The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

beside us.

I sat motionless by the infant’s body for hours. No one, not even the King, disturbed me.

In my sorrow, I did not see the pane of light that appeared when the nursery door was cracked open; I did not hear the feather-light tread upon the marble. But I sensed someone beside me and looked down at my elbow to see a little boy plucking my sleeve. It was Henri of Navarre, then two and a half years old, his round head covered with dark curls, his little brow furrowed with worry.

“Tante Catherine,” he lisped. “Chere Tante, don’t be sad.”

“But I must be sad,” I told him. “Your little cousin Victoire has died.”

“Ah,” he said, considering this, and fidgeted a bit before adding: “But she didn’t know us, so she won’t miss us in Heaven.”

I could answer only with tears.

Stricken at the sight of them, he exclaimed with anguished sincerity, “Poor Tante! I can pretend to be one of the babies that you lost. And I promise to be very, very good.”

I put my arms around him.

“My little Henri,” I said. “My darling, my own.”

Ruggieri and a thousand others sent condolences the following day, but I was of a mind to receive no one. Instead I summoned Madame Gondi to my cabinet and dictated a letter to Michel de Nostredame of Provence.

During the weeks I awaited a reply, I began again to dream.

Twenty-eight

I received the great prophet Nostradamus as I would a dear friend or relative: informally, in the comfort of my antechamber. As the door swung open to admit him, I sat alone beside the cold hearth-I had dismissed everyone, even Madame Gondi-and forced a wan smile.

He entered limping, leaning heavily upon a cane; evidently, God was more interested in relaying visions of an ominous future than in relieving gout. He was astonishingly unremarkable-looking: short, stout, and grey-haired, with an unfashionably long beard and drab, worn clothing rumpled by travel.

“Madame la Reine,” he said, in the soft voice of a southerner; his face was round and fair, his eyes, gentle and devoid of self-importance. He had been born a Jew, but his father had converted to Christianity and adopted the most Catholic of surnames, in honor of the Virgin. He removed his cap and, balancing precariously on his cane, bowed; his thinning hair spilled forward to hide his face.

“I am honored and humbled that you would summon me,” he murmured. “I pray to be of service to you and to His Majesty in whatever manner pleases you. Ask for my life, and it is yours.” His voice and hands trembled. “If there is any question of heresy or devilry, I can only say this: I have endeavored all my life to serve God alone, and wrote down the visions at His express bidding.”

Madame Gondi had told me that he had been obliged to move from village to village in Provence to avoid arrest; I realized, with a surge of compassion, that he was terrified. For all he knew, he was walking into an inquisitional trap.

“I do not doubt that, Monsieur de Nostredame,” I said warmly, smiling, and extended my hand. “That is why I have asked for your help. Thank you for traveling such a distance, in your discomfort, to see us. We are deeply grateful.”

He let go a shuddering sigh and tottered forward to kiss my extended hand; his hair brushed softly against my knuckles. As he straightened, he turned his head and caught sight of the window; he forgot his nerves entirely and grew very focused, very calm.

“Ah,” he said, as if to himself. “The children.”

Outside, on the sprawling grassy courtyard, Edouard and little Navarre were tearing after Margot, ignoring the warnings of the governess to slow down. It was midmorning, hot and sultry, yet strangely grey; dark clouds had gathered early over the river Loire in anticipation of a sudden August storm.

I managed a faint smile at the sight. “His Highness Prince Edouard likes to chase his little sister.”

“The two younger ones-the little boy and girl-appear to be twins,” the prophet said, his sloping brow furrowed.

“They are my daughter Margot and her cousin, Henri of Navarre.”

“The resemblance is remarkable,” he murmured.

“They are both about three years old, Monsieur; Margot was born on the thirteenth of May, Navarre on the thirteenth of December.”

“Tied by fate,” he said. He looked back at me with pale grey eyes that were very large and frankly piercing, like a child’s. “I once had a son,” he said sadly, “and a daughter.”

I had heard of this: Renowned as a healer and physician, he was famed for saving many sick with plague-but when his own wife and children were stricken, he had been unable to save them.

“Forgive me for mentioning my own sorrow, Madame la Reine, but I learned recently that you mourn the loss of two little girls. There is no worse 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 said, then changed the subject quickly, so that I might not cry. I gestured at the chair across from mine, with the footstool placed there expressly for him. “You have suffered enough on my behalf. Please sit down. Shall I tell you when the children were born?”

“You are too gracious, Your Majesty. Yes, that would be lovely.” He settled into the chair and propped his foot up on the footstool with a little groan.

“Do you require pen and paper, Monsieur?” I asked.

He tapped his forehead. “No, I shall remember. Let us start with the eldest, then.”

I told him the specifics of the boys’ births. I did not give him the girls’, as, under Salic law, a woman could not ascend the throne of France.

“Thank you, Madame la Reine,” Monsieur de Nostredame said, when we were finished. “I will give you my full report within two days. I have already done some preparations, since the dates of the boys’ births are widely known.”

He did not make as if to rise, as one might have expected; he gazed at me with those clear, all-seeing eyes, and in the silence that followed, I found my voice.

“I have evil dreams,” I said.

He tilted his head-intrigued, but not at all surprised. “May I speak candidly, then, Madame la Reine? I am not the first astrologer to chart the children’s nativities. You already have this information, do you not? You called me here for another reason.”

I nodded. “I’ve read your book,” I said and recited the thirty-fifth quatrain, about the lion dying in a cage of gold.

His gaze grew clouded. “I write what God bids me, Madame la Reine. I do not presume to understand its meaning.”

“But I do.” I leaned forward, no longer hiding my desperation. “My husband-he is the lion in the verse. I dreamt-” My voice broke.

“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 around green hedges beneath a hidden sun. I closed my eyes and saw instead a great scorched battlefield, where my husband thrashed, drowning, in a swelling tide of blood.

“I don’t want to see anymore,” I said.

“God does not give us that choice.”

“The King will die,” I said, with faint heat. “That is the meaning of the thirty-fifth quatrain, is it not? My Henri is destined to die too young, a terrible death in war, unless something is done to stop it. You know this; you have