The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

helmet and horse.

“Let us hope His Majesty scores a win,” she said pleasantly into my ear. “Captain de Montgomery taunted him when he replied to the King’s invitation. He was eager to break a lance with His Majesty, he said, to see whether he jousted as well in his forty-first year as in his twenty-ninth.”

I glanced at Mary, her fan pumping rapidly as she gazed down at Montgomery riding out onto field. The plumes upon his helmet were scarlet, his sleeves black, his lance striped in the same alternating shades. If he wore Mary’s color, white, I could not see it.

The red of Mars, the black of Saturn.

There can be battle, Ruggieri had said, even when there is no war.

At that instant the Duke of Nemours, who had finished jousting for the day, joined us on the balcony to pay his respects to the Dauphin and his bride. Before he could bow to me, I took his hand and drew him close.

“His Majesty has been unwell of late,” I said into his ear, “and this heat has surely undone him. Please, go to him. Tell him-no, beg him, for love of his wife, to forgo the last match and come to me.”

Nemours, a gracious man two years older than my husband, bowed deeply and kissed my hand. “Madame la Reine, I shall not return without him.”

I waited, breathless, until Nemours emerged from the Chateau des Tournelles to make his way across the field to the King’s pavilion, at whose entrance my mounted husband was just emerging. At Nemours’s signal, Henri bent low and listened; when the Duke had finished speaking, the King gave his swift reply.

Nemours paused for the beat of a heart, then bowed and crossed the field alone. My husband reined in his handsome steed, Disaster, and guided him into the lists, opposite Montgomery.

I sat frozen as the heralds announced the riders and the trumpets gave the signal for the charge.

“Monjoie!” my husband roared, and Montgomery echoed him. The horses thundered down the lists, and when the wooden lances thudded against steel breastplates, the animals reared, shrieking. Both riders fell. Silent, I kept my hand pressed hard to my heart until Henri pushed himself to his knees. He returned to his horse, wobbling so badly at one point that a groom rushed out of the pavilion to aid him, but my proud husband pushed him away. Montgomery had risen quickly and already remounted.

“Forgive me,” a voice said, and I glanced up to see the Duke of Nemours. “Forgive me, Madame la Reine,” he repeated. “I could not keep my promise. His Majesty bade me tell you: It is precisely for love of you that I fight.”

I could not answer; I was too alarmed by the sight of Montgomery’s weapon: Its dull metal tip, designed to keep the lance from piercing armor or splintering into deadly shards, had fallen off. Surely Montgomery had noticed, too-but rather than return to his pavilion for a replacement, he guided his charger back to the lists and faced the King. Behind him, his armor bearer noted the loss and called to him, but Montgomery seemed oblivious.

By then, my husband had climbed back upon Disaster. So intent was he on victory that he unlatched and raised his visor and, wiping the sweat from his brow, shouted at Montgomery to come at him again.

I stared spellbound, a dreamer unable to move my limbs, to find my voice. Henri lowered his visor but failed to heed the call of his armor bearer to latch it; Montgomery did not hear-or ignored-the hoarse cries of his own.

The crowd, too, had marked the unshod lance, as had the trumpeters, who, despite the King’s shouts, were too distracted to sound the call. Diane again put her hand upon my forearm-in alarm now, not reassurance-but, like the spectators, grew hushed. In the dying light, the white of her gown bled to grey.

The King, too impatient to wait for the trumpets, charged.

I rose. The world was silent save for the battle yell Monjoie! and the drumming of hooves. Montgomery and Henri hurtled at each other, two projectiles, and collided.

Separated by the low fence, the mounts collided at the shoulder and screamed. There came a loud crack like lightning: Montgomery’s lance dissolved in a firework spray of shards.

But Henri did not fall.

He reeled drunkenly and pitched forward, losing the reins, and feebly clutched Disaster’s neck. The horse carried him down the list until the King’s grooms ran out to catch the reins and guide the mount to an open area, where the earth had been torn by the lifting of paving stones and the pounding of hooves. Alongside Francois of Guise, white-haired Montmorency ran from the King’s pavilion. He cradled my husband’s shoulders and, with Guise’s aid, lowered Henri from the saddle to the ground.

The young lion will overcome the old, in

A field of combat in a single fight. He will

Pierce his eyes in a golden cage, two

Wounds in one, he then dies a cruel death.

He was no royal lion, the Scotsman Gabriel de Montgomery, but he rode that day for young Mary, his Queen.

Colors failed in the waning light. Against the reddening sky, dark figures worked to relieve my motionless husband of his armor. With the help of a valet, Guise pulled off the King’s gilded helmet: with it came a rush of blood. Captain de Montgomery staggered onto the scene and dropped to his knees.

Shrill screams pained my ears: They belonged to Diane, to Francois, to hundreds of noblemen, thousands of commoners. Beside me the Dauphin swooned and pitched forward in his chair. Mary caught him, her face a mask as white as the gown she wore, but I could not stop to accuse her, or even to help my son. I ran from the balcony down the stairs to the palace entry and out onto the paved driveway.

The black iron gate that led to the rue Saint-Antoine swung open. From the center of a swarm of onlookers, a small, grim procession emerged: Henri, bloodied and still, lay on a litter borne by Scottish guardsmen and flanked by old Montmorency and Francois, Duke of Guise. I pushed my way to my husband’s side and drew in a sharp breath.

One end of a jagged wooden shard-thick as two fingers, and almost twice as long-protruded from King’s right eye socket; the other end had shattered his skull at the temple and forced its way through the skin just in front of his right ear. The globe of the eye had been punctured, leaving nothing of the white or iris visible, only a dark, congealing mass of blood. A second, smaller splinter emerged from his throat just beneath the jaw, and miraculously had bled little.

I pressed my husband’s hand to my lips. He stirred at my touch and murmured faintly. My numbness fled, replaced by overwhelming horror and hope: Henri’s wound was grievous, his suffering unspeakable, yet Ruggieri’s magic had held. The King was still alive. As he came to himself, he waved for the litter to stop and demanded to be set upon his feet. Montmorency held him fast beneath the shoulders, and Francois of Guise held up his head; in this manner, my husband staggered over the threshold, a paragon of bravery.

The Dauphin followed on a second litter, still in a faint from which he could not be roused. Mary walked beside him, a vision in white-the color of a queen in mourning-and started as the iron gate clanged shut behind her.

Our sad party made its way up the stairs, to long-unused royal apartments; Francois was carried to a separate chamber, and his young Queen went with him. Henri was laid carefully upon the bed and his bloodied tunic cut away.

Upon his chest, soaked with sweat and blood, was pressed an emerald kerchief, embroidered with gold fleurs- de-lis by my own hand. At the sight of it, I cried out, then took it and put it next to my heart.

The next few hours were evil ones. The King’s doctor, Monsieur Chapelain, appeared and removed the smaller splinter from Henri’s throat, then probed the wounded eye to see whether he could dislodge the large shard. My husband would not cry out but could not keep from retching during the worst moments. The doctor afterward announced that the shard was fast situated and could not be removed.

Afternoon faded tonight. I hovered at the King’s bedside, watching as Henri’s face purpled and swelled, as his blackened eye began to bulge with trapped blood. Pain left him senseless most of the time, but there were a few moments where he came to himself and spoke sweetly to me. I was only vaguely aware that Montmorency and Francois of Guise disappeared, replaced by the Chief Inquisitor, Charles of Guise, and the Duke of Savoy.

At dawn, the aging Montmorency, grey-lipped and haggard, came to fetch me. He caught my arms gently and tried to coax me away, saying that I needed rest. I pulled free, stating loudly that I would never leave my husband’s