First, however, came the issue of the marriage contract. The Scottish Parliament agreed quickly that François would become King of Scotland rather than a mere royal consort; however, if François were to die first, they wanted Mary to rule France as Queen—in violation of Salic law, which barred women from the French throne.
Normally I would have remained silent and left all negotiations to my husband, but the thought of Mary taking precedence over my own sons made me livid. I went to Henri and spoke stridently of the need to protect the Crown for our heirs. He listened silently and patiently, and when I had given thorough vent to my feelings, he smiled gently and took my hand.
“I will not see our sons slighted, Catherine. Mary will never rule France alone.”
“I would prefer she not rule it at all,” I said with asperity. I was so agitated I nearly withdrew my hand.
Henri knew, of course, that Mary and I shared little love for each other, and he wished sincerely that we felt otherwise. But in this case, he agreed with me: In the end, the contract specified that, upon François’s death, Mary’s right to the French throne would be forfeit. It was a condition that sorely disappointed the Guises, but Henri would not be moved.
The twenty-fourth of April dawned red and warm. I had slept little, having spent a good deal of the night comforting my weeping son François, who was terrified of humiliating himself by stuttering or fainting. Morning found me still sitting beside my drowsy son. His eyelids were swollen almost shut, his face was blotched and puffy. I ordered cold compresses and applied them tenderly to his eyes and cheeks.
By noon, all of us in the royal wedding party were dressed—Henri and I sedately, in shades of black and dull gold, so that Mary and our son might shine brightly. The rest of the royal children were there, all wearing their best; Elisabeth, now thirteen and a striking young woman in pale blue velvet—surely next to be married, as Henri was already considering suitors for her hand—made sure the younger ones behaved themselves as princes and princesses ought. With the exception of Mary, who waited out of sight in an alcove, we assembled at the main entrance of the palace. The bride’s uncles were outfitted grandly. The Cardinal of Lorraine wore scarlet satin and a large cross covered in rubies. The architect of the celebrations, the Duke of Guise, had dressed from head to toe in silver and diamonds, as if he were the bridegroom.
The sight of my François in his fine gold doublet was pathetically touching. His height matched that of his nearly eight-year-old brother, Charles; his head was too large for his body; and his high-pitched voice was still a boy’s. Even so, he had managed to effect an air of regal dignity. When Elisabeth bent down to kiss her older brother’s cheek and pronounced him “as handsome a man as I have ever seen,” Henri’s eyes filmed with tears, and he reached for my hand and squeezed it.
Several coaches festooned with white satin and lilies awaited us in the courtyard. Henri and François climbed into the first carriage; when they had rolled out of sight, Mary emerged from inside the palace.
She was a dazzling, dark-haired angel in white satin and sparkling diamonds, with a jewel-encrusted golden coronet upon her head; we all gasped at the sight of her. She smiled, knowing the impression she made; her massive train sighed upon the cobblestones as she made her way toward the waiting carriage, despite the two demoiselles who struggled valiantly to hold it aloft. Once she was settled inside with her two young attendants, I climbed in. We crossed the Seine to the Island of the City, the Ile-de-la-Cité. Our destination was the palace of the Cardinal de Bourbon, next to Notre-Dame.
There, our wedding party began its slow public procession. Guise had overseen the construction of a wooden gallery leading from the steps of the Archbishop’s palace to the steps of the cathedral. It was covered in purple velvet, from floor to ceiling, and decorated with Mary’s white lilies and silver ribbons; inside stood foreign dignitaries, ambassadors, princes, and courtiers, all eager to get a close look at the bride. The Cardinal led the procession with François. Mary followed a good distance behind, arm in arm with the King. I came next, at the head of my children, followed by Diane and my ladies. François of Guise and his brother came last.
The smell of fresh timber evoked memories of the day, long ago, when I was a frightened, vulnerable bride. The crowd gasped appreciatively as Mary passed them while jubilant Parisians roared outside. I smiled to see my cousin Piero, dashing in a uniform of dark blue, and was taken aback when my gaze caught Cosimo Ruggieri’s. He looked exceptionally fine—if one could say such a thing of an ugly man—in a new doublet of dark red brocade edged in black velvet. Red and black, reminders of blood and death, of what had been required to reach this place, this moment.
He was smiling brightly—an incongruous expression on such a pale, ghostly visage. I grinned back at him with a sudden welling of affection, knowing that, without him, I would not have survived, would not have seen my son born. Our glance held more intimacy than any I had ever shared with my husband.
Our party emerged from the gallery and ascended the steps of Notre-Dame in full view of the wooden amphitheater holding thousands of joyfully noisy citizens, contained by Scottish guards and fences. Guise had decided that Mary should be wed not inside the cathedral but outside, for the sake of the crowd. The Cardinal halted at the great central entrance, the Portal of Judgment, beneath the magnificent Rose West window, a medallion of stained glass and stone. François stopped an arm’s length from the Archbishop, then turned toward the crowd and waited for his bride.
When Mary arrived to stand between my son and the King, the people fell silent. The ceremony was brief. When the Cardinal demanded of the groom and bride a vow, the Dauphin miraculously answered without a single stammer; Mary’s reply was strong and assured. The King produced the ring—a simple gold band—and handed it to the Cardinal, who slipped it onto Mary’s finger. The Cardinal paused—the cue for the Dauphin to kiss his lovely new bride.
But Mary cried loudly, unexpectedly, “All hail François, King of Scots!” She knelt and bowed low, her white skirts pooling about her.
It was a brilliant bit of theater. The citizens, already dazzled by Mary’s poise and beauty, thundered their approval of such humble deference toward their future king.
I glanced over my shoulder at the nobles who had congregated behind us on the cathedral stairs. Every face radiated appreciation for Mary’s lovely gesture—save one. Cosimo Ruggieri stood unfooled and unsmiling. In his black eyes, on his white face, was the same dark intensity he had worn thirty years ago in Florence, when he had uttered an ugly word.
Betrayal . . .
After the ceremony, we returned to the Cardinal’s palace for the traditional feast, followed by a ball. I was standing beside Mary when her uncle François of Guise came to lead her to the dance floor. He was already inebriated and whispered far too loudly in her ear:
“You are Queen of two countries now.”
Mary seemed amused and directed a sly, feline smile at me as Guise escorted her away.
The sun was setting when we returned over the bridge to the Louvre, Mary borne upon a litter, the dying light painting her skin and dress a brilliant coral. We were exhausted when we returned to the palace, but Guise was not done with his lavish spectacle. We were ushered to the Louvre’s grand ballroom. The King made his appearance in a clever little mechanical boat decorated with lilies and white satin, and equipped with silver sails. Accompanied by nautical music, the boat glided across the marble floor as if floating upon the sea; it made its way over to Mary. My grinning husband helped her into the little boat, then the two of them slowly circled the ballroom, to the marvel of the guests.
As they sailed away from me, a second boat appeared, with my son aboard. I did not relax my public smile as I settled beside him on the velvet cushion, but I let go a weary sigh as I kissed his cheek.
“Are you very tired, Maman?” he asked. His eyes were drooping from exhaustion, but he was in good spirits and obviously greatly relieved that he had survived t
he ceremony.
“A little,” I said and patted his knee to reassure him. “But not so tired as you are.”
He nodded in grave agreement. “Isn’t Mary beautiful?” he asked suddenly.
“She is,” I replied and hesitated. “François . . . You know that Mary is a very opinionated young woman.”
“Yes,” he said, with blithe innocence. “She can be very stubborn.”
“Which is why you must learn to exert your will forcefully with her; otherwise, when you are King, she will try to rule in your stead.”
He dropped his gaze at once. “Mary loves me. She would never do anything bad.”
“I know,” I said patiently. “But when your father and I are gone, and you are King, you must remember that you alone can make decisions.”
Even as I spoke, François spied his bride riding alongside Henri and waved frantically until he caught her attention. She blew him a kiss, and he grinned stupidly at her until her little boat moved out of view.
“François,” I said, “I will ask you to make only one promise to me, ever.”
He looked up at me, his eyes wide and ingenuous; he had already forgotten what we had been discussing. “Of course, Maman!”
I drew in a long breath. “Promise me that, when you are King, you will not let Mary make the decisions. Promise me that you will listen to your advisers instead.”
“The Guises will be my advisers, won’t they? And Mary always agrees with them. So of course, I will promise you.” He leaned forward and kissed my cheek.
“Thank you,” I said tenderly. “You are a good son.” And with a sinking heart, I realized that I could not afford to die so long as my eldest son lived.
Thirty
The wedding celebrations continued for five days, with pageantry and circus; they concluded with the customary jousting tournament. Tradition required that the bridegroom take part in the last joust of the day, but François’s ill health made his participation impossible; he sat with Mary, Diane, and me in the stands to cheer his athletic father on.
I suffered through another banquet hosted by François de Guise, then retired to my chambers. To my surprise, Henri arrived not long afterward.
He bent down as I stood on tiptoe to kiss him. His face was still flushed and his cheek warm from the joust; his skin smelled of soap. I scrutinized him carefully: He had come with no amorous intent; indeed, he sagged back in the chair and sighed with exhaustion. A tired man would simply have gone to his own bed.
“What is troubling you, husband?” I asked bluntly. We were both too fatigued by the recent celebrations to waste time with formalities.
His feigned smile fled. He turned his face toward the hearth, empty now in late spring, and sighed again.
“It’s François,” he said finally. “And Mary . . .”
I had not asked about the wedding night; I had been too afraid. My eldest son had miraculously survived the marriage ceremony, but I dared not hope he could survive the marriage.
“You know I was required to be a witness,” Henri began. “If it had been another boy, a healthy, normal boy, perhaps it would not have been difficult. But given that it was our François . . .
“It was terrible.” His voice was a low monotone as he stared dully into the blackened, empty hearth, where the chambermaid had set a large crystal bowl of white lilies in honor of the wedding couple. “I had explained things about . . . you know, about the marriage bed, to François. And I thought he understood well enough. But when I arrived, and he and Mary were underneath the sheets together . . . Well, he just lay there. I had to whisper to him that he was supposed to take her, but he answered that he was far too tired.
“I was so ashamed,” Henri continued. “I seized his shoulder and said in his ear that I was not the only one waiting; there was the Cardinal, too, who had to report to the Pope. Then he grew upset, and had one of his fainting spells, there in the bed. I had to call for the physician, who advised that we wait until morning.”
“Poor Henri,” I said, shaking my head. “Poor François . . . Could anything be done?”
“The next morning, François declared himself indisposed,” my husband said unhappily. “But there were other affairs to attend, and Mary wouldn’t tolerate his missing any of them. I endured endless jokes about the newlyweds’ first night together. . . . But how could I tell anyone the truth of it? How can I ever?”
I put my hand gently on Henri’s forearm. “Did anything . . .”
“Did anything ever happen?” he finished for me, without humor. “Yes, something, on the second night. Let us just say that François made the attempt but lacked the determination to finish what he had started. He was frightened, poor boy, and unwell, and I left him sobbing in Mary’s arms. So I lied to them all—lied to the Cardinal, who came in after me and found them in what he assumed to be a nuptial embrace. I will swear before God to anyone who asks that the marriage was consummated. But I fear Mary might have said something to Diane. And if she knows . . .” He shook his head at the thought.
“Oh, Henri, how awful for all of you.”
“It is awful.” He turned toward me at last; yellow lamplight glinted off the silver strands in his hair and beard. “I’ve said everything I can say to the boy. So I’ve come to you— He loves you so, Catherine, and you’ve always been better at explaining things to him. Could you . . . ?”
“I’ll go to him,” I said quickly. “He must understand how critical it is to produce an heir.” I put my hand upon his and smiled. “After all, I still remember what it’s like to soothe a nervous young man in the bridal chamber.” My tone grew serious again. “But you must set the Guise brothers straight on the issue of succession. They think to make themselves kings. If word gets out of the Dauphin’s behavior, the question of succession might arise. If it does, it must be clear to everyone that the Bourbons are next in line to the throne. The Guises must be put in their place. Otherwise, there will be unrest—perhaps even war.”
My husband’s expression subtly hardened. “They’ve been too full of themselves. I can scarcely bear François of Guise’s preening anymore; I do so only for Mary’s sake.”
“Mary must know,” I said smoothly, “and her uncles must know, that if there is ever a question, the Bourbons take precedence over them. If you die, if I die, how would François ever stop the two families from killing each other?”
Henri nodded thoughtfully. “What you say has merit. I will think on it, Catherine.”
I looked at him, at the faltering resolve in his eyes, and knew he would do little. Still, I had planted the seed, and could only hope that time would water it.
I rose and laid a hand upon my husband’s shoulder. “I’ll talk to our son,” I said softly. “Don’t worry. He and Mary will have sons, many sons, and this palace will be filled with our grandchildren. That I promise you.”
Henri smiled up at me. “Of course,” he murmured. “Of course.”
But when I looked into his eyes, I saw the truth that was surely reflected in my own: There would be no children.
My words about trouble with the Bourbons quickly proved prophetic: On the fourteenth of May, the First Prince of the Blood, Antoine de Bourbon, mounted his stallion and led four thousand Protestants on a march through Paris. One afternoon, I stared out the windows of the Louvre and saw what appeared to be an army of hymn-singing civilians marching over the bridge from the Ile-de-la-Cité. Henri was outraged—as were the good Catholic Guise brothers.
I summoned my friend Jeanne, Antoine’s wife, and told her I felt betrayed to think that someone in the Court knew of such plans and had failed to warn the King. Jeanne was, like me, a queen and did not take kindly to my insinuation. She had not known, she claimed, and with a burst of temper added:
“Surely you, of all people, understand that a wife cannot always control her husband’s public actions, nor can she be privy to all his secrets.”
Her remark stung. Though we parted with polite words, we became distant from tha
t moment on.
Shortly after Henri’s visit to my chambers, I summoned Ruggieri.
“Once again, the question of producing an heir has arisen,” I told him, annoyed at my own embarrassment. “The Dauphin requires . . . help. To instill lust.”
The morning light was unkind to the magician, showing all too harshly his sickly pallor, his scarred cheeks, the shadows beneath his eyes. “A simple talisman, perhaps?” he asked.
“That would be suitable, yes,” I answered. The room seemed suddenly close and warm.
He nodded; a stranger would have thought his expression ingenuous, innocent. “Might it also be salutary to have two talismans: one for health, one for fertility?”
“That would be fine,” I said, a bit irritably. “So long as—”
“Yes, Madame la Reine,” he said with consummate courtesy and a nod. “So long as no one is harmed. I understand.”
“Very good,” I said. “You may go.”
Tall and still thin, in a black silk doublet that fit too loosely, he rose and bowed, but as his fingers touched the door, he turned to face me.
“Forgive me, Madame la Reine,” he said. “Forgive me, but should the talismans fail to produce a child . . . ?”
My voice grew cold. “They will not fail.”
He cast aside his courtly manners and said bluntly, “Without blood, there can be no guarantee. The talismans of which we speak will bring mild improvement to the Dauphin’s health, and to his sexual desire. Beyond that, the rest is chance.” He did not wilt beneath my withering gaze but added, “I want only to be clear.”
I rose from my desk. “Never again. That is what I told you fifteen years ago. Do not make me repeat it.”
He bowed low and left quickly, closing the door behind him. I stood listening to the sound of his rapid steps dying in the hall.
Within a fortnight, Madame Gondi delivered a small bundle to me, wrapped tightly with ribbon. I opened it: Upon the black silk, two talismans—one of ruby, one of copper—hung from a single cord.
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