This journey must be cursed. First the rain, buckets of it for three days, though Nostradamus assured Mother the skies would be clear, and now one of our bishops has collapsed whilst carrying his saintly relic. I suppose walking for a hundred miles next to a royal procession isn’t easy, but don’t they practice? Perhaps they should have found a younger bishop. From the window of my litter, I can see Mother pacing back and forth impatiently as they attempt to revive the old fellow. It’s against all protocol for her to leave her litter unmasked, but that’s Mother. She probably thinks it will attract God’s attention to the situation if Catherine de Medici displays her face to the heavens.

Plutarch, my favorite author, writes, “What we achieve inwardly will change outward reality.” I am very attracted to that notion, and am desperately trying to achieve inner calm to alter the fact that Mother is screeching orders outside my litter. Why is she so excitable? I’ve heard people suggest (behind closed doors, of course) that Mother is a witch, and she does make it easy to draw such unpleasant conclusions. The unruly hair, piercing black eyes, and hooked nose terrified even me as a child. Add to those the fact that she frequently mutters dark imprecations in Italian, a language few at court have bothered to learn, and it’s no wonder they connect her to the dark arts.

I shall attempt to rise above the commotion taking place outside my litter, in order to reflect on the circumstances that have brought me to this point.

The seeds of our journey were planted over a month ago. It was a rainy day, but my ladies and I were having the loveliest afternoon inside the Louvre Palace. Madame de Tournon was braiding and bejeweling my hair for the ball that night, and Lady Agatha was singing a sweet chanson whilst Ladies Rosalind and Maria practiced dance steps together. The room was filled with fresh roses, the scent of which rendered me slightly drowsy and filled me with a sense of well-being. Does any other flower have that delicious effect? I think not. There was much to look forward to, with the promise of an evening’s entertainment lying ahead.

Suddenly the doors were thrown open, and my mother marched furiously into the room, accompanied by Charles, who should have entered first, as he is king, but Mother was too angry to remember that. My ladies jumped up and curtsied, but Mother pushed past them and placed herself face to face with me, fairly quivering with rage. Charles turned to my ladies and bellowed as best he could, in a voice that had only recently broken with adolescence: “Leave us!” They all rushed from the room, but I’m quite sure they stood by the door to listen to the humiliation about to unfold.

Mother grabbed me by the arm. She’s small, but she has a fierce grip. “What is this I hear about you and Henri of Guise? How dare you go behind my back?” She slapped me hard. It took me a moment to recover from the shock; Mother hasn’t slapped me since childhood.

“Mother, I don’t know what you’ve heard. It’s nothing! A flirtation only.”

“Don’t lie to me, whore!”

She pulled me up by the hair and rained down a series of blows upon my person, causing me to fall to the floor. I screamed, more in injured pride than in pain. Charles clapped his hands with enjoyment and offered a few kicks to my person himself. Those hurt.

“You will not! Form an alliance! With that man!” Mother screamed, ripping at my lovely new gown.

She and Charles issued a thousand threats about the repercussions that would unfold if I allied myself with any member of the Guise line, then left me alone to sob in humiliation. My ladies tiptoed back in with sympathetic expressions, but I couldn’t face them and rushed to my bedchamber to weep alone. How could they treat me so viciously, when all I ever do is march to the step they set? I am a princess of France; do I not get to choose with whom I have flirtations? Impossible to go to the ball now, with scratches on my face. How hideous my life was! I spent an hour more on wrenching self-pity and then, because I consider myself to be a rational individual, composed myself and tried to take a clear-eyed look at the facts that led to this dire moment.

Mother hates the Guise family. During the short time when my oldest brother, Francis, was king, Henri’s father, François, practically ruled France as his regent. Mother strongly felt that she should be regent, so she cultivated my brother Charles and awaited her moment. When Francis suddenly died—no, Mother did not kill him! Why do horrible rumors like this persist? He was her son!—when he died, Charles took the throne, and Mother managed to get herself named regent this time. It was not taken well by the Guise clan.

When whispers about my dalliance with the duke of Guise reached her ears, I should have known Mother would be angry. And I did, of course; I should be honest about that. But I didn’t anticipate the extent of her fury, and I was completely unprepared for what happened next.

About a week later, I was summoned to the king’s chambers. Charles and Mother were both there, as was Henri, looking enormously uncomfortable. Although he customarily stood quite near the throne, he was now relegated to the back row with a couple of bishops. Henri normally bears himself proudly and even arrogantly, but that day he looked small and covert, with his nose twitching occasionally, like a field mouse. His gaze was fixed as I entered, apparently fascinated by something on the far wall.

I curtseyed to Charles and my mother, then waited to hear the reason for my presence there, deeply hoping it was not to be a public upbraiding.

“Daughter,” said my mother, “we bring you joyous news. A match has been arranged between you and the Prince of Navarre. His mother, Jeanne d’Albret, has agreed in principle to this felicitous union, and a royal procession is being arranged to take you to Nérac in a fortnight to meet the prince. The king has commanded that I accompany you, which I am most happy to do. Félicitations!”

I stared at my mother in confusion. “But, Moth— Your Majesty, the Prince of Navarre is a Huguenot.”

“Yes. The king feels that a union between our two religions will send a signal to the country that these wars between Catholics and Protestants must cease.”

I looked to my brother, who managed somehow to appear both fat and gangly, splayed out on his throne like a frog. Realizing that something was required of him, he pounded the arm of his throne. “These wars must cease!” he croaked.

“If I may,” I ventured, “wouldn’t a marriage such as the one described have the reverse effect? The people of France—”

“Silence!” my mother snapped. “The people of France will accept the marriage when we inform them of it. Resolve yourself to accept this fate, Marguerite. We live in difficult times.”

Charles waved me away with a flick of his wrist.

I curtseyed again and made my way out, trying to catch Henri’s eye, but he was still committedly fixated on the far wall.

I, marry a Huguenot? I understood that they were angry with me, but to punish me in this way! What honest citizen of France wants to see his devout Catholic princess auctioned off to a heretic? Protestants don’t even view the Virgin Mary as the Queen of Heaven; they don’t worship her in any way. What good is a religion that offers only men to pray to? And Henri of Navarre, of all people, the leading Huguenot in France! The idea is heresy!

However, with Mother’s assurance that all would go brilliantly, arrangements were made for our royal procession to Nérac, a kingdom to the southwest of France, so that Navarre and I can meet and she can finalize the terms of the nuptials with Navarre’s mother, Jeanne d’Albret. I have maintained outward calm, but inside I am simmering—simmering—with resentment.

They’ve tried to do this to me before. First, I was supposed to marry the Archduke Rudolf of Austria, a stiff and repulsive man; I’m very glad that never came to fruition. Then there was a plan for me to wed the son of King Felipe of Spain; I’m not sure what went wrong there, but he ended up marrying my sister Elizabeth. After that, they tried to form an alliance with the king of Portugal, but he didn’t like the way the Huguenots were being “suppressed,” as he put it, and withdrew his agreement. It’s embarrassing to be the subject of all these failed attempts, but of course Mother and her cronies never consider my feelings in their schemes. I have half a mind to sabotage this next attempt myself.

(I see the bishop is not dead; a relief. He’s been given a flagon of wine, and they are transporting him to our supply wagon for the rest of the journey. Will the other bishops swoon away in envy? It remains to be seen.)

Henri came to me a few nights ago. A secret stairway leads from the grounds of the castle to my apartments, and I had recently allowed him to visit me there, but only with my ladies present. This time he appeared after my ladies had retired, which was most forward of him and, considering the circumstances, dangerous.

He found me in my bedchamber, reading.

“Henri!” I leapt out of bed, flustered. He had never seen me in my dressing gown, and I was also terrified of the repercussions should someone discover him there. There are spies everywhere in the palace.

“Marguerite, mon amour, forgive me, but I had to see you before you left.” He flung his cloak and hat aside and clasped me in his arms, overwhelming me with a cloud of his hair powder. “This match between you and Navarre is madness!”

“I know, dearest, but I’m sure it will come to naught. I intend to make myself utterly repellent to the man. Giggle inanely for no reason, mutter loud prayers to the Virgin at every lull in the conversation.”

“That will accomplish nothing. You’re the most desirable woman in France; everyone knows that.” This comment might look romantic on the page, but he said it most accusingly. I believe he realized that, because he softened his tone and took my hand. “Marguerite, mon ange, forgive me. It’s just that I feel so deeply for you, and it seemed you and I were achieving a special intimacy.”

“Of course. But don’t despair. Mother said Jeanne d’Albret agreed to this match ‘in principle.’ I’m sure the queen of Navarre will find a way to scuttle negotiations.”

“It’s true that the woman is a known fanatic. Oh, Marguerite, you look exquisite in this dressing gown—no, don’t blush! The way your breasts peek above the top of your gown, those perfect orbs I worship so ardently. Perhaps, at long last, we can take these final moments before you leave and turn them into a memory neither of us will ever forget…”

He drew my body closer to his, breathing into my ear, murmuring my name—and I was suddenly overcome by the sensation I always experience when Henri attempts to seduce me. Queasiness.

I want to experience love. I’ve been proclaimed by many to be the most beautiful woman in France, and though Mother’s strenuous protections have kept me virginal, I’m sure most people assume I am very learned in the ways of love. But the fact is I haven’t been able to overcome a strange revulsion whenever events take a carnal turn. I’m happy to flirt, kiss, dance, play the coquette. But when it comes to the idea of consummation, I feel nothing, no stirrings within my soul. Is it the pomades and perfumes that Henri applies to his beard and mustaches? His embarrassingly poetic style of conversing? Is it the fact that we’re of almost identical height, or perhaps the taste of his kisses? (Yes, that most certainly has something to do with it.) As much as I want to become a femme du monde, I just can’t overcome my inner disgust.

And so, that night, I found myself once again resisting his increasingly urgent advances.

“Henri…my love, it’s so late. Henri, let us not be hasty… Henri, no—please—”

“Your Highness? Is there anything you require before I retire for the night?”

Henri, who had been pressing his advantage rather unfairly, drew away from me sharply and whirled around to see Rosalind smiling in the doorway.

“Thank you, no, Rosalind. The Duke was just taking his leave.”

“Yes, yes,” muttered Henri. “Always a pleasure.”

As he left, I mouthed the word merci to Rosalind. I knew I wouldn’t see Henri again, as we were leaving a few days afterward, and though I felt sad about that, I was also relieved. Henri in theory is a much more persuasive concept than the man in person.

Mother has demanded that a new cleric be found to carry the saintly relic. Of which saint are they the remains, I wonder? I suspect it’s the vial of blood from St. Januarius, the patron saint of Naples. Mother has a particular fondness for him, being Italian. Born in the third century, he was beheaded for his Christianity, poor fellow. One could remark that those were savage times, but were they really any more savage than our own? I think not.

As Mother terrifies her entourage, I find myself contemplating her litter. Suspended between two black stallions, it is jet black, devoid of ornamentation, and projects an air of deep gloom and possible menace. Even the leather interior is black. Contrast that with my own litter, which is a lovely pale blue, with ornate gold molding and fleur-de-lys decorations, suspended between two darling palominos. I chose the color scheme myself, to set off my flaxen hair, and I feel it conveys a more positive image of royalty for the world to behold. Instead of black, why not the blue of France for Mother’s litter? Or a commanding purple, to delight the eye? But my mother enjoys being perceived as wicked; it renders her opponents more pliable. I’ll never forget the time when, with an ominous flourish, she offered a goblet of wine to a prelate with whom she was having a dispute. The poor man fainted away in terror. I’ve never heard her laugh harder.

We are an eye-catching processional, with two or three hundred in our entourage (numbers are not my strong suit), some playing musical instruments, many carrying colorful banners. When we pass through the towns there is much fanfare to acknowledge us, and the townspeople present their sometimes-delightful local cuisine, as well as an entertainment. In the countryside, children run alongside our litters and try to catch a glimpse of our faces, even though we are masked.

The weather has been glorious: cloudless skies and flowers everywhere, hyacinths, ranunculus, snowdrop, lilies of the valley. When we encounter flocks of sheep, one can see the baby lambs prancing about, joyful to be alive. Despite the many delays, it’s a perfect time to travel. My ladies Rosalind, Maria, and Agatha are riding behind; I can hear their distant laughter. They’re probably talking about me and this impossible mission, and I don’t blame them. I’d much rather be riding with them on horseback, my face naked to the world, able to laugh and look about; but this dreary cortège is the price one must pay to make an impression. And, as I am repeatedly told, the impression is all.

The trumpets have sounded; we’re moving again. I’m sure Plutarch is right, but I have not achieved inner calm, and my trying outer circumstances remain the same.

We’re passing the night in our castle in Agen.

“Happy slumbers, Mother,” I said, as she made her way to her rooms with her usual headache.

She turned and looked at me reproachfully. “Happiness is the one thing we queens may never have,” she responded, then left the room.

Mother and her moods. I’m afraid they’re rather contagious, for since then I have sunk into a melancholy. My ladies attempted to extricate me from it with amusing chatter and silliness, as Madame de Tournon removed my wig and readied me for bed.

It occurs to me that there are currently three Henris in my life: Henri of Guise, Henri d’Anjou, my brother, and now Henri of Navarre, whom I am supposed to wed. To avoid confusion, I shall call the Duke of Guise “Henri,” since he holds the highest place in my affections, my brother shall be “Anjou,” and this hapless heretic prince who thinks he’s going to marry me shall be “Navarre.”

I suddenly wonder why we are making this journey to Nérac? Shouldn’t Navarre be coming to us in Paris? I was given to understand that he is thrilled and honored at the thought of becoming betrothed to me. How thrilled can he be if he chooses to stay home?

I’m sure his mother isn’t thrilled. I remember Jeanne d’Albret from my childhood, a tight-lipped Huguenot with no sense of humor. It’s very hard to believe she would give her blessing to this union, but when I queried Mother about it, she replied, “The Queen of Navarre was simply delighted, once she had the stakes explained to her.” I can’t imagine Jeanne d’Albret being delighted about anything.

I wonder how Navarre has changed. My memories of him are dim. I do remember playing croquet with him on the grounds of the palace at the age of six or seven. My recollection is that he was pale, mosquito-bitten, and a rather poor loser. He was Catholic then and got on well with the rest of us, sharing our restful sense of place in the order of the universe. Then Jeanne d’Albret met an ex-monk, who excited her in ways we can only guess at and converted her to Protestantism. With feverish zeal she extracted Henri from court and sent him to Bearn for indoctrination and military education; we never saw him again. It must have been confusing for him. I wonder if he remembers his days in Paris fondly.

My younger brother, Alençon, suffers from terrible hero-worship where Navarre is concerned. When we were children, he used to follow the prince around like a puppy dog, which explains why Alençon is in Nérac right now, playing war games with him, instead of being useful to the Catholic cause. Alençon’s sudden embrace of all things Huguenot dismays me. I’m sure he’s no more truly inclined toward the Protestant religion than he was committed to astrology a few years back, when Mother introduced him to Nostradamus—an unctuous, odoriferous man whose prophecies always seem to me little more than good guesses (witness our three days of rain). Alençon spent about six months under that man’s thrall, then grew bored and took up hammer-throwing. He simply blows with the wind, which I say with regret because he has a very sweet nature and is (I will confess) my favorite brother, especially now that Charles has become so insufferable.

I hope they are not expecting me to convert to Protestantism. If they are, they do not know me. I remember well the summer of my twelfth year, when my brother Anjou, who had recently caught the Protestant fever, tried to force me to renounce my faith.

“Repent!” he bellowed, holding my head underwater in one of the palace fountains.

“Never!” I screamed when he gave me a gasp of air.

He plunged my head back into the waters. I would surely have drowned, if one of our nurses hadn’t come across the scene and pulled him off of me.

When Mother found out about it, she had Anjou whipped—that was how important it was to her that our Catholic faith not be jeopardized. She certainly has changed direction.

I suppose it’s because these constant internal wars are draining the national coffers. In a strange way, I see the logic behind Mother’s attempt to unite the two religions: a weakened France means a weak boy-king, whose life is in danger. But I think Charles would be calmer, and safer, if Mother didn’t insist on being his regent. Charles is seventeen; he’s immature and unstable, has a cruel streak, and is given to fits of rage—which I suppose doesn’t set him apart much from other kings. But they’re too alike, Mother and Charles. They feed one another’s suspicions and hatreds, and Charles becomes most agitated in her presence.

The problem is that Mother thinks everyone at court is plotting to kill Charles. Probably a few of them are, but what can you do? She used every weapon in her arsenal to keep Francis alive, and look what happened: the poor boy died of an ear infection at age fifteen, an incident completely beyond her control. “Fate will find a way,” as Virgil wrote. Perhaps fate will find a way for Mother to step into the shadows—but I seriously doubt it.

After a long, arduous journey replete with muddy roads, fainting bishops, and much discomfort within a bouncing litter, we arrived at the gates of the chateau at Nérac. It was a splendid entry, with trumpeters trumpeting, drummers drumming, bells ringing, pennants waving, ladies singing—but imagine our surprise when there was no one to receive us! No one but a clutch of bewildered citizens and a retinue of soldiers, one of whom approached the caravan nervously.

“Your Majesty, the Prince of Navarre sends his greetings and declares his delight at your esteemed presence here in Nérac!” he proclaimed. “He would be here himself to welcome you, but, as it happens, he and his men have taken a vow of solitude from the company of women whilst they engage in military training. He is pleased, however, to offer you accommodations on a property outside the castle, where your every need will be attended to.”

“For what are they training?” demanded Mother. “We’re not at war with the Huguenots, we come in peace. I have brought my daughter, the Princess of France, for that very reason. Where is the Queen of Navarre? I demand to speak to Jeanne d’Albret.”

“The Queen is currently at her estate in Bearn, Your Majesty.”

“At Bearn! With whom? Her monk?”

I heard Cardinal de Lenencourt snicker when Mother said this. There are, of course, many rumors about Jeanne d’Albret and the ex-monk she travels with. We don’t know much about that relationship, but we do know that, because of his influence, the Queen of Navarre finances her son’s battles with the Catholics, making her a power to be reckoned with.

“This is an outrage!” Mother cried. “But no matter. The Queen and I have already come to an agreement. Her presence here is not required!”

She made this last announcement loudly to the crowd that had gathered to watch the altercation, as we were escorted to our accommodations.

Interesting that the Prince of Navarre is as little inclined to meet with me as I am with him. In truth, I’m relieved not to have to play out the charade of a betrothal. The weather is fine, the garden here lovely, and I’m enjoying an excellent glass of claret.

I first learned of the existence of Marguerite de Valois during my stay at an artists’ retreat in Nérac, France. We were dining at the foot of the chateau there, and our host explained that it used to be the home of the King of Navarre, who went on to become Henri IV, King of France. My initial interest was in him, but soon my focus shifted to his wife, Marguerite, who was forced into a marriage with him by her mother, Catherine de Medici.

Marguerite was a polyglot, an astonishingly educated woman for her times, and the first woman ever to write and publish her memoirs, which are fascinating reading. I was impressed by her intellect and by her vivid recollections of certain key moments in her life, which made great springboards for the telling of her story. I also became aware of the enormous disinformation campaign aimed at her from the moment she, a Catholic, wed a Protestant. The country was suffering from endless religious wars at the time, and despite Catherine de Medici’s expectations, the union was not received warmly by the populace. In fact, quite the opposite: shortly after the wedding there occurred the infamous St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre, in which thousands of Protestants were murdered throughout France. As a result, Marguerite was hated by many.

Throughout her life, Marguerite was used as a tool for leverage in political situations, both by her brother kings and by her mother, initially without her consent and much against her will. As time went on, however, I got the sense that Marguerite learned to manipulate events so that she could not only survive but thrive in what now seem un-survivable times. History is replete with queens who could not conceive offspring and as a result were cast off, beheaded, or suffered “accidents” at the hands of their husbands. Marguerite met none of these fates.

Aware of her still-soiled reputation, I’ve made it my job in this novel to resurrect her image into the person I believe—or at any rate imagine—she really was.