grey beard and outdated clothes. Henri named him President of the King’s Privy Council, a position second only to the King. Montmorency at once moved into the apartment adjacent to the King’s-the one hastily vacated by the Duchess d’Etampes, who had fled to the countryside.
I did not like Montmorency, though I respected him. I saw arrogance in his narrowed, deep-set eyes, in his bearing and speech. He was quick to dismiss the opinions of others but was loyal and did not, like so many others, see Henri’s accession as an opportunity to increase his own wealth.
The same could not be said of Diane de Poitiers. Not only did she convince Henri to give her all of the Duchess d’Etampe’s assets but Diane asked for and received the breathtaking palace at Chenonceaux-royal property that was not Henri’s to give. In addition, Henri gave her the taxes collected upon his accession, a veritable fortune. He even gave her the Crown Jewels, an insult I did my best to bear gracefully while my friends howled at the injustice.
To me, Henri gave an annual allowance of two hundred thousand livres.
He also indulged in political matchmaking: He married his cousin Jeanne of Navarre to Antoine de Bourbon, First Prince of the Blood, who would inherit the throne upon the death of Henri and all of his sons. Bourbon was a handsome man, though very vain; he wore a fluffy hairpiece to hide his balding crown and a gold hoop in his ear. By then he had converted to Protestantism, then recanted, then called himself a Huguenot again, as it suited his political aims. I despised his inconstancy but was glad that the marriage brought Jeanne to live at Court again.
Henri also increased the status of the Guise family, a branch of the royal House of Lorraine. His closest friend was Francois of Guise, a handsome, bearded man with golden hair and magnetic grey-green eyes, who laughed easily. He was warm, charming, and sharp-witted, the sort of man who exuded importance and commanded attention; he could silence a crowd by the mere act of entering the room. Henri elevated him from Count to Duke, and appointed him to the Privy Council.
Henri likewise appointed Guise’s brother Charles to the Council. Charles, the Cardinal of Lorraine, was a dark- haired, dark-eyed, brooding political genius known for his duplicity. Their sister, Marie of Guise, was the widow of King James of Scotland and served as regent for her five-year-old daughter, Mary, Queen of Scots.
At the time, Scotland was in turmoil, and the girl Mary was in great danger in her own country.
“Let her come to live with us in the French Court,” my Henri said, “where she may grow to her majority in safety. When she is old enough, she will marry my son, Francois.”
Some considered that to be a wise strategy: As a Catholic, Mary was the only monarch of England recognized by the Pope; if she married our son, he would have a claim to the English throne as well as to that of Scotland.
Mary arrived at Blois swathed in tartan, a dark-haired porcelain doll with wide, fear-filled eyes. She knew very little French; she would loose a tumble of harsh, guttural sounds, too coarse to be words, yet those in her entourage understood them. She brought with her bodyguards, brawny, kilted giants with greasy auburn hair and narrowed, suspicious eyes, who frankly stank. The Scots scorned bathing and manners-all except for Mary and her governess, Janet Fleming, a white-skinned beauty with green eyes and hair like sunlight. Madame Fleming was a young widow who quickly absorbed much of French culture and relayed it to her charge.
I was predisposed to like Mary, even to love her: I felt a kinship with this child whose own countrymen had threatened her with death and forced her to flee her home. I understood what it was to be hated and frightened and alone in a foreign land. When I learned of her arrival, I hurried to welcome her.
I entered the nursery without fanfare to see Mary standing beside Francois, eyeing him critically. She was slight and imperious, with a haughty lift to her sharp chin.
At the sound of my step, she turned and, in thickly accented French, demanded: “Why do you not curtsy? Do you not know that you are in the presence of the Queen of Scotland?”
“Yes,” I said easily, with a smile. “Do you not know that you are in the presence of the Queen of France?”
She was thoroughly taken aback; I laughed and kissed her. She returned the kiss, guarded little creature, with lips that smelled of fish and ale; her stiff posture conveyed an intense dislike. She was two years older than my Francois but already thrice as tall. At three years of age, my son looked barely two, and his intellect was even younger. At times I looked into his dull, unfocused eyes and saw the ghost of the murdered imbecile.
Henri doted on Mary, saying that he loved her more than his own issue because she was already a queen. I bit my tongue at the insult to my children. Francois and Charles of Guise were delirious at their niece’s good fortune: When Henri died, our son would be King and his bride, Mary, would become Queen of France as well as of Scotland.
My husband’s accession brought other changes as well. The old King’s little band of women was scattered, with the Duchess d’Etampes disgraced and living in anonymity; her closest friend, the dimpled, coquettish Marie de Canaples, had been denounced as an adultress by her husband and banned from Court. Two of the women had left for Portugal with Queen Eleonore, who had had enough of France and wished to live out her days far removed from intrigue.
On the day my husband was crowned, I sat in a tribune in the cathedral at Reims and fought not to weep as Henri marched to the altar. It was not only pride that triggered my unshed tears but also the gold embroidery upon my husband’s white satin tunic, directly over his heart: two large
My own coronation took place two years later, at the cathedral of Saint-Denis, just outside of Paris.
I entered heralded by trumpets, my bodice glittering with diamonds, emeralds, and rubies; my deep blue velvet cloak glinted green with the play of the light. Escorted by Grand Master Montmorency and flanked by Antoine de Bourbon, the most senior Prince of the Blood, I glided to the altar. Beneath my gleaming bodice, the magician’s pearl-which had brought me thus far-hung between my breasts.
I genuflected and proceeded to my throne, mounted on a platform draped in gold cloth; the steps leading up to it were covered in the same blue velvet as my cloak. The Cardinal de Bourbon-Antoine’s brother-presided over the ceremony. I knelt and prayed on cue, my voice strong as I answered the Cardinal’s questions in the affirmative. I had wedded Henri fifteen years ago, and now I was marrying France.
The ancient crown Antoine de Bourbon set upon my head was so heavy that I could not bear it. A second lighter crown was produced, which I wore for the rest of the ceremony.
After Mass was said, I and three other noblewomen were given precious items to place upon the altar in offering before the Holy Sacrament was administered. Diane was chosen to follow directly behind me because my husband had given her the duchy of Valentinois, which elevated her rank and fortune substantially. Before the ceremony, he had also announced that she was now one of my ladies-in-waiting-a fact that offended me no small amount, as it would greatly increase the amount of time Diane would spend in my presence.
I processed down the long aisle with a golden orb in my hands; when I arrived at the altar, I deposited it with the Cardinal de Bourbon, then turned and waited for the other women.
They were long in coming. Diane was to have followed closely but instead moved at a ridiculously languid pace, her gaze directed heavenward, her face aglow with feigned beatific rapture. As she passed beneath the loge where my husband sat, she stood completely still for a long moment-drawing the attention of the entire assembly-then slowly paraded past him.
I watched with rage, though my expression remained consummately dignified. I had thought that Diane would be satisfied with obscene riches and Henri’s love-but these were not enough. She wished to steal what little attention I received, even on this day; she wished to make it clear who truly ruled the King.
I reflected, at that instant, on how very easy it would be to kill her-to ask Ruggieri for a potion, or a poisoned glove, or a spell-especially since I had broken through that seductive barrier twice before. But I would never kill to exact personal revenge, only to save those I loved, the same as Cosimo Ruggieri.
Perhaps there is a kinder place in Hell for us.
Twenty-five
The years that followed were difficult. Jeanne’s mother, the warmhearted, brilliant Queen Marguerite of
