I stepped back from her, from the calculated malice in her eyes. I heard Cosimo's words, haunting in their prophecy: But the barren seed that is your family-they are damned.

And as if she could hear them too, Margot lifted her chin, in triumph.

January came upon us in a maelstrom of wind and snow. Bundled up in sable and wool, I stood in the courtyard to see Margot off. She would be taken to the Chateau of Usson in Auvergne-an isolated manor that could be well guarded, the only place besides the Bastille where she could do, or come to, no harm. She did not say a word when informed.

She emerged from the palace flanked by guards and moved toward her palfrey. I watched her mount the wood block and swing onto her saddle with graceful ease, her strength apparent in her every gesture as she took up the reins and turned to me.

I felt all of a sudden as if I might weep. I did not want to understand her; I did not want to know how this chasm had opened between us. But I did. She loved with her soul; she'd given herself entirely to the man we had denied her. It did not matter whether Guise would ever appreciate her sacrifice. What mattered was that she had never forsaken him.

"Remember who you are," I said to her. "Remember, the blood of kings flows in your veins."

She gave me a bitter smile. "How can I forget? It's my bane." Kicking her heels into her palfrey, she cantered off, the guards close behind.

Within moments she had vanished into the swirling snow.

The harsh winter gave way to famished summer and a drenching autumn. Even as the harvest again moldered in the fields and riots broke out in Paris over the price of bread, Birago's network of informants sent daily reports of Catholic lords congregating at Guise's estate, of retainers being summoned and weapons stockpiled-all paid for by Philip of Spain. From the opposite side of the country came equally disquieting news, of more cities overtaken by Navarre, of thousands of Huguenots rallying to his standard and the seizure of every piece of artillery from every castle he could overtake. War was imminent, a war to the death; and trapped in my rooms as rain heaved against my windows, I penned letter after letter, asking Navarre to meet me before it was too late.

One evening as I sat with my fingers raw from holding my quill I heard the door open. I looked up to see Henri. He'd retreated to Vincennes following his humiliation in the Louvre; though we met weekly with his Council, he had not visited me alone since that incident.

"Do you know why he despises me?" he asked.

I regarded him with bleary eyes. "Yes. He thinks you plotted to kill his brethren and friends. Though we saved his life, he's never forgiven us for that horrible night."

"No, I mean Guise." He stepped inside. His shoulder-length hair was tied back from his arresting face; as he neared his thirty-fifth year, his features had grown more defined and angular, like a Valois, though his eyes remained pure Medici: expressive, long-lashed, and exquisitely black. Birago had told me he'd been training daily with his sword and bow and riding for hours every afternoon in the forest; it showed in his taut stance.

"I loved him once." His face turned supple in the candlelight. "When we went to fight together against the Huguenots that first time, we ate together, shared the same pavilion; we were more than friends. He was my brother, the brother I'd never had in Francois, Charles, or Hercule. He watched over me every moment; he claimed he would die before he let anything harm me."

He gave a soft laugh. "I fell in love with him. How could I resist? He was beautiful as a god, fierce as a pagan. He was everything I wanted to be." He paused at my desk, ran his long fingers along the chipped walnut edge as if he were recalling a lover's skin. "When I finally got up the nerve to tell him, he was horrified. Oh, he hid it well. He said all the right things, that he was honored but unworthy, but I saw the loathing in his eyes. He could scarcely contain it. I could have ordered him to my bed, I could have taken him on his knees like a dog; but I knew that even so, if I wasn't his prince, he would have killed me. Only then did I realize how unworthy he truly was. He took something that was precious to me, sacred, and with one look he made it shameful. I vowed I would never love again, never be vulnerable to another's disdain."

He lifted his hand to his throat, as though he could still feel the pain. "And I never did. None of the others, not even my poor Guast, ever equaled the passion I had for him."

He leaned to me. Still in that low, intimate voice he said, "I'm finished with it. I want you to find a way for us to be rid of him. Find it soon, before I find it myself."

He reached into his doublet, took out an unsealed paper. "From Navarre: he agrees to meet, providing you go to him. He's received all your letters and says he doesn't want war any more than we do. Tell him, if he converts I'll make him my heir and send him Guise's head."

I started to reach out. Before I could touch him, he drew back and left me.

I reached the citadel of St. Brice in the Huguenot territory of Cognac in mid-December. I had ridden through a frozen landscape of skeletal trees festooned with icicles, the glacial wind barely stirring the drifts of snow at the roadside, but Navarre greeted me in the courtyard dressed in his habitual wool doublet, only he now sported a black cap with a bristling white plume. I was struck by the sight of it, recalling it was the same cap I'd seen him wearing in my vision, so long ago.

He smiled at my scrutiny. "So my enemies can mark me better in battle," he quipped, and he leaned to me, his breath warm as he kissed my lips. While the cold had penetrated my bones, he exuded heat like a kiln.

"Tante Catherine," he said. "I didn't realize until now how much I've missed you."

I allowed myself a smile. "And I see that you, my lord, have not changed."

"Oh, I'd not say that." He thrust out his chin. "Look here: courtesy of Guise and his Catholic League. I didn't have a single white hair in my beard before they challenged me."

He spoke carelessly, but I heard iron underneath. With a smile I said, "Then it seems we've much to discuss," and let him lead me into the house and a private chamber, where he allowed me to warm myself in front of the fire with a goblet of mulled wine. Then we launched into battle. He had developed his diplomatic skills, I noticed at once; none of my offers moved him to concede an inch. He behaved as though he truly did not care whether he forfeited all.

Finally, I hit my fist on the table. "Enough. We've been sitting here for over two hours, going around the same immutable point. You know I cannot arrest Guise. He is too powerful; every Catholic in France would turn against us."

Navarre reclined in his chair with a curious half smile. "He is only powerful because in allowing him to continue unchecked, you lend him authority. What do I gain by agreeing to your requests, save for a lifelong vendetta with Guise, who is clearly resolved to destroy me?" He rose to refill his goblet. "Besides, I think if you had true peace, you wouldn't know what to do with yourself. I, on the other hand, am sick of conflict. I wouldn't wage war again if I had the choice."

As he turned back to me, I thought of the irony that this one man, whose accession could only mean my sons had failed, might be the answer to everything I strived to give France. Had Nostradamus been right? Had I saved him because he was, in fact, my legacy?

The time had come to find out. I now faced my final gambit.

"You do not need to go to war," I finally said. "Convert to our faith and you will put an end to it. Guise cannot fight a Catholic heir, which you will be. Your brethren will forgive you. After all, you will inherit France."

He chuckled. "Can it be that what they say about you is true after all, and religion really means nothing to you when the Crown is at stake?" His smile faded. "I said no. I will not convert. Unless you've something else to say, I fear war it must be."

I put my goblet on the side table and stood, moving deliberately to the window. Outside, winter's early dusk fell like a cloak, draping its black folds over the land. I felt the night in my heart, in my sinews, deep in my bones. Time was running out. I had his answer, and it was the answer I had expected. I could not hesitate anymore.

"What if I give you his death?" I said, without looking around. "Would that satisfy you?"

I heard sap crackle in the hearth. I waited, my entire body taut. When he finally let out a sigh, I looked over my shoulder at him. Shadows played across his rugged features.

"You know I am capable of it," I added. "I have done it before."

His mouth twitched. He put his goblet on the mantel, stood before the fire with his arms crossed at his chest, staring into the flames. "Coligny died horribly that night," he said flatly. "My brethren died in unimaginable ways. I thought I would die too. I heard the screams and saw my men struggle when Guise's retainers came for us. If it hadn't been for Margot ..." He shifted his eyes to me. "He deserves it. He has bathed in Huguenot blood."

I met his contemplative stare.

"Very well," he said quietly. "I agree. If you give me Guise, I will defend your son. And when the time comes, France will find a champion in me, always, one who will seek tolerance and peace, regardless of how my subjects choose to worship."

I felt my pent-up breath leave my lungs. "Then for now we must appear to be foes. You will prepare for war behind my back. Guise will learn of it and pounce. But you must not enter Paris nor seek to usurp Henri's throne. Do the deed and return to your kingdom. Leave the rest to me."

He held my gaze. The quiet between us filled with memories. I saw him as he'd been on the eve of my son Francois's nuptials, a wary child with prescient eyes; on the day he came to wed Margot and I clasped him to me and felt his strength. I recalled that night of blood, as he lay against Charles with a dagger at his throat; and envisioned him on the day of his escape, riding through our war-torn land for his mountain refuge. I saw him in each incarnation, from child to youth to man; and I knew, without further doubt, that our destiny had been preordained.

We were indeed two halves of a whole.

I sent detailed instructions to Henri and packed my valises for my return to Paris. The day before I was due to leave, a courier arrived with an urgent missive. I tore it open and read; I could not repress a dark surge of satisfaction. Though the event itself was horrific, it couldn't have come at a better moment.

Mary of Scots had been executed at Elizabeth Tudor's command. In her will she bequeathed to Spain her contested Catholic right to Elizabeth's throne; Philip was now free to assume the role of avenger of Mary's death, to rain fire upon England's heretic queen.

And Guise had the perfect excuse to declare war on Navarre.

THIRTY-EIGHT.

THE LOUVRE ROSE OUT OF A DENSE MIST. TORCHES BURNED ON the facade at midday, pockets of light that scarcely illumined my passage through the courtyard. No escort waited to receive me after my absence; only Birago shuffled to me, his cane tapping on the cobblestones.

As he led me into the palace he murmured, "I brought your letter personally to His Majesty and he has done as you asked. He awaits you in the hall. You should know he has a new companion, one Valette, son of a minor Parisian nobleman. His Majesty made him captain of his new personal guard, which he calls the Forty-five. The king's fear of assassination runs high."

I nodded in agreement as I moved through the eerily quiet corridors. I could remember a time when laughter and the firefly flittering of courtiers filled every room. I'd been one of them, the foreign duckling in her elaborate gowns, consumed by desire for an unwilling husband and hatred of his mistress. It had been a time when the Huguenots were an unpleasant distraction, when a king of might and wit straddled the throne-a fleeting time of dreams.

Bracketed tapers flared in the hall. A group of dark-clad men stood near the dais; in their center was Guise, also head to toe in black. I resisted the urge to laugh as the men bowed low, all of whom I recognized as Catholic lords I had instructed Henri to invite. Though white was the color of mourning in France, they'd donned Spanish black in a united show of furor over the martyrdom of Mary Stuart. My son had surpassed my instructions with his usual dramatic flair.

I moved to them. They parted. I lifted my gaze to the dais.

Henri sat with one leg dangling over his throne's armrest. He alone wore white damask, a pearl-drop in one ear. Coral bracelets encircled his wrists; in his hand he held a bilboquet-a child's toy made of a polished wood stick with a painted ball on a string. He tossed the ball up, caught it in the rounded cup on the top of the stick. Standing beside him was a lean youth of startling beauty, with a mass of dark curls and sapphire-blue eyes; I assumed he must be the new companion, Valette, for he held an identical toy and his stare was fixed on me.

Clip-clop.

Henri smiled. "Ma mere, welcome home. I trust you had a pleasant journey, if not a very productive one?" He tossed the ball up.

Clip-clop.

I glanced at Guise. He regarded me as if I were a stranger.

As if he had rehearsed the lines I'd chosen for him, Henri said, "As you can see, we're in mourning for the unlawful murder of our sister-in-law, Mary of Scots. It is what every Catholic can expect when a heretic takes the throne-persecution and apostasy. God himself, I'm told, is weeping." He rose and left the dais. I smelled the scent of violets on him as he approached me. "Come see what we have devised." The men hemmed me in, oppressive at my back. I regarded a large paper on the table: a map of France with pins stuck in designated areas. Though I'd advised Henri to do this, the physical demonstration of my gambit twisted my stomach into a knot. If we failed, we'd have an enormous Catholic force on our doorstep.

"Three armies," said Henri. "One, led by my Valette, will intercept the German mercenaries Navarre has hired to augment his forces. Another, led by my lord Guise, will engage Navarre himself. And the third I will lead personally, to take position here"-he pointed-"at the Loire, preventing passage into Paris." He laughed, flipped the ball up. "Delightful!"

Clip-clop.

"You ... you speak of war ..." I feigned shock as I felt Guise step behind me. He was so close his breath stirred my nape. For a paralyzing instant, I thought he could sense I deceived him. Then he said, "How could you think Navarre would act honorably? He lies as easily as he breathes. Did he not convert once, only to turn around and revert to his heresy?"

I focused on Henri. He tilted his head. "So Navarre didn't tell you he prepared for war?"

"Of course not!" I exclaimed. "I went to discuss terms with him and he-"

"And he made a fool out of you." Henri rounded the table; Valette stifled a yawn, draping his arm across the throne with the languid grace of a cat.

I stood silent, as though I could not imagine how I'd been played false.

Henri turned to Guise. "My cousin of Navarre is a sly one. He asked to meet with my mother alone but never mentioned to her that he already recruited mercenaries." He didn't wait for Guise to reply, turning back to me. "Unlike you, he knows there can be no compromise between us."

"I swear to you, I didn't know," I said, and I almost believed my own fake incredulity.

Henri smiled. Guise said, "We understand. Your Grace is not who you were. You are weary from carrying these burdens of state. You must rest now and let us assume charge."

"Yes," said Henri. "Rest, Maman. You have done enough."

He turned from me in marked dismissal. With my head bowed, I slowly left the hall. The deed was done; there was no turning back. For the first time in my long life, I had invited war in. If Navarre kept his promise, he would not invade; he would not take my son's throne by force. He would fight Guise and kill him, and then, God willing, we would finally have peace.

From my apartments, I watched men toiling in the courtyard, grinding swords to a lethal edge, loading carts with munitions. The dragon of war burgeoned before my eyes, and even as I recognized it would be commanded to my purpose, a band of fear circled my throat.

The night after Navarre's troops were sighted marching toward us, Henri came to me. We had deliberately kept our distance and after he shut the door he embraced me. His body was hardened from training; he looked like his old self as he drew back to gaze into my eyes.

"I leave tomorrow," he said. "Do you truly believe Navarre will fulfill his bargain?"

I nodded. "He will. Just remember, you must not enter the fray. Above all else, you must stay safe. Let Navarre have his moment." I stood on tiptoes and kissed his mouth, tangling my stiff fingers in his long hair and inhaling his scent.

Never had I been as proud of him as I was in that moment.

The army left; Paris was put under curfew. As I waited, my faithful Birago, weakened by years of gout, collapsed at my feet and was taken to his bed.

I immediately called for Pare.

Our elderly doctor hadn't fared much better than the rest of us, health-wise; lame in one leg and losing his eyesight, he peeled back Birago's fur-lined robe, put his ear to my friend's concave chest, and listened. When he righted himself, he shook his head sadly.

Birago chuckled faintly. "Say a prayer for me, physician. I'm luckier than most to have escaped your potions and leeches all these years." He turned to me. "You needn't stay, madama. France needs you more than I do."

"Nonsense." I fought back the hot rush of tears in my eyes. "You've served France faithfully; now, let France wait."

I didn't move from his side. We avoided any mention of the present or future, finding solace instead in shared recollections of the past, of our voyage in stormy seas to France, of my wedding and our years together, shoring up the kingdom, masterminding spies, and tutoring my sons. Of all the men in my life, Birago had been with me the longest. I couldn't imagine my world without him. And yet as the days passed, I watched him ebb. The gout had turned his legs into a morass of inflamed flesh; he began to suffer high fevers and had trouble breathing, so Lucrezia and I took turns sleeping on a truckle bed in his apartments, attentive to his distress.

The day he left me, his breathing was shallow, rattling in his chest. His withered fingers clutched mine. For the briefest moment, his frail smile conquered the pain.

"Madama," he said, "I will miss you."

He died as he lived, without complaint. I held his hand as he grew cold and watched the unwavering purpose lift from his face, so that he seemed at peace, youthful again.

I bowed my head. "Do not stray far, my friend," I whispered. "Wait for me."

I mourned Birago deeply. I felt more alone than I'd ever been, waking every day and half expecting him to limp in with his portfolios. He had been my ally, my counselor; now he was gone. All purpose seemed to vanish from my life, so that I felt lost, bereft of the one person who'd known me better than I knew myself.

Even as I grieved, word came that Guise had clashed with Navarre on a field near the Loire River, with the Huguenot army chanting the Psalm of David as they entered battle behind their king's white-plumed hat. In less than four hours, countless dead lay strewn across the blood-soaked grass. Couriers brought me updates, but everything was garbled, confused. None could say if Guise or Navarre had been injured or killed. I went to my knees and prayed. Toward nightfall I received a letter sent secretly by Navarre. I opened it with quivering hands.

It was brief, devastatingly so.

I have failed. Guise eluded me and has proclaimed victory. I will do as I promised and retreat. I cannot risk my surviving men nor do I wish to endanger you further.

God be with you.

There was no signature, a precaution in case the letter fell into the wrong hands. The paper floated from my grasp. I stood still. I wanted to cry, to wail and curse fate. I made myself envision the worst, seeing myself and Henri beholden to Guise forever, captive pawns in his design to turn France into a Catholic stronghold. The Spanish would overrun us, the Huguenots would be exterminated, and my son's reign would not go out in triumph but in ignominious disgrace. I had been so certain of success, that the prophecy uttered by Nostradamus all those years ago bound Navarre and me to this deed.

But no truth can be certain that concerns the future, I thought, and I pressed a hand to my mouth, stifling an acid burst of laughter. Fate, it seemed, was the cruelest trickster of all.

Then I got up and prepared to welcome my son home. He had done nothing except sit out the short war in his armor, and as he rode into the Louvre I saw the shock on his ashen face.

Louise subjected him to a tearful embrace. "God save me," he said as he held her close. "Everything I have now lies open to Guise."

I went to him. Trembling, he motioned Louise aside. My voice plunged low. "Remember, he doesn't know we planned anything. I will invite him to court as if you were still allies."

"He has an army at his command! He'll ask for my soul."

"I promise you, he'll not win." I pulled my son close. "We have one last chance ..."

Even from within the hall in the Louvre we could hear the muffled cheers outside in the streets. I could imagine children tossing flowers, women wiping tears from their faces and the men-all the men, the tanners, shopkeepers, merchants, and beggars-brandishing fists as they roared Guise's name, praising the man who had delivered France from the Huguenot menace. I found it grimly ironic that they had no idea who had unwillingly allowed Guise this triumph.