Dark Eminence Catherine De Medici And Her Children (12 page)

"My lords, Gentlemen of the Council," she said in a voice that was firm, though her eyes seemed to be staring unseeing at the sea of faces before her, "our daughter, Elizabeth of Valois, Her most Catholic Majesty, Queen of Spain, died in childbed on October third. She died in the Catholic faith, shriven, and imploring the intercessions of the Blessed Virgin and of her guardian angel. Pray for the repose of her soul." Leaning on the arm of the King, Catherine quitted the Chamber. The Council adjourned.

No grief however profound was able to swerve the Queen Mother for long from her inflexible course. Inconsistent, shameless in her vaulting ambition, she forfeited all pretense

of good taste. She wrote PKilip a tearful letter in which she wailed, "My grief is so great that without the help of God I do not think it would he possible for me to carry the sorrow and weariness which I feel/' In less than a month, however, she was urging him, through her ambassadors, to marry Marguerite. This in the face of grave suspicions that Philip, in a jealous rage over her kindness to Don Carlos, had had Elizabeth poisoned.

That there was no truth in the ugly rumors, that they were clumsy fabrications of Huguenots in the Netherlands where Philip was especially hated was proved later. But Catherine did not wait for proof. She must strengthen her position in Spain. Elizabeth was gone, Dona Juana did not want Anjou, nor the Hapsburg princess the King. Philip was a widower, and here providentially was merry, dimpled Marguerite. Perfect!

Her excitement over her new project did much to heal her grief, and over and over again she congratulated herself for not having pressed the match between Henry of Navarre and Marguerite too enthusiastically. Now she would have a second daughter Queen of Spain! With Marguerite acting as stepmother to the little Infantas and urging them to do their grandmother s bidding, what was to prevent a betrothal between one of them and young Hercules? After all, he was now thirteen. Why not?

In an upsurge of optimism Catherine sent off a huge box of toys to the little girls—let them leam what a generous grandmamma they had! There were dolls of carved wood with painted rosy cheeks and hair of silk floss, dressed in

finest brocade and wearing tiny velvet slippers. There were nests of little painted boxes fitting one inside the other, and gold-rimmed mugs of holly wood to ward off whooping cough. And at the last moment the messenger was handed a basket containing two puppies to amuse their small Highnesses! Oh, Catherine was in high spirits.

Her chagrin must have been devastating when word reached her a few months later that Philip had married his niece, Anne of Austria! So even with Don Carlos gone/her Charles was not to have the elder Hapsburg princess after all —nor Marguerite the Spanish Icing. Catherine may have wondered whether, looking back over the failures, the great disappointments and griefs that had defaced the last few years, possibly her luck was beginning to run thin.

Charles was growing older and more assertive. He and his mother disagreed violently over and over again, their arguments usually ending with the King thrashing on the floor and his mother in tears . . . and Catherine seldom wept. Again, and more or less on his own, he had married little Elizabeth of Austria, Philips new sister-in-law, a princess without importance in the dynastic scheme.

And Charles had gone even further. An undisciplined, hysterical young man, uncertain of his own convictions, and brooding darkly over his doubts, he had from childhood loved that great warrior, the Admiral, Gaspard de CMtillon, Lord of Coligny—and Coligny and Jeanne of Navarre were the two remaining heads of the Huguenot movement. The sect itself had grown, had mushroomed all over France, Flanders, the Netherlands, but most of its strongest leaders had been

either killed in battle, ambushed on tteir own estates or poisoned at presumably friendly dinner tables.

Charles's devotion to Coligny was the hero worship of an impressionable boy for a great soldier who found time to listen to his boyish dreams of glory outranking his brother Henry on the battlefield. More than that, Charles sensed that here was a man of excellent judgment in diplomatic matters, essentially a man of good will who, given the support of the Crown, was capable of bringing France out of her perilous gales of religious wars into the safe harbor of arbitration where all men might worship according to the dictates of their conscience. This made sense to the lad who never had known the security of peacetime existence; it brought refreshment, a breath of clean air. Secretly Charles called his hero Father.

Catherine was beside herself with rage and jealousy. Her son, the King, going over to the enemy! Henry of Anjou was giving a good account of himself on the battlefield, leading his Catholic forces along the Loire; the Huguenots under Coligny pillaged and destroyed in nearby Perigord. Both sides, it seemed, tried to outdo each other in barbaric outrages, but finally Catherine directed Charles to send messengers to the Huguenot stronghold at La Rochelle to open peace negotiations, and a trace was signed at Saint-Germain. Hostilities stopped, at least for the time being, and at the young King s invitation Coligny came to Court.

There were good men, men of valor and the highest ideals, on both sides of the conflict, but among them all the name of Coligny rose like a clear white light, for here was a man

without ulterior motives, a man of singular nobility. His retainers implored him not to go to Blois where the Court was in residence, warning him that treachery and death awaited him there. The warning was unnecessary for Coligny was fully aware of his danger. But he loved his country and his young King, and deep within him was the conviction that with his help, Charles could reconstruct his whole national policy, strengthen his nation and his throne.

Coligny was accorded the spectacular welcome always given a great national figure; his position as Charles's councilor was accepted by the Court and his safety against assassination was guaranteed. Never in his twenty-one years had Charles been so happy or felt such confidence in himself. For once he was discussing national affairs with a man instead of with his mother; at last he was expressing views that were his own, certain of an interested listener. And between Charles and Catherine the rift, barely perceptible at first, was beginning to widen.

The Queen Mother was in a highly nervous state, close to panic. If Charles continued shutting her out of his councils, if he persisted in listening to Coligny regarding his foreign policy, she might as well—the thought struck her and she would use it against him—return to her native Italy. Let him try to manage without her! Wait until she faced him with the possibility!

But always there remained Marguerite to think about. Marguerite at nineteen was still a spinster, a thoroughly unmanageable spinster who loved to shock the Court by appearing half naked at one Court function and like a shy postulant

at the next; who openly flirted with every male human being who passed by; who lied in unabashed glee when it suited her and wept enchantingly to get her way.

Henry of Navarre, after all, seemed the only reasonable candidate for the unenviable role of bridegroom. Navarre was an excellent little buffer state between France and Spain and though Henry was the titular head of the Huguenots, Catherine felt certain he was enough like his vacillating father, Antoine, to turn Catholic when she pointed out to him the advantages of such a move.

Wretched child, that Marguerite—so ran the Queen Mother's thoughts—with the morals of a tree sparrow and the will of Satan, she probably will defy me when it comes to Navarre. However, when next Anjou is home on leave 111 have him suggest the match to her, tell her he wishes it. That will do what months of lectures from her own mother could not accomplish! Queen of Navarre, a good title for the minx, and between us Anjou and I will see that she keeps the crown firmly on her silly head!

Catherine's rosy dreams had a mysterious way of evaporating and here again she was defeated most unexpectedly. Henry of Anjou, on his brief leave, went first to pay his respects to his brother, the King. Charles was smarting under the praise he heard on all sides for the soldiers of the Crown under the command of his brother Henry, and his greeting to the returned warrior was extremely cool, so cool in fact that Anjou did not tarry long in the royal presence. Instead, he sought out his beloved sister, Marguerite.

She had not expected him and when she looked up from

Dark Eminence

her lute and saw Kim standing in the doorway of her chamber her whole being was flooded with a joy she had not known since his departure for the front months earlier. She flung the lute aside and sped across the room to throw herself into his

arms.

"Henry, you are back! Oh, this is too good to be true! Come, sit here beside me and tell me how you are!"

Anjou let himself be drawn across to the deep window seat Marguerite had quitted, thinking how exquisitely lovely she was, this strange sister of his, how very dear to him, When he was King—as he knew he would be some day-he must plan something very special for her, give her a castle where she could live and laugh and dance her merry life away if she so chose without hindrance or criticism. And the thought of his kingship brought another less pleasant consideration.

Charles's chilly reception had been disquieting in that day of sudden extinction. With his arm still around Marguerite, her head on his shoulder, he spoke quietly against her hair.

"Margot, yetite" he said, "we are the closest, the Lest friends, aren't we?"

Startled, she looked up, drew away, nodding. "But yes, of course. Why do you ask? Why do you look so serious?"

For a moment he twisted the chain of her pomander, lifted the jeweled hall to sniff its perfume, then, "Because I have just come from His Majesty, our brother, and . . ."

"Charles? Oh"—Marguerite giggled and patted his cheek —"don't worry about Charles. What did he do? What did he say? You know that one is always in a mood when dispatches come in praising you, and many have been coming lately. Her Grace, our mother, does nothing but sing your praises

and that infuriates Charles. Tell me, what did he say to make you look so like a chief mourner wearing hood and liripipe?"

"Not very much"—Anjou twisted about to face his sister— "but the unmasked hatred I saw in his face gave me pause. He could so easily decide to relieve me of my command and our mother might not be able to stop him before the deed was done. That is why I have come to you."

"But what could I do, cherie? I of all people whom Charles dislikes almost as much as Her Grace does. . . ."

Anjou took her hands in his, tilted up her chin until she was looking into his eyes. "You can do this, little sister, you who are my other self: you can watch and listen when I am away and you can let me know the instant you feel my command, in fact my interests at Court, are in danger. Will you swear to do that? Will you, unafraid if necessary, face our mother, speak out for me until I return?"

And Marguerite, overcome with emotion at the realization of the trust that was being put in her, buried her face in her brother's shoulder and sobbed her vow of loyalty and devotion.

But Anjou was Catherine's most obedient child. Having confided his uneasiness to Marguerite, he probably felt he had shown a certain disloyalty to his mother, so he immediately told her what he had done. Catherine, far from being enraged or even annoyed, saw in the shared confidence a pleasant way for bringing Marguerite and her brother into closer harmony over the Navarre marriage. She told her that Anjou had "confessed" having confided in her, Marguerite, instead of in his mother first and suggested that they three

sit down cozily and discuss the Navarre pact. And Marguerite of the fiery temper, the idolatrous love for her Brother, Marguerite felt she had been betrayed by Anjou and from that hour despised him as a being unworthy of her slightest consideration,

"Traitor!" she screamed at him when he would have reasoned with her. "Get out of my sight and a pox on you all the days of your life!"

So Catherine must do her own diplomatic planning if she wanted Henry of Navarre for Marguerite. Henry of Anjou could be of no help.

Chapter 9 SAINT BARTHOLOMEW'S DAY

JEANNE D'ALBRET, Queen of Navarre, was in a grave quandary. Physically she was a frail little woman and through the years the strains of her religious leadership and the boorish behavior of her son Henry, the young King, had worn her strength to a fine transparency of numbing despair.

The small part of Navarre which she still held against the incursions of Spain was all that remained of the rich kingdom left her by her father. It was the Huguenot stronghold. Philip of Spain was a formidable Catholic enemy to the south; France, with Catherine temporizing (though the Court was Catholic) and eager for the marriage of Marguerite and Henry, was an excellent friend and neighbor to cultivate. But—here the tired little woman drew back—what of the Protestant faith for which she had suffered so much?

How could she sanction a marriage, however great its material advantages, if through it she sacrificed her son's spiritual welfare and herself deviated from the straight path of her own convictions?

Still, she rationalized, Catherine's ministers had promised Henry would be free to worship as he chose, and was it not entirely possible that Marguerite might be won over to the Huguenot cause? Understandably eager for an alliance with powerful France, willing to discuss the details of the marriage contract, Jeanne let herself be persuaded to make the journey to France. Catherine's invitation had been most cordial.

Arrived at Blois, however, where the Court was in residence, she was greeted by the Queen Mother with thinly disguised unfriendliness while she in turn held her head high and merely returned Catherine's icy kiss on the brow with one equally frigid. Then the two royal mothers sat down to discuss the marriage of their children.

Catherine, on her part, promised the marriage ceremony should be so worded as not to give offense to the bridegroom and his followers. Jeanne, flinching at the thought of the dispensation from Rome required to make the marriage legal, promised that Marguerite should be allowed freedom to worship as she chose after the marriage. That seemed to cover the salient points and the contracts were signed for the marriage which French historians frequently have called Les Noces Vermeilles, The Scarlet Nuptials.

Catherine could have laughed aloud with satisfaction. With Marguerite safely married, the way would be open for

her to deal with Coligny as she chose. She would somehow rid herself of the mighty Huguenot and Charles would be hers again and the direction of the House of Valois safely in her hands. But the marriage must come first; any untoward move against the Bourbon House before that and Marguerite never would be Queen of Navarre.

One thing alone bothered her. Why had Jeanne come to France alone"? Why hadn't she brought the prospective bridegroom with her? Was there just the faintest chance that when he arrived a week hence, having had time to think over the prospects, he might defy his mother, refuse to go through with the marriage? And if this were the case, wouldn't he be very apt to win over his mother who in a frenzy of religious penitence might destroy the contract? The more Catherine thought of it the more uneasy she became.

"Why/* she suggested to her guest a few days later—it was late in May—"do you not come to Paris with me? Until after the wedding I shall be at the Louvre. Together we can see how plans there are progressing, and besides, I have shopping to do. Perhaps you have, too?"

The Queen of Navarre was delighted. Blois was damp and her cough seemed aggravated by its draughty corridors. So, established with her household, she looked forward to the "shopping" tour Catherine had organized. Stark and unadorned though her costumes might be, consistent with her religious beliefs, yet her natural feminine delight in seeing and handling beautiful fabrics and gems overcame some of her austerity and she gave herself over to a day of simple diversion.

Merchants on command arrived with their wares which they spread on tables in one of the great halls and here the two royal shoppers gazed their fill, comparing, even bargaining, making choices. Behind them their ladies, twittering like sparrows, admired and exclaimed as they reached for the purchases.

Not far from the Louvre was the shop of one Monsieur Rene, a shrewd Milanese with an adopted French name who dealt in exquisite bibelots, perfumes, pomanders and sachets. It was hinted by Catherine's enemies that he was also her toxicologist. From among the treasures he exhibited she now carefully selected a pair of gloves, intricately embroidered and impregnated with a subtle perfume.

She handed them to Jeanne with a friendly, laughing comment, and Jeanne, beginning to think that perhaps she had badly misjudged her hostess, accepted them in the same gay spirit, sniffing deeply of the lovely perfume. A few days later she was dead.

At no time during her reign had Catherine been less popular with her subjects. The French Huguenots distrusted her for her determination to bring Henry of Navarre into the Catholic camp of the Valois; the Catholics saw in the marriage (of her making) a gesture of conciliation to the Huguenots. The murderer of the Catholic Duke of Guise was generally believed to be Coligny, yet here was Coligny at Court, the young King's Councilor-in-Chief. Now Jeanne of Navarre lay dead at the Louvre, her signature still damp on the marriage contract of her Huguenot son and the Catholic Marguerite of Valois. The web of contradictions grew more

and more intricate. What could one think? Whom could one believe?

The Medicis for generations had been noted for their use of poison as a recognized weapon in hoth private and political feuds. They poisoned their enemies; they poisoned one another. The great Cosimo de Medici, head of the senior branch of the family, had in his Florentine palace a laboratory which he alone ever entered and where it was said he distilled some of the deadliest poisons of the fourteenth century, Catherine often had spoken of this remote ancestor s art and never denied bringing it to France herself. Her

enemies, and they were legion, blamed her use of poison for many unexplained deaths during her reign. As to whether Jeanne of Navarre actually died as the result of repeated inhalations of the poisoned perfume on the gloves never has been definitely proved. Certainly it would have been one way for Catherine to rid herself of one of the two remaining heads of the Huguenot cause. Time for Coligny later.

However, an autopsy showed that Jeanne had died of consumption. Coligny himself, coming to Catherine's defense, agreed this was true. But four hundred years later the stigma remains. Catherine de Medici's reputation for achieving any goal of her desire regardless of cost sheathes her name like a noxious cloud.

Paris was crowded with Huguenots who had come from all parts of France for the wedding which now must be postponed a month to allow for a suitable season of Court mourning. As the early summer days drew on and July heat settled over Paris the mood of the masses grew ugly. Catherine meanwhile faced a new problem. The Pope was refusing to give the dispensation necessary to make the Valois-Navarre marriage legal; and the Cardinal of Bourbon, the bridegroom's uncle who had been chosen to perform the ceremony, could not be persuaded to do it without the necessary dispensation. What to do?

The situation called for quick thinking and even quicker acting, for August 18 (1572) had been chosen as the wedding day and the first week in August was drawing to a close. The Cardinal was a placid, unsuspecting, unimaginative man, so when Catherine read him a letter purporting to

be from the French ambassador at Rome, he believed it and rejoiced. The letter stated that the dispensation had been granted and would be forwarded at once. Meanwhile the marriage ceremony could proceed.

To make doubly sure that no word from Rome should reach Paris before the wedding, Catherine ordered the governor of Lyon to see that no courier from Rome be permitted to pass until after the wedding, that all post stations along the route be watched for any couriers attempting to slip through, and that her order be kept secret under penalty of royal reprisal.

The ruse prevailed and on Monday, the 18th of August, on a high scaffold before the main portal of Notre Dame Cathedral the wedding over which such effort had been spent took place. Parisians impoverished by the long civil wars groaned at the sight of so much magnificence. The scaffold itself and the high wooden gallery leading to it from the episcopal palace were hung with cloth of gold. Along this gallery walked the wedding party: King Charles and his brothers, Anjou and Alengon, and the King of Navarre and his cousin, the young Prince of Conde, wearing as a sign of lasting friendship identical suits of yellow satin embroidered with pearls.

King Charles led his sister, the bride, followed by Catherine and little Claude, the Duchess of Lorraine, who for all her fragility looked happy and wholly contented in her own right. Marguerite, holding her beautiful head high under the weight of its heavy tiara of diamonds, pearls and rubies, was wearing a robe of violet velvet under a mantle of palest blue.

(How cleverly they combined exquisite color in that long-ago day!) It has been written that Catherine, watching Anjou's look of admiration as he watched his sister in her bridal finery, turned pale with jealous anger. Soon, soon, she comforted herself, Marguerite would be in Navarre! Then any admiration her favorite son might feel would be for her alone, his mother!

The marriage vows were exchanged and then, while Henry of Navarre and his suite retired, Marguerite entered the great Cathedral alone to hear Mass at the high altar. Surely this had all the earmarks of a mixed marriage successfully solemnized. It was followed by four days of such exotic revels, of balls and tourneys and masques, as Paris never before had seen.

As for the bride and groom? Marguerite, inconsistently delighting to romp and fraternize with any underlings who happened to please her, shrank from the lad with the broad Gascon drawl and the oafish manners. And Henry, self-conscious before the cool, self-contained princess who was hj. bride, found himself at a great disadvantage and longed to be back in his native mountain fastness. A wholesome love t| garlic, he thought bitterly, and a habit of scratching his bead when nervous, should not make a man distasteful to his bride. However, these two oddly assorted young people seemed to see in each other the basic faults and virtues that made them what they were and to accept them as inevitable, and so outwardly, for the time being at least, pardonable. Marguerite was Queen of Navarre. Her mother drew a deep breath of relief.

Through the centuries Catherine de Medici has been held by many historians guilty of the frightful carnage which followed closely on the heels of Marguerite's wedding festivities. So much, based on her own pronouncements, her own actions, pointed to her guilt. So much, on the other hand, never has been proved.

For years she had been wanting to rid herself and France of the Admiral, Coligny, He jeopardized, if, indeed, he had not already taken the place she held in the affections of her son, the King. This alone roused her to a fury. Again, he was succeeding quietly in negotiations with England which she had begun halfheartedly, then had abandoned when she found such negotiations irritated Philip of Spain whom she feared. And finally, he was still the great motivating spirit behind the Huguenots . . . the only strong leader they had.

It was an open secret at Court that Coligny's life was in daily jeopardy though Charles had sworn to protect him. But how protect when the most potent available weapons were often invisible? As one of Coligny's loyal retainers warned him, "Prithee, milord, parry the thrusts and bullets but watch, ah, watch the broth!"