Dark Eminence Catherine De Medici And Her Children Marguerite Vance (mobi ebook reader TXT) 📖

Princess blushed, then turned deathly white as the Duke read to her the King s ardent note—in Spanish-accompanying the gift. Then, in a gesture which may have been rehearsed, she pressed the miniature to her lips.

The following day the betrothal of Elizabeth to King Philip was celebrated in the great hall of the Louvre. The contract of betrothal was signed and rings were exchanged. Only the marriage ceremony itself remained to make Elizabeth Queen Consort of Spain. Two days later, on June 21st, on a platform of state erected before Notre Dame Cathedral the vows were spoken; solemnly, pompously for Philip by Alba; distinctly, though scarcely above a whisper, by the lovely bride.

In her fabulous gown of cloth of gold under a mantle of blue velvet she was truly a fairy-tale princess. Many rinses had restored her dark hair to its natural color and where it escaped from the heavy, caplike crown of jewels above it, it clustered about her brow, accentuating the ivory whiteness of her skin, its delicate perfection. From her neck were suspended King Philip's miniature and the most prized of all the crown jewels of Spain, a great, pear-shaped pearl known as La Pelegrina.

Mary Stuart had been a beautiful bride, but Elizabeth glowed with a kind of inner radiance. Her dark eyes beheld the world about her with a glowing serenity in their depths, and if terror and a persistent premonition of misfortune set her young body shivering beneath its weight of priceless

fabrics, no one knew. Indeed, the Duke of Alba's fastidious notions were so completely satisfied that he was heard to exclaim in frank delight, "Of a surety the truly royal graces of this august princess will wipe forever from His Majesty's heart all grief he may yet feel for his former consort."

After the marriage ceremony, the feasting, the hall and the masques, the new Queen of Spain and her mother retired to her apartments, preceded by her torch bearers and pages, and her bridegroom-by-proxy left for the suite assigned the royal party in the Hotel Villeroy.

With curtains drawn against any possible breath of sweet June night air, half smothered in layer on layer of heavy, jewel-encrusted fabrics, Elizabeth lay staring into the darkness. No air penetrated the curtained bed where the cloth of gold and silver and the folds and ruffles of metallic lace gave off a bitter odor, and the young Queen wearily reviewed her mother's long lecture. Her pillow encased in Holland cloth heavily embroidered in Spanish work of black and gold thread chafed her neck, and the sheet, folded back over the velvet coverlet and similarly embroidered, rubbed her warm wrists. Exhausted with the day's long ceremonies, bewildered by the new honors bestowed on her and the exacting requirements of Spanish etiquette, turn as she would, she could find no relief from the suffocating heat. Trying to concentrate, she went over and over Queen Catherine's words:

"Remember," the mother drove the point home, "you are Queen of Spain now, the mightiest kingdom in the world, and if you are wise and act carefully you can do untold good wherever and whenever you choose. I shall send messages

constantly," she continued, "to advise and help you. Spain and France are now united as His Majesty, your liege lord, becomes my son. Never forget, dear child, you have two loyalties now: Spain and the House of Hapsburg and France and the House of Valois. Bear in mind, Elizabeth, strategy, diplomacy; these must be your guides henceforth. Listen well and speak not hastily or lightly lest your words confound and confuse and betray you. . . ."

There was a great deal more but the tired girl found she could not listen any longer. Possibly Catherine sensed her weariness and called for her women. Now, hours later, try as she would, Elizabeth could remember almost nothing of her mother s long harangue. Finally, in a burst of unbearable discomfort, she flung back the velvet coverlet. Her heavy white satin night shift clung to her in slippery, clammy folds and she shook them in a half-hearted hope of relief from the heat. From far, far away somewhere came the sounds of shouting, shrieking laughter, the thump of tabors, the rasping disharmony of rebec, pipe and trumpet played by revelers unsure of their notes. So the wedding feast continued through the night; so, worn out, Elizabeth, Queen of Spain, fell asleep.

Henry II of France was just forty years old. The rather dull-looking young bridegroom of Catherine de Medici twenty-six years earlier had outgrown much of his phlegmatic attitude toward life. At forty he was a lithe, athletic figure, fond of gaiety and sports, kindly and far too generous for his own good or that of his kingdom. He was of medium

Dark Eminence

height, with a strong, slender nose, dark eyes and hair and the neat, pointed moustache and beard of his day.

On the day following the wedding His Majesty was in high spirits. Here was a negotiation that had terminated exactly as he had hoped it would. A five-year truce between Spain and France would be followed by more treaties which, in his present mood, he felt sure would be equally satisfactory. So ran his thoughts as the Marshal de Vieileville buckled him into his armor preparatory to entering the lists for the jousting which was to be the principal entertainment of the day. Though no one suspected it, it was destined to be the last tournament to be held at the French Court.

A roar of applause greeted Henry as he rode out into the arena. He saluted the gallery where Catherine, the Queen Dauphiness, and Elizabeth were seated, then he whirled to meet his first adversary, the Duke of Savoy. The Duke was soon to marry the King's sister and the two men encountered each other in a spirit of laughing camaraderie. Both lances

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were broken though