The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

Henri was invigorated by the return of his old friend and relished the thought of participating in the joust, perhaps eager to dispel the notion that, at forty, he was no longer the athlete he had been in his youth. Many a warm day before the wedding, he spent hours engaging in mock tourneys astride his new, magnificent stallion named Le Malheur, Disaster, a wedding gift from his former enemy, the Duke of Savoy.

I, too, had recently turned forty, and the festivities left me exhausted. I did not appear at the first two days of jousting but waited until the third day, when His Majesty was to enter the lists.

The afternoon before, the day turned abysmally humid, and evening brought violent rains, ending all outdoor revels. My bedchamber was hot, and I, strangely anxious; despite my weariness, I resisted sleep. The chambermaid opened the drapes, and and I stood staring out at the dark courtyard, listening to water crash against stone.

When the rain finally eased, I fell into an uneasy dream: I stood again on the scorched battlefield, gazing at the setting sun. In the near distance stood a man, his body dark against an incandescent sky. I saw his silhouette with dazzling clarity-the ridges of armor at his shoulders, the edges of the breastplate covering his heart. His helmet trailed plumes of black and grey.

Catherine, he called.

I ran to him. How can I help, Monsieur? What am I meant to do?

Suddenly he lay wounded. As I knelt beside him, shadowy forms hovered over him, invisible hands lifted the helmet from his head. With it came gushing blood; beneath that crimson spring, a man’s lips formed a single word.

Catherine, he said and died.

I woke to the sound of my whispered scream, and a grey and sultry dawn.

On that last morning of June, I sent a letter to the King before either of us had dressed. At the same time, I tried to reason with my fear: We had ransomed Henri’s life, had we not? But how old had the prostitute been? How many years had we purchased? My mind, normally so swift at mathematical calculation, tried to count them and failed.

If you love me, I wrote my husband, forgo the lists today. I know you scoff at such things, but God has sent me an evil dream. Perhaps I am foolish; if I am, what harm can it do to set my mind at ease? Do this one thing, and I shall be ever grateful and ask for nothing more.

I did not mention the astrologer Luca Guorico’s warning, or the words of Nostradamus; certainly, I dared not write Ruggieri’s name. I sent the letter knowing that Henri would not heed it; he had spent more time in recent days in the Guises’ presence than in mine, as they planned the strokes of the new French Inquisition. His reply came within the hour:

Have no fear on my account, dear wife. You ask that I withdraw from the tournament for love of you; I beg you, for love of me, to put your fears aside and cheer me on today. Tradition bids me wear a certain lady’s colors of black and white, but I will also wear your color, green, next to my heart. This evening, when I return victorious, greet me with a kiss. It will seal our private pact that from this day forth, you will put aside all superstition and trust in God alone.

Your loving husband and most devoted servant,

Henri

When I received the message, my first impulse was to surrender to fear. My second was to calm myself, as there was little I could do: I had a responsibility to my daughter Elisabeth and her wedding guests, and there were many more functions that day requiring my attendance. I told myself that the storm had troubled my sleep and given me a bad dream, nothing more.

I repeated this firmly to myself each time panic loomed. I stood calmly while my ladies dressed me in a gown of purple damask with a bodice of gold; I smiled at my reflection in the mirror, and at my attendants, until I could recall the joy I had felt upon hearing of the truce with Philip, until the gesture became faintly genuine.

In that way, I survived the morning, and there were times as I looked at Elisabeth’s glowing young face that I forgot my worry and my heart brimmed with love.

In the early afternoon, Elisabeth and the dour, unsmiling Don Fernando made their way to the stands and a special box constructed for the “bridal couple.” The rest of us royals headed to the Chateau des Tournelles. One of its second-floor balconies overlooked the lists where the King would meet his opponents.

As I climbed the stairs to the second floor, anxiety seized me; my heart pounded so rapidly I could not catch my breath. I murmured an excuse to the others and walked across the landing to an open window to take in the warm, heavy air.

While I stood gasping and clutching the windowsill, something moved in the corner of my eye, accompanied by a faint murmur. It drew me, and I stepped away from the window toward it and a tiny alcove hidden from view.

In it stood Gabriel de Montgomery, captain of the King’s Scottish guard, twenty-nine years old and in his prime-tall and muscular, his dark auburn hair brushed back and face clean-shaven, the better to show the magnificent angular lines of his cheeks and jaw. His expression was intent as he gazed down at a young woman, dressed all in white, who whispered earnestly to him. As I neared, he jerked up his head and met my gaze with the wide, guilty eyes of a conspirator.

Mary broke off in midwhisper and looked over her shoulder at me. Furtiveness glimmered on her features and resolved into a disingenuous smile.

“Madame la Reine!” she exclaimed cheerfully. “I shall join you and the others directly. Captain de Montgomery has agreed most kindly to wear my colors today.”

A lovers’ tryst, I thought, and felt hurt and sorrow for my son. But I said nothing-only smiled in return, greeted Captain de Montgomery, and returned to the others.

We took our places upon the second-floor balcony to great fanfare, followed by the cheering of thousands. Every roof, every window was swarming with spectators, eager to see the King joust. I sat between Diane and the Dauphin, who was flanked by his duplicitous wife. The air was stifling and still, adance with the constant flutter of the women’s fans. Francois was so red-faced and breathless that Mary and I angled our fans discreetly to send him the breeze.

The lesser nobles had finished their jousting the day before. This day, Friday, was reserved for the highest-born and the King. We cheered on dukes and counts as the trumpets blared and the riders bellowed Monjoie!- the French soldier’s victory cry-when they galloped down the narrow lists, separated only by a low fence designed to keep the horses from colliding. We sat so close to the combatants that the noise of the crowd failed to drown out the pounding of hooves and the crash of wooden lances against steel armor. Clods of flying dirt struck our skirts and slippers.

Hours later, the heralds announced the King. He rode out from his pavilion on his gleaming chestnut charger, caparisoned in white and gold, and raised his lance to the roaring crowd. The sight of him, straight and strong in his gilded armor, made my heart swell; with the others, I rose and clapped and shouted my approval.

Henri broke his first lance with his old enemy the Duke of Savoy, and unseated him on the first run. On the second, Savoy’s lance struck the King square in the chest, lifting him from the saddle into the air. Henri clattered to the ground and for an instant lay so motionless that I moved to rise. Diane lightly touched my forearm in a gesture of reassurance-and indeed, in the next breath, Henri rose and waved to the applauding onlookers. The third run ended with both men still mounted. The match was a draw-the perfect outcome, given that my competitive husband did not stomach defeat well but had no wish to endanger his reconciliation with Savoy.

Henri’s second opponent was the Duke of Guise. Out of three runs, Henri was unseated once and managed to unseat Guise once, giving His Majesty another draw.

By then it was late afternoon. The sun had slipped low and heated our west-facing balcony to a beastly degree; even Diane, who rarely perspired, was forced to mop her brow with her kerchief. I raised a hand to shield my eyes from the dazzling light and focused on the men below.

The King’s last match that day was with Gabriel de Montgomery, Captain of the Scottish Guard. As it was the final run of the day, the crowd thinned, and several of the noble spectators in the galleries began to leave, hastened by the relentless heat.

Diane was elegantly appointed in black velvet and white satin-the colors of the plumes upon my husband’s