This time, I almost cried out at the simultaneous pain and pleasure of it, his organ filling me until my entire existence became the sensation of him moving inside me, gathering momentum, his breath coming fast and low in my face as I arched my hips to meet his thrusts and my hands caressed his chest, tangling in the coarse hair.

A shudder went through him. I felt him enlarge even more and I whispered his name. He went still, his entire body taut as if he fought to keep something back, and then he gasped and plunged deeper, spearing me with a heat that spiraled into a thousand dancing circles, until I too was crying out, kneading him with my hands, my legs clasped tight about his waist.

He fell to my side, panting. I clenched my muscles, willing his seed to take root. As I turned to him, my entire body throbbing, he rose from the bed. I heard him gather his clothes and pull on his hose and doublet with a haste that filled me with shame.

I whispered, "Stay with me tonight."

And he replied quietly, "I cannot."

I reared up. "Why? Was I not pleasing to you?"

He averted his eyes. "You ... you were. You are. But I am expected elsewhere."

I couldn't stop the anger from tainting my voice. "It's that woman, isn't it? You're leaving me for her. Does she mean so much that you'd humiliate me before the entire court?"

"She means everything." He met my stare, his expression drawn, almost sad. "I don't mean to hurt you. But you must accept what I can and cannot give. Once you have a child, you will not care so much anymore. You will have our son to love instead."

I dropped my hands to my belly, feeling the pain of his words as if he'd struck me. I wanted to bellow that I would always care. I was the one who deserved his love, not that statue who held him in her thrall. But I did not, for I now realized what I'd kept even from myself, the delusion that had spurred me and kept me believing I had the power to change his heart.

If it hadn't been her, there would be another. But not me. Never me.

I turned from him. "Go, then. Go to her."

Without a word he left, closing the door softly behind him.

I awoke three months later to cramps. Crawling from bed, I staggered toward my privy pail, despairing that my menses had returned. My appetite had been ravenous of late, and I'd secretly begun to hope I might be with child, as my previous menses had been sporadic, not nearly as strong as before. But as Lucrezia rushed in to assist me, I felt my belly twist in a vicious knot and a viscous gush of blood splattered under my gown. I froze, gazing in horror at the clotted mess at my feet. Then my legs gave way and, with a stifled gasp, I crumpled to my knees.

Lucrezia replaced my bloodied nightdress with my robe and guided me to my chair. I moaned, hugging my midriff, rocking back and forth. "No. Please God, no."

I watched, aghast, as Lucrezia sopped up the blood and set the soiled cloths in the hearth. Only then did I whisper, "No one can know. It would be the end of me."

She nodded. "I'll burn everything, including the dress. You rest now."

"How can I rest?" My entire body started to tremble. "I'll never be able to rest again. I've lost his child. What will I do now? How can I survive?"

"You will." She fixed me with her stare. "You are young. Many women lose their first one. He came to you before and he will again. He needs a son as much as you do."

My eyes filled with tears as she stoked the embers, adding extra wood to build a fire that would turn the evidence of my womb's failure into ashes.

Two days later, the dauphin died.

NINE.

AT COURT, WE DONNED WHITE.

Seated with the princesses in the royal crypt of the Basilica of St. Denis, I watched as the dauphin's narrow coffin was lowered into the vault. Though the king's eldest son had never been well, he'd not yet reached his twentieth year and Francois was devastated by his loss, haggard and pale as he knelt to kiss the engraved marble that would mark his eldest son's tomb before he moved down the aisle, followed by Henri. I saw in my husband's brief hooded glance in my direction that he was overwhelmed by his elevation as his father's heir, and I felt faint at the thought that now, more than ever, the entire court would be watching me for signs of the son I must bear.

The princesses stood. I started to step aside for Madeleine, when she murmured, "No, you must go first. You're the wife of our dauphin now."

I looked at Marguerite; she gave a sad nod. I bowed my head and stepped forth.

As I moved down the aisle, I heard the courtiers start to whisper.

The forty days of mourning was prolonged. Deprived of entertainments with the king in seclusion, all my fears returned, so that at night I barely slept, haunted by visions of my exile. Henri did not come to my bed owing to the mourning for his brother; and we sat stiff as effigies together during our first official appearance following mourning, when King James V of Scotland came to visit France to cement the two countries' alliance by seeking a bride.

No one could have foreseen that from among the multitude of ladies proffered to him, it would be shy Madeleine who captured James's heart. It was, of course, the perfect match, and I wondered if even in his grief Francois had planned it, fully aware that bellicose Henry VIII of England would be enraged that his Scottish neighbor had a new French queen in his bed.

Only weeks after James's arrival we stood in Madeleine's chambers, ladies rushing about applying last-minute touches to her bridal costume. Arranging the flowing veil of her coronet, I turned her to the mirror. She peered. "Catherine, I look so pale. Maybe I should use some of that rouge you made for me?"

"Not today," I said. "Brides are supposed to look pale."

She clutched my hands. "Isn't it strange how life can change? Look at us: Only yesterday we were in the schoolroom together. Now you're dauphine and I'm to be queen of Scotland." She glanced again at her reflection. "I do hope I'll make a good wife to him. My doctors say I'm better." As she spoke, she rubbed her sleeve. I'd seen the contusions on her arm, the result of a week of bleedings prescribed by her physicians. "But I hear winters in Scotland are harsh on the lungs," she added, "and mine have always been weak."

"James has plenty of castles to keep you warm." I pried her fingers from her forearm. "Now, stop fretting. It's your wedding day."

The women shrieked as Francois strode in, ablaze in gold brocade. "Bad Papa," chided Marguerite. "It's bad luck for a man to see the bride before she enters the cathedral."

"Bah! Bad luck for the husband, perhaps, but never for the father." He went to Madeleine. "Your groom waits. Are you ready, ma chere?"

As she hooked her arm in his, he gave me a worried glance. The death of his eldest son still showed in his face and I knew he was anxious. Scotland was infamous for its unforgiving climate and nobility; how would our sweet Madeleine fare so far from the comforts of France?

I said, "Her Highness was just telling us how happy she is. Surely, this is one of France's most joyous occasions, Your Majesty."

"Indeed," he murmured, "as joyous as your own arrival, ma petite." He turned a brilliant smile to Madeleine. "To Notre Dame!"

After weeks of festivities, we accompanied the newlyweds to Calais for their departure for Scotland. We then returned to Fontainebleau, where Francois collapsed without warning.

His illness created immediate consternation. The courtiers whispered that the period of celebration had taxed the king, reopening a sore on his genitals that impeded his ability to pass water. For weeks he was sequestered behind closed doors, submitting to an onslaught of panaceas that left him disoriented and frail.

I held vigil with the Petite Bande. We were refused admittance to his rooms, leaving Madame d'etampes to pace the corridors, helpless to assist the man on whom her entire life depended. When it was announced that His Majesty was on the mend, she donned her most opulent silk and jewels and awaited his summons.

To her surprise, and mine, Francois called for me.

From his bed he opened fever-glazed eyes. "Ma petite, you've changed your scent."

"I made it myself." I raised my wrist to him. "Essence of jasmine, ambergris, and rose."

He smiled faintly. "It's very French. When you set yourself to something, you never give up. I admire your persistence. Perhaps you'll soon succeed in giving me a grandson as well, eh?"

"Yes," I whispered. I didn't show my fear, though I knew that with those words he had issued his warning. One day he would die and I would be left alone in a hostile court. I had to secure the Valois succession and prove myself worthy to be queen.

I held his hand as he drifted into sleep. I should have been devastated by the knowledge that this glorious wreck of a man, who'd sheltered me against all odds, approached the end of his life.

But all I could think of was the insurmountable task awaiting me.

By midsummer, Francois had recovered and war with the Hapsburg emperor Charles V broke out over the disputed duchy of Milan. This time, the constable, his nephew Coligny, and my husband led our offensive, while the court lodged in St. Germain, near the safety of Paris.

The first moment I found, I slipped out alone to visit Cosimo. He was overjoyed to see me and led me into his upper-story room, which he'd filled with shelves of vials, jars, and books, much as his father's study had been in Florence; from the rafters hung cages of live birds.

"My lady," he said, bowing with exaggerated subservience, "you honor me with your visit."

I eyed him. "Cosimo, you look as if you haven't eaten or seen the sun in weeks. I trust you're not shutting yourself up in here all day. You can't live by magic alone."

As he murmured excuses, his gaunt face glowing with eagerness to please me, I wondered if I did the right thing by coming to him. He was, after all, a servant whose bills I paid. How could he understand the torments I endured? Ever since that horrible morning when I'd miscarried, despite Lucrezia's insistence that women often lost their first babe, I lived in constant fear, tormented by the thought of banishment from France for failing to give my husband an heir.

Cosimo regarded me as if he could read my thoughts. "My lady is troubled," he said. "You came to me because you are afraid. You can confide in me. I would die before I betrayed you."

I started, meeting his penetrating stare and remembering the gush of blood and tissue, the cloths and nightdress curling to cinders in my hearth. A fist closed about my heart.

"I ... I cannot fail," I finally whispered. "I must have a child."

He gave a solemn assent. "We shall examine the portents together." He removed a dove from one of the cages overhead and with an expert twist of his fingers snapped its neck. Setting the twitching white-feathered body on the table, he took up a dagger and disemboweled it. I winced at the smell of its intestines spilling out, at the sight of its dark blood staining his hands as he peered at its organs. After a thorough examination, he looked up at me with a smile and proclaimed, "I see no impediment to your ability to bear children."

Overwhelming relief weakened my knees. I sighed, leaning my hands on the table. Then I heard him add, "The loss of one doesn't mean there will not be others."

I went still. I lifted my gaze to his. "You ... you know? You saw it?"

He shrugged. "It is my gift. I see what others cannot. And I also must tell you to be patient, my lady, for your time has not yet come."

I let out a raw laugh. "How much more patient can I be? I've been in France seven years and I've nothing to show for it. That woman is to blame; she knows how much I suffer and she revels in it. By all rights, she should die." I yanked the vial on its chain from under my collar. "I have the means in this vial your father gave me years ago. I just need the opportunity."

He arched his brow. "You must not. Everyone would suspect."

"I don't care. Henri would grieve for a time and then resign himself. There'd be an end to it."

"Or he'd heed the rumors and never touch you again. The French already think every Italian is a poisoner at heart. And whatever is in that vial might leave a trace. No, my lady. Much as you long for her death, that is not the way."

I wanted to shout at him in frustration, not because I thought I'd ever actually poison Diane but because he had dared to point out the consequences of an act I needed to believe I could commit. In my distress over the child I'd lost, whose existence I could never reveal, I blamed her. I believed she deliberately kept Henri from my bed; in my darkest hours I almost believed she'd made an unholy pact to expel that malformed being from my womb and thus leave me beholden to her for my very survival.

"Fine," I grumbled. "Find another way. But do it fast. I don't have all afternoon."

Cosimo had already moved to his shelves and was reaching for a small wooden chest. "She is of no consequence," he said, opening the chest. "I'll give you six protective amulets to wear under your clothes to deflect her evil and a skin lotion to attract him. When he next comes to see you, I will send you an elixir: half for you, half for him. Above all else, do not lose hope."

"If hope were seed," I said, taking the items from him, "I'd be mother to an entire nation."

He smiled. "One day, that is exactly who you will be."

I applied the lotion, affixed the metal amulets to my petticoats. I straightened my hair with hot irons and ordered new gowns by the dozens, anticipating word of Henri's return from the front and plying the duchess with questions about the war's progress. It all sounded much the same as any war, with the Imperial army entrenched and our officers blasting them with cannon, and it made me impatient, for I needed Henri back at court if I was to try the elixir on him.

Then fate struck again.

Gentle Madeleine died, a victim of Scotland's harsh climate and her own tender lungs. Francois locked himself in his rooms and refused to see anyone. I spent my days with Marguerite, comforting her as best I could. We were in mourning again, but Francois had no alternative but to heed James V's request for another bride. The Scottish alliance was crucial and the Guises wasted no time in proffering their daughter, Marie. That she too could lose her life in Scotland meant nothing; here was a chance to advance familial interests. The marriage took place by proxy, and soon after, weary of a war neither could win, Charles V and Francois signed a treaty.

Henri was recalled home.

At Fontainebleau, I prepared to receive him. I'd been drinking my drafts on schedule and organizing my rooms for weeks. I now paced, clad in crimson and rubies, attuned to the door. I'd sent Anna-Maria out to discover his whereabouts, electing to remain out of sight during the welcoming celebrations. The last thing I wanted was to look the frantic wife, the first to throw her arms about her husband as he entered the courtyard.

Feeling my ladies watching me, as they always did when they sensed my disquiet, I slid my hand to my pocket. When I felt the tiny bottle Cosimo had sent, I smiled. He'd promised its potent blend would make Henri think only of me. I'd drunk my half this morning. All I had to do now was slip the remaining half into his wine. Prodded into action, nature would do the rest.

My women sewed. I'd been less than even-tempered since learning of Henri's return and was about to apologize when the clatter of heels reached me. I straightened in my seat.

Anna-Maria burst in. "His Highness is coming! But I overheard in the gallery that-"

I ignored her. "I'll hear the gossip later. Sit down. Henri must think we didn't expect him."

"But Your Highness must-"

"Later." I pointed to her stool. With a desperate glance at the others, she sat.

Anxiety roiled inside me. It had been eight long months since we'd last seen each other. How would he find me? Would the elixir work? Would I conceive again?

Boisterous laughter preceded a group of men. I espied Henri's close friend and companion-in-arms Francis de Guise among them. He was still too thin and tall, but now his angular features-which would have been handsome had he not carried himself with such rigidity-were marred by a raw scar that cut down his cheek and puckered the left side of his mouth into a perpetual sneer.

"My lords," I said warmly, "how delightful to see you at long last. Welcome home."

As the men bowed low, Henri stepped from their midst. I almost didn't recognize him. He wore a plain brown doublet, his gaunt features half-covered by a thick beard, his eyes nested in deep shadow. In his somber regard, I found a maturity instilled by months of watching his fellow soldiers die for France. My husband had gone to war and returned forever marked by it.

"Would you care for some wine?" I asked as he gave me a brief kiss on my cheek.

"I no longer drink wine," he replied.

I faltered. If he no longer drank wine, how would I give him the elixir? Its taste was bitter; he'd notice it in water. I searched for some reason to insist he take a goblet when I saw him lock eyes for an instant with Guise. My stomach sank as Henri returned his inscrutable gaze to me.

I reached for his hand. "I'm so happy you're back," I said. "I missed you. If you like, we can sup together tonight. I've so much to tell you."

"I'm afraid that's impossible." He withdrew his hand. As he moved to his men, I thought he hadn't said no, hadn't said he would not come later. The elixir wouldn't spoil. I could wait.

It wasn't until they left that I remembered Anna-Maria. "What is this news you couldn't wait to tell me?" I asked, trudging to my chair.

"It's but a rumor," Lucrezia interposed, indicating Anna-Maria had at some point told her.

I paused. I looked at my women. I waved all of them save Lucrezia out.

"It's Henri, isn't it?" I asked her. "Out with it. What has he done this time?" I steeled myself for the recounting of some venality with Diane. Instead, Lucrezia said, "It seems that while at war His Highness ... well, he committed an indiscretion. The long hours on the front ... like any man he sought some comfort. They say she was a young peasant girl, whom he visited only a few times. It would have ended there, only now she is with child. She claims it is his."

My hands clutched my dress; I felt a dull crunch, something wet against my thigh. The bottle of elixir in my pocket: crushed. "Does he ... does he acknowledge her claim?" I asked haltingly.