I managed to keep Henri of Navarre and his cousin the Prince of Condé out of Anjou’s clutches. On the day Coligny died, I went secretly to Margot and told her of her brother’s deception; together, we went to Charles and presented the evidence of Navarre’s innocence. His Majesty was then easily convinced that Navarre and Condé—being Princes of the Blood—must be spared and issued a royal order. Afterward, once the fighting had eased, I went to the Provost of Marchands, who verified that no Huguenot army had ever arrived and that he had not been the one who personally intercepted the letter to Navarre’s field commander. Edouard had produced it; the Provost, like Marshal Tavannes and other military leaders, had relied on the Duke of Anjou’s word.
Edouard never came up with the incriminating letter supposedly written by Navarre, nor did we ever again confide in each other. I warned Navarre of Anjou’s guile; he was grateful, though ravaged by grief at the loss of his companions and coreligionists, and resentful of the fact that, for his own protection, he was required to reconvert to Catholicism and remain at the Louvre under courteous house arrest.
The massacre born on Saint Bartholomew’s Day broke Charles. He began—no doubt to Edouard’s glee—to spiral down toward death.
September came, bringing with it relief from the heat and the violence. When the palace gates were again opened—a week and a day after Admiral Coligny’s assassination—I received my first visitor behind the closed doors of my cabinet.
Cosimo Ruggieri was no longer ageless: The lamplight showed too clearly the silver in his hair and beard, the deep, wrinkled folds under his black eyes, the slackness of age beneath his jaw. He was gaunt, even skeletal, the ugliness of his irregular features enough to send the bravest child running to its mother. He had given up his customary red and now dressed all in black, like a Huguenot.
He entered to find me sitting at my desk as always, as if little time had elapsed since our last encounter, and as he always had, he bowed low. But when he raised his face to mine and the time came for him to utter a greeting, the words died upon his lips. Stricken, he stared at me.
“Cosimo,” I said, rising. I came around my desk—perhaps to take his hand, perhaps to embrace him, I cannot say. But before I could reach him, my legs and my nerve at last gave way, and I sank to my knees, senseless with grief.
He knelt beside me. I clung to him, broken, weeping.
When I could speak, I gasped, “They have come again—the evil dreams. The dead are not even all buried, and yet the dreams have come. I will do what I must: I will kill my sons, by my own hand if I must, to make it stop. You warned me, and I would not hear. But I am listening now.”
His expression was open and raw, free from the magician’s dark glamour; the play of lamplight on his unshed tears dazzled me. “There is no more need of blood,” he murmured. “Only set the demon free, and let the stars take their course.”
I shook my head, not understanding.
He echoed my husband’s words to me: Destroy what is closest to your heart.
It was a simple matter, accomplished in Ruggieri’s temporary lodgings nearby: the casting of a circle, the placing of the bloodied pearl upon the altar, the invocation of the barbarous name. When the demon appeared—its presence announced by the sudden leaping of the flames and the prickling of gooseflesh on my arms—the magician thanked it and released it from its task. With all supernatural support withdrawn, my sons would meet their ends quickly.
Ruggieri would have disposed of the disempowered pearl himself, but I put my hand on it first. “This falls to me,” I said.
My carriage rolled through quiet streets up to the banks of the river Seine, and the nervous driver waited while Ruggieri and I picked our way through scattered refuse down to the muddy shore.
The sky was cloudless that day, the air fresh; the previous day’s storm had washed away the dust and the smell of decay that had permeated the city. For a moment, I stood looking south at the twin towers of Notre-Dame and the dainty spires of Sainte-Chapelle—sights that had filled my husband’s namesake Henri of Navarre with such longing. And then I lifted my arm and hurled the pearl into the dark waters; it skipped twice and sank beneath the surface without a sound.
I, too, sank silently. Had it not been for Ruggieri’s restraining arms, I would have fallen.
“I kept my promise,” I whispered. The magician did not reply; he knew I did not speak to him.
“I kept my promise, my love,” I repeated, my voice stronger. “A son of Valois will always sit upon the throne. Your one true heir will rule.”
My blind selfishness, my unwillingness to step aside and release my husband to find his rightful wife had birthed incomprehensible misery. Beneath its weight I could neither stand nor walk, but Ruggieri nonetheless returned me to the carriage before I dissolved completely, like the spell.
Epilogue
I dreamt again that night.
I dreamt of Charles’s imminent death, of the coughing and the fever, of the blood-soaked sheets that were changed almost every hour. Knowing that my own actions had hastened his final agony, I lay sobbing beside him in the bed, my arms around him as he whispered his final words: Ma mere . . . Eh, ma mere . . .
I dreamt, too, of Edouard, of the madness, deceit, and cruelty he no longer hid once he ascended the throne and stripped me of all power. I saw the brutality, the executions, the murders, the hatred he provoked until the people turned on him and he met his untimely end disemboweled, fittingly, by an assassin’s blade.
I dreamt of Henri, King of France and Navarre, who—for the sake of peace—became a Catholic so that he could be crowned properly in a cathedral, saying, Paris is well worth a Mass. I saw Huguenots and Catholics reconciled and a country united, ruled at last by a canny monarch who put the welfare of its citizens before his own, a ruler so beloved by his subjects that they dubbed him Henri the Great. I saw a France at peace and prosperous.
I did not dream of blood. I woke grief-stricken yet relieved, with prayers of contrition on my lips.
I reported this all to Ruggieri the next afternoon, after he had arrived with his paltry belongings to settle into his new apartments at the Louvre. Clad in a plain black doublet and matching ruff, he seemed incongruous with the gilded walls, the delicate, feminine furniture, and the pale blue brocade curtains, pulled back to admit the waning light. Like me, he had slept little since the massacre on Saint Bartholomew’s Day; at the sight of his exhaustion, I insisted he sit beside me in the antechamber while his valets thumped about in the bedroom, unpacking his things.
“I have done my best to make amends,” I said softly. “But I cannot bring back all the innocents who have perished. And I cannot bear to watch my beloved sons—monsters though they may be—die. I have had more than enough sorrow for one life. Let me die, too, Cosimo.”
He tilted his head to regard me somberly. Such an ugly face, yet as a shaft of light from the window penetrated his black eyes, I saw how very beautiful they were.
“Your time has not come, Catherine,” he answered. “You have set things aright—and now you and I must live many more years to ensure that they remain so. Navarre still faces many obstacles.”
Sickened by the thought, I turned my face from him and closed my eyes. I soon opened them again as something soft and warm brushed against my cheek. Ruggieri had risen from his chair to kneel beside mine; his fingers hovered, tender and unsteady, in the air between us.
“Do not give up hope,” he said. “I promised you many years ago that I would see you through all challenges. I will remain always at your side.”
“But I am damned, Cosimo,” I said sadly.
“Then we are damned together, Caterina Maria Romula de’ Medici.”
I gazed at him, remembering the words he had uttered on the day the harlot died. His affection and loyalty had been deeper and more constant than those of Aunt Clarice, of my husband, of my own children. Just as I had been willing to risk everything for my Henri, so Cosimo had been willing to risk every
thing for me. At the thought, my dark, faltering heart opened.
“Only ever out of love,” I whispered.
“Only ever out of love,” he repeated solemnly, and his hand began again to reach for me.
I caught it in my own, drew him to me, and kissed him.
AFTERWORD
Henri of Navarre—better known to us as Henri IV, or Henri the Great to his countrymen—was the first of the Bourbon monarchs and certainly the most beloved. His marriage to Margot was eventually annulled, and he remarried Maria de’ Medici, who gave him several children.
Catherine de’ Medici lived to the venerable age of sixty-nine. She was an assiduous astrologer, a mathematical prodigy, and—according to many French historians—the most intelligent individual ever to sit on France’s throne. The details of her horoscope as presented here are, to my feeble knowledge, accurate. She met twice with Nostradamus and eventually named him Physician of the Realm, although their conversations were never recorded. Her prophetic dreams are a matter of record; her daughter Margot wrote that her mother dreamt of King Henri’s death as well as Edouard’s victory at Jarnac.
The young Dauphine Catherine was indeed in danger of repudiation, and for the first ten years of her marriage was childless—after which she gave birth to ten children in as many years. Rumors began that she had relied on the talents of her court magician, Cosimo Ruggieri, to whom she was devoted. Catherine’s collection of talismans and interest in magic were legendary; after her husband’s death, she gave Diane de Poitiers the property at Chaumont in exchange for Chenonceaux. When Diane moved to Chaumont, she was alarmed to discover pentacles painted on the floor and abandoned magical implements, with the result that she abandoned the property.
The star Algol—also known as the Head of the Gorgon—is still considered the most evil star by astrologers. It opposed Mars on the twenty-fourth of August, 1572, at roughly 4:00 a.m.—an hour after the Saint Bartholomew’s Day Massacre began, as Mars passed through Catherine’s ascendant, Taurus. Mars transits through an individual’s ascendant augur periods of extreme crisis, possibly resulting in death.
Reading Group Gold
THE DEVIL’S QUEEN
by Jeanne Kalogridis
A Reading Group Gold Selection
About the Author
A Conversation with Jeanne Kalogridis
Historical Perspective
Catherine de’ Medici: A Timeline
Keep on Reading
Recommended Reading
Reading Group Questions
For more reading group suggestions, visit www.readinggroupgold.com.
ST. MARTIN’S GRIFFIN
A Conversation with Jeanne Kalogridis
Could you tell us a little bit about your background, and when you decided that you wanted to lead a literary life?
I was a shy, scrawny, unpopular kid with frizzy hair and thick glasses; since I had no social life, I read. I adored dark fantasy and science fiction, and I was writing my own stories as soon as I could hold a pencil. My mom and sisters were always dragging me to the mall on weekends, so while they shopped, I hung in the local bookstore. I think the defining moment for me came when I picked up a copy of Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man in a Waldenbooks. His writing was so beautiful, so lyrical…I decided then I wanted to write like that.
“I was writing my own stories as soon as I could hold a pencil.”
Is there a book that most influenced your life? Or inspired you to become a writer?
The Illustrated Man, by Ray Bradbury. And his Martian Chronicles. When I worked on my first novel, I bought new copies of those two books and consciously tried to imitate his style.
Who are some of your favorite authors?
Angela Carter, Margaret Atwood, and Dan Simmons (especially The Terror and Drood, both historical novels).
Who are some of your favorite historical figures?
My namesake, Joan (in French, Jeanne) of Arc—yes, she was deluded, but she kicked butt and made a man a king. I read a lot of biographies of strong women when I was growing up; I admired Marie Curie, Elizabeth Blackwell (first female M.D. in the United States), Elizabeth I, Boudicca (who gave the Imperial Roman army a run for its money), Jane Addams, and Susan B. Anthony.
About the Author
There are, of course, fascinating men. I always adored Leonardo because he was passionately interested in everything and pursued knowledge without the encumbrance of a formal education. Vlad the Impaler is another favorite of mine, for much grislier reasons, as is Cesare Borgia.
You have already authored two historical novels about Renaissance Italy, The Borgia Bride and I, Mona Lisa. What was the inspiration for The Devil’s Queen?
While writing I, Mona Lisa, I learned a lot about the Medici of Florence. The more I read about Lorenzo’s great-granddaughter, the notorious French queen Catherine de’ Medici, the more she fascinated me.
Do you scrupulously adhere to historical fact in your novels, or do you take liberties if the story can benefit from the change? And to what extent did you stick to the facts in writing The Devil’s Queen? How did you conduct your research?
I’ll answer the last question first: I rely on documented online sources, books, and experts. (I scour the Internet, dusty used bookstores, and libraries for rare/out-of-print books.)
To answer the first and second questions: I do my utmost to adhere strictly to recorded fact, but in the case of Catherine’s long, eventful life, I realized that I would need to write four books instead of one to cover everything! Clearly, the story needed to be condensed—but I didn’t do so by changing any events. Instead, I chose to omit some facts—such as the fact that Catherine actually had ten children rather than the five who appear in the novel. I chose the children who actually had the most impact on history and their mother’s life…and thus, the story. Otherwise, the plot would have lost its pacing and dramatic focus.
What is it about Catherine that you hoped to reveal to your readers?
Historians have accused her of being one of the most malevolent monarchs to sit on a throne—which was far from true. She was, in fact, one of the most insightful and intelligent rulers in history. I wanted to show how her horrific childhood and ensuing need for security and love resulted, ultimately, in the circumstances that gave rise to the tragic St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre.
Are you currently working on another book? And if so, what—or who—is your subject?
“[Catherine] was one of the most insightful and intelligent rulers in history.”
Always! I’m writing about another Italian Catherine. Caterina Sforza (1463–1509) was the daughter of the Duke of Milan. Although she was pampered and indulged as a child, she grew up to become one of the most famed Renaissance warriors of all time. She (almost) single-handedly managed to hold off Cesare Borgia’s massive army for months; her bravery and her refusal to behave “as a woman of her time ought” were amazing. She’s still famed in Italy for her daring exploits and lifestyle.
Much of the plot of The Devil’s Queen revolves around astrology and Catherine de’ Medici’s birth chart or natal horoscope, as well as those of her family members. How much of this was historically accurate? How did you do your research?
I’ve collected books about Renaissance magic for twenty-five years, so this was an area already familiar to me. But to do Catherine and the novel justice, I brushed up on Renaissance astrological magic by taking a course in the subject and reading the same authors Catherine would have studied in her day. None of the spells, astrological charts, or references to stars came from my imagination; they were the result of careful research.
I hired two different astrologers to cast the charts of Catherine and her sons, so with luck, they’re completely accurate. (I also cast them myself using my computer—I’m definitely not the math whiz Catherine was!)
It has been said that Catherine’s natal horoscope was one of the worst anyone could possibly have. Can you explain why?
When the fi
rst astrologer I visited cast Catherine’s chart, he actually gasped aloud in horror. Just for fun, I’d told him only that the subject was a long-dead queen who was the heroine of my novel. He told me she had a Grand Cross—four planets aligned at ninety degree intervals from each other, so if you connected them with a pencil line, you’d draw a square-armed cross.
Trust me, you don’t want a Grand Cross. You will be up against very, very difficult forces, and have conflict after conflict without being able to resolve it.
The astrologer explained that one planet (Jupiter) represented Catherine, and the others represented three powerful men who thwarted her at every turn. No matter what good she tried to achieve, these three forces undermined her efforts. Tragedy was the inevitable result.
Eerily enough, one of the planets happened to be her husband’s astrological “ruler”—and the two others were the rulers of her two malevolent sons, each of whom became king. Catherine was charming, diplomatic, and exceedingly intelligent—far more so than her husband or sons, whose mental and emotional deficiencies vexed her at every turn. I believe their failings, not Catherine’s, ultimately led to the massacre; Catherine struggled to right their wrongs and prevent civil war, but she was unable to control the situation.
The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine de Medici Page 49
