Dark Eminence Catherine De Medici And Her Children (11 page)

Catholic and a suitable bride for Don Carlos; Charles must marry Philip's elder cousin, Anne of Austria; and Henry, Duke of Anjou, she thought should marry Philip's widowed middle-aged sister, Dona Juana. Thus did Catherine, as the train wound ever deeper into the mountains, make her plans for her children. She pictured her meeting with Philip, saw

his expression of skepticism change to smiling cordiality once she had convinced him of her religious sincerity. It would all work out perfectly, she was sure.

The winter was not long but the cold was bitter and, to her annoyance, Catherine learned that many of the delays along the way were caused by men in the cortege freezing to death

as they faced the gales sweeping through the canyons; or by horses blinded by snow, floundering and falling in the drifts and having to be destroyed* Deep in her fur-packed litter, the Queen Mother rehearsed searing speeches of criticism she would deliver to the Provost of the Household the next time they stopped. His drivers were unpardonably careless with the horses and as for the lost men, either he should have brought more robust retainers or should have clothed those he did bring more warmly. These delays were inexcusable!

But spring finally came and Catherine knew that in a few weeks she would see her beloved Elizabeth and His Most Catholic Majesty, Philip of Spain. The meeting place, selected well in advance, would be on the shores of the Bay of Biscay at the foot of the Pyrenees Mountains just inside the French border. A pavilion would have been erected and hung with pennants and shields bearing the devices of the Houses of Hapsburg and Valois. A carpeted walk would extend to the water's edge and pages especially trained would stand, prepared to hand Their Majesties ashore. No detail had been overlooked.

The June day was perfect, the sky cloudless, the waters of the bay amethystine blue. Catherine in her most becoming costume, a little flushed, surrounded by her children with the King at her right hand, stood in the pavilion shading her eyes, watching the approaching barge bringing the Spanish sovereigns. She was nervous and spoke sharply to Marguerite, who insisted on humming under her breath.

She could distinguish two seated figures, one unmistakably the slender, girlish figure of Elizabeth, the other—oh, this

was impossible! Catherine felt as though an arctic wind had suddenly swept around her, leaving her numb, frozen with bitterness. The other figure was that of the gaunt gray-haired Duke of Alba!

Catherine had detested him when he had been in France acting as proxy bridegroom at Elizabeth's wedding. Now here he was again with his wintry smile and probing dark eyes, sinister, soft-spoken, like an evil spirit. For just a moment the joy of holding Elizabeth close, of appraising her beauty, the same exquisite ethereal beauty it had been five years earlier, this was enough. But eventually the question must be asked:

"And His Majesty? I hope he is well?"

Yes, His Majesty was quite well but was desolated not to be able to greet Her Majesty in person. Heretics seemed to be overrunning the world, did they not? So the King had much on his mind and his days were full. So, Alba shrugged, smiling ruefully, hands outspread, palms up, he, Alba, had graciously been given permission to come in his place.

For a moment Catherine could not believe what she heard. Through her mind ran the fifteen long months of hard travel, the anticipation of meeting Philip, of laying before him the carefully worded schemes which had brought her. She swallowed and for a moment shut her eyes to steady herself. Then she opened them and smiled.

"The journey has been long, Your Grace, and we are very tired," she said. "Perhaps you will be so good as to show us —and our daughter—to the palace."

Catherine had been snubbed deliberately by the one man in all Christendom she most desired to please.

Chapter 8 MARGUERITE AND ANJOU

INFATUATIONS are dangerous whether they involve persons or merely ideas. They distort fact always, they color judgment and obscure all clear views of reason and truth. Catherine de Medici from the birth of her first child, Francis II, had become infatuated with the idea of a great matriarchy. Valois children under her guidance and their children's children should occupy the thrones of the known world. Her own romance, if her love for the somber Henry II could be called that, had been poisoned by the bitter knowledge that she was not first in his affections. So romance for her children played no part in her plans for them.

In spite of that, Francis had adored his pretty Scottish Mary and Elizabeth was deeply in love with her husband, Philip. Claude, during this period of Catherine's life, was of no importance to her since her husband's title was a minor

one. However, Charles, Henry, Marguerite, and young Hercules, Duke of Alengon, remained unmarried and until their marriages had been satisfactorily arranged the Queen Mother's interest in all other dynastic well-being was secondary.

So in Philip's snub she saw not so much a threat to her country by a mighty adversary as an impediment to her matrimonial projects. Elizabeth was reluctant to talk about it. She had, her mother reminded her sharply, become more Spanish than Spain. They argued; Elizabeth wept but refused to discuss matters which obviously her husband had warned her not to discuss. So Catherine had no choice but to take her proposals to Alba, an embarrassing move at best, for their dislike for each other was no secret. And Alba chose to be most discouraging.

"Madame," he said slowly, apparently weighing his words carefully, "what you propose would, methinks, find small favor in the eyes of the King. To begin with, Don Carlos is already betrothed to his cousin, the Princess Anne of Austria. As for your sons, His Majesty, King Charles and His Grace, the Duke of Anjou"—Alba brought the tips of the fingers of his right hand to meet those of his left—"much, very much must be made clear before such contracts could be considered." How much was to be made dear, as the smooth voice of Philip s first minister continued, Catherine soon learned. She might have known, she told herself bitterly, listening, that Philip would marry Don Carlos to a relative and so keep the marriage portions of both bride and groom within his grasp, not to mention the crowns of Bohemia, Hungary, and

the Duchy of Austria. But the dowager, thirty-eight-year-old Dona Juana, still seemed a highly desirable bride for thirteen-year-old Anjou. What then was the obstacle there?

"Simply this/' Alba told her. "Once and for all do away with the Huguenots of France; free your country and, I may add, the Court, completely from heresy; take off the heads of leaders like Conde and Coligny to show your good faith. Then, when this has been accomplished, make your proposals again and His Most Catholic Majesty may listen.

Otherwise—" He made a gesture describing the dusting of crumbs from a table.

Almost a month had been consumed in talks while the heat of summer in southern France wore tempers thin and the sudden electrical storms with wind and hail shredded the elaborate scenery and costumes for the spectacular tableaux Catherine had brought to entertain the Spanish Court, Now there was nothing to do but pack what remained of it and start the long wearing journey home. So Elizabeth and her mother bade each other a tearful, last good-by.

Across the centuries there have been many surmises regarding those long conferences between Catherine and Alba. Did she then and there promise to foment a movement which years later would result in the massacre of Saint Bartholomew's Eve? Did she promise the deaths of key men in the ranks of the Opposition? No one knows. Catherine was a product of her day. She has been called a monster by many historians and a cruelly maligned woman by others. One can only follow the most reputable sources and draw one's own conclusions.

Another year—two—three passed. In Spain a little daughter was born to Elizabeth in 1566 and named Dona Isabel Clara Eugenia, and the following year another daughter, Dona Catalina Francisca. Don Carlos, sinking slowly into complete imbecility, was imprisoned by his father in a dun-geonlike apartment of the palace in Madrid. Windows were nailed shut, this in spite of summer heat, and the sick man

begged for pans of cool water in which he would stand for hours on end, alternately singing Psalms, shouting obscenities, and piteously asking, when Elizabeth appeared at the grating in his door, to be released, to be allowed to breathe fresh air. The young Queen's sympathy for the madman was the only remaining bright thing in his life, and when he died in the late summer of 1568, it was with her name on his lips. He had always loved her and in his final delirium he saw her as a supernatural being sent to comfort him.

In France the religious war continued and the venerable Constable de Montmorency, dead on the battlefield, was replaced by Prince Henry, Duke of Anjou, seventeen, whom Catherine had instructed the King to create Lieutenant General and Commander in Chief. Charles, always conscious of the favoritism his mother showed Henry, wept and stormed at both of them, insisting that he should have led his troops. However, Catherine quickly put an end to the tirade, diplomatically pointing out that as King he must not expose himself to the dangers of war; his people needed him and he must take no chances. Also, she reminded him, a king could scarcely lead subject against subject, and this, after all, was a civil war. With this Charles tried to console himself, but it was not easy.

The Queen Mother was not well; she admitted it herself. Her enormous appetite was finally ruining her digestion, and gout and rheumatism were wearing her out. She had long sleepless nights during which she had time to assess her deepest motives and the decisions they evoked. One conclusion she reached was that she must stop vacillating about

her religion, must come out wholeheartedly for the Catholic faith in which she was born. Only first—and here was that persistent instability again which gave Catherine de Medici the reputation which Philip of Spain once called "her untrustworthy word''—she must see to the marriage of Marguerite and Henry of Navarre. Nothing must stand in the way of that even though Henry was the acknowledged titular head of the Huguenots! Time enough to worry about that unfortunate factor once the marriage had taken place.

In her great preoccupation with her children's marriages did this sixteenth-century matriarch give any thought to their characters? Did Charles's hysterical outbursts worry her or the fact that at eighteen he still frequently threw himself on the floor when angered, to beat his head, rolling and clawing like a wild animal? What did she think of Marguerite's shocking behavior? She was known to her children as a strict mother, but strict in what sense? Did their morals, honesty, generosity, kindness, and self-control (or lack of it) concern her? No one knows, though probably not, since her sole interest in them seems to have been centered on using them to maintain the supremacy of the house of Valois.

Among the children two were her favorites: Elizabeth and Henry, Duke of Anjou. The gentle, beautiful Elizabeth represented something far beyond Catherine's spiritual reach, something she did not quite understand. It was of Elizabeth she thought so much during those long nights when dyspepsia brought her sitting up among her pillows, gasping for breath, and her legs twitched in rheumatic spasms* "Elizabeth, my best beloved!" Sometimes she spoke the words

aloud, knowing as she did that they were not quite true. 'Well beloved" would have heen better, for in her heart she knew Anjou was and always would be the one living being she adored.

So, one morning late in October, 1568, after the Court had sent suitable condolences to Philip on the death of Don Carlos and the Council was preparing to convene in the great Council Chamber at the Louvre, there came an interruption. A page, ashen-faced and trembling, knelt beside the King s chair and tendered a message bearing the royal seal of Spain,

Charles ripped the seal and opened the letter, then his own face blanched. Without a word he passed the missive to his mother. Catherine stared at it as though unable to grasp what she read. Then, clutching the table with both hands, she got to her feet. The Council rose with a subdued clatter of accouterments.