The Devil's Queen: A Novel of Catherine De Medici (26 page)

“You are so brave and good,” he said. “You endured prison, and coming to France, a strange land, and have been patient with me . . .” He rolled on his side to face me. “I want to be like you. But there are times I think I’m going mad.”

“You’re unhappy,” I countered. “It’s not the same thing.”

“But I remember all the terrible things my brother went through—and I grow frightened that they’ll happen again. So frightened that I can’t trust anyone, that I can’t even speak kindly to you when I want to . . .” He looked away, haunted.

“It won’t happen again,” I said. “It’s past.”

“How do you know?” he demanded. “If Father was captured again—if something happened to François . . . It might not be the same thing, but it could be even worse.”

He fell back against the pillow, his eyes wide at the thought. I wrapped my arms around him.

“Nothing bad will happen to you,” I whispered, “because I won’t let it.” I kissed his cheek. “Let me give you children, Henri. Let me make you happy.”

The tension in his face dissolved, giving way to trust, and I dissolved with it. I laid my head upon his shoulder as he whispered, “Oh, Catherine . . . I could love you. I could so easily love you . . .”

He fell asleep in that fashion. And I, swooning with infatuation, reveled
in the feel of his warm flesh against mine. Filled with blissful thoughts, I dozed.

In the middle of the night, I woke in a mindless panic and lifted my head from Henri’s shoulder to stare down at him. In the dimness, blood bubbled up from his face—the stranger’s face, the one from my dream.

Catherine. Venez a moi. Aidez-moi.

I understood my life’s purpose in that crystalline instant.

“I heard you far away in Italy, my love,” I whispered fiercely. “You called to me, and I have come.”

At the sound of my voice, Henri stirred and stared up at me with eyes that were black and haunting as the Raven’s Wing.

He slept the rest of the night beside me, but when I woke to the first light of morning, he was gone.

When I saw Henri had gone, I rose quietly, so as not to wake Madame Gondi, sleeping in the adjacent garderobe.

I had discovered three volumes on astrological magic by Cornelius Agrippa in the King’s library and brought them all to my cabinet. I went into the tiny office, lifted the first volume from the shelf, and began to thumb through it. I no longer believed in coincidence. Chance hadn’t presented me with the magician any more than it had brought me Henri—or Agrippa’s masterwork there upon His Majesty’s library shelf.

Until that morning I had been reluctant to try to create a talisman myself. I doubted the books contained all the information necessary for dealing with the intangible world. But the convergence of Henri’s need and the appearance of Agrippa’s tomes convinced me that I was destined to do this.

I found what I wanted in volume two: Corvus the Raven is a constellation near Cygnus the Swan. The Raven’s stars are ruled by morbid Saturn and bloodthirsty Mars; yet combined as they are in a star named Gienah, said Agrippa, they “confer the ability to repel evil spirits” and protect against “the malice of men, devils, and winds.” When the figure of a raven is drawn over the constellation, Gienah glitters in its wing.

The image required was that of the raven. The stone required was black
onyx; the herb daffodil, burdock, or comfrey; the animal a frog—specifically, its tongue. On a night when Gienah was rising and favorably aspected to the Moon, the stone should be inscribed with a sigil, fumigated, and consecrated.

This was my task, then—to obtain a ring fitted to Henri’s finger, construct a raven’s image, collect the stone and herb and frog, and perform the ceremony. First, however, I needed to locate Gienah, track its movements, and determine when, over the next months, it rose conjunct the Moon.

I felt purposeful that day, believing that the bloody burden I had carried for so long would soon be lifted. I never dreamt that I was instead taking another step toward the heart of the magician’s sinister and ever-widening circle.

In the meantime, my fortunes bloomed while Florence’s withered. I received a letter from my dear cousin Piero. He lived in Rome now with his father, Filippo, and his brothers. They had been forced to flee Florence. Sandro, it seemed, had become a murderous tyrant and profoundly suspicious of his relatives—to the point of accusing Piero of plotting to seize control of the city. Others who had provoked Alessandro’s distrust had been executed or poisoned, or had simply disappeared.

It is a good thing you and Ippolito live some distance from him,
Piero wrote,
or you would not both still be alive.
So many disaffected had left Florence out of fear or protest that there was talk of raising an army to retake the city.

I wrote Piero at once, inviting him to come with his family to France, as I longed to see them; in truth, I also wanted them to see me happy.

In King François, I had found the father I had always longed for. To my delight, he invited me to his morning meetings with his councillors, so that I might see how the business of the nation was transacted. I learned how the King worked with Parlement, the Treasury, and his Grand Council.

Every day at his lunch, the King bade me sit nearby, a special honor. When the King’s reader was silent, we conversed about His Majesty’s building plans for Fontainebleau, or about which Italian artisan he should hire for a particular project, or about a work of literature we both had read.

He was as affectionate to me as he was to his own daughters, whom he
visited regularly. He would gather them both upon his lap, although they had grown too large to fit. When he sat smiling at us, I glimpsed the same bright, loving boy I had seen in my Henri. At the same time, he was ruthless in the council chamber; the well-being of the nation took precedence over any individual claim of the heart.

And though I heard often about his insatiable lust, he guarded his family from it, though there were times when I came up unawares to find him with his hand in a courtier’s bodice or up her skirts. Madame Gondi told me that when she had first come to Court, His Majesty had cornered her and caressed her, saying that he could not live without her love.

“Did you submit?” I asked, shocked.

“No,” she said. “His Majesty’s weakness is women, and when a woman weeps, he becomes utterly helpless. It’s how the Duchess d’Etampes controls him. And so I wept as I told him that I loved my husband and could not betray him. His Majesty accepted my explanation and retreated with an apology.”

Such stories troubled me, but I found myself making allowances for him despite myself, for I loved him dearly.

Best of all, I felt my love for Henri was requited. He now smiled shyly and met my gaze, albeit with endearing timidity. And he came often—though not often enough to suit me—to my bedchamber.

I was thoroughly enamored. I understood his pain now: His anger was born of protectiveness and love. If mention of an Italian campaign brought a flash of heat into his eyes, it was only because he worried about a coming war’s effect upon his brother.

The King finally publicly announced the full details of our wedding arrangement: Pope Clement had already paid half of the exorbitant sum agreed upon as my dowry; in addition, Clement and King François both proclaimed Henri to be Duke of Urbino by virtue of his marriage to me. Milan was to be ours, too, and Piacenza and Parma; His Holiness the Pope asserted our right to the territories and would supply additional troops to aid in the conquest.

In preparation, King François began to build an army.

Meanwhile, the Court followed the King northward from the Loire countryside
to Paris. The city was not as sprawling as Rome, but it was ten times more crowded; the narrow streets were always congested, the half-timber houses crammed side by side. But spring brought enchanting, sweet-smelling blossoms and temperate weather, even though the sky, placid one moment, could release a sudden shower the next. The Seine, grey-green in gloom, quicksilver in sun, was too shallow to permit nautical traffic; some days revealed so many golden sandbanks I felt I could simply walk to the opposite shore. The river cut the city in half; in between nestled the island of Ile-de-la-Cité, home to the massive, magnificent cathedral of Notre-Dame and the ethereal, dainty Sainte-Chapelle, with its fiery circular windows of stained glass.

I could see their spires from the high, narrow windows of the Louvre. It was my least favorite royal residence—old and cramped, with tiny apartments. Over the centuries, the size of the Court had greatly increased, though the Louvre, on the Seine’s bank, had no room to expand. The only way to increase the number of chambers had been to decrease the size of each. It had only a token cobblestone courtyard instead of the vast green expanses found at the countryside châteaus.

The city itself I adored. Paris was not as sophisticated as Florence, nor as jaded. It emanated an excitement that attracted the best artists from all over Europe. There were many Italians, thanks to King François’s determination to bring the best artists, architects, and goldsmiths to France. Everywhere I went, I found scaffolding and at least two Italians arguing over the best way to decorate or rebuild a particular section of the old palace.

In my cramped cabinet at the Louvre, I drew the likeness of a raven in black ink upon white parchment. A Parisian jeweler had supplied a polished, faceted onyx; an apothecary furnished ground cypress wood, of the nature of Saturn, and the poisonous root of hellebore, ruled by Mars. I found an errand boy willing to kill a frog and cut out its tongue without impertinent questions. I placed it alongside the stone and incense in one of the compartments hidden in the wooden wainscoting near my desk, where it browned and withered.

I charted Gienah’s movements through the night sky and calculated when it would rise conjunct the moon. The most propitious time would not arrive for months.

Cosimo Ruggieri, then, had prepared my stone for me well in advance—weeks, or even longer. He had known all along that I would need it, and had merely been waiting for the opportunity to deliver it into my hands.

We did not remain long in Paris that spring of 1534. Like me, the King disliked the lodgings and soon forsook them for the Château at Fontainebleau, south of the city.

If the Louvre was the smallest royal residence, then Fontainebleau was certainly the largest. The massive four-story stone structure took the shape of an oval ring, with an interior courtyard. It was large enough to house a village and too small to accommodate King François’s Court; a west wing and connecting structure had to be built. François hired the famous Fiorentino to paint frescoes, framed by gilded molding, on the walls. Under the King’s direction, the château began to glitter, thanks to the famous goldsmith Cellini.

I summoned Cellini to my cabinet and presented him with a sketch of the golden ring, its heart empty to receive a stone. When it was done, I paid him handsomely and put the ring in the hidden compartment with the rest of my secrets.

As spring turned to summer and summer turned to fall, the King went hunting at every opportunity—accompanied by
La Petite Bande,
as he called us ladies. All of us now rode sidesaddle, and each woman showed her determination to keep pace with the King.

One afternoon in late September, we were in pursuit of a stag. I was happy that day, comfortable in my new life. The weather was exquisite with a comfortable breeze and sun, and I was laughing with Anne as we galloped together after the King.

Suddenly, a bell began to toll; someone of import had died. We called off the hunt and rode in, subdued and curious. The stable master had no idea what had happened.

I dismounted and walked back to my chambers, where Madame Gondi waited in the doorway. Her recent tears had washed away some of her face paint, leaving rivulets of pink beside the chalky white. The other ladies and the servants were all crying.

“What is it?” I demanded.

She crossed herself. “Your Highness, I am so sad to be the one to tell you. It is your uncle, the Pope.”

I was shocked and sorry, but I didn’t cry. It is a devastating thing for the faithful when a Pope dies, and he was also my relative. But I still resented his choice of his own illegitimate son, Alessandro, to rule Florence.

Once the shock had worn off, I grew uneasy. Clement had died with only half my dowry paid and none of his promises of military support to King François fulfilled. In the chapel, I prayed that his successor would be a friend to France and to me—but God, I knew, never heard me.

Seven nights after the Pope’s death, the moon rose with the star Gienah her close companion. At forty-three minutes past midnight, I went into my windowless cabinet and opened the hidden compartment with a key.

I had turned my desk into a makeshift altar, with a censer from the chapel in its center, in front of my drawing of the raven. After lighting the coal in the censer, I sprinkled the cypress wood shavings and the dried leaves of hellebore over it. Acrid smoke billowed out immediately. As my eyes streamed, I took up a jeweler’s awl and the polished onyx. On the stone’s backside I etched the sigil for Gienah, then held the stone up to the smoke and repeated the name of the star. Using one of Cellini’s fine pliers, I set the stone into the ring and applied pressure to the golden prongs until the gem was held fast.