The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

“I will not see our sons slighted, Catherine. Mary will never rule France alone.”

“I would prefer she not rule it at all,” I said with asperity. I was so agitated I nearly withdrew my hand.

Henri knew, of course, that Mary and I shared little love for each other, and he wished sincerely that we felt otherwise. But in this case, he agreed with me: In the end, the contract specified that, upon Francois’s death, Mary’s right to the French throne would be forfeit. It was a condition that sorely disappointed the Guises, but Henri would not be moved.

The twenty-fourth of April dawned red and warm. I had slept little, having spent a good deal of the night comforting my weeping son Francois, who was terrified of humiliating himself by stuttering or fainting. Morning found me still sitting beside my drowsy son. His eyelids were swollen almost shut, his face was blotched and puffy. I ordered cold compresses and applied them tenderly to his eyes and cheeks.

By noon, all of us in the royal wedding party were dressed-Henri and I sedately, in shades of black and dull gold, so that Mary and our son might shine brightly. The rest of the royal children were there, all wearing their best; Elisabeth, now thirteen and a striking young woman in pale blue velvet-surely next to be married, as Henri was already considering suitors for her hand-made sure the younger ones behaved themselves as princes and princesses ought. With the exception of Mary, who waited out of sight in an alcove, we assembled at the main entrance of the palace. The bride’s uncles were outfitted grandly. The Cardinal of Lorraine wore scarlet satin and a large cross covered in rubies. The architect of the celebrations, the Duke of Guise, had dressed from head to toe in silver and diamonds, as if he were the bridegroom.

The sight of my Francois in his fine gold doublet was pathetically touching. His height matched that of his nearly eight-year-old brother, Charles; his head was too large for his body; and his high-pitched voice was still a boy’s. Even so, he had managed to effect an air of regal dignity. When Elisabeth bent down to kiss her older brother’s cheek and pronounced him “as handsome a man as I have ever seen,” Henri’s eyes filmed with tears, and he reached for my hand and squeezed it.

Several coaches festooned with white satin and lilies awaited us in the courtyard. Henri and Francois climbed into the first carriage; when they had rolled out of sight, Mary emerged from inside the palace.

She was a dazzling, dark-haired angel in white satin and sparkling diamonds, with a jewel-encrusted golden coronet upon her head; we all gasped at the sight of her. She smiled, knowing the impression she made; her massive train sighed upon the cobblestones as she made her way toward the waiting carriage, despite the two demoiselles who struggled valiantly to hold it aloft. Once she was settled inside with her two young attendants, I climbed in. We crossed the Seine to the Island of the City, the Ile-de-la-Cite. Our destination was the palace of the Cardinal de Bourbon, next to Notre-Dame.

There, our wedding party began its slow public procession. Guise had overseen the construction of a wooden gallery leading from the steps of the Archbishop’s palace to the steps of the cathedral. It was covered in purple velvet, from floor to ceiling, and decorated with Mary’s white lilies and silver ribbons; inside stood foreign dignitaries, ambassadors, princes, and courtiers, all eager to get a close look at the bride. The Cardinal led the procession with Francois. Mary followed a good distance behind, arm in arm with the King. I came next, at the head of my children, followed by Diane and my ladies. Francois of Guise and his brother came last.

The smell of fresh timber evoked memories of the day, long ago, when I was a frightened, vulnerable bride. The crowd gasped appreciatively as Mary passed them while jubilant Parisians roared outside. I smiled to see my cousin Piero, dashing in a uniform of dark blue, and was taken aback when my gaze caught Cosimo Ruggieri’s. He looked exceptionally fine-if one could say such a thing of an ugly man-in a new doublet of dark red brocade edged in black velvet. Red and black, reminders of blood and death, of what had been required to reach this place, this moment.

He was smiling brightly-an incongruous expression on such a pale, ghostly visage. I grinned back at him with a sudden welling of affection, knowing that, without him, I would not have survived, would not have seen my son born. Our glance held more intimacy than any I had ever shared with my husband.

Our party emerged from the gallery and ascended the steps of Notre-Dame in full view of the wooden amphitheater holding thousands of joyfully noisy citizens, contained by Scottish guards and fences. Guise had decided that Mary should be wed not inside the cathedral but outside, for the sake of the crowd. The Cardinal halted at the great central entrance, the Portal of Judgment, beneath the magnificent Rose West window, a medallion of stained glass and stone. Francois stopped an arm’s length from the Archbishop, then turned toward the crowd and waited for his bride.

When Mary arrived to stand between my son and the King, the people fell silent. The ceremony was brief. When the Cardinal demanded of the groom and bride a vow, the Dauphin miraculously answered without a single stammer; Mary’s reply was strong and assured. The King produced the ring-a simple gold band-and handed it to the Cardinal, who slipped it onto Mary’s finger. The Cardinal paused-the cue for the Dauphin to kiss his lovely new bride.

But Mary cried loudly, unexpectedly, “All hail Francois, King of Scots!” She knelt and bowed low, her white skirts pooling about her.

It was a brilliant bit of theater. The citizens, already dazzled by Mary’s poise and beauty, thundered their approval of such humble deference toward their future king.

I glanced over my shoulder at the nobles who had congregated behind us on the cathedral stairs. Every face radiated appreciation for Mary’s lovely gesture-save one. Cosimo Ruggieri stood unfooled and unsmiling. In his black eyes, on his white face, was the same dark intensity he had worn thirty years ago in Florence, when he had uttered an ugly word.

Betrayal…

After the ceremony, we returned to the Cardinal’s palace for the traditional feast, followed by a ball. I was standing beside Mary when her uncle Francois of Guise came to lead her to the dance floor. He was already inebriated and whispered far too loudly in her ear:

“You are Queen of two countries now.”

Mary seemed amused and directed a sly, feline smile at me as Guise escorted her away.

The sun was setting when we returned over the bridge to the Louvre, Mary borne upon a litter, the dying light painting her skin and dress a brilliant coral. We were exhausted when we returned to the palace, but Guise was not done with his lavish spectacle. We were ushered to the Louvre’s grand ballroom. The King made his appearance in a clever little mechanical boat decorated with lilies and white satin, and equipped with silver sails. Accompanied by nautical music, the boat glided across the marble floor as if floating upon the sea; it made its way over to Mary. My grinning husband helped her into the little boat, then the two of them slowly circled the ballroom, to the marvel of the guests.

As they sailed away from me, a second boat appeared, with my son aboard. I did not relax my public smile as I settled beside him on the velvet cushion, but I let go a weary sigh as I kissed his cheek.

“Are you very tired, Maman?” he asked. His eyes were drooping from exhaustion, but he was in good spirits and obviously greatly relieved that he had survived the ceremony.

“A little,” I said and patted his knee to reassure him. “But not so tired as you are.”

He nodded in grave agreement. “Isn’t Mary beautiful?” he asked suddenly.

“She is,” I replied and hesitated. “Francois… You know that Mary is a very opinionated young woman.”

“Yes,” he said, with blithe innocence. “She can be very stubborn.”

“Which is why you must learn to exert your will forcefully with her; otherwise, when you are King, she will try to rule in your stead.”

He dropped his gaze at once. “Mary loves me. She would never do anything bad.”

“I know,” I said patiently. “But when your father and I are gone, and you are King, you must remember that you alone can make decisions.”

Even as I spoke, Francois spied his bride riding alongside Henri and waved frantically until he caught her attention. She blew him a kiss, and he grinned stupidly at her until her little boat moved out of view.

“Francois,” I said, “I will ask you to make only one promise to me, ever.”

He looked up at me, his eyes wide and ingenuous; he had already forgotten what we had been discussing. “Of course, Maman!”

I drew in a long breath. “Promise me that, when you are King, you will not let Mary make the decisions. Promise me that you will listen to your advisers instead.”