polished onyx. On the stone’s backside I etched the sigil for Gienah, then held the stone up to the smoke and repeated the name of the star. Using one of Cellini’s fine pliers, I set the stone into the ring and applied pressure to the golden prongs until the gem was held fast.
It was done unremarkably, without any whiff of the unworldly. I repeated the ritual of lighting the incense and invoking Gienah for seven nights, at forty-three minutes past midnight. I had worried that I might not remember to rise at the appointed time, but in fact, I could not forget.
Within two weeks, Alessandro Farnese was elected Pope and took the name Paul III. If his election caused King Francois a moment’s unease, His Majesty never showed it but treated me as warmly as ever. On the last day of October, the Eve of All Saints, we shared lunch and a spirited conversation about the works of Rabelais, and whether they were heretical. My heart was light that afternoon when I went to the stables, ready to ride with the King and his band.
As I neared, the ladies-except for Anne-were hurrying back to the chateau, their faces drawn with fear. Marie de Canaples gestured frantically; I didn’t understand until later that she had been trying to warn me.
At the stables, grooms were leading agitated horses back to their stalls. A trio stood near the entry: Grand Master Montmorency, the Duchess d’Etampes, and the King. The Duchess was silent and distraught, Montmorency dignified and immovable, his gaze downcast.
The King was roaring and slashing the air with his riding crop. As I approached, he turned it on one of the grooms, who was not moving fast enough to suit him; the lad let go a cry and picked up his pace.
I stopped a short distance away. The Duchess’s eyes widened as she, too, made a surreptitious attempt to wave me off.
“Nothing!” the King screamed, spraying spittle. He slashed the air again, then turned his whip on the ground, sending tufts of grass flying. “She brings me nothing! Nothing! She has come to me naked, that girl!”
I recoiled; the movement caught Francois’s eye. He whirled on me, his stance challenging.
“Stark naked, do you understand?” His voice broke with ugly emotion. “Stark naked.”
I understood completely. I curtsied low and full, then turned and walked back toward the chateau with as much dignity as I could feign.
The French people had tolerated me but never loved me. I had been for them a necessary evil-a commoner who had promised, but failed, to bring gold to fund a bankrupt nation, and the troops to fulfill Francois’s dreams of Italian conquest. It would be so easy to put me aside; after all, I had yet to bear children.
Madame Gondi, my able and eager spy, now confessed the truth: The French loved the Florentines for their art, their fine cloth, their literature-but they hated us as well. Backstabbers, they called us, poisoners whose inherited penchant for murder made us dangerous even to our families and friends. Many at Court were eager to see me gone; before my arrival, many had vowed that they would rather have their knees broken than bow them to the child of foreign merchants.
But I loved Henri desperately; I had found a life in France and couldn’t imagine another, especially now that Florence was no longer mine.
The next morning, I went to Mass with the King and followed him to his lunch. In the afternoon, I went, head up, chin lifted, to the royal stables.
King Francois was there, and the thin, elegant Duchess and plump Marie de Canaples. They all smiled at me, but their warmth had cooled to a distant politeness. Once again, I had become inconvenient.
Soon Henri’s ring with the talisman of Corvus was ready. I decided to present it to him one evening after we had lain together. Henri rose from the bed and pulled on his leggings. I sat upon the bed watching, still naked, with my hair falling free to my waist.
Before he could reach for the bell to summon his valet, I said, “I have a gift for you.”
He stopped and gave me a curious little half smile. I moved quickly to my cupboard, produced a little velvet box, and handed it to him.
His smile widened and grew pleased. “How very thoughtful of you.” He opened the box to find the gift, wrapped in a swatch of purple velvet.
“A ring,” he murmured. His expression remained carefully pleased, but a slight line appeared between his eyebrows. It was a very plain gold ring with a small onyx-an unremarkable piece of jewelry, more fit for merchant than for a prince. “It is handsome. Thank you, Catherine.”
“You must wear it always,” I said. “Even when you sleep. Promise me.”
“To remind me of your devotion?” he asked lightly.
Foolish girl, I did not respond smiling and teasing, as I should have to convince him, but hesitated.
A shadow fell over his face. “Is this some sort of magic?”
“There’s nothing evil in it,” I countered quickly. “It will bring only good.”
He held it to the lamplight, his expression suspicious. “What is it for?”
“Protection,” I said.
“And how was it made?”
“I did it myself, so I can swear that it isn’t evil. I used the power of a star; you know how I like to follow the heavens.”
A corner of his mouth quirked in a skeptic’s smile. “Catherine, don’t you think this is superstitious?”
“Indulge me. Please, I only want to keep you safe.”
“I’m young and healthy. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but this is nonsense.” He put the Raven’s Wing back into the box and set it on the table.
“I’ve dreams about you,” I said, with unhappy urgency. “Many dreams, worrisome ones. Perhaps God sent them. Perhaps God sent me here, to see you safe. Take the ring, Henri, I beg you. I went to great trouble to make it.”
He let go a sigh. “All right. I’ll wear it, if it gives you that much comfort.” He retrieved the ring, slipped it onto his finger, and held his hand to the lamp. “I suppose it can do no harm.”
“Thank you,” I said and kissed him, deeply relieved. My job was done; whatever happened to me from that moment on no longer mattered. Henri was now safe.
One year bled into the next. The King grew increasingly distant, and the Duchess and her ladies began whispering into each other’s ears in my presence. The simple act of my walking into a room abruptly sealed speakers’ lips.
In October of 1535, the Duke of Milan died without an heir, leaving his city ripe for the plucking. Even without papal assistance, King Francois could not resist so succulent a plum. He sent his new army toward Milan.
In retaliation, Emperor Charles invaded Provence, in France’s south.
The King was desperate to fight against the Imperial invaders himself, but Grand Master Montmorency convinced him otherwise while delicately avoiding mention of the fact that the last time the King had led his troops into battle, he had been captured. To everyone’s relief, the King appointed the experienced, cautious Montmorency as Lieutenant General, to take charge of the armed forces.
But Francois wished to be near the fighting, the better to advise. In the summer of 1536, his elder sons went with him, and so did I, followed by a skeleton Court. We stayed first in Lyon, then went to Tournon, then down to Valence, in the Midi, as the French call the Mediterranean-like south, moving at a safe parallel with the fighting.
The Dauphin remained in Tournon to nurse a slight case of catarrh-an excessive precaution, but the King was adamant. Young Francois made a joke of it, of course, and left me laughing as our carriages rolled away.
At Valence, I rode alongside Madame Gondi through forests of pine and eucalyptus and inhaled the scent of wild lavender crushed beneath the horses’ hooves. I never rode long or ventured too close to the banks of the Rhone, where the mosquitoes were thickest. The sun and river conspired to leave the air ruthlessly sultry. We stayed at an estate set atop a promontory, with sweeping views of the valley and river. In the late afternoons, as the heat was breaking, I sat with my embroidery in the vast reception chamber adjacent to the King’s quarters,
