Dark Eminence Catherine De Medici And Her Children (7 page)

As for the King himself, this frightened, sickly boy of sixteen with a perpetual earache could only lie weeping on his bed longing for someone, anyone to relieve him of the terrible responsibility so suddenly thrust upon him. He had had an unhappy childhood, too weak physically to indulge in the sports he loved so pathetically, unable to cope with lessons which left him and his tutors embarrassed and dismayed. Perhaps, he had thought, if some day I am King I shall do as I please, hunt and fence and forget the books and the dreary lessons they contain.

Now he was King and the full impact of his wretchedness made him retreat even further into the shell of incompetence in which he lived out his days. For one thing, his beloved old friend, Anne de Montmorency, had been dismissed. Francis had signed the order himself, not actually realizing the enormity of the act. The Guises, on the strength of his marriage to their niece, Mary Stuart, never failed to name themselves his "uncles." They were, they assured him repeatedly, his closest kin, his most reliable friends and counselors—of course, aside from Her Most Gracious Majesty, his mother. They were always careful to add that.

However, as Grand Master of the royal household, Montmorency held the keys to all castles in the domain, therefore

he also would have custody of the King should an emergency arise. This the Guises could not permit. The order of dismissal was written in simple terms—it might have been written by the King himself—and was put into his hands to read before the Council.

Not until he heard his own voice reading the bland order (which pretended to be an affectionate dismissal in consideration of the Constable's age and health) did Francis fully realize what he had done. Then it was too late.

Catherine found herself in a position calling for much tact. The Guises were definitely in command, put there by their own stealth and daring, and the King, willy-nilly, as their niece's husband, must side with them. So that it should not appear that in so doing he was siding against his mother, which would have been wholly illogical and therefore suspect, Catherine apparently joined them. What bitterness and hate were in her heart they may have guessed, but outwardly at least there was peace.

This astounding woman was accustomed to waiting a long time for vengeance which she felt was hers. With deep satisfaction she must have thought of the courtiers who had scorned her as "the Italian woman/' when she came to France as a bride twenty-six years earlier; now they paid homage to her as the mother of a king, a queen, and a duchess. Patiently she had waited through the years while Diane de Poitiers held first place in the affections of Henry. Now, quietly, knowing exactly what searing grief she was causing, Catherine appropriated the fabulous jewels and the magnificent chateau of Chenonceaux which Henry had

given Diane across the years of their association. Diane, an aging woman, was retired to a small estate in Normandy, stripped of everything which had made her one of the most glamorous women in history. This, too, Catherine found deeply satisfying.

She would wait for the Guises to overreach their limits in audacity, as she was sure they would eventually with the young King. She was an excellent waiter for the things she wanted. She would wait fifteen years to avenge the death of Henry II, her husband. For the moment she apparently was quite content to let young Captain Montgomery go free following Henry's courtly exoneration. The Captain became a soldier of fortune and was captured by the French Catholics when he led a Huguenot force in battle. Brought before Catherine, having been promised amnesty, he was beheaded at her command—and in her presence.

Elizabeth meanwhile was torn between grief over the death of the father whom she loved, and relief at the delay her brother's coronation was causing in her departure for Spain.

"Stay, please stay, little sister/' Francis coaxed the day before the coronation. "I do not want this crown they are giving me. Stay! Mayhap we can be children again. I like not the terrors at Amboise, nor do you. But my uncles, the Guises, say the country must be purged of all heresy—and I am afraid."

Afraid he might well have been, poor sick lad. The country was torn by religious civil war and, like all adventurers bent on making the best possible impression on the outside

world, the Guises were heading the most ultra-conservative, orthodox party of the Catholics against the Huguenots. In Amboise, a Huguenot stronghold, they were merciless as they tried to wipe out the Huguenot "heretics." Francis, still worn after the long solemn coronation rites at Rheims Cathedral, could only ask plaintively, "Sister, why do my subjects hate me so? What have I done that is wrong? I have obeyed my uncles in all things, which I know is right, but still something I do must be ill-chosen or I would not be so despised. What is it?"

The sick boy did not know that each death sentence was prefaced with the sovereign preamble: "In the name of His Christian Majesty, Francis . . ." and that thus he stood accused of perpetrating the very horrors from which he turned in loathing.

History has little to say about Mary Stuart's attitude toward the hideous carnival of death being celebrated at Amboise. She was a Guise with the practical outlook and iron nerves of her family, so she probably took it all calmly while trying to convince her husband that he was being very silly, indeed. As for Catherine, without any religious scruples, hoping that time would do what men's conflicting ambitions never could: bring peace, and that Catholic and Huguenot alike might each worship as he chose, Catherine did nothing. So much bloodshed she felt was in questionable taste.

Philip was growing impatient to have his bride at his side. He had returned from Holland, was now in Spain, and in August dispatched his closest friend, Ruy Gomez, Count of Melito, to Paris to notify Elizabeth of his return. By the Count he sent rare jewels that had been his mother's. With them came not one but a series of love letters which were a combination of stiff ceremonious discourses and ardent declarations of love to the beautiful girl whose portrait had captivated him.

Far from being reassured, Elizabeth found her terror growing. The gifts, the letters, all seemed to pre-establish his claim upon her, forerunner of the grim subjection she dreaded in the days to come. Adding to her panic were the

daily, almost hourly admonitions of the Spanish ambassador, Thomas Perrenot de Chantonnay, a shrewd, rather unpleasant individual who seemed to be everywhere, listening, interrupting, and quite obviously making notes of her every move. But at last the days of waiting ended. Francis was crowned, the Court returned to Amboise, and the date for Elizabeth's departure was set: November 17th. Antoine of Bourbon, King of Navarre, a distant relative, would accompany her as representing her family.

King Philip had insisted upon appointing or sanctioning the appointment of all members of Elizabeth's household. Then how is that historical fact reconciled with the other equally authentic one about the tremendous size of the retinue Catherine formed for the young Queen? Especially is this interesting as Philip's dislike of foreigners was well-known and the entire entourage was French. Catherine must have been very sure of herself. Did Elizabeth, dreading the displeasure of her royal husband, try to dissuade her mother from her course? Had she ever dared to try to dissuade her from any course?

Chantonnay, the ambassador, close to despair, tried to reason with Catherine, explaining that the amount of luggage such a vast company would require would delay if not completely disrupt the long trek over the mountains now smothered in snow. She shrugged aside his words.

There were two chief ladies-of-honor; seven ladies-in-waiting; four ladies of the bedchamber and a principal dresser. Three chaplains, a confessor, and the Queen's old preceptor, the Abbe de Saint-Etienne, were sent as her spir-

itual advisers, and Andre de Vermont was appointed her chief maitre d'hotel who in turn had his own trained kitchen staff. Two physicians, two apothecaries and a surgeon were included to look after Elizabeth's health; there were twelve valets de chambre, twelve gentleman ushers, a treasurer of the household, a treasurer of the privy purse, a band of musicians and a dwarf. Several of the ladies were princesses of the blood and these each had her own train of attendants, so the company which finally set out for Spain was gigantic, almost a moving town.

However, Philip with surprising generosity sent convoys of mules with enormous baskets as far as Bayonne to replace the elaborate, heavy chests for transporting the clothing of the Queen and her ladies across the mountains. He sent also additional litters and beds and furs, and a wealth of silver to be distributed at his Queen's discretion among the laborers and muleteers. Certainly His Majesty spared nothing to expedite his bride's journey, and had she been able to conquer her fear of this stranger, she must have sensed there was something kind in his nature to go to such pains for her comfort. All this in spite of the army of French retainers she was bringing against his express wishes.

But Elizabeth, heartsick over farewells yet constrained by etiquette from showing any signs of grief, sat in rigid misery as her litter moved slowly, ponderously across the miles separating her from all she loved.

Ever south and east the cortege moved as the December days shortened and the temperature dropped. Through Pau it wound, down to the frontier of Spain, and now the moun-

tains folded around it, the bleak Pyrenees with their forbidding pealcs and sudden drops into distant valleys.

Arrived at the frontier, Elizabeth asked that her palfrey be brought; so, mounted and riding in queenly dignity, she entered her husband's kingdom. The curtained litter with its snug furs and down cushions would have been vastly more comfortable, but now perhaps this reflective girl, coming out of her depression, was beginning to glimpse something of her husband's generosity. Perhaps for the first time she consciously made a major personal effort to win his admiration. Deep within her may have been the thought that her father would have approved.

That day the cold increased; the wind in gale force brought snow in stinging sheets beating about her or tumbling in great masses from high crags as she urged her horse forward. Again and again she reined in whenever a natural shelter appeared in the mountainside. At twilight, from a high plateau, her party was able through the white blur to make out the roofs of the monastery of Nuestra Senora de Roncevalles in the valley below. Not certain of their location, unaware that it actually was the monastery, fearful of the dangerous descent, the Queen's gentlemen urged her to dismount and return to the litter while they led her palfrey down to safety. But she refused their help, charmingly but definitely.

Slowly, painfully through the winter twilight, the cortege crept slowly down the precipitous slopes, lighted by flambeaux dancing along its length like so many fireflies. So at last they arrived at the chapel where the prior and the monks

were assembled to greet them. By sheer good fortune the cavalcade had arrived at the very spot where the ceremony of the presentation of the Queen to the King's ambassadors had been arranged. To the right of the assembled brothers stood a group of grandees all eager for a glimpse of the bride of their sovereign, all muffled to the eyes in dark cloaks.

Unconscious of the lovely picture she made, Elizabeth sat for a moment looking into the faces of the assembled company, thrown into bold relief by the light streaming from the open doorway. Her cheeks crimsoned by the storm, her eyes feverishly bright with fatigue, she brushed the snow from her lashes and leaning forward in the saddle, smiled her greeting. It was a smile so warm, so touchingly winsome that it drew a murmur from the somber groups facing her. Her head equerry stepped forward and lifted her from the saddle and as he did, he whispered something quickly which brought even deeper color flooding her cheeks. One of the heavily cloaked figures, he murmured, was none other than King Philip himself, too eager to wait longer for a glimpse of her.

The days spent at the monastery where the blizzard shut them in were a seriocomic drama of outraged protocol, sovereign punctilio, and the weather. The French courtiers and the Spanish grandees cordially disliked one another—and showed it. For the ceremony of presentation the Spanish contingent requested the French to bring the Queen to a designated spot in the open country nearby "since true sovereignty knows no limitation of walls builded by man/' The French retorted that their sovereign lady could not be ex-

pected to ride out nor could her ambassadors be expected to kneel in snow over three feet deep! But Elizabeth, determined now to leave no stone unturned to please the King, dressed for the weather only to undress again and have her robes of state put on as the Spanish ambassadors and an impressive group of the clergy were seen approaching, floundering half-frozen through the storm. For them there would be no "open country" ceremony, so the presentation was held indoors after all.

So many people wedged unexpectedly into quarters at best not spacious led to embarrassing complications. To add to the confusion, the ladies of the royal household who had endured the long journey and the bitter cold thus far without murmuring were now in tears because, through a misunderstanding, several chests containing their most sumptuous gowns had been sent on ahead in the impression that they contained household linen!