The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

written of it, in this poem.” I leveled my gaze at him. “And I have dreamt, since I was a small girl, that a man who cried out to me in French would die in a pool of blood upon a battlefield. I did not know who this man was until I met my husband.”

“I am sorry, Madame,” he responded sadly. “If God has sent you these visions, you must strive to discover why He has done so. You have the responsibility.”

“I have a responsibility to keep the King safe,” I said. “I have a responsibility to my children. And I have spent my life trying to understand, trying to learn what I am to do.”

Monsieur de Nostredame lowered his gaze to the pattern on the carpet. His expression remained placid; he might have been praying.

“Perhaps,” he suggested, “you are meant to do nothing. Perhaps you are meant only to write your visions down.”

My tone grew brittle. “Or perhaps not all of your prophecies come true. Perhaps they are meant as warnings, just as my dreams are warnings, so that danger can be averted. Is that not possible, Monsieur?”

He did not look up. His features had grown slack, his breathing slow and deep.

“Ah!” he exclaimed, his eyelids fluttering. “How the blood wells! How it streams from his face!”

“Yes,” I whispered, then more loudly: “Yes. But this danger can be avoided. The future can be changed, can it not?”

“Yesterday, today, tomorrow,” he murmured, “all are the same in the Almighty’s eyes. Just as one cannot change the past, so one cannot change the ordained future.”

My hands tensed upon the arms of the chair. “My husband has been warned that he could sustain a mortal wound in battle. His stars are instructive: If he avoids battle and does not lead his men into war, then he will be safe. This is the very basis of astrology, Monsieur. You must tell me whether war is coming again for France. You must tell me what can be done to stop it.”

“War comes,” he said. “War always comes, and there is little you or I can do to stop it.”

“But surely you know when,” I said. “When did you first have this vision of the two lions, Monsieur? Many years ago?” I told myself that it must have come before Ruggieri had cast the spell using the prostitute’s blood, before we had made Henri safe.

“Five years ago,” Monsieur de Nostredame replied. “But even now, I see it with the eye of spirit. The prophecy holds.”

“This cannot be true! Please, Monsieur… Henri is my life, my soul. If he dies, I would not want to live. You must tell me what more I can do.”

His eyes snapped full open. His stare was wide and frank. “One does not thwart God, Madame.”

“But God is merciful.”

“God is just,” the prophet answered softly.

“And He listens to prayer,” I countered. “Therefore, if one beseeches Him heartily enough-”

“As Christ beseeched Him, in the Garden of Gethsemane?” His tone remained gentle. “Prayed to be spared a bitter death-knowing that crucifixion was inevitable?” He shuddered, then just as abruptly went limp in the chair. When he spoke again, it was with another’s voice.

“These children,” he sighed. “Madame la Reine, their stars are marred. These children should not be.”

I put a hand to my heart, where the pearl hung, and feigned anger. “What a horrible thing to say to a mother. What a cruel thing.”

He ignored the lie. “The tapestry of history is woven of many threads, Madame. Let even one be exchanged for another that is weak and flawed, and the veil will tear.” His eyes, now fire-bright, focused on me. “The veil will tear, and blood be loosed, more blood than you have seen in any dream. Reparations must be made.”

I stared at him, sickened. No doubt, with the eyes of spirit, he saw her just as I did: the prostitute, her dull eyes wide at the touch of Ruggieri’s blade against her throat. Yet I could not bear to confess the truth aloud, even to him.

I whispered, “I do not understand…”

“You think that you are heartless, Madame,” he said. “Far from it. Beware of tenderness. Beware of mercy. Do not spare those who have your heart. Even so, restitution will not come easily. More blood will be spilled.”

Restitution: He spoke of Henri and the children, I knew. He wanted me to abandon my loved ones. He wanted me to undo the spell. I rose abruptly, forcing him to emerge from his reverie, to fumble for his cane, to struggle to his feet.

“Our audience is over, Monsieur,” I said coldly. “You are quite right-I have many astrologers and have no need of your services at this time. Please rest tonight at Blois before continuing on your way. May your journey home be pleasant, and may God protect you.”

He looked on me with empathy so deep it broke my heart.

“It was hard,” he whispered. “So hard, when I lost my wife and children. But it was God’s will, Madame. God’s will.”

It was the man who spoke, not the oracle, but I could not bring myself to reply. Seething, imperious, I rang for Madame Gondi, then watched as she led the prophet away.

I returned to my chair, lowered my face, and dug the tips of my fingers into my brow, my temples. I remained thus, my mind and emotions a swirl of confusion, until a peculiar instinct prompted me to rise.

I went to the large window overlooking the courtyard where the children were playing. There had been some emergency: Edouard and Charles were shouting and pointing at a pile of rocks while the governess comforted wailing Margot. The situation must have been serious, for Jeanne herself had appeared on the grassy lawn and was kneeling beside her son, talking to him.

Nostredame appeared, leaning hard upon his cane, and made his way laboriously across the lawn until he stood a polite distance from Jeanne. He spoke to her; whatever he said made her rise and smile, then watch curiously after him as he retreated. The sight filled me with dread: Other than Ruggieri, Jeanne was the only person who knew I had resorted to dark magic in order to conceive. How much more horrified would she have been had I confessed that I had bought my children with the blood of others?

I hurried out of my apartment and down the spiraling stone staircase to the courtyard. By the time I had crossed the grassy lawn to arrive at Jeanne’s side, the seer was gone, no doubt on his way to his guest chamber.

“Maman!” six-year-old Charles bellowed rudely, so excited that he had forgotten his manners. “Maman, Margot was almost bitten by a snake!”

My shock was genuine. “A snake? Where is it now?”

“Gone,” Edouard said, as I deflated with relief. “Margot climbed onto that pile of rocks”-he pointed-“and while she was standing there, Henri told her to get down, because the snake was near her foot, ready to bite her!”

“Henri!” I exclaimed. “How good of you to save Margot!”

Little Navarre blushed and turned back to his mother’s arms. Jeanne gave him a squeeze and beamed proudly. “He’s a brave, good boy,” she said.

I turned to give Margot a hug and listen to her excited rendition of the story; when she was done, Edouard whispered in my ear.

“The snake was under the rocks, Maman. Little Henri couldn’t have seen it. None of us could see it until Henri took a stick and pushed the rock away. But he knew exactly where it was. He told Margot to get away from it.”

I smiled indulgently, certain that I was listening to a child’s embellished tale. “How amazing.”

“Henri sees things,” Edouard hissed. “Things that aren’t there.”

“Very good,” I said, my tone dismissive. I signaled for the governess to collect the children and distract them so that I might speak to Jeanne privately.

Jeanne looked after her son with a faint smile. “The snake was more frightened than the children, I think; it escaped at the first opportunity. My Henri must have glimpsed it coiled beneath the rock.”

“Monsieur de Nostredame,” I said. “What did he say?”

“What?” She blinked. “Oh, is that his name?” Her tone grew amused. “He fancies himself a soothsayer. I was offended at first by his forwardness, but he was pleasant enough.”

“Yes,” I said, impatient, “but what did he tell you?”