The Serpent and the Moon: Two Rivals for the Love of a Renaissance King (26 page)

To the surprise of the entire court, it was the shy young Prince Henri who stepped forward to defend Diane de Poitiers from this new calumny. Henri had grown tall, and his prowess at the martial arts was already well known. As Diane was his mentor and he her young knight, he saw her regularly, but generally kept a low profile. This new insult he heard circulating at court alarmed him, however, and he would not tolerate it. He repeated his pledge of devotion and protection of La Grande Sénéchale before the assembled court, and defied his father’s mistress to continue with her slanders against his “Lady.” The protection of the king’s younger son, no matter how disliked by his father, was a power to be reckoned with, and Diane’s enemies took note. Despite Henri’s clear adoration of Diane de Poitiers, it is hard to believe that her attachment to the fourteen-year-old prince could have contained any serious romantic ambition at this time.

T
HE growing threat of heresy within his kingdom was a problem for François I. Increasing the Church’s influence had been a goal of Pope Clement, but even after his death, the French king was intent on curbing the growth of heresy. Yet how could François, a committed Humanist, stamp out heresy without stifling the intellectual climate and movement he himself had pioneered? In France, the Humanists studied the classics, poetry, and philosophy as a prelude to the Christian doctrines. Humanism was not just an intellectual movement with a spiritual element aimed at reviving religion through a mystical approach to the Scriptures. If François was personally ambivalent or inconsistent in his attitude toward heresy, he knew that, as God’s anointed, the king should not tolerate heresy, and he repeatedly urged the appropriate authorities to stamp it out. Heretics were burned in public, their tongues cut out and hands cut off; the more fortunate were banished, their property confiscated.

Slowly, the zeal for religious reform permeated the French court,
with the dauphin and Anne d’Etampes siding with the new order, and Henri d’Orléans and Diane de Poitiers standing firmly behind the teachings of the Catholic Church. The king was uncertain which way to turn and his allegiance fluctuated. Ultimately, however, no one had more influence over him than his sister, Marguerite de Navarre, who begged François to remain tolerant toward the reformers. The king began to see the wisdom of this policy with regard to the Protestant princes of Germany. François needed the help of the emperor’s enemies there to keep Charles V occupied while he tried to recapture his lost territories in Italy.

Catherine de’ Medici had been brought up in Florence, the cradle of Humanism, in an atmosphere of tolerance for different faiths, which led the growing numbers of Protestants in France to pin some of their hopes on her. Catherine had observed firsthand the workings of papal diplomacy during her time with her cousin Clement VII, and had noted how flexible the Vatican could be. Uncertain how to proceed, she adopted the king’s attitude and his policy of tolerance.

Diane de Poitiers was of the opposite conviction and adamantly opposed to the reformers. She was determined to protect orthodoxy from the threat of heresy, and influenced Henri in this conviction. In 1534, Ignatius of Loyola had begun his Counter-Reformation movement by enrolling his first recruits into the Society of Jesus, better known as Jesuits, and Pope Paul III (Alessandro Farnese) looked to them to help reconquer territory lost to the Protestants.

Everyone talked of religion, and the end of 1534 was marked by the “affair of the placards.” While François was showing signs of forbearance and trying to heal the religious schism in Germany where many French Protestants had fled, a group of excessively zealous reformers printed broadsheets condemning the Catholic Mass as an “idolatrous rite.” They described the church’s hierarchy from the pope on down as “vermin, false prophets, damnable deceivers, apostates, wolves, false shepherds, seducers, liars and execrable blasphemers, murderers of souls, denouncers of Jesus Christ, of his death and passion, false witnesses, traitors, thieves, and robbers of the honor of God and more detestable than devils.” These broadsheets went on to suggest that members of the Church should burn themselves rather than
burn the reformers. Statues of saints were vandalized and rumors spread that these acts were intended to intimidate the king.

During the night of October 17–18, the first broadsheets were nailed on some walls and doors in Paris. Panic followed as wild rumors spread that the faithful would be massacred. The hysteria increased when it was discovered that these broadsheets had also been found in five provincial towns—Orléans, Blois, Tours, Rouen, and Amboise. The king was in residence at Amboise when a placard was even found attached to the door of his bedroom.

The bold, widespread appearance of placards implied that a plot existed against the authority of the king. The
Parlement
ordered the arrest of two hundred people and the king himself took part in a penitent procession. He publicly admonished the culprits but advised the authorities to be prudent. Nevertheless, on the same day, several pyres were built and prepared, and on November 7, 1534, seven of the accused were condemned. The pope urged mediation and elevated the moderate Archbishop Jean du Bellay to the cardinal’s hat. But under the guidance of Jean Calvin, the Protestants were unyielding.

The public executions began on November 13, and continued until the end of the year, when six heretics were burned at the stake on New Year’s Day 1535 in the presence of the royal family. Others had their tongues slashed down the center or their hands cut off. At the banquet in the bishop’s palace prior to the New Year executions, The Most Christian King made a speech urging everyone to fight heresy. Two hundred Parisians were banished that day and their property confiscated. More would have been punished but for the intervention of powerful patrons of learning, who prevented the closure of all the printing presses. Writers and publishers were henceforth subject to scrutiny. François quoted the emperor Maximilian to the Venetian ambassador: “The emperor is king of kings; the Catholic king is king of men; the king of France is king of beasts, because, whatever he commands, he is instantly obeyed, like men by beasts.” Despite his genuine Humanism, the king had committed himself to the repression of the foreign menace of the “New Religion.” To the satisfaction of Anne de Montmorency and Diane de Poitiers, the divorce between the Renaissance and the Reformation was complete. The king’s sister was of the
opposite persuasion and was denounced by the Sorbonne’s theological faculty for helping the heretics. A furious François blamed Montmorency for allowing such insolence against a member of his family.

Just three weeks later, more than seventy people suspected of heresy and, by implication, treason, were arrested. Among them was Clément Marot, whose insinuating verses had so offended the Grande Sénéchale. He managed to escape to Ferrara and the court of Princess Renée, sister of the late Queen Claude. It was believed that Marot had been helped by Marguerite de Navarre and the king’s mistress, Anne d’Etampes.

T
O escape from the horrors of the persecutions, in March 1535 the court, including Anne d’Etampes and Marguerite de Navarre, embarked on a grand tour through the kingdom. François proceeded to try to convince the Protestant princes of Germany that his persecutions in France were more against treason than religion. As Europe was beginning to divide in this great religious convulsion, the Turks under Suleiman the Magnificent had conquered the Balkan peninsula, controlled Egypt, and were terrorizing the Mediterranean with their powerful navy under Barbarossa, Bey of Algiers and Tunis and lieutenant of Suleiman. Mosques were replacing churches in Hungary. Slave traders were descending on Naples, Sicily, Sardinia, and Corsica, capturing entire families. The Christian world was outraged. Even François was so ashamed of his prospective ally that he was not averse to the emperor’s call for a crusade.

Charles V saw himself as the standard-bearer for Christianity against Protestantism and the infidels; the French king agreed with him on the religious issue, but the struggle between the house of Habsburg and the house of Valois continued to dominate Europe’s politics. If François I were to join forces with the emperor against the threat from the Turks, France would find herself dominated by her hated enemy Charles V. To the French king, the choice was clear. Within three years of Cambrai, all the treaties between the emperor Charles and François I collapsed. To the horror of Christianity, the
king of France allied himself to the infidel Sultan Suleiman. One wonders if François could have been unaware of the mortal danger such an alliance would present to Europe. Suleiman had already declared himself the “only, true Emperor of the West, the Caliph of Rome.”

It was a bold decision. Accompanied by his three sons, the dauphin, Henri d’Orléans, and Charles d’Angoulême, The Most Christian King was ready to ride to war as an ally of the Ottoman Turk against the Holy Roman Emperor. On the other hand, Diane de Poitiers and Montmorency were certain that the only way to move forward in Italy, and for Henri d’Orléans to receive his sovereign state, was to make peace with the emperor, not war. The pleas of Queen Eleonore were ignored. All three (Diane, Montmorency, and Eleonore) tried in vain to persuade the king to break his alliances with the Protestant German princes and with the Sultan Suleiman, against whom Charles V was mobilizing. War was again on the horizon.

_____________________

1
. A reference to the early merchant Medicis’ links with the spice trade.

2
. Diane did not give up her husband’s title or privileges until 1548.

3
. According to the memoirs of the king’s marshal, Blaise de Montluc, during the reign of François I women meddled far too much in the governing of France; he should have “shut the mouths of those who interfered as they were responsible for all the slanders.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Dauphin Is Dead–Long Live the Dauphin

I
n July 1536, Charles V decided to invade Provence. At the same time, he would attack France from the north and thereby divide François I’s forces. The king instructed Montmorency not to engage the emperor but to harass him continually and force him to waste time while drawing him deeper into France toward Aix-en-Provence and Marseilles. However, Montmorency soon realized that Aix could not garrison his own force of six thousand troops and that it would take him too long to reinforce the city’s defenses. Montmorency’s new plan was to follow the Roman policy of “scorched earth” and
not
engage the enemy. Aix was evacuated and what could not be taken away by the population was destroyed. Nothing was spared—lower Provence was laid waste. The peasantry were forced to burn their farms, their mills, their crops, their stores, and their wood; in view of the greater danger, few refused. They let loose their animals, poisoned their wells or blocked them with grain, and fled. Fruit trees and vines were spared because in August the fruit was not yet ripe and would cause dysentery. The French had fortified all the towns guarding the Rhône, and the king waited at Valence. Some months earlier,
he had ordered that the fortifications of Marseilles be reinforced; a French fleet sat in the harbor there; near Avignon, Montmorency’s superbly organized camp was on full alert. All waited for the emperor and his massive army.

Charles V advanced steadily, capturing Aix on August 13. Soon he became aware that his progress was blocked in two directions by the French army, and that in the south his supply wagons were being plundered. The ships that tried to supply him from the coast were attacked. All around, the countryside had been laid waste, and his soldiers began to succumb to dysentery and starvation. There was no water, and whenever the soldiers went foraging, they were set upon and killed by the peasants. By September 13, just one month after capturing Aix, Charles V had lost twenty thousand men. He withdrew, defeated.

The court had remained in Lyons throughout the summer while the king waited with his army at the junction of the Rhône and the Durance rivers. At the beginning of August, before leaving Lyons to join his father and brothers with the army on the Rhône, the dauphin decided to play a game of tennis in a meadow by Ainay. It was a stifling hot day and thundery, but still the young prince insisted on playing a bristling game, as always, to win at any price. The price was too high. Dripping wet from his exertion, he “bade a page of his chamber go and
bring him cold water in the little vase”
¹
brought from Spain and given to him by one of Queen Eleonore’s ladies. The little pitcher was small, made of earthenware “so subtle and fine that it has the virtue that whatever cold water you put into it you see it boil and make little bubbles as though it were on fire, nevertheless, it does not lose its coldness.…”

His Italian cupbearer, Count Sebastiano de Montecucculli, brought the dauphin an iced glass full of water from the pitcher, which he emptied. Shortly afterward, he felt unwell. Despite a burning fever, he managed to embark on a sailing trip down the valley of the Rhône toward his father’s camp. After three days, the prince’s condition had so deteriorated that he was brought ashore at Tournon. During the very early morning of August 10, 1536, eight days after falling ill, the dauphin of France fell into a coma and died. Overnight and without warning, Henri d’Orléans, the disliked second son of François I, had become the dauphin, and the Medici had one of their own as the future queen of France.

The king’s grief was terrible. He had held such high hopes for his eldest son, whom he described as “my son so full of promise.” François was proud that his heir, unlike Henri, had put the horror of his imprisonment in Spain behind him and had rejoiced in his freedom on his return. Everyone at court had a high opinion of him. The dauphin had the common touch, behaving with the same courtesy and kindness to princes and paupers, so that he was universally loved. The court plunged into deepest mourning for this remarkable and favorite prince. But the king knew he must think of the future of France and sent for his second son, Henri d’Orléans, to share his grief.

François advised Henri to try to imitate his brother’s virtues and surpass his promise so that the French would never regret having lost their first dauphin. In haste, Henri was installed as Duke of Brittany, his mother’s inheritance, which had passed to his elder brother. Then he was declared dauphin, the official heir to the throne.

With their return to France, the brothers’ relationship had become strained. The dauphin was clearly preferred by their father and he had
also sided with Anne d’Etampes against Diane. Nevertheless, Henri always deferred to his older brother, who would, after all, inherit the throne, and his sadness at losing François was profound. Henri had a soft and sentimental side to his character, and his older brother’s leadership and protection during those dreadful, formative years in Spain colored his feelings for the dauphin his whole life.

As the new dauphin, Henri’s duty lay with the army. With some relief, he left his grieving father and the court and joined Montmorency on the Rhône. Henri wrote to Jean d’Humières: “My cousin, the Grand Master has received me in this camp with all possible honor.” This was the beginning of a lifelong, devoted friendship between the gruff older soldier and the melancholic youth destined to be king. François sent his commander-in-chief Montmorency instructions to make the dauphin Henri his apprentice and teach him the art of warfare by surrounding him with his best captains. He urged the brusque Montmorency to be subtle with his son and to continue in the same vein he had begun so well with his older brother.

Once the king was certain that Charles V had left for Spain by sea, François I was free to avenge the loss of his beloved eldest son. The autopsy was performed by seven doctors and showed that the dauphin had died of natural causes—his lungs had never really recovered from the years spent in the dank prison in Spain. Still, someone had to pay for his death. The king returned to the court at Lyons, where the wretched Montecucculli was brought to him in chains. Sebastiano de Montecucculli was a young gentleman who had come to France in the suite of Catherine de’ Medici, had moved to the service of the princes, and had their complete confidence. Nevertheless, he was accused of poisoning the heir to the throne and of being in the pay of Charles V.

Montecucculli was totally devoted to the dauphin and surely innocent, but he had previously been employed by the emperor. A treatise on poisons, as well as an imperial safe-conduct, were found among his possessions, which was sufficient evidence to incriminate him. He was tortured horribly as the king’s men filled him with enough water to burst his stomach. Not surprisingly, he confessed to pouring arsenic into the dauphin’s water under instructions from the Emperor Charles V, and his patron Federigo Gonzaga, and the imperial general who had taken
François prisoner at Pavia—and anyone else he could think of. He confessed that they were all working together and planned to kill one after another of the king’s heirs and then the king himself. Although the wretched man later recanted, he was found guilty and condemned to death. At the Place de la Grenette in Lyons, Montecucculli was sentenced to be torn apart by four horses and “the four parts of his body to be hung at the four gates of the town of Lyons and his head put on the end of a lance.” Before this sentence could be carried out, the people fell upon his corpse and tore away small pieces of flesh. They cut off his nose, tore out his eyes, smashed his teeth with stones, and children tore at his beard until not a hair remained. By the end the body was so disfigured as to be unrecognizable.

Not satisfied with the death of Montecucculli, the French accused the emperor and the Duke of Milan of murder, which they vigorously denied. The imperialists retaliated against the French by printing a pamphlet saying that the only ones to gain from the death of the dauphin were his brother Henri and Catherine de’ Medici, and they must be guilty. The king paid no attention to this slander.

During the time of his military apprenticeship, the shy, silent new
dauphin and the tough and taciturn Montmorency cemented their friendship. As a renowned champion of both church and monarch, Anne was the confirmed enemy of non-conformists, and would not tolerate any signs of disobedience to the pope or the sovereign. (Strangely enough, the emperor fulfilled Montmorency’s ideal more than did François I.) Montmorency’s influence on Henri was profound. The young prince kept no secrets from him, any more than he did from Diane.

Henri always deferred to Montmorency and gave him filial obedience. There is only one recorded occasion when the dauphin asserted his authority over his mentor. There was a young man at the camp from Provence called Brusquet, who said he was a doctor and convinced a number of soldiers of this fact with his smooth tongue and fluent patter. Unfortunately, the medicines Brusquet prescribed killed his patients when their illnesses would not have done, so Montmorency ordered his arrest and planned to hang him. Henri was greatly entertained by Brusquet during the trial, and, realizing he was just a foolish quack, ordered Brusquet’s release and attached him to his household as a jester.

With his physical prowess, the seventeen-year-old dauphin loved the life of campaigning and felt much more comfortable living with soldiers than within the court. Henri was certainly not comfortable living with his wife. He and Catherine were awkward and self-conscious with one another, and married life had little appeal for either. This was an age when fourteen-year-olds married and produced children, but in the case of these two there did not seem to be any signs of that happening.

To make matters more complicated, the court doctors observed that Henri was born with hypospadias, which was thought to be affecting Catherine’s chances of conceiving.
²
Other sources claimed she had not reached puberty. It is unlikely that Henri’s condition had escaped observation in the nursery. The most famous surgeon of the seventeenth
century, Pierre Dionis, alleged that the contemporary French physician and astronomer Jean-François Fernel had noted Henri’s malformation and recommended acrobatic positions to aid conception. In this climate of marital uncertainty, Henri was more than happy to return to Montmorency and the army.

I
T was hard for the king to mourn in public. Distraction was the only cure for François I’s unhappiness over the loss of his eldest son, and he found it in the young king of Scotland, James V. François hoped James would ask for permission to marry his pretty daughter Madeleine, and so he let James into a little secret, the famous
Grotte des Pins
(Grotto of Pines) at Fontainebleau. The grotto was a favorite bathing spot for some of the ladies of the court; being alone, they would wear very little. Brantôme tells us that François knew about this grotto and had tiny holes pierced in the walls so he could spy on the unsuspecting ladies. Hoping that James would ask for Madeleine’s hand, he took him to the grotto and allowed him to witness her charms. James was instantly smitten. On New Year’s Day 1537, he married François’ daughter in the Cathedral of Nôtre-Dame.