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

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, Philip, 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