every Frenchman at her feet/' Mentally she undoubtedly added that it would have been better if this child of the Guises had remained in her native Scotland. And Mary was not yet eight years old.
Why Elizabeth should have found it impossible to love her is not hard to understand. The princess adored her brother; from babyhood they had been inseparable companions; she was "ma soeur bienne aimee" Now suddenly she saw him, his cheeks scarlet, his eyes blazing, staring in open-mouthed worship at Mary Stuart, the little Scottish Queen who seemed to bewitch everyone. For the only time in her life, probably, lovely Elizabeth of Valois was jealous.
Chapter 3 CALLERS FROM SPAIN
THE months, the years flew, each bringing to the outside world of the sixteenth century its own peculiar hurdens of war, trial, torture and intrigue. Only as a wisp of smoke from a great conflagration may occasionally drift in at a distant window did the world's problems touch the royal children. Perhaps they sniffed the air curiously, inescapably aware that they were maneuvered about on the puppet stage of their days for some purpose which most of them understood only vaguely if at all,
Mary Stuart, after a few months at Saint-Germain, was sent to a convent for special religious training and then was returned to Saint-Germain where her education became a sort of tug of war with her uncles, the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine, on one side and her future mother-in-law, Catherine, on the other. As Mary and Elizabeth grew
older and their ages reached a more easily conformable level they had their lessons together and vied with each other in their Latin compositions.
Elizabeth was a good student but Mary was brilliant and often chided Elizabeth over her inferior work. So, an ancient record shows, these two girls had a sharp quarrel during which some unkind words were spoken on both sides and perhaps some bitter tears were shed. A few days later the merry little Queen of Scotland wrote her friend the following letter of reconciliation:
Maria Scotorum Regina, Elizabetae Sororl
I have heard from our master, my sister and darling, that now you are studying well, for which I greatly rejoice, and pray you to persevere in as the greatest good that can befall you in this world. For the gifts which we owe to Nature are of short duration, and age will deprive us of them. Fortune may likewise withdraw her favors: but that good thing which Virtue bestows (and she is wooed only by the diligent pursuit of letters) is immortal and will remain with us always.
Thus wrote the schoolgirl back in the sixteenth century.
So the schoolroom quarrels of the two girls were quickly over, but between Mary and Queen Catherine there existed an antagonism which one day caused Mary's Scottish temper to flare. Catherine, her maternal instinct to reprimand overcoming for the moment the realization that her young guest was a queen and she, Catherine, merely a queen consort,
corrected Mary sharply for some childish fault. Too late she saw her mistake when Mary, manners tossed to the winds, lashed out in royal fury.
'Til not be scolded by a merchant's daughter!'' shouted the little Queen as she ran from the room. Reared in an atmosphere of petty gossip, she had picked up the slur easily enough, probably abetted by her uncles, the Guises. But Catherine never forgave her.
However, Mary seemed incapable of bearing a grudge. Busy with her Latin, Greek, Spanish, French and Italian during the study hours, she was ringleader in the games the royal children played in the grand salon of the palace during the morning and afternoon recess periods,
In 1548 another princeling arrived in the nursery, little Louis, who became one of Mary's favorites but who died of croup two years later, about the time his brother Charles was born. Then came Henry, then Marguerite, and last of all, in 1554, Hercules, to be known as the Duke of Alengon.
As time passed the Dauphin found himself becoming more and more attached to the pretty girl whom he now knew he would one day marry. She was beautiful and gay; she sang love rondels in a surprisingly rounded voice, accompanying herself on the lute; and young Francis, delicate lad that he was, did his utmost to make a good showing himself in the masculine arts. He begged his father to let him join him hunting and learned with agonizing effort to handle a heavy crossbow. He was a young boy deep in the turmoil of his first love, and when on an April morning in 1558 he knelt beside the lovely little Scottish Queen in Notre Dame, he
held his breath and let it out in great gulps lest his happiness overcome him and he break into noisy sobs of joy.
Escorted by his two younger brothers and the King of Navarre, a relative, and surrounded by princes of the blood, he awaited his bride at the west door of the Cathedral. King Francis escorted her, and an old history describes the fifteen-year-old girl as being "fair as unto a lily/' Her wedding gown was cloth of silver, its train borne by two young noblewomen, and on her head, that proud beautiful head one day to fall under the executioner's ax, she wore a crown studded with priceless jewels.
Behind her walked Catherine, Elizabeth, Claude, and little five-year-old Marguerite who pranced a little in her heavy velvet gown with its stiff Spanish ruff and false sleeves. Just outside the portals of the Cathedral, Francis slipped the wedding ring on Mary's finger, then hand in hand the young couple passed into the Sanctuary for the celebration of the Mass and the completion of the ceremony. The rest of the day and night was taken up with feasting and elaborate masquerades.
Elizabeth, her whole generous nature eager to accept unconditionally this fascinating young sister-in-law whom she did not like, danced the stately pavane with her, smiling gravely into the sparkling, provocative face. She had her reward when she caught a glimpse of Francis watching them and saw his look of beaming delight at their apparent mutual affection. The fourteen-year-old bridegroom wanted the whole world to love his bride.
Elizabeth, her mother's favorite daughter, had been trained
from babyhood in the art of politics. From the time she was ten years old she was permitted to sit beside her august mother—on a cushion at her feet—when the Queen granted audiences to visiting dignitaries, and so she learned not only some invaluable lessons in royal deportment but a great deal about what was transpiring in the world outside the fastness of her own sheltered life.
Among other things she learned of the religious hatreds dividing the world into warring camps, and because, unlike many children of royalty, she was deeply, sincerely religious, gentle and compassionate rather than ambitious, she heard with growing horror the stories of religious persecution com-
ing from many quarters. That her mother should sit quietly with folded hands, a half-smile on her lips, as the horrid tales were told filled the Princess with strange misgivings. Nor were the revelations all horrifying; some were only dull and rather puzzling. There was, for instance, the name of King Philip II of Spain, son of the greatest of all Hapsburg Emperors, Charles V. Between 1554 and 1558 the Emperor abdicated as head of the Holy Roman Empire, dividing his realm between his brother and his son, Philip II. As his portion Philip received Spain, Sicily, Naples, the Netherlands and Spanish America, a mighty empire, indeed. Elizabeth listened, uneasy yet curious, to the disquieting tales told of Philip's young son, Don Carlos, a boy about her own age whose name was being linked ever so discreetly with hers.
"Mother, Your Grace," she said one day when for a few moments they were alone, "Don Carlos methinks is not of a merry heart, is he?" It was only a few weeks before the wedding of Francis and Mary Stuart and somehow an atmosphere of romantic excitement pervaded the whole palace. Elizabeth sat back on her heels on the giant cushion beside her mother's chair, toying with the jeweled pomander hanging by its heavy gold chain from her waist. It smelled de-liciously of verbena and clove and crushed rose petals. "Is he?" she repeated.
Catherine turned from the documents she had been reading, her mind obviously still on their contents. Her child was asking a question, but what was it? "Is he what, child? And of whom are you speaking?" The scent of the pomander rose to her nostrils and, like any mother, she thought how like a
> lovely flower was this girl looking up at her with such a trusting, artless expression. Just a little of Mary Stuart's laughing sophistication, little as she liked it, would have made the question easier to answer. The Queen Consort laid her hand for a moment on her daughter's head.
"Oh, I remember now, it was His Highness, Don Carlos, you were speaking of. No, he has not a merry heart. He—he is a sad young prince. Mayhap, well, mayhap a young bride with laughter in her heart could change him, and/' she added, "as he is heir to the greatest empire in the world there are doubtless many royal maidens eager for the chance."
She was tempted to enlarge on the theme, for it was very close to her heart, but she thought better of it. Why tell this hypersensitive child the truth: that Don Carlos was by any standards a monster, a mentally sick human being? that he delighted in torturing small animals and birds? that when angered he belabored his tutors and governors with any weapon on which he could lay his hands? that his favorite sport was to gather a company of young noblemen together and with them, riding four abreast, to gallop deliberately through the narrowest streets of the city, riding down anyone, regardless of age or condition, who happened to be in their path? Why needlessly torment her with this knowledge when, unless plans miscarried, she soon would be his bride?
"Nay, Elizabeth/' she repeated, "Don Carlos is not of a merry heart, but that is of no great concern. Your brother also is of a sober mien, yet who could be a more gallant prince than he? Her Majesty, the future Queen Dauphiness, will be blest, indeed, to have him for her husband,"
That had been several months ago. Now Francis was called the King Dauphin and the crowns of Scotland and France were united in his arms. Elizabeth, the romantic, gentle dreamer, tried to think of that brother as King with the grave responsibilities kingship entailed; tried to picture Mary, the gay, the beautiful, the naively flirtatious, as his wife. How was it all possible? And Don Carlos, the fabulous wealth of Spain, faraway Madrid. How should any of this touch her own life?
Strange, indeed, how in any age wholly unrelated incidents should be able to mold the course of lives distant both in time and place. For instance, in England Mary Tudor, half-sister of England's Queen Elizabeth, died knowing her handsome Spanish husband, Philip II of Spain, did not love her, never had loved her. Throughout Europe his name was dreaded as that of one of the most fanatical persecutors of heresy. He was suave, cultured, charming and cruel. He spent hours on his knees in prayer, made countless pilgrimages to shrines, and kept the fires of the Inquisition burning. Inconsistent, erratic, and now a widower, he bethought himself of a new wife. His half-sister-in-law, Elizabeth of England, he had always found fascinating, but Elizabeth was as staunchly Protestant as Philip was Catholic, so any thought of a marriage between them was out of the question.
However (and one wonders by what process of reasoning Philip reached this point), there was that beautiful French princess whose mother had sanctioned, nay encouraged her betrothal to his son, Don Carlos—Elizabeth of Valois. What of her? And what of Don Carlos? Philip un-
doubtedly shrugged off the distasteful thought. Impossible young savage, Don Carlos! Hadn't he boxed his ears just recently? Besides, there were still many details to be completed before a betrothal could be achieved. Reports had come to him—actually at Mary's funeral—of the grace and royal bearing of the Princess. Again it had been said more recently that at the marriage of her brother, the Dauphin, she had been acclaimed by those who dared whisper it even more beautiful than the bride! Now Philip must see her or at least know more about her.
Very simply, then, he had his own name substituted in all the lengthy documents drawn up between the Houses of Hapsburg and Valois pertaining to the betrothal of Don Carlos and the Princess Elizabeth. This was in January, 1559. That Don Carlos gave way to a fit of violent rage at his father s consummate audacity was to be expected, but what of Elizabeth?
Though Don Carlos was known to her as rather a sullen boy, someone she had no desire to meet, the name of King Philip, his father, filled her with abject terror. Throughout the length and breadth of Christendom he was known as His Most Catholic Majesty, a monarch who tolerated no slightest liberty of thought in any of his subjects toward the established Church; to question a single tenet of the Church was to light a fagot. He sincerely believed, in a transport of religious zeal, that he was the divinely appointed exterminator of heresy in the civilized world and his dreadful work of extermination was no respecter of age or rank.
His great love was Spain and his contempt for all things
not Spanish roused the indignation of his foreign subjects everywhere. He refused throughout his life to speak or read any language but his own Castilian Spanish. He followed the Spanish fashions in clothing and left the country of his birth only when it was absolutely necessary for political reasons. He was haughty and overbearing, insisting that the electoral princes of his empire, wherever he might encounter them, should remain uncovered in his presence. This was the man Elizabeth presently learned she was to marry.
King Henry, her father, was at one of his smaller palaces in the forest of Compiegne when word was brought him that the Spanish embassy would arrive in Paris early in June (1559) to discuss the betrothal. That allowed only about seven weeks in which to make the vast preparations for the occasion, and Henry set off for Paris at once. Here was a marriage he very much wanted: his favorite daughter to become the bride of the mighty monarch, Philip of Spain. Catherine was overjoyed; she had promised herself that only the best match in the world would do for her beloved Elizabeth. In Philip of Spain she had her answer, and it was with a full heart that she sent for the Princess,
Elizabeth was deep in her Latin grammar when the Queen's page entered the room. The venerable Abb£ de Saint-fitienne sat beside her, watching as she translated the Psalm of her choice, and for a moment he did not realize why his pupil had stopped short in the middle of the line she was reading. Then he looked up and recognized the livery of the Queen's page and sensed the importance of the interruption.
"Yes, my son?"
"Her Majesty, the Queen, would see Madame Elizabeth in the audience chamber/' the boy said. "Her Highness is to come at once/'
He was a blond, ruddy-faced youth and his glance, in spite of his training, touched appreciatively the serene beauty of the girl seated at the table. She was just fourteen, slender, exquisite. Her black hair, tinted a rich gold in conformity with Court custom, was a perfect foil for her dark eyes under delicately penciled brows and for her fair, almost transparent skin. She laid an ivory bookmark between the pages of her Psalter and rose, putting her hand on the Abbe's sleeve.
"Come with me, please, Father/' she said, "as far as the audience chamber only, if you wish/' She suspected what the Queen's summons meant and her hands were suddenly cold.
The Abbe left her at the threshold of the audience chamber and she crossed to her mother's side as she had so often seen others do, commanded there by the will of the indomitable woman she loved and feared. Above the noisy pounding of her heart she was conscious of words being spoken while Catherine smiled at her, holding her hand. As though hypnotized, she stared at a medallion of blue enamel set with pearls and hung from a fine gold chain against the bodice of the Queen's gown. She knew something, some acknowledgment was expected of her but her throat was constricted, her mouth dry, and no words would come.
The Queen's fingers tightened around hers and she repeated a question, speaking Italian as she always did when
under stress. "You do understand, Elizabeth, what an exalted position yours will be as Queen of Spain?"
By a final effort Elizabeth managed to steady her voice and her lips sufficiently to answer, "Yes, Your Grace, I understand." She dared not add that everything within her rebelled, that she shrank in paralyzing terror from marriage with a man nineteen years older than she, a man noted for his cruelty, but she could only repeat, "Yes, I do understand."
Chapter 4 TWO BRIDES
THE Queen DaupLiness was
enjoying her honeymoon in France among people who made much of her and with a young husband who adored her. Beside Francis she rode along the bridle paths winding through the forest of Blois; from beautiful Diane de Poitiers, with whom she became great friends, she learned the difficult art of tapestry-inaldng; she learned to dance the French dances and to sit straight and firm in the saddle when hunting* (Francis I doubtless would have seen in her a candidate for his "Little Band/*) With unchildlike self-possession she listened without comment when told how four Scottish nobles whom she knew well had been poisoned for refusing to consent to the Dauphin's being made King of Scotland. What Mary Stuart did not understand she refused to dwell upon, though one thing did bother her and for that very reason: she could not fathom
its cause.
Her mother-in-law did not like her and did not disguise the fact. True, Mary recalled having been very rude to the Queen once, but as the Lady Diane so kindly pointed out, that had been forgiven long ago. Majesty never held a grudge, said she. But then, the Queen Dauphiness wondered, what was wrong? She wanted very sincerely to win the regard if not the affection of the Queen and whenever possible she found a place near her in the many Court assemblies, One summer day as she stood quietly at Catherine s side during some minor conference, the Queen asked her rather pointedly why she lingered there instead of pining the other young people out-of-doors on the tennis courts.
Dark Eminence Catherine De Medici And Her Children Page 3
