The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

Anet. At my request, she promptly returned the Crown Jewels my husband had given her in his smitten youth, along with a letter asking my forgiveness for any pain she had ever caused me.

When the jewels arrived, in a beautifully sculpted crystal casket-a wedding gift to me from Pope Clement-I took Mary to see them. I treated her politely in public, but I had not forgotten her conspiratorial conversation with the man who had killed my husband, nor Francois of Guise’s stray comment, at her wedding, that she was already Queen of France.

“These are yours now,” I told her. And when she brightened at the sight of them, I sidled next to her and whispered, “Regicide is the worst crime before God. Those who commit it are doomed to the worst circle of Hell.”

She glanced sharply at me, her eyes wide and perhaps frightened as her hand went to the diamond-studded crucifix at her breast.

Easily, I looked away from her, down at the glistening casket filled with rubies and emeralds and pearls. “You are a very lucky girl,” I murmured. “Fortunate that my son loves you so dearly. Fortunate that Captain de Montgomery cannot be found.”

She stared at me, her eyes owlish, her lips so tightly pursed as to be in danger of disappearing. I left her thus, pale and pinched and silent.

I don’t understand how, in those early days, I managed to do what was necessary to protect my son. They say that after a soldier loses an arm or a leg, the body insists the limb is still there, moving, touching, feeling. Perhaps that is how I survived the horror of losing my husband; I breathed and spoke and moved, thanks to a phantom heart.

In the moments I was not needed, I succumbed. I swathed my cramped apartments at the Louvre in black crepe and sat alone on the floor, clutching my skull. There are no words to describe grief: the howling madness, the bitter ache in the chest and throat, the terror caused by loss of meaning. It came in waves less predictable than those of labor but infinitely fiercer. One instant I would be issuing orders to Madame Gondi; the next, clutching her skirts as I collapsed, sobbing.

Nor are there words to describe the endless feverish workings of my mind as it sought to understand how I had failed Henri, how-despite everything-I had let him die. Why had the sacrifice of the harlot not been enough? Why had I not insisted more vehemently that he avoid the joust?

Summer turned relentless: Black waves writhed in the air above the pavement and turned to steam in the wake of afternoon showers that gave no respite. Night brought sudden storms: I woke often to the crack of lightning, hearing instead the shattering of the Scotsman’s lance.

A month to the day after the King died, Ruggieri returned to Paris. Before I hurried to meet him, I peered into my mirror and saw a haggard woman there, with a new shock of white hair at one temple and a pronounced pallor from lack of outdoor exercise. Grief did not flatter me.

Ruggieri looked better than I had ever seen him. He had grown a black beard to cover his pitted cheeks and put on a bit of weight, which suited him. He had even seen a bit of sun. The instant Madame Gondi closed the door on us, Ser Cosimo went down on one knee.

“Madame la Reine,” he said, his tone formal but heartfelt. “Words fail to express the sorrow I felt upon hearing of His Majesty’s death.”

“We meet again, too soon,” I responded.

“Too soon,” he answered, his voice and eyes sad.

I walked around my desk to where he knelt. “Rise, Monsieur Ruggieri,” I said and caught his hand.

He rose. When he stood looking down at me, expectant yet somber, I lifted my arm and, with all my strength, struck him. The gesture loosed a storm of rage: I curled my fists and pounded his chest, his stomach, his arms.

“Bastard!” I screamed. “Bastard! You made me kill a woman and her children, but it was not enough, and Henri died!”

He averted his face patiently until I was breathless and spent.

“You lied,” I gasped. “You said that Henri was safe.”

“We gave him years,” Ruggieri answered. Misery glimmered in his eyes. “I did not know how many. The stars, you understand, can be cheated only so long.”

“Why did you not tell me?” I wailed and struck out again. My fingernails caught the tender skin beneath his eye and left three bloody marks; he made no sound as I drew back, aghast.

“Would you have preferred to live those years already grieving?” he asked. “Counting the days and dreading what must come?”

“I murdered innocents for naught! How do I know the pearl isn’t useless? How do I know it keeps my children safe?”

“We purchased your husband almost two decades,” he countered. “Half a lifetime. Or would you have had Henri perish as the young Dauphin, in his father’s wars? Would you prefer that your children had never been born? The pearl has bought them time-I know not how long-that they would never have had.”

I fell silent and stared, disconsolate, at the floor. I am not certain what followed: I felt giddy and thought that the lamp upon my desk had suddenly dimmed.

When I came to myself, I was propped up on many pillows in a chair in my antechamber, my legs resting on an ottoman. Madame Gondi was fanning the air in front of my face.

“Madame la Reine, thank God!” she said, with a small smile of relief. “You have returned to us at last.” She made me sip from a goblet of wine.

I put a hand to my brow. “Where is Monsieur Ruggieri?”

“Out in the corridor. I did not think him capable of being so thoroughly frightened.”

I handed her the goblet. “Bring him in.”

She knew me well enough not to argue. She admitted Ruggieri, then stepped just outside the door. Too dizzy to risk standing, I remained seated.

At the sight of me, the magician brightened; I motioned for silence. I was too weak and ragged to waste energy on a meaningless conversation about my health.

“You did not tell me everything about my husband,” I said, “but you will tell me everything about my sons. Francois’s health is poor. I must know whether it will improve, whether…” I let the words hang unspoken between us.

“If you are sure that you can bear to know the truth,” Ruggieri said, “I will present to you the future, more clearly than any nativity can display it. Give me a week, perhaps two. But we will need privacy. It is not something that can be easily accomplished here in the city, where there are too many eyes.” He paused. “And if the truth is not to your liking…?”

“No more blood,” I whispered.

“I shall speak to you again soon, Madame la Reine,” he promised with a bow.

As he left, Madame Gondi remained in the doorway, watching curiously while he made his way down the corridor.

“He is a strange man, I know,” I sighed.

“Perhaps,” she said thoughtfully. “But he carried you here in his arms; he was so undone by worry, I thought that he would faint himself. I believe, Madame la Reine, that he is in love with you.”

I gave her a sharp glance: My heart was raw over Henri; I could not bear to think of Ruggieri’s odd affliction. Madame Gondi changed the subject to what I had failed to eat and drink over the course of the day, and we spoke no more of the magician.

The Chateau de Chaumont rests on a promontory overlooking the Loire River. A clean, new structure, it features round whitewashed towers capped with dark grey slate and views of the forested valley. I had begun to negotiate its purchase in the days before Henri’s death, thinking to turn it into a haven for my overweary husband: Now, I wanted to hide there because it held no memories of him.

Ruggieri awaited me at Chaumont. He had ridden on his own horse and arrived some days before, the better to avoid rumors. He did not greet me upon our arrival but remained closeted away, preparing for our latest crime.