The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

She laughed. “Most likely, Your Majesty. Unfortunately, I am now impeded by these trappings.” She gestured at her heavy skirts.

“Ah.” He feigned disappointment. “I had so hoped for a contest after supper.”

She laughed and drew him to her for a chaste kiss upon the lips, as befitted cousins. We then welcomed the Prince of Conde; the greetings were more restrained on both sides. Afterward, we proceeded to the dining room.

Henri’s company was a delight; the conversation grew increasingly punctuated by laughter. After the meal, I led him to the balcony overlooking the Seine. In the last week, summer had descended upon the city with a vengeance, and the muddy river offered no breeze, only the faint odor of decay. Nonetheless, Henri leaned against the railing and looked out at the Seine and the city, with the yearning of a long-unrequited lover.

After a time, I spoke quietly. “Your mother said that you wrote me letters, but she would not send them.”

Henri’s expression did not change, but I sensed a sudden caution in him. He shrugged. “I suppose my… youthful imagination frightened her. I had questions about things she didn’t understand.”

“That day you were chasing a tennis ball,” I said, “it seemed you and I were possessed of that same imagination. Was I wrong?”

He didn’t answer for a time. “My mother was obsessed with God and sin. But unlike my fellow Huguenots, I’m not a religious man; I fought beside them because I believe in their cause. As for me, I believe in what I see: the earth, the sky, men and beasts…”

“And visions of blood?” I asked.

He turned his face away. “And visions of my comrades dying horribly.”

“I don’t see their faces, but my dreams and visions have grown worse of late. I’ve always taken them to represent a warning, a glimpse of a future that can be averted. But if you don’t believe in God, perhaps you believe them to be without meaning.”

He met my gaze soberly. “I believe, Madame la Reine, that this marriage presents us with an opportunity-to ruin France, or to save her.”

“How startling,” I said, “that we should both have come to the same conclusion.”

His stare grew unsettlingly intense. “I came here against the advice of my advisers and friends, who fear this wedding is an elaborate trap meant to destroy us. I have come because I trust you, Tante Catherine-because I believe, most irrationally, that we have seen the same evil coming and intend to avert it.”

I lifted my hand, heavy with the iron Head of the Gorgon, and set it upon his shoulder.

“Together, we will stop it,” I said and turned at the footfall of the Prince of Conde and his attendant, who had come to fetch their king.

The first days of August were stifling; beyond the ancient walls of the Louvre, heat hung like black, writhing specters above the pavement. The door to my windowless cabinet was always open, not only in the hope of catching the breeze but also to admit a constant stream of guests, advisers, seamstresses, and others. One morning found me sitting at my desk across from the Cardinal de Bourbon-the groom’s uncle and brother of the spineless Antoine de Bourbon, whom the Cardinal had long ago disavowed. The Cardinal’s disposition was admirably steady and his health sound: At the age of fifty, he had not a single grey hair.

We were discussing the steps involved in the wedding ritual-both inside and outside the cathedral-when a guard knocked on the lintel.

“Madame la Reine,” he said. “The Spanish ambassador waits outside. He requests a private audience immediately.”

I frowned. I didn’t know the new ambasssador, Diego de Zuniga, well, but his predecessor had been given to overly dramatic proclamations. Perhaps Don Diego was similarly inclined.

I rose and went out into the corridor, where Zuniga waited, cap in hand, at the entrance to my apartments. He was a small man, middle-aged and severe. His hair, slicked back with pomade, was very black and thin at the temples.

I faced him without smiling. “What matter, Don Diego, is so dire that it requires me to abandon the Cardinal de Bourbon?”

He responded with the most cursory of bows; his manner was outraged, as if he were the offended party. “Only a deliberate act of war, Madame la Reine, committed by France against Spain.”

I stared at him; he stared back, combative. Beyond the entrance to my apartments, the Louvre’s narrow corridor bustled with servants, courtiers, and Navarre’s guests.

I put a hand on Zuniga’s forearm. “Come.”

I led him to the council chamber and settled into the King’s chair at the head of the long oval table.

“Speak, Don Diego,” I said. “How has Charles offended his former brother-in-law?”

Zuniga’s brows lifted in surprise as he realized I truly did not know what event he referred to.

He drew a long breath. “On the seventeenth of July, five thousand French soldiers-Huguenots-trespassed onto the soil of the Spanish Netherlands. Their commander was your Lord of Genlis. Fortunately, King Philip’s commanders learned of the coming attack and intercepted your forces. Only a handful survived, among them Genlis.

“Forgive my candor, but I suggest you have a frank discussion with His Majesty, considering that his action was a violation of his treaty with Spain, and an act of war.”

I pressed my hand to my lips in an effort contain the invective that threatened to spill from them. Coligny: The deceitful, arrogant bastard had over-reached himself, had dared to send troops to the Netherlands in secret, hoping for a victory that might convince Charles to support an insane war.

“This is the work of a traitor,” I said, my voice shaking. “France would never encroach on the sovereignty of Spain. I assure you, Don Diego, that Charles neither knew of this incursion nor approved it. We shall see that the responsible party-”

Zuniga risked the extraordinary act of interrupting a queen. “The responsible party is outside the King’s chamber now, awaiting an audience. No doubt the meeting will be cordial; it is said Genlis bears upon his person a letter of support from Charles.”

I rose. “That is not possible,” I whispered.

“Madame la Reine, it is so.”

I left the chamber and pushed my way down the stiflingly hot corridor, past sweating, genuflecting bodies and the black-and-white blurs of startled Huguenots. I stopped at the closed doors to the King’s private apartments, where a small group of men had gathered.

Coligny was among them, his hand on the shoulder of a weathered Huguenot nobleman with a pockmarked face and thick red hair; a black silk sling cradled his injured arm. With them was the young Prince of Conde, for once wearing a genuine smile.

Henri of Navarre had just joined them. As I watched, he threw his arms around Coligny and kissed the Admiral affectionately upon each cheek. Coligny then presented Navarre to the stranger, who attempted to kneel until Navarre stepped forward and raised him to his feet. The two shared an embrace-a cautious one, owing to the stranger’s injury-after which Navarre and the stranger kissed, then launched at once into an animated conversation.

I see betrayal coming, Ruggieri whispered.

I stepped forward into the men’s line of sight and ignored their bows. I did not acknowledge Navarre or the others; I had eyes only for the stranger.

“Tell me, sir,” I asked, “do I have the honor of addressing the Lord of Genlis?”

The other men grew still as the stranger’s mouth worked. After a time, words emerged: “You do, Your Majesty.”

“Ah!” I reached toward the black sling and let my hand hover just above it. “Your wound… Is it so very terrible, Monsieur?”

Genlis’s cheeks and neck were scarlet. “Not at all, Madame la Reine; it is almost healed. I wear this”-he nodded at the sling-“only at my doctor’s insistence.”

“Thank God you did not suffer the harsh fate of so many of your fellows.” I summoned the foolish smile of a superstitious woman and confided, “No doubt it is due to the lucky talisman you wear.” I had heard, in more