanation and retreated with an apology.”
Such stories troubled me, but I found myself making allowances for him despite myself, for I loved him dearly.
Best of all, I felt my love for Henri was requited. He now smiled shyly and met my gaze, albeit with endearing timidity. And he came often-though not often enough to suit me-to my bedchamber.
I was thoroughly enamored. I understood his pain now: His anger was born of protectiveness and love. If mention of an Italian campaign brought a flash of heat into his eyes, it was only because he worried about a coming war’s effect upon his brother.
The King finally publicly announced the full details of our wedding arrangement: Pope Clement had already paid half of the exorbitant sum agreed upon as my dowry; in addition, Clement and King Francois both proclaimed Henri to be Duke of Urbino by virtue of his marriage to me. Milan was to be ours, too, and Piacenza and Parma; His Holiness the Pope asserted our right to the territories and would supply additional troops to aid in the conquest.
In preparation, King Francois began to build an army.
Meanwhile, the Court followed the King northward from the Loire countryside to Paris. The city was not as sprawling as Rome, but it was ten times more crowded; the narrow streets were always congested, the half-timber houses crammed side by side. But spring brought enchanting, sweet-smelling blossoms and temperate weather, even though the sky, placid one moment, could release a sudden shower the next. The Seine, grey-green in gloom, quicksilver in sun, was too shallow to permit nautical traffic; some days revealed so many golden sandbanks I felt I could simply walk to the opposite shore. The river cut the city in half; in between nestled the island of Ile-de-la-Cite, home to the massive, magnificent cathedral of Notre-Dame and the ethereal, dainty Sainte-Chapelle, with its fiery circular windows of stained glass.
I could see their spires from the high, narrow windows of the Louvre. It was my least favorite royal residence- old and cramped, with tiny apartments. Over the centuries, the size of the Court had greatly increased, though the Louvre, on the Seine’s bank, had no room to expand. The only way to increase the number of chambers had been to decrease the size of each. It had only a token cobblestone courtyard instead of the vast green expanses found at the countryside chateaus.
The city itself I adored. Paris was not as sophisticated as Florence, nor as jaded. It emanated an excitement that attracted the best artists from all over Europe. There were many Italians, thanks to King Francois’s determination to bring the best artists, architects, and goldsmiths to France. Everywhere I went, I found scaffolding and at least two Italians arguing over the best way to decorate or rebuild a particular section of the old palace.
In my cramped cabinet at the Louvre, I drew the likeness of a raven in black ink upon white parchment. A Parisian jeweler had supplied a polished, faceted onyx; an apothecary furnished ground cypress wood, of the nature of Saturn, and the poisonous root of hellebore, ruled by Mars. I found an errand boy willing to kill a frog and cut out its tongue without impertinent questions. I placed it alongside the stone and incense in one of the compartments hidden in the wooden wainscoting near my desk, where it browned and withered.
I charted Gienah’s movements through the night sky and calculated when it would rise conjunct the moon. The most propitious time would not arrive for months.
Cosimo Ruggieri, then, had prepared my stone for me well in advance-weeks, or even longer. He had known all along that I would need it, and had merely been waiting for the opportunity to deliver it into my hands.
We did not remain long in Paris that spring of 1534. Like me, the King disliked the lodgings and soon forsook them for the Chateau at Fontainebleau, south of the city.
If the Louvre was the smallest royal residence, then Fontainebleau was certainly the largest. The massive four-story stone structure took the shape of an oval ring, with an interior courtyard. It was large enough to house a village and too small to accommodate King Francois’s Court; a west wing and connecting structure had to be built. Francois hired the famous Fiorentino to paint frescoes, framed by gilded molding, on the walls. Under the King’s direction, the chateau began to glitter, thanks to the famous goldsmith Cellini.
I summoned Cellini to my cabinet and presented him with a sketch of the golden ring, its heart empty to receive a stone. When it was done, I paid him handsomely and put the ring in the hidden compartment with the rest of my secrets.
As spring turned to summer and summer turned to fall, the King went hunting at every opportunity- accompanied by
One afternoon in late September, we were in pursuit of a stag. I was happy that day, comfortable in my new life. The weather was exquisite with a comfortable breeze and sun, and I was laughing with Anne as we galloped together after the King.
Suddenly, a bell began to toll; someone of import had died. We called off the hunt and rode in, subdued and curious. The stable master had no idea what had happened.
I dismounted and walked back to my chambers, where Madame Gondi waited in the doorway. Her recent tears had washed away some of her face paint, leaving rivulets of pink beside the chalky white. The other ladies and the servants were all crying.
“What is it?” I demanded.
She crossed herself. “Your Highness, I am so sad to be the one to tell you. It is your uncle, the Pope.”
I was shocked and sorry, but I didn’t cry. It is a devastating thing for the faithful when a Pope dies, and he was also my relative. But I still resented his choice of his own illegitimate son, Alessandro, to rule Florence.
Once the shock had worn off, I grew uneasy. Clement had died with only half my dowry paid and none of his promises of military support to King Francois fulfilled. In the chapel, I prayed that his successor would be a friend to France and to me-but God, I knew, never heard me.
Seven nights after the Pope’s death, the moon rose with the star Gienah her close companion. At forty-three minutes past midnight, I went into my windowless cabinet and opened the hidden compartment with a key.
I had turned my desk into a makeshift altar, with a censer from the chapel in its center, in front of my drawing of the raven. After lighting the coal in the censer, I sprinkled the cypress wood shavings and the dried leaves of hellebore over it. Acrid smoke billowed out immediately. As my eyes streamed, I took up a jeweler’s awl and the
