Dark Eminence Catherine De Medici And Her Children (8 page)

Weary and distraught, they fell to quarreling. There were arguments over precedence in relatively unimportant matters, such as who should bear which side of the Queen's train; the footmen carrying the litter of the Countess de Uruena, appointed by Philip as camar era-may or, head lady-in-waiting, to Her Majesty, jostled the litter of two French princesses in procession and there were shrieks and accusations. So the tempests in the feminine royal teapots raged and, in spite of the overwhelming number of gentleman ushers, advisers, and other supernumeraries, it was the fifteen-year-old Queen who had the responsibility of settling all differences. She did it with consummate dignity and tact.

Throughout the long journey Elizabeth had found herself thinking increasingly about one person she was bound to meet sooner or later at that journey's end: Don Carlos. Her mother had warned her to see as little of him as possible. "This youth is evil/' Catherine had said with a characteristic nod to emphasize her words. "Not only is he mad, but he hates his father for having, as he puts it, stolen you, his rightful bride. Do not encourage him to enter your presence chamber. Beware of him as you would the pox." Now, with the Spanish border crossed, Elizabeth was wondering just how she was to accomplish this.

On the 4th of February, mounted on her palfrey, Elizabeth arrived at the palace of the Mendoza family in Guadalajara where Philip awaited her. She must have been beautiful to look at. The housings of her palfrey were cloth of silver embroidered in a design of the lilies of France. Her habit was black velvet over an under-dress of white satin with deep gauntlet cuffs of heavy cream lace which also edged the high collar. Her hair was brushed back and up and caught in a caul of gold net set with precious stones, and perched jauntily on her head was a black, beretlike, velvet cap with a white ostrich tip curling over its left brim. Her gloves were softest cream kid.

No one watching her as she dismounted at the portals of the castle could have suspected the dread in her heart, the terrible nervousness that made her bite her lips to steady them. Surrounded by princes of the Church in their rich vestments, seeing on all sides the grim, ascetic faces of men high in the ranks of the Inquisitors, she crossed the great

vestibule to where Philip s sister, Dona Juana, waited with

her ladies.

There were courtesies and brief formal speeches, then the ranks opened to admit the King. Just what had Elizabeth expected? For an instant she shut her eyes. She opened them to see a rather handsome man smiling down at her. His eyes were very blue, his hair and beard red-gold, and Philip, being a Hapsburg, had inherited the outthrust chin and full lower lip of the family.

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The young Queen sank in a profound curtsy, but before the obeisance could be completed, she felt herself gently raised by her elbows and pressed for a moment to the King's breast. What words of welcome he spoke no one knows, but fear drained slowly from Elizabeth's heart and when she answered him it was with rosy cheeks and smiling lips. The nightmare had passed.

According to Spanish law the marriage ceremony must be solemnized immediately and a beautiful temporary altar had

been set up in tLe great hall of the palace. There Cardinal Mendoza and Cardinal de Burgos read the service and celebrated the nuptial mass. A hidden choir of boys' voices sang the beautiful Te Deum Laudamus } a cloud of incense hung for an instant about her head, and so did Elizabeth of Valois become Her Most Catholic Majesty, the Queen of Spain.

Several hours later, rested and refreshed, and again in her bridal gown of cloth of gold, Elizabeth stood beside Philip, greeting their subjects. During a lull the King became conscious that Elizabeth had been staring at him for some time.

"What is it, dear Elizabeth?" he asked, smiling a little ruefully. "Did you expect to find me a graybeard?"

She could only smile, shutting in threatening tears of happiness as his fingers closed around hers.

Chapter 6 FACTIONS

WHILE the cortege of the young Queen of Spain wound its tortuous way across the mountains Catherine, her mother, faced many problems at home. The cause of the French Protestants, the Huguenots, was growing; more and more of the nobility and aristocracy were joining it and, as if in a hysterical hurst of retaliation, the Cardinal of Lorraine increased his horrible work of torture and slow death until even his own lieutenants sickened and begged him to stop. But apparently he could not.

Francis and his younger brothers, Charles, Henry, and Hercules and their sister Marguerite were forced to watch these frightful cruelties and one day, in order to keep from fainting, Francis deliberately focused his gaze upon his mother standing a few paces away. What he saw filled him with a new kind of awe. Far from showing any pity for the

slowly dying victims, Catherine was giving them her fullest, calmest attention. What Francis saw in her face was a look of concentrated wonder at their endurance, that was all. In businesslike fashion she was simply estimating the strength of the Huguenot cause. People who died so bravely, her expression implied, would make formidable enemies, and the fact remained that the greater the atrocities, the longer grew the list of Huguenot converts.

Somehow a rumor had started that the Huguenots were plotting to kill the King and the Cardinal of Lorraine, though such a plot was never proved to exist. It was, however, one more excuse for the continued executions.

Now the Duke of Guise and his brother, the Cardinal, feared only one rival force in France: the Bourbons. The Bourbons were princes of the blood royal, and Antoine of Bourbon, unstable King of Navarre, was not only very close to Catherine but an avowed Huguenot as well. He became the archenemy of the Guises and the Catholic party as did his younger brother, the Prince of Conde, and his cousin, Gaspard, Lord of Coligny and Admiral of France.

Desperately afraid of losing her influence with the young King to the Guises, Catherine turned to the Bourbons. They were an excellent counterirritant to keep the Guises wondering. To make their uncertainty the more poignant, she sent the King of Navarre as the family representative to Spain with Elizabeth and prevailed upon Conde to accept a mission abroad. Thus playing both ends to the middle, Catherine felt comparatively safe. So a year passed.

However, she had not counted on that omnipresent ele-

ment, the unexpected. And the form it took was a sudden turn for the worse in the King s health. For so many years the wasted body of Catherine's eldest son had been wracked with many ills. But it was his ear, sensitive from babyhood, which gave him the greatest discomfort. Now suddenly the inflammation increased, and as though his physical pain was not enough, he was given a task before which even a robust man of mature years would have flinched.

The King of Navarre had recently returned from his mission to Spain and the Guises knew that here, for all his chronic indecision, was someone to fear. Should the King die, so ran their logic, it was quite possible that Catherine, acting quickly, would appoint Navarre Regent for Charles, the younger brother who would succeed him. Thus far they had been successful in keeping a tight rein on the King and if his health should improve and they had no interference from Navarre, they might look forward to years of continued sway at the Court of France. Keeping Catherine docile by flattery through her son, Francis, they saw nothing but clear sailing ahead, provided Navarre was disposed of.

With patient cunning the Duke and die Cardinal set to work poisoning the mind of the young King. Sick, tired, and weak, he listened. Did he suspect, they prompted, that Navarre was an archtraitor to the Crown? Would he believe that this prince of the blood royal could be capable of such treason? Incredible but true, they whispered. To avenge such infamy, they continued, who but His Majesty himself should be the one to dispatch the offender?

They fawned upon the sick boy, surrounding him, flatter-

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ing him with windy praise for his courage, his sovereign might. And Francis's eyes glowed, his thin cheeks flushed crimson. "But what must I do, milords?" he quavered; and they knew they had won him over.

It would all be very simple, they assured him. He would summon Navarre to his presence chamber and confront him with the accusation. Doubtless the Bourbon prince would deny the charge, might even reach for his sword to defend his honor. Given that threat as an excuse, Francis would lunge at him with his dagger. There was nothing to fear. His "uncles" would be there to help him the moment he called. After all, it would look as though they were but defending their beloved King—as, indeed, they would be, they hastened to add.

Badly frightened, Francis, sworn to secrecy, nevertheless must have confided in his mother. It was unthinkable among the Valois children that "Her Grace, my mother' should not share their every thought. She in turn probably warned Navarre. He arrived at the presence chamber in high spirits and whenever Francis began his halting accusation he simply laughed good-naturedly, brushing it aside. Try as he would, the frightened boy could not rouse him to anger and presently the Bourbon prince smilingly bowed himself out. The plot had failed dismally and Francis faced the fury of the Guises.

A few days later he collapsed and was put to bed and surgeons did what they could to relieve his suffering. However, the growth behind his ear ruptured and on December 5, 1560 Francis, King of France, aged seventeen, died.

His young wife, who had loved Kim deeply, was inconsolable. She chose to wear white as her sign of mourning, and Catherine cringed to see the unabashed admiration in the eyes of every man at Court as Mary followed the coffin down the nave at Saint-Denis. How she disliked the girl! Now that she, Catherine, was restored to first place, she would make it her business to get rid of .her by some means.

Catherines grief for her son, the baby she had awaited with such joy seventeen years earlier, was not profound. He had been a weakling from birth and this she found hard to forgive. True, he had brought the crown of Scotland to ap-

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pease her for his other defections, but he still was not the prince of her highest hopes since the Scottish crown, after all, had come through the Guises. So now to concentrate on the next heir in line, Charles IX. Francis's kief life had been a defect in the threads of the tapestry of dynastic strength her ambition was weaving. Unmoved, she put him out of her mind,