Little Elisabeth de Valois was formally betrothed to Philip by proxy in the great hall of the Louvre, and as she stood beside the Duke of Alba, with whom was the young Prince of Orange, who had accompanied Alba from the Netherlands, she felt that even Philip could not be more forbidding than his proxy. There was some small comfort in that.
The next day the actual ceremony was solemnized in Notre Dame to the delight of all except the bride, for the pomp and magnificence was equal to that which had enchanted Paris at the marriage of Mary Stuart and the Dauphin of France the year before.
Elisabeth clung to her father’s hand as he led her from the Bishop’s Palace to Notre Dame. Her dress was covered with beautiful pearls, her mantle was of blue velvet, and about her neck was hung a locket containing Philip’s portrait; there was also the huge pear-shaped pearl—the most valuable of all Spain’s crown jewels—a present from the bridegroom to the bride. She looked very small beside her glittering father, who whispered words of comfort to her as he acknowledged the applause of the onlookers. Behind her came her sister Claude to carry her train, with Mary Stuart, the Dauphine. This, thought Elisabeth, was one of the last occasions when she would be surrounded by the members of her beloved family. The Imperial crown which she must carry on her head weighed her down more by its significance than by the weight of gold and jewels.
Now she must stand beside the Duke of Alba, who was dressed in glittering cloth of gold, while the Cardinal of Bourbon proclaimed her the wife of the King of Spain.
The French, unlike the English, could outdo the Spaniards in courtesy and brilliance; and this they proceeded to do to the best of their ability. There was an inevitable undercurrent of uneasiness at such a time; the wedding had not increased the amity between the rival factions of France. The Catholic party, at the head of which were the Guises, was delighted, for the match was very much to their liking; the Protestant party, at the head of which were the Bourbons, was made uneasy by the new and close tie with Catholic Spain.
But, at the brilliant ceremonies that followed, the Guisards and the Bourbons veiled their antagonisms; and when, shortly afterward, the King’s sister was married to the Duke of Savoy, the wedding celebrations in recognition of the double wedding must, all had declared, be doubly magnificent.
As each day passed, the little bride’s uneasiness grew. Nightly she prayed for a miracle. She begged for a few more months, a few more days in France.
There were many interviews with her mother, when she was given instructions as to how she might bind Philip to her; she was continually told that she must remember that first she was a princess of France, and it was the interests of France and her family that she must further.
Ceremonies seemed endless. There were many jousts and tourneys, and always she, with the elder members of her family, must be present in a pavilion of honor to see Frenchmen tilt against Spaniards.
At length there came that day which she would never forget as long as she lived. How could such a day begin so ordinarily! There was nothing in the brilliant June sky to warn them all that this day would be different from any others spent in rejoicing. The crowds were as numerous as ever; the pavilion and dresses of men and women as glittering as was to be expected of the most brilliant court in the world.
The jousting was held close to the Bastille near the gate of St. Antoine. Elisabeth sat with her mother, her sister Claude, and that other bride, her aunt Marguerite. Above their heads the silken canopies kept off the rays of the sun. The crowd was expectant, for the King was to joust today.
Elisabeth was aware that her mother was uneasy. There was an affinity between them, and Elisabeth sometimes thought that she knew more about her mother than the others.
Catherine de Medici was known to be different from other women; no one could have borne as she did the constant humiliation of watching Diane take all the homage which was Catherine’s by right; she had special powers which were given to her by her magicians; she was quiet, and only her children feared her. For, thought Elisabeth, we are the only ones who know the Queen of France.
When the King rode into the arena he was wearing, as he always did, the black-and-white colors of his mistress Diane. It was not this habitual slight which made Catherine uneasy; but there she sat, tense, not missing a single movement made by the King.
She was clearly relieved when the joust was over and the King emerged victorious. Elisabeth wondered afresh at her mother’s love for her father. Not all the humiliation he inflicted on her could stifle that quiet, tense emotion. The King was the kindest person Elisabeth had ever known, yet she could not understand her mother’s devotion; for although he was always courteous to his wife, he so clearly did not love her, and that was apparent in the very tone of his voice when he spoke to her. Perhaps he believed, as so many people did, that she had poisoned his elder brother, so that he might be King and she the Queen. Moreover, he loved Diane so much that nothing could prevent his showing it. Diane to him was his Queen. In spite of that, Catherine loved him.
Now the King was declaring that he wished to tilt again, and Catherine had half risen in her seat. She wanted, Elisabeth knew, to beg him not to. Too much exercise was bad for him. He had had an unpleasant attack of giddiness after a game of tennis only yesterday; and now he had jousted enough.
But the King was like a boy, as proudly he bore his mistress’s colors. He declared that he was as fresh as when he had started; he would break one more lance before he retired from the field.
A young Franco-Scot came forward at his command—Montgomerie, the Sieur de L’Orge.
Catherine seemed to have communicated some of her uneasiness to this young man, for he begged the King to excuse him; but the King insisted.
It was all over in a few minutes. Had Catherine risen to protest before it happened? Elisabeth did not know.
Montgomerie’s lance, striking the King on the gorget, had splintered, and one of the splinters had entered the King’s eye. Henri fell to the ground, his face covered with blood.
Elisabeth was vaguely aware that her mother had risen and that on her face was an expression of dreadful understanding.
Elisabeth pressed her hands against her madly beating heart. She feared the worst of all tragedies had overtaken her. And so she had her wish. The journey was delayed. She was heartbroken during those last weeks in France.
The King must lie in state; he must be buried with the utmost ceremony.
Philip was impatient to receive his bride. The new King François and his lovely wife, Mary Stuart, were completely under the control of Mary’s uncles, the Guises, which was a comforting thought for Philip; he had heard rumors that the character of the Dowager Queen Catherine was not quite what people had believed during her husband’s lifetime. It was as though she was awakening, said his spies, and that her previous meekness had disguised her sinister character. There were some who had nicknamed her “Madame le Serpent,” and the name seemed to fit. Philip realized that his young wife would be much under the influence of such a mother, and his demands that she should be sent to Spain became more and more insistent.
Catherine de Medici had many excuses ready. The trousseau of the Queen of Spain was not yet prepared, and she was sure the King of Spain would not wish his bride to arrive like a little commoner. There were innumerable negotiations; there was an enormous quantity of baggage which had to be transported over the Pyrenees; and the Dowager Queen thought it only right that Elisabeth should remain behind to attend the coronation of her young brother, François.
Philip was growing uneasy. He was a husband, yet no husband. The French were defying him; it seemed to him that the Flemings were defying him also.