The Devil's Queen by Jeanne Kalogridis

Author:Jeanne Kalogridis,
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780312368432
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2010-05-24T23:00:00+00:00

Our son Charles-Maximilien—as sickly as his predecessors, with a red-violet, walnut-sized birthmark just beneath his nose—was born in 1550, three years after Henri assumed the throne. We built a large nursery in the palace King François I had renovated at Saint-Germain-en-Laye, just west of Paris, where Henri had grown up. The chateau was built around a central courtyard, with sweeping lawns that spurred Mary to chase François, but running made my elder son gasp so horribly that he fainted. In the days just after Charles’s birth, I watched from my window as Mary ran alone, a swift, solitary little figure on the grassy expanse.

My husband became a solicitous father during Charles’s early months, visiting the nursery almost daily. He abandoned the old King’s itinerant habit, keeping the Court at Saint-Germain for the children’s sake. After Diane broke her leg in a fall from the saddle and went to her château at Anet to recuperate, Henri remained with me at Saint-Germain. I admit, his choice pleased me—until I learned its true cause.

On the first cold night of autumn, I sat in my chamber in front of the mirror while Madame Gondi brushed out my hair. It was late, but I was enjoying our conversation about how little François had been allowed to hold his infant brother, Charles, for the very first time, and how he—after being convinced that the baby’s red birthmark was not catching—had kissed Charles and solemnly pronounced him acceptable.

As Madame Gondi and I were speaking, I heard a woman’s heartbroken wail coming from the nursery above us. I ran out of my chambers and up the stairs, propelled by maternal urgency.

On the landing, one of Mary’s Scottish bodyguards stood beneath the lighted wall lamp. He had heard the cry but had not reacted to it; in fact, he was restraining a knowing smirk.

I ran past him toward the double doors of the now quiet nursery. Just beyond, two figures stood in the wavering light cast by a sconce in front of the closed door of the chamber inhabited by Mary’s governess. They were arguing—and at the realization, I stopped half a corridor away in the shadows.

It was Montmorency, broad-shouldered and gray-bearded, his back pressed against the door, his hand upon the latch, and Diane, who leaned heavily upon a crutch tucked under one arm. Apparently she had just traveled all the way from Anet and had rushed into the château without pausing to remove her cloak. The lamplight revealed shadowed hollows beneath her eyes and the slackness of age along her jaw. The hair at her temples was more silver now than gold. She was dressed elegantly in a high ruffed collar of exquisite black lace, accentuated by a large diamond brooch at her throat, and ivory satin skirts embroidered with gold scrollwork. But even such sartorial glory could not hide the fact that she was worn and frazzled, her dignity replaced by shrewishness as she tucked into Montmorency.

“You insult me, Monsieur, with your lies!” she hissed, shaking her forefinger at the Grand Master.

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