Fortunately the smallpox left her with only one small blemish on the side of her nose and no one rejoiced more sincerely that she was not disfigured than Don Carlos.
This unhappy youth, smarting still under what he felt was his father's betrayal in marrying Elizabeth whom he had be-
lieved to be his betrothed, fell deeply in love with his young stepmother. Elizabeth, fully aware of the ugly breach between the father and son, simply destroyed the passionate notes Don Carlos wrote her and avoided him as much as possible. But it was not always possible, and again and again only her gentleness and her calm, quiet appeal to his better nature saved her from the madman's advances.
Now to add to her difficulty with Don Carlos, her mother was writing peremptory, trenchant letters insisting that Elizabeth take up with Philip the matter of Don Carlos's marriage with her sister Marguerite. Catherine had put aside all thought of the Navarre marriage from the moment the Haps-burg one occurred to her, and now she wanted the matter settled—at once. "Therefore, my daughter/' she wrote, "do you approach your liege lord, Philip, my son, and put before him this most agreeable matter with all expediency."
Elizabeth opened each of these letters with increasing dread and a growing sense of shock. This was the mother who had warned her about Don Carlos before she came to Spain, the mother in whom she had confided her aversion to and pity for him. How could she possibly consider him a suitable husband for her sister? Perhaps Elizabeth forgot the plans for her own marriage which had included no considerations of the bridegroom's character but only his dynastic prestige among the monarchs of the world. And though she was accustomed to the many lamentable vagaries of royalty, to see her little sister married to the lunatic Don Carlos was unthinkable. In many ways Elizabeth was ahead of her day.
Her answers to her mother s letters were, if not evasive, at
least temporizing: His Majesty was away; His Majesty was not well—a touch of fever; affairs of state made it impossible for her to have a satisfactory talk with him. So ran the Spanish Queen's letters while she tried to summon courage to approach her hushand on the subject she found too distasteful to put into words.
But Catherine was not to be put off. Since she had formally declared Charles of age, her next move must be something to dramatize the fact. A Royal Progress across France would do just that. It would do more, for its terminus would
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be Bayonne, that jewel-like little city on the Spanish border, and here she would invite Philip and Elizabeth to be her guests for a month of feasting, jousts, and masques. Here she could put her plan before Philip, could impress him with her sure knowledge of the fine interdependence between France and Spain, make him her lasting friend. Yes, the Progress had been an inspiration.
When Catherine undertook anything it was not by half measures, so this masterpiece of pageantry was a dazzling extravaganza which even the Progresses of England's Elizabeth could not equal The cavalcade set out from Saint-Germain in the early spring of 1564. Gentlemen of the Household, grooms, pages, archers, carvers, butlers, falconers, councilors and huntsmen came first, followed by the households of the various members of the royal party. Slowly, banners rippling in the spring breeze, drums and fifes beating out the measure of their tread, the glittering company filed through the stone archway of the palace court,
Charles, the inspiration of it all, knew only that he would be passing through good stag- and boar-hunting country and prayed he would be permitted to try his new spear. His brother Henry and his sister Marguerite had their own thoughts, Henry had not wanted particularly to come. He was just thirteen and something of a poet and took an un-boyish interest in keeping his hands and nails well groomed. Henry would much rather have stayed at home, petting his lap dogs and strumming the new Spanish bandora his mother recently had given him.
As for twelve-year-old Marguerite, between her and her
brother Henry there existed a bond of eerie unity which seemed to stem from unremembered time and isolated them in a strange small world of their own. They enjoyed the same things, reacted identically to all circumstances. Dancing was one of their major delights and it was said that when they entered a tallroom other dancers withdrew to watch their absorbed enjoyment in the graceful passages of the dignified pavane and the romping gaillard. At these times they seemed completely oblivious of everything about them, lost in their concentration on the dance and thek joy in each other. That Catherine should be aware of this strong attachment between the brother and sister was inevitable and with characteristic venom she made her knowledge known to Marguerite, But Marguerite only laughed and shrugged off the fishwifely tirades her mother directed at her in her jealousy—for Catherine would not share Henry's affection with anyone. Nor would anyone ever curb her youngest daughter as she romped through life until at last she died, a dissolute, mountainous woman of sixty-one whose family had cast her off.
The Progress held endless possibilities for Marguerite. Sometimes for a brief mile or so she rode one of the beautiful hackneys her mother imported from Italy, cantering along the line of the procession, ribbons and veilings fluttering out behind her. Again she rode back to the end of the cavalcade where the heavy carts carrying every imaginable sort of equipment lumbered along through the clouds of dust. She found the carters delighted to accept her challenge to banter and fraternize until a gentleman of her household, arriving with orders from the Queen Mother, put an end to the gay inter-
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lude. Sometimes Marguerite retired to her litter and sang popular songs of the day, accompanying herself on the lute, and not unmindful of the effect of her really fine voice floating back over the mile-long column winding across the hills.
As for Catherine, the genius behind this vast pageant on wheels, she was enjoying herself enormously in spite of the rigors of the journey. She was forty-five years old now and had grown very stout. Saddle horses she rode, and she rode hard and often, were worn out within months and had to be replaced. Though the Progress was virtually a traveling city with its own shops and boutiques where replacements might be made, laces and velvets mended and saddles oiled and polished, one commodity was not to be found among the tons of effects brought for the comfort or entertainment of the company: food. All along the way farmers and small tradesmen saw their stocks swept away by the passing throng, the labor of months lost, yet were helpless to protest. Even so, food on the journey was frequently scant and of inferior quality. Yet Catherine, for all her voracious appetite, never complained and made sure that all had their share.
They traveled east to Bar-le-duc a hundred miles away where Charles acted as godfather to Claude s first baby, a little boy, the future Duke of Lorraine, and Catherine marveled at the miraculous change a happy marriage and motherhood had made in her ugly-duckling daughter. Claude's thin cheeks had filled out, there was laughter on her lips and her eyes, no longer sunken in deep shadows, sparkled with health and happiness.
From Bar-le-duc the company moved east to Troy then
south to Bourg and Lyon. The days grew longer, wanner, then intensely hot. Many of the foot soldiers collapsed in their heavy armor, several died and were buried beside the road. Occasionally when they reached an important town there was a general detraining and a halt of several days while the royal laundry was set up; and meanwhile there were amusing entertainments on the green and Catherine's and Marguerite's dwarfs outdid themselves, tumbling about, singing the bawdy songs of the day, keeping the townspeople in good humor while their stores melted away.
Summer passed and as autumn gales set the curtains of the litters and wagons fluttering, the mountains flung their blue shadows around them. Catherine ordered still another halt while winter clothing, blankets and furs were taken from chests, and forges glowed as horses were sharpshod against the ice and snow ahead.
The Queen Mother gave up riding and retired to her litter. There, buried in furs, she gave herself up to pleasant daydreaming. She had never met her son-in-law, P
hilip, face to face. In a way she dreaded that meeting in spite of the high hopes she had for it. Philip was a monarch of far-reaching supremacy, an indomitable champion of the Roman Catholic faith. She knew that he was fully aware of her own somewhat tepid devotions and her interest in bringing the Catholic and Protestant faiths closer together—as a matter of expediency—and that undoubtedly he frowned upon it.
Now, and once more because it would further her plans, she must pretend to take a much firmer stand for the Established Church. Marguerite must be presented as a devout
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
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