Jeanne Kalogridis: The Medici Queen aka The Devil’s Queen

Everywhere around us, innocents screamed for help. The Scot collided with one of his own and spoke frantically in Gaelic; I made out the word Navarre . The leather belt pulled me along as he turned toward the door to the bedchamber. I stumbled again over a sprawling limb and lost my grip. My man quickly turned to offer me his hand.

As he did, I glimpsed up. Limned by the window, a man’s black form stood; a tiny flame, smaller than that of a lamp, floated in front of his shoulder. I caught the smell of burning match cord just as my Scot cried out.

A deafening boom followed, accompanied by the tang of gunpowder. My guardian fell backward onto me, knocking me to my knees. I struggled from underneath his limp weight; in the dimness, I made out his open eyes and reached for his chest. My fingers fumbled, searching for the rise and fall of breath, for a beat, and found neither; they slipped into a warm, hot chasm near his heart and recoiled instantly.

I pushed myself up just as the arquebusier was reloading his weapon and staggered into the bedchamber. It was brighter there, given the bedside lamp, but no less chaotic: a dozen bodies-of Huguenots, naked or in thin nightshirts, of Swiss soldiers, of Scottish royal guards-sprawled on the floor, while the survivors fought on.

On the far side of the bed, the captain of the guards, his sword wielded in battle against a bald, cursing Huguenot, caught sight of me.

“ Madame la Reine! My God!”

He dared not disengage to rush to me but returned his attention to his combatant. Nearby, at the foot of the bed-five fighting men away-stood Navarre.

He was still in his white undershirt and black leggings, as though he had not dared to undress completely. His damp shirt clung to his chest and back, his hair to his scalp. He was grimacing, his eyes ablaze, his face gleaming with perspiration as he wielded his sword against that of an equally fierce Swiss soldier. At the captain’s cry, he glanced up quickly at me, and his face went slack with shock.

I ducked my head at the whizzing blades. “Navarre!” I scrabbled past another pair of fighting men, and another. I held my hand out to him, not knowing whether he would grasp it or cut it off. As I did, a figure stepped into my path.

It was the white-haired giant of a Huguenot who had threatened me two nights before, at my public supper; he gripped a short sword at the level of his waist. He leered down at me, baring his great yellow teeth, and drew it back, the better to plunge it forward and run me through. I staggered backward; my foot caught on a prone body, and I went down, arms flailing.

The grinning giant bent over me, then just as suddenly toppled sideways, encouraged by the flat of a sword against his skull. Navarre appeared beside me, his eyes wild with rage, confusion, and despair. I looked on him with infinite hope: He had not killed me.

“Catherine!” His voice was barely audible over the roar.

“I’ve come to help! Follow me to safety,” I shouted, but he shook his head, unable to hear, and gave me his hand.

As he pulled me to my feet, I glanced over the slope of his shoulder to see a white equal-armed cross looming; as the Swiss swordsman lunged toward him, I cried out. Navarre turned swiftly to him and reared backward from the waist in an effort to avoid the oncoming blade. He failed; the tip split his brow with a thud and he dropped to the floor.

I fell to my knees beside him as his eyelids fluttered.

“Help us,” he whispered and fell still.

Bright blood welled up from his forehead and spilled onto the carpet. Gasping, I unfastened my dressing gown, gathered up what I could of the hem, and pressed it hard against the wound. Above us, the Swiss soldier bent his elbow and pulled his weapon back, ready to deliver the final blow.

I crawled atop Navarre and lay my body atop his.

“Kill him,” I shouted, “and you kill the Queen!”

Beneath me, Navarre stirred and groaned. The stunned soldier lowered his weapon and stepped back. He, too, fell suddenly away, and I looked up to see the young Prince of Condé, his features slack, his eyes very wide. At the sight of Navarre bloodied, he let go a short cry, then pulled off his nightshirt and flung it at me. I pulled my sodden dressing gown away; the wound was still bleeding, and the victim’s brow swelling, but the skull had not been split. I tied the shirt around Navarre’s head and looked up at Condé, who leaned his ear toward me.

“Help me get him to safety!” I cried.

Condé did not hesitate. He pulled me up, and together we dragged Henri to his feet. Navarre was dazed, unsteady, but he understood enough to wrap his arms about my shoulder and stagger with me behind Condé, who raised his sword and slashed his way past the Swiss and Scots-some of whom drew back, chastened and confused, at the sight of me.

“Why?” Henri sobbed as we lurched into the antechamber, where the fighting had abruptly stopped. A score of his comrades lay slaughtered on the marble. “Why?”

I did not answer as we headed into the corridor but addressed Condé, whose eyes were guarded but free from the rancor that I had always encountered before. “This way.” I pointed east.

We passed the staircase-quiet now-and entered the deserted gallery. A humid breeze had found the drapes and softly stirred them. Two floors below us, out in the courtyard, victims cringed in Vulcan’s colossal shadow. Henri let go a wail and stopped to stare through the window, his eyes stark with horror.

More than a hundred terrified Huguenots had fled from the palace into the courtyard, only to discover the Swiss waiting with their crossbows and halberds. Mounds of bodies were heaped along the western wall; in the glare of torches, a dozen screaming men huddled together as the crossbowmen forced them, step by step, back over the blood-slicked cobblestones onto the waiting blades of the halberdiers. I pressed a fist to my lips, to stifle bitter nausea and grief. I had ordered this because I feared war, because I had not wanted men to die.

Condé watched darkly, too stricken for words.

“Why?” Henri moaned again; he turned to me. “Why do you do this to us?”

“We must not stop here like this,” I said. “If we do, they will find us and kill both of you. Come.”

I stole a lamp from its sconce and guided them to a small door at the midpoint at the gallery, which hid a narrow, spiraling staircase-an escape route known only to the royal family. The stale air inside was wilting, and Navarre swaying, but we managed to make our way down three flights to the blessedly cool cellars. I led them past great, ancient wine barrels to a prison cell and took the rusted key hanging from the wall to open it. Condé helped his cousin to one of the hanging planks that served as a bed; Henri sat down and leaned heavily against the earthen wall while I lingered outside-then closed the bars and locked them. Both men started as the metal clanged shut.

Condé flared. “What do you mean to do with us? A public execution?”

“I mean to keep you here,” I said, “until I can determine my next action. It is the one place you will be safe. Before God, I will not harm you.”

Henri pulled the blood-soaked undershirt from his head and stared down at it, disbelieving. “Why do you kill our fellows?” His tone was mournful, dazed.

“Because you meant to kill us ,” I answered fiercely. “Because your army is marching on Paris even now. Because you meant to kill the Dauphin, and me, and steal my son’s throne.”

He and Condé stared at me as if I had suddenly stripped off my nightgown.

“You’re mad,” Condé whispered. “There is no army.”

Navarre put a hand gingerly to his swelling brow and squinted as though the feeble light of the lamp pained him. “Whose lies are these?”