The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

“Tell the King I am here,” I commanded, “and that I must speak to him at once, privately.”

The young Scot reluctantly knocked upon the door. Charles cursed the poor man roundly and would have sent me away, but I heard Coligny reasoning with the King. Eventually the Admiral emerged from the cabinet and-after bowing to me-strode away.

My irate son sat at his desk, its surface cleared save for a document that had been overturned to hide it from curious eyes. Charles rested his fist on it and glowered across his desk at me.

“This had best be urgent, Maman.”

“It is, Your Majesty,” I said. “I came to tell you that the Admiral is going to ask Jeanne of Navarre to visit us.”

“Ah,” he said, bored. “Well, that’s no reason to interrupt our meeting.”

“No,” I allowed. “I’m inviting Jeanne in order to arrange a marriage between her son and Margot.” I was confessing my plan to Charles now because he was infatuated with Coligny and his Huguenot friends and thus, for the first time, likely to approve it.

“Well, I suppose it’s a good match,” he said, with surprising mildness. “Henri is after all a king.”

“Wonderful!” I hesitated. “I’ve also come for another reason, Charles. I must warn you about Coligny.”

He clapped his hands over his ears. “I will not hear it! He is a good man!”

“He’s also a persuasive man,” I said loudly. “And I’ve discovered the reason he came to us: He wants soldiers to fight the Spanish in the Netherlands.”

As I spoke, Charles put his palm upon the mysterious document, firmly, as though he feared I might take it from him.

I looked down at it. “May I inquire as to the contents of that document?”

“I am a man now, Maman. I don’t have to tell you everything.”

“But you do,” I retorted. “I’m your senior councillor-and you can take no formal action without your Council’s approval.”

I snatched the document from him. It was a royal order authorizing the deployment of five thousand troops to the Netherlands under the command of Admiral Coligny. I should have known within the first few minutes of meeting Gaspard de Coligny that he was determined to drive a wedge between me and my son-yet I was surprised and furious, and lost my temper.

“Fool!” I brandished the document at Charles. “This is tantamount to a direct attack on Spain! Do you know what will happen if Philip retaliates?”

“We will defeat him at last,” Charles said; his eyes held a madman’s gleam.

“No!” I shouted. “We will be the ones defeated. Spain’s navy is unmatched; she has more soldiers at her command than we do.”

“But the Admiral-” Charles began to protest.

“The Admiral wants to see us trapped in a losing war-because if our soldiers are busy fighting the Spanish, there will be no one left to protect you from the Huguenots. They could destroy us. They could set their own leader on the throne!”

Charles’s features hardened into a sullen mask. “Coligny loves me as a son. He would never do such a thing.”

I rolled up the incriminating decree and leaned forward.

“If you value Coligny’s word over mine, then I am no longer of any use to you. Send troops to the Netherlands, and I will retire from the government. I will not stay to see the House of Valois fall!”

Fear flashed in Charles’s eyes. If I abandoned him, the truth-that he was incapable of governing-would become resoundingly obvious to all.

“Don’t leave, Maman!” he said, suddenly penitent. “I won’t send the troops.”

“Indeed you won’t,” I said, straightening, and tore the paper to pieces. The shreds fluttered into a pile on the King’s desk.

I walked out, still furious with Coligny but pleased with the way I had played Charles. Foolish woman: I was happy over winning the battle. I did not realize that I had already lost the war.

The old year passed, and a new one, 1572, took its place. I was happy, in those days before the maelstrom, because I thought I had convinced Charles not to trust Coligny, because I thought my daughter’s marriage to Navarre would bring peace to France. I was happy, too, because early spring brought Jeanne to Blois.

An hour after her arrival, I went to her guest apartments; when the attendant answered the door, I lifted a finger to my lips and slipped inside the antechamber. As I stole toward the inner room, Jeanne called out: “Who knocked?”

I hurried to the threshold. “No one at all, Madame.”

She was standing over a basin, frowning into a mirror as she patted her cheeks dry with a towel. Her French hood and ruff collar had been removed, leaving her in the unstylish black gown favored by Huguenot women. When I spoke, she glanced up, startled, then broke into a broad smile.

Almost ten years had passed since we had set eyes on each other. Jeanne’s hair was frankly grey, and deep lines had insinuated themselves into her brow and around her mouth. More ominously, she had lost so much weight that her features were skeletal; the effect was not helped by her consumptive pallor.

But her green eyes were still full of life. They brightened at the sight of me, and she set down the towel and genuflected. “Madame la Reine,” she said graciously.

I bowed, low and humble. “Madame la Reine.”

We held our poses an instant, then rose laughing and embraced. She was frail and feather-light in my arms.

“Catherine!” she said. “I thought I might be uncomfortable seeing you again, but it is as though the last decade never happened.”

“I am so glad that you’ve come,” I answered honestly.

“All of your reassurances that I would be safe made me smile,” she said. “I’ve never believed the rumors that you eat little children.”

“You haven’t dined with me yet,” I countered, with mock darkness, and we laughed again.

Supper was as cordial as I dared hope. Charles called Jeanne Cousin; Edouard kissed her on the lips. Her eyes widened at her first glimpse of his sartorial excess, and she pulled away from the embrace coughing-partly from consumption but also from the overwhelming scent of orange blossom, which Edouard had applied liberally that night.

Fortunately, it was Jeanne’s opinion of Margot I most cared about, and my daughter did not disappoint me. She appeared in a gray gown of smart but modest cut and had forgone face paint, with the effect that she looked freshly scrubbed.

“Margot!” Jeanne exclaimed, as my daughter curtsied respectfully. “What a beautiful woman you have become!”

Margot lowered her lashes as though embarrassed by the compliment. “We’re so honored by your visit, Madame la Reine! I’m glad for the chance to see you again-I was so young when you left that I should like to know you better, as my mother speaks of you so fondly.”

The meeting continued in convivial fashion. Jeanne presented Margot with a present from Henri: a modest-size diamond pendant. My daughter displayed delight at the humble gift, and Edouard rushed to fasten it around her neck.

Over the course of the evening, Margot showed herself to be demure and well-versed in the poetry written by Jeanne’s mother, the late Marguerite. Only one sour note was struck: When Jeanne inquired what Margot knew of the Huguenot faith, my daughter grew somber.

“Enough to know that I am at heart a Catholic,” she answered, “and will remain so until I die.”

Jeanne fell silent, and the conversation lagged until I asked how Henri most preferred to spend his time.

“I can answer you in three words,” Jeanne said. “Riding, riding, and riding. He doesn’t like anything that he can’t do astride a horse.”

We all laughed politely, and Jeanne smiled, but a crease had appeared between her eyebrows and remained there for the rest of the evening. She retired early, begging exhaustion. At the first chance after supper, I took