The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine de Medici

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  We huddled on the bed, our conversation anxious. I thought of Aunt Clarice, of how devastated she would be to learn that I had died in a squalid hovel, of how Piero would cry when he learned that I was gone.

  After two hours, the elderly sister appeared in the doorway to tell Tommasa her brothers were at the grate—and to warn her that she was not to speak of the sickness at the convent. Tommasa left, and within the hour returned, her eyes bright with a secret. She said nothing until midday, when she rose to go to the water closet and gestured surreptitiously for me to join her.

  After we entered the foul-smelling little room, she drew her fist from her pocket, then slowly uncurled it.

  A small black stone, polished to a sheen, rested in her palm. I snatched it from her and thought of how Aunt Clarice had looked at me when the Wing of Corvus and the herb had dropped from my gown, how she had gazed thoughtfully at me as I bent to pick them up.

  Did Ser Cosimo give you those? Keep them safe, then.

  Only Clarice could have known that I had left the stone at Poggio a Caiano. Only Clarice could have found it and returned it to me to let me know I was not forgotten. My heart welled.

  “Who gave this to you?” I demanded of Tommasa.

  “A man,” she said. “My brothers were leaving and I had just lowered the veil over the grate. The man must have looked through the bottom grate and seen the hem of my skirt.”

  “What did he say?” I asked.

  “He asked me whether I was friend or foe of the Medici,” Tommasa replied. “And when I said neither, he asked me if I knew a girl named Caterina. I told him yes, you were my friend.

  “He offered me money if I would bring you that”—Tommasa nodded at the stone in my hand—“but speak of it to no one. Is it a family keepsake?”

  “It was my mother’s,” I lied. Tommasa could clearly be trusted, but I needed no accusations of witchcraft to add to my troubles. “Did he say anything else?”

  “I told him to throw the money through the lower grate into the alms box, as an offering to the convent. And I asked him whether he had any message for you, and he said, ‘Tell her to be strong a little longer. Tell her I will return.’ ”

  A little longer . . . I will return. The words made me giddy. I tucked the stone between my apron and dress, nestling it near the fabric sash that served as my belt.

  I looked up at Tommasa. “We must never speak of this, not even to each other. The rebels would kill me or take me away.”

  She nodded solemnly.

  Despite the presence of plague and the relentless winter, I walked Santa-Caterina’s halls with growing joy. Each time I slipped my hand beneath my apron, I fingered the stone, and its cold, smooth surface became Clarice’s embrace.

  The next morning, we four remaining boarders rose to discover that the refectory had been closed. The cooks had fallen ill, and the remaining healthy sisters were overwhelmed by the added work of caring for the sick. No doubt there were more shrouds to be sewn, but the convent’s routine had been broken, so we were forgotten. We returned to our cell and sat on the lumpy straw mattress, hungry and frightened and cold, and tried to divert one another with gossip.

  After a few hours, sounds echoed in the corridor: a nun’s sharp voice, feet scurrying against stone floors, doors being opened and closed. I peeked down the hallway and saw a sister madly kicking up dust with a broom.

  “What are they doing?” Serena called. She sat cross-legged on the bed next to Tommasa.

  “Cleaning,” I replied in wonderment.

  More doors were closed; the frenzied sweeping stopped. I could hear Sister Violetta issuing orders in the distance but could see no one. After a time, we girls went back to our stories.

  Sister Violetta suddenly appeared in the open doorway.

  “Girls,” she said crisply and beckoned at them with her finger, even though this hour was one of silence for the sisters. “Not you, Caterina. You stay here. The rest of you, come with me.”

  She led the other girls away. I waited in agony. Perhaps another sister had seen the the stranger who had looked for me; perhaps Tommasa had revealed the secret. Now the rebels would kill me, or take me to a prison even worse than Santa-Caterina.

  Moments passed, until footsteps sounded in the corridor—ringing ones, the unfamiliar sound of leather bootheels against stone. A rebel, I thought with despair. They had come for me.

  But the man who appeared in my doorway looked nothing like Rinuccini and his soldiers. He wore a heavy cape of pink velvet lined with ermine, and a brown velvet cap with a small white plume; his goatee was fastidiously trimmed, and carefully crafted long black ringlets spilled onto his shoulders. He pressed a lace handkerchief to his nose; even at a distance, he exuded the fragrance of roses.

  Beside him, Sister Violetta said softly, “This is the girl,” then disappeared.

  “Ugh!” the stranger said, his words muffled by lace. “Forgive me, but the stink! How do you bear it?” He lowered the kerchief to doff his cap and bowed. “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Catherine de’ Medici, Duchessa of Urbino, daughter of Lorenzo de’ Medici and Madeleine de La Tour d’Auvergne?”

  Catherine, he said, like the man in my bloodstained dream.

  “I am,” I replied.

  “I am—ugh!—I am Robert Saint-Denis de la Roche, ambassador to the Republic of Florence at the will of His Majesty King François the First. Your late mother was a cousin of His Majesty, and it came to our attention yesterday that you, Duchessa—a kinswoman—were being held in the most egregious of circumstances. Is it true that those are the clothes you are forced to wear, and this is the bed upon which you are forced to sleep?”

  My fist, hidden beneath my scapular and clutching the Raven’s Wing, began slowly to uncurl.

  “Yes,” I said.

  I wanted to run my fingers over the folds of his velvet cloak, to step out of my itchy wool dress into a fine gown, to have Ginevra lace up my bodice and bring me my pick of sleeves. I wanted to see Piero again. Most of all, I wanted to thank Aunt Clarice for finding me, and that last thought brought me very close to tears.

  The ambassador’s expression softened. “How terrible for you, a child. It is freezing here. It is a wonder you are not sick.”

  “There is plague here,” I said. “Most of the sisters have it.”

  He swore in his foreign tongue; the square of lace fluttered to the ground. “The abbess said nothing to me of this!” He took almost immediate control of his temper and fright. “Then it is done,” he said. “I’ll arrange to have you moved from this flea-ridden cesspool today. This is no place for a cousin of the King!”

  “The rebels won’t let me go,” I said. “They want me dead.”

  One of his black brows lifted slyly. “The rebels want a secure republic, which they do not have. They need the goodwill of King François, and they will not have it until they show proper respect to his kinswoman.” He bowed again, suddenly. “I shall not linger, Duchessa—if there is plague in this building, I must move all the more swiftly. Give me a few hours, and we will take you to a home that is more suitable.”

  He began to move away; I called out, “Please tell my aunt Clarice how grateful I am that you have come!”

  He stopped and faced me, his expression quizzical. “I have not been in contact with her, though I will certainly try to send her your message.”

  “But who sent you?”

  “An old friend of your family alerted me,” he said. “He said that you would know it was he. Ruggieri, I believe his name was.” He paused. “Let me go now, Duchessa, for the plague moves swiftly. I swear before God, you will not spend another night here. So be of good cheer and brave heart.”

  “I will,” I said, but the instant he disappeared down the corridor, I burst into tears. I cried because Ser Cosimo, a near stranger, had found me and taken pity; I cried because Aunt Clarice had not. I picked up the abandoned square of spiderweb-fine lace to wipe my eyes, and inhaled the scent of flowers.


  I told myself that the Raven’s Wing would protect me from plague and see me freed from Santa-Caterina; I vowed never to let it go again.

  But the French ambassador did not come for me that morning, nor did anyone come for me that afternoon. I sat with the other girls sewing shrouds, so exhilarated and distracted that I pricked myself a dozen times. By dusk my good spirits had faded. What if the rebels were not as desperate to please King François as Monsieur la Roche had thought?

  Night fell. I refused to undress, but lay in the bed beside Tommasa and scanned the darkness for signs of movement. Hours passed, until I saw the glow of a lamp outside. I hurried into the corridor to find Sister Violetta, who smiled fleetingly at my enthusiasm and gestured for me to follow.

  She led me to her cell and dressed me in a regular nun’s habit and winter cloak.

  “Where am I going?” I asked.

  “Child, I don’t know.”

  She guided me outside, to the door leading to the street.

  A male voice on the other side heard our footsteps and asked, “Do you have her?”

  “I do,” Sister Violetta said and opened the door.

  The man on the other side wore a heavy cloak, and the long sword of a fighting man on his belt. Behind him, four mounted men waited.

  “Here now,” the man said. He held out his gloved hand to me. “Keep your face covered and come quickly, and without a peep. More’s the danger if you cause a stir.”

  I balked. “Where are you taking me?”

  A corner of his mustache quirked upward. “You’ll learn soon enough. Give me your hand. I won’t ask nicely again.”

  Reluctantly, I took it. He swung me up onto his horse, then took his place behind me on the saddle, and off we rode in the company of his men.

  The night was moonless and cold. We made our way through empty streets that echoed with the clatter of our horses’ hooves. I tried to figure out where we were going, but the gauzy wool limited my vision.

  The journey lasted only a quarter hour. We stopped in front of a wooden door set in an expanse of stone wall; I was to be confined to yet another nunnery. I panicked, and dug beneath my cloak and habit for the black stone talisman.

  My host dismounted and lifted me down while one of his soldiers banged on the heavy wood. In a moment, the door swung open silently. One of the men shoved me inside and shut the door firmly behind me.

  The smell of vinegar was so sharp, I lifted a hand to my nose; the fabric wound around my head and face slipped, obscuring my vision. A cool hand caught my own and drew me several halting steps forward, away from the smell. When it let go, I pulled the veil down.

  In a half circle before me stood twelve nuns—tall, graceful, veiled, and cloaked in black so that their forms disappeared into the darkness. I saw only their faces, lit by the lamps three of them bore—a dozen different gentle smiles, a dozen different pairs of kindly eyes.

  The tallest of them stepped toward me. She was robust, broad-faced, middle-aged.

  “Darling Caterina,” she said. “I am the abbess, Mother Giustina—like you a Medici. When you were born, I stood as your godmother. Welcome.”

  Fearless of plague, she opened her arms to me, and I ran to them.

  Eight

  The Wing of Corvus had not failed. I found myself in Heaven, surrounded by angels: the Benedictine convent of Santissima Annunziata delle Murate, the Most Holy Annunciation of the Walled-In Ones, and the noblewomen who had taken vows there. Most were relatives of the Medici; only a few supported the new Republic.

  The convent itself had been built and supported by Medici money; the fact showed in its broad corridors and elegant appointments. That night, Mother Giustina led me to my new quarters. Fear had left me exhausted, and I noticed no details except a large bed with heavy blankets and a plump pillow. I stood obediently as a servant stripped me; I palmed the stone and peered at the quiet, solemn woman. She had not noticed, being more concerned with filling a basin with heated water. She bathed me with a cloth, then pulled a clean nightgown of fine, soft wool over my head. I tucked the black stone into a pocket as she indicated the tray of cheese and bread on the bedside table. I devoured the food, then fell into bed. The servant laid a warmed brick at my feet and tucked the thick blankets around me tightly. For the first time that winter, I stopped shivering.

  I slept for hours, the Wing of Corvus clutched in my fist. When I woke the next morning, I found myself in a vast chamber, with carved wainscoting on the walls and a marble fireplace. Honeyed light filtered through the large, arched window and revealed a large table and well-padded chairs, whose dark green velvet matched the drapes and bed coverings. On the wall in front of me was a large gold cross of filigree, beneath which sat a cushioned kneeling bench.

  On the wall opposite the hearth were several shelves containing books. One of them, on the lowest shelf, caught my eye: it was bound in dark brown leather, with the title stamped in gold, of a familiar heft. I flew from the bed and dragged the heavy volume from the shelf.

  Ficino. De Vita Coelitus Comparanda, Gaining Life from the Heavens, the very copy that had sat on Piero’s knees; I recognized the nicks on the leather and laughed aloud. Inspired, I scanned the shelves, hoping to find gems rescued from the Palazzo Medici. I found no more, although I discovered two other volumes with titles written in Ficino’s hand.

  I was still poring over the titles when a knock came on the door, and two women and a nun appeared. The women carried a tub, and the bespectacled, elderly nun smiled brightly at me. Her body was plump and rounded, and her bearing and speech marked her as highborn. In her hand was a little tray bearing a glass and a dish of sweetmeats.

  “Duchessina!” she said cheerfully. “So you have discovered your library. There is a larger one in the other wing, of course, but we put a few titles here we thought you might enjoy. I am Sister Niccoletta; if you have need of anything, ask me. I brought you some small treats and sweet wine to tide you over until breakfast arrives—you must still be so terribly hungry. Afterward, we’ll properly rid you of those fleas.”

  Little duchess. The affectionately respectful term of address made me smile. I put my hand on Ficino’s work and, forgetting my manners altogether, said, “This book. How did it come to be here, in this room?”

  She peered through her thick spectacles, which magnified her dark eyes. “Ambassador de la Roche brought some things for you yesterday. This must be one of them.”

  “This was rescued from our palazzo,” I said.

  “God be thanked,” she replied dismissively and turned as last night’s solemn-faced servant entered with a large kettle in each hand. “Dear Duchessina, our servant Barbara is here. You can call on her as well for whatever you need.” She set the tray on my night table, then from a pocket at her waist produced a letter sealed with wax. “Your breakfast will come shortly; in the meantime, you might enjoy reading this.”

  Her knowing smile made me reach eagerly for it and break the seal. The handwriting was Clarice’s.

  I pressed the letter to my heart. “Sister Niccoletta, please, forgive my rudeness. It’s just that I have not been shown kindness in such a long time that I have forgotten my manners. Thank you for everything.”

  She beamed. “Why, your manners are lovely! You need not apologize to me, my dear, given all you have been through.” She made a small curtsy. “Enjoy your letter, Duchessina. I will return in an hour.”

  Breathless, I unfolded the letter.

  My dearest Caterina,

  We are horrified at the news of your incarceration, and the cruel conditions you have been forced to endure. I hope you find your new surroundings more congenial. I shall remain in constant communication with the French ambassador from this time forward to ensure that you never again endure such privation. The rebels are desperate to keep the support of King François I of France, and His Majesty wishes his distant cousin to be well cared for.

  Discretion precludes any discussion of my current whereabouts; it also precludes my
visiting you in the flesh. Please know that I am working without rest to obtain your release. Pope Clement has escaped the ravaged landscape of Rome. He and Emperor Charles will soon be reconciled; I shall do whatever is in my power to nurture this newfound goodwill so that it leads to the restoration of the Medici to Florence.

  I have not forgotten your bravery. Hold fast and never forget the destiny to which you are born.

  With sincerest affection,

  Your aunt,

  Clarice de’ Medici Strozzi

  P.S. Your uncle and cousins send their regards. Piero insists I write that he misses you dreadfully.

  Reading Clarice’s elegant script made me ache to see her, but I was soon distracted by a plate of sausages and apples. After I ate, I submitted to the steaming tub. Barbara washed my hair, drowning the last of Santa-Caterina’s fleas, and dressed me in a tailored gown, then swathed me in fine wool shawls to protect me from the chill.

  Life at Le Murate was pleasantly distracting. Every morning and evening I sat with the nuns in the refectory and drank good wine and ate good meals, often with meat and cake. Sister Niccoletta treated me like a favored granddaughter, always bringing me little gifts of candied fruits and nuts, or a bright ribbon for my hair. She and the other nuns allowed me free run of the convent.

  I did not abuse their trust. I attended Mass each morning and afterward accompanied Niccoletta to the sewing room. Many of the nuns did fine embroidery, one of the skills by which they supported themselves. Without a single guiding mark upon the fabric, Sister Niccoletta could stitch a perfect lamb holding the banner of the cross, or the Holy Spirit descending as a dove from Heaven.