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

by Jeanne Kalogridis

  Perhaps uncomfortable that I would not soon be repudiated, Henri asked to join the fighting in Provence. The King refused him at first, saying he had just lost one son and would not risk another. But Henri was so determined that he prevailed and joined Lieutenant General Montmorency in the south.

  While Henri was away, I had time to think clearly about my predicament. My husband was loyal by nature; now that he had given his heart and body to Diane de Poitiers, he would no doubt be repelled by the thought of sharing either with another woman. Yet if I were to conceive an heir, Henri would need to come to my bed frequently once he returned from the war.

  Not long after my encounter with the King, I went to Queen Eléonore and asked if I might enjoy the company of her lady-in-waiting Diane de Poitiers for an hour.

  The Queen consented graciously, though she and her entourage understood how very strange my request was. Madame de Poitiers and I were perfectly cordial to each other when our paths were forced to cross, but in all other instances we avoided each other, and everyone knew why.

  Madame de Poitiers rode full astride, like a man, unashamed of her calves and ankles. Like me, she would not be led, and she held her reins with no uncertain grip. Her horse was white, perhaps chosen carefully to match her widow’s trousseau. It was a colorless sight on a day uncommonly cold for the Midi: Diane in her black and white, the grass frosted, the sky a burdensome grey. Despite the intemperate weather, I had asked her to ride. I led her away from the palace grounds and human ears. A groom followed at a distant pace, given the possibility of encountering a wild boar. When the time came for earnest conversation, I lifted my gloved hand so that he remained behind, and we women trotted off until he appeared no larger than a pea. I wanted no one to be able to read our faces.

  Diane de Poitiers was not quite forty, and the gold in her hair was tempered by silver. But her skin was still firm—except around the eyes, where the troubled light revealed fine creases. Her complexion was even, without the broken veins or blotchiness that reveal a fondness for wine.

  As I stared at her, struggling to perceive what qualities my husband so loved, her answering gaze was steady and calm. She was unafraid—balm, surely, for Henri’s fearful, uncertain soul. I despised her at that moment, almost as greatly as I despised myself.

  I smiled at her and said easily, “Shall we speak?”

  The degree of her smile matched mine. “Of course, Madame la Dauphine,” she replied. “Let me first thank you for the opportunity to ride. I have been eager for the exercise, but none of the other ladies will accompany me because of their belief that the cold is unhealthful.”

  “The pleasure is mine.” My little smile faded. “We have much in common, Madame. A grandmother, and a love for riding. A love, even, for the same man.”

  Her expression remained unflinching and serene as she faced me, waiting.

  “Louise of Guise is a beautiful girl, isn’t she?” I continued. “So fresh and young. Any man would deem himself lucky to have such a stunning bride.”

  “Yes, Madame la Dauphine,” she dutifully replied.

  My black steed paced, impatient; I reined him in.

  “But I’ve heard she is quick-tempered and somewhat demanding,” I remarked. “She would make a difficult wife, perhaps, for a husband to manage.”

  “Yes, Madame. I’ve heard the same.” Her eyes were mirrors, reflecting me back to myself, revealing nothing of what lay beneath their polished surface.

  “I have been told,” I said, “that I am patient. I have never enjoyed causing trouble for others. I only hope that my children are as agreeable.”

  “I pray they are, Madame la Dauphine. And I pray that they are many.”

  Her face, her eyes, her soft and gracious tone were unchanged, as if she had just remarked on the weather. She might have been utterly sincere or utterly false. I tried to imagine how someone who showed so little feeling could inspire such passion in my husband.

  “I will have no children at all,” I said, “if my husband will not come to my bed.” I felt an exquisite tightening of my throat and waited until my composure was sure.

  Perhaps she sensed my anguish; for the first time, her gaze wavered, and she looked beyond me at a copse of bare-limbed trees.

  “If he will not come to me,” I said, “we both know that I shall have to leave.” My tone became candid. “I do love him. For that reason alone, I will never make things unpleasant for him or for those fortunate enough to share his affections—even if it breaks my heart. The Dauphin’s will must be respected.”

  She eyed me, faintly frowning, a hint of cautious wonder in her gaze.

  “A laudable attitude,” she said.

  “Louise of Guise’s would not be so gracious.”

  Nearby, the underbrush crackled, and a bevy of quail took flight. Crows settled on the silver branches and scolded the invisible culprit below. Our distant chaperone craned his neck, on the alert, but the disturbance was not repeated and the crows grew silent. Diane and I watched them for a moment before turning back to each other.

  The faint lines that had appeared on her brow smoothed as she made her decision. “The House of Valois must have heirs,” she said, and for an unsettling instant I thought she referred to my inability to provide them and agreed with those who would repudiate me. But then she added softly, “He will come to your bed, Madame.”

  “I have never taken my agreements with others lightly,” I said. “And I have heard that you are a woman of honor.”

  “You have my word, Madame.”

  We rode back to the palace without speaking. I was in no mood for idle conversation now that my humiliation was complete.

  On the way, something feather-light and cold stung my cheek. I looked up at the threatening sky and saw what was, for the Midi, impossible: snow-flakes sailing down, white and soft and soundless.

  In time, Henri returned from the war. As Dauphin, he was supreme military commander of the French forces in Provence, but aware of his inexperience, he consulted his lieutenant general, Grand Master Montmorency, on every maneuver. His deference paid off: Our army decisively defeated the Imperial invaders. As a result, Henri and Montmorency became close friends and were welcomed home as heroes. The King had nothing but praise for both of them.

  The crucible of war had transformed Henri into a man and brought him confidence. It also left him determined to hide his affair with Madame de Poitiers no longer. He proudly wore her colors, white and black, and adopted as his emblem the crescent moon—symbol of Diana, goddess of the hunt.

  But within days of his return, Henri appeared at my bedchamber door. He brought with him resignation, not joy, but neither did he bring resentment. Diane had surely told him everything; I think he was relieved that I would cause them no trouble.

  His manner was removed but kindly. The sight of his body—utterly a man’s now, with a full, muscular back and chest—made me ache with longing. Each time I lay with him, I convinced myself that surely this time I would say or do the very thing that would win his heart; and each time he rose from my bed too quickly, I lay watching him, replete yet shattered. Never did pleasure bring so much pain.

  A year passed, then two, three, four, and I did not conceive. I consulted the King’s astrologers and had dutiful intercourse with Henri at the recommended times. I uttered pagan chants and spells; Madame Gondi put a mandrake root beneath my mattress; I followed Aristotle’s advice and ate quail eggs, endive, and violets to nauseating excess. Following Agrippa, I made a talisman of Venus for fertility and put it beside the mandrake. All of it availed nothing.

  Anne, the Duchess d’Etampes, began to whisper again into the ear of her lover and anyone else who would listen. The Court parted into two camps: those who supported the aging King and his devious paramour, and those who looked to the future and supported Henri and Diane de Poitiers. The Duchess was extraordinarily jealous; she perceived Diane as her rival and wanted to see her cast down. The best way to do so, she had decided, was to bring
Henri a new wife—one headstrong and willful, who would not accept Henri’s mistress as graciously as I had. And if this caused harm to me, favored too well by the King, so much the better.

  So I watched over the barren days and months and years as the smile His Majesty directed at me grew fainter, as the warmth in his eyes and embrace slowly cooled. The talismans, the physicians, the astrologers . . . all had failed. Yet in my mind I kept returning to the memory of the night my late mother had spoken to me. Her words had been uncannily accurate; as I could not trust the living, I decided to trust the dead.

  I had been very ill the night that the magician had summoned her, so I could not remember the proper chants or gesticulations. I recalled only that Ruggieri had anointed us with what seemed to be old blood.

  I saved some purplish black menstrual blood and, on a chilly day in March, 1543, in the privacy of my cabinet, I anointed my forehead with it, then pricked my finger with an embroidery needle.

  Fresh blood was required, Ruggieri had said. The dead would smell it.

  At my desk, I squeezed my finger, milking several fat red drops onto a small piece of paper. I dipped my quill into it and scratched out a message:

  Send me a child.

  I cast the paper into the hearth. The fire jumped as it caught and blackened at the outer edges, curling inward as the flame raced toward the center.

  “Ma mere,” I whispered. “M’amie, je t’adore. . . . Mother, hear my prayer and send me a child. Tell me what I must do.”

  The ash fell onto the glowing logs; pieces of it broke off and whirled about before sailing up the flue.

  I repeated my plea, staring into the writhing flames. I did not address myself only to my mother, to the dead, to God or the Devil. I spoke to whoever might answer. My heart opened until there was no separation between it and the power that fueled the universe. With my will, my desire, I clutched that power and would not let go.

  Heaven—or Hell—opened in that instant. I knew not which. I knew only that I touched something; I knew only that my plea had been heard.

  The next day, I followed the King’s movements until the afternoon, when I was required to hold audiences. As Dauphine, I had many petitioners, mostly Florentines asking for assistance. Enthroned, I listened to each sad tale.

  The first was that of an elderly Tornabuoni widow, related to the Medici by marriage. She had lived in her deceased husband’s villa until Alessandro’s henchmen seized the property after illegally taxing her into bankruptcy; she had left the city with nothing. I granted her sufficient funds so that she could live comfortably in one of the better convents outside Paris.

  There was also a banker with a wife and six children who had long ago worked as an apprentice to Uncle Filippo Strozzi, which had been enough to endanger his life. He had fled Florence with his family, leaving behind all his assets. I promised to find him work in the Treasury.

  There were several others, and after a few hours, I grew tired.

  Madame Gondi said, “I will tell the others to return tomorrow. But there is one, Madame—a rather strange-looking gentleman—who insists that he be seen today. He says that you know him and will be glad to see him.”

  I had opened my mouth to ask the name of the impertinent beggar when revelation suddenly stole my voice. When it returned, I told Madame Gondi to bring him to me.

  He entered wearing red and black, the colors of Mars and Saturn; he was fully a man now, but there was no meat on him, and his striped doublet hung upon his bony frame. His face was gaunt and sickly pale against his blue-black brows and hair. At the sight of me, he doffed his cap and bowed very low.

  “Madame la Dauphine,” he said. I had forgotten how very beautiful his voice was, how very deep. “We meet again at last.”

  I stepped down from my throne. When he rose, I took his cold hands in my own.

  “Monsieur Ruggieri,” I said. “How I have prayed that you would come.”

  Twenty-two

  I immediately appointed Cosimo Ruggieri my court astrologer. He brought with him no belongings, as though he had materialized from the ether with no purse, no trunk, no wife, no family.

  I led him at once to my cabinet. I asked after his past: He had left Florence for Venice and, on the day of his arrival there, had fallen ill with plague. From Venice he had gone to Constantinople and Araby, though he would not explain why or what had happened there. I told him of my joy at receiving, during my imprisonment, the volume of Ficino and the Wing of Corvus. I told him how my mother’s words had proven true, how a man named Silvestro had saved me from a hostile crowd. I shared with him the details of my self-education in astrology, and my efforts to cast nativities.

  If anything in my long tale surprised him, he did not show it. Never once did he remind me of his prediction that I would become a queen.

  At last I said, “I have had a recurring dream ever since you gave me the Raven’s Wing. I dream of a man with his face drenched in blood. He calls out to me in French. He is dying, and it is my duty to help him—but I don’t know how.” I lowered my gaze, troubled. “It’s Henri. I knew the instant I met him. I feel bound to protect him from a gruesome fate.”

  He listened dispassionately. “Is that all? Only Henri, in your dream?”

  “No,” I said. “There are others in the field—hundreds, thousands, perhaps, but I cannot see them. The blood . . . it swells like the ocean.” I lifted my fingers to my temple and massaged it, as if to work the memory loose and make it fall away.

  “This is your destiny,” he said. “Yours is the power, Madame, to spill that ocean . . . or to stanch its flow.”

  I wanted suddenly to weep. “But Henri . . . Some ill will soon befall him. If I can stop it, then perhaps the others won’t die. Tell me what will happen to him, and how I can stop it. You’re the magician—there must be spells to protect him. I tried; I made a talisman myself, another Wing of Corvus, but he wouldn’t wear it.”

  “A simple talisman, a simple spell, could never be enough,” he said.

  I flared. “It was enough for me, when I was in the hands of the rebels.”

  “You faced danger of the sort that could be overcome, with the potential for a long life. But Prince Henri . . .” Regret flickered in his gaze. “His life will end too soon, in calamity. Surely you have read his stars.”

  His words stole my breath. I had read the sinister signs, but I had never permitted myself to believe them.

  “If simple magic will not do,” I persisted, “then what will? Exchange my life for his. You have the knowledge, surely.”

  He recoiled from the suggestion. “I have the knowledge. But there are others in your dream, yes? What of them?”

  “I don’t care,” I said, miserable.

  “Then France will be torn apart,” he replied. “For they are as much your responsibility, as much a part of your fate, as Prince Henri is.”

  “They are another reason, then, why I must stay,” I said. “But there are those at Court who intend to see me cast aside and Henri wed to another. He’ll be left unprotected without me. I must have his child. I must.” The muscles of my face hardened. “Only tell me what I must do to keep Henri alive, and to have his child.”

  He considered this a long time before replying. “We cannot outwit fate forever. But we can bring Henri more years than he might otherwise have had.” He paused. “Is that truly your will? To bear the Dauphin’s child?”

  It seemed a ridiculous question. “Of course. I would do anything. I already have done everything: I’ve made talismans, cast spells, worn disgusting poultices, and drunk mule’s urine. I know of nothing else to do.”

  He considered this, then said slowly, “And the child must be the Dauphin’s.”

  It was a statement, yet I heard the question buried in it, and my face grew hot. How dare you, I wanted to say—but this was Ruggieri, and propriety was immaterial. No secret was hidden from him, no topic too wicked to be broached.

  I blushed and said, “Yes, it must be. H
e is my husband. And . . . I love him.”

  He cocked his head at the desperation in those last three words. “I am sorry to hear this,” he said softly. “It complicates matters.”

  “How so?”

  “Surely you have studied your own nativity in regard to children,” he said. “Surely you have studied Prince Henri’s. Scorpio rules your Fifth House,” he continued, “and that of your husband. You are far too intelligent to miss the implications: barrenness—or, if you wish, lies and deceit. The choice is yours.”

  “I won’t accept either,” I countered.

  “There has to be a third way.” “There always is.” He leaned forward, his skin sickly pale against his blue-black hair. “But it depends entirely on what you are willing to do.”

  Despite the crookedness of his nose and the pitting in his cheeks, his voice and manner were magnetic, intoxicating. Beneath an icy surface ran a hot current, one that would pull me under if I dared test it.

  “Anything,” I said, “except to lie with another man.”

  He nodded slowly. “Then I warn you, Madame la Dauphine, that to get blood, you must give blood.”

  An unpleasant thrill coursed through me at his words: He spoke of the very darkest sort of magic. But I had always felt that my soul was already lost.

  “I will give every last drop,” I said, “to save Henri.”

  His gaze revealed nothing. “Ah, Madame. Here is where a strong will and a strong stomach are needed, for it is not your blood of which we speak.”

  I resisted for weeks. I met with Ruggieri daily, consulting him on trivial matters and begging for instruction in the magical arts. As to the latter, he refused: I knew too little, and he too much; it was far safer for him to cast spells at my request.