Judith Merkle Riley (39 page)

At the door of the cathedral, King Henri took from his finger a ring, which he handed to the Cardinal who would perform the service, and the wedding was solemnized beneath the velvet-and-gold canopy, before the church door. As the newly wedded bride and groom and the bridal party entered the cathedral for mass, the heralds outside the cathedral flung gold and silver coins into the crowd, shouting, “Largesse! Largesse!”

Watching the scramble beneath the window, as the bodies in the cathedral square below crushed one another, screaming and grabbing for the money, Monsieur Montvert observed, “I much prefer a window for these occasions. One never knows what will happen when such a great crowd is assembled in one place.” And with that, he sent for the dinner he had arranged, cold capon and duck, sliced ham, three kinds of wine, and a variety of sweet jams.

“Scramble outside, scramble inside; it’s always best to stay apart,” said Madame Tournet, cutting herself another slice of ham.

“True, true,” said Monsieur Montvert, stroking his beard. “But so often one is drawn in in spite of oneself. It’s a way they have of doing it—they like to keep us busy. I suppose they think it’s safer that way.” And no one in the room knew if he meant the wars, the new struggle for influence, or something else entirely.

***

Six months later, in the midst of negotiations with the King of Spain for peace, Queen Mary of England, defeated, dropsical, and barren, lay dying. Lying in her great bed of state, surrounded by doctors, priests, and weeping waiting women, she gasped away her life bit by bit, until at last, before the final prayer for her salvation, she spoke something so faint her doctor had to lean over her to hear it. “Open my heart when I am dead,” she said, “and you will find ‘Calais’ written on it.”

When the messengers from England finally arrived at the Louvre, King Henri himself went to his teenaged daughter-in-law to inform her that she was now the legitimate Queen of England.

The King-Dauphin, heir to the throne of France, and the Queen-Dauphiness, his bride, quartered the arms of England with their own, in anticipation of taking over the English throne.

Far away in the Escorial, the news at last reached King Philip of Spain that his old, barren English wife was dead. Sitting down at the great desk from which he ruled one half the world, he wrote something, then sealed it. The next day, ambassadors rode out toward Paris. The word they carried was this: King Philip of Spain proposed to seal the peace with France by wedding little Elisabeth Valois, the King of France’s fourteen-year-old daughter.

***

“It is positively indecent, the way they look at each other,” said Monsieur Damville, looking at the bride and groom seated on the dais at the head of the main table. Up and down the great hall of the Hotel Montvert, servants scurried to renew the wine, and carry a parade of ever new and more exotic dishes to the long tables filled with guests. Married women in their headdresses, men wearing their best hats, the air bright with chatter and music from the gallery: it was a wedding feast to remember, although, as the higher-ranking guests said, rather pointedly, rather a bit excessive for a man of dubious family, especially when so many of the finest families had gone bankrupt in the late war.

“Yes, marriages should never be made for love,” said his dinner companion, “which hardly lasts a week after the ceremony. They should be made for the advantage of the two families, which is permanent.” The bride, so small, dark haired, and pink cheeked, was cutting up meat for the groom, whose right arm was in a black silk sling.

“I myself would have refused the invitation, if I had not heard that the Sieur de Vieilleville himself was coming.” The guest surveyed the heavy silver on the long tables, the fabulously furnished room, the rare paintings, the gilded paneling, the festoons of garlands hung everywhere, and tightened his nostrils as if he smelled something bad.

“His uncle—these days even the best blood must pay homage to the bankers,” said his companion, spearing a
pomme
dorée
, a spicy meatball gilded with saffron and marigold, on the point of his knife.

“I hear that when the dowry was raised to two hundred thousand crowns, the father gave his blessing.” His table companion paused in the consumption of a pheasant’s wing to wash it down with the wine contained in a heavy silver goblet they shared.

“That, and the favors and titles the king himself is bestowing on the bankers—”

“Biragues, Gondi, where will it stop?”

“Not until the interest on the war debt is paid—and then, of course, there will be the celebration of the weddings that secure the peace—no, these are wicked times, when bankers are made gentlemen faster than maggots turn into flies.”

“Still, you must admit this love match meets the requirements of a proper marriage: d’Estouville repairs his fortunes, and this Montvert fellow is tied even closer to the throne.”

“It’s still obscene. Look how he’s beaming at her. He’s given out that all his heroism at Thionville was inspired by her—how preposterous; she wasn’t even his mistress. How can you wear the colors of a banker’s daughter? Ah, another wedding toast—yes, let’s drink—long life and good fortune!” And with a joyful shout, the guests raised their glasses again.

As the guests jostled into the bedroom, to see the bride and groom bedded and bear witness to the consummation of the marriage, the bride’s mother could be seen conferring with a tall, somewhat mournful faced young lady in deep black.

“Oh, my dear, it will be my greatest happiness to see my Nicolas as well settled as this,” said the older woman. The younger one sighed.

“I don’t see how it can ever be done,” she said.

“Never underestimate my dear Monsieur Montvert’s cleverness,” said the older woman, her voice contented. “With his new connections, he has hope of negotiating a pardon for Nicolas so that he can return. A little money here and there, you know—the peace negotiations go well, and the latest gossip is that there will soon be a royal wedding. Monsieur Montvert’s latest expectation is that there may be a general amnesty declared if the Princess Elisabeth marries the Spanish king. He plans to approach him then. But don’t ever let him know I told you; he does love surprises. And since, well, that—um—well, that little thing in the box seems to no longer be a problem, he no longer has the slightest doubt about the fitness of your marriage. You know, my dear, that my husband has grown to esteem you and your aunt most greatly—”

Those who stood near saw the most amazing transformation of the younger woman’s face. Color returned to her cheeks, and the radiance that surrounded her was almost palpable.

It is part of the sleight of hand of kings that lets a bad peace treaty be disguised with an excellent party. And what a party this one would be: a double wedding, conducted in sequence amidst grand public festivity, in which the king’s daughter would wed the old enemy, the King of Spain, by proxy, and the king’s old-maid sister would be married to the Duke of Savoy. For the grand affair laborers, weavers, painters, carpenters, worked day and night to convert the entire city of Paris into a reception hall. Procession routes were hung with banners, treasures were brought out of storage to ornament the cathedral, and when the lists at the Louvre and even at Les Tournelles were deemed too small for the great crowd of dignitaries and guests, the wide rue St.-Antoine, which ran before the palace of Les Tournelles, was converted into the lists for the wedding tourney. An elaborate grandstand was erected in front of the palace for the great ladies and distinguished guests, and every window with a view on the street reserved and rented out—some even twice, by the more unscrupulous sort of landlord. Day after day of music, masking, public feasting, sport, balls, gifts of liveries, who could not be happy on such a great occasion? And happiest of all were the Italian bankers, who had floated a loan at high interest for all this partying, because the kingdom had been brought to near bankruptcy by the late war with the Empire and peace meant their loans might be repaid.

In the rooms on the rue de la Cerisée, Scipion de Montvert was consuming little cakes from a silver tray and discussing the return on investment on certain little funds that had been entrusted to him by Pauline Tournet.

“Doubled, my dears, doubled. It is an investment I would have made for my own dear mother, were she still alive. The only question is whether you want to reinvest, diversify, or take your profits now.” Several large, expensive new paintings, religious in nature, stared down from the wall behind them. Madame Tournet, in a fit of redecorating brought on by increased prosperity, had added gilded fringes to everything in the room that was not mobile.

“How long do we have, dear Monsieur de Montvert?”

“The ship departs next month, but there is still time to invest in the cargo—I do not advise putting everything into it, however—”

“Yes indeed,” said Aunt Pauline with a shrewd chuckle. “There’s always the risk of pirates.”

“And I’ve a treat for you both—I’ve rented a room exactly opposite the grandstand, with two excellent wide windows. I would be honored if you and your niece would join me and my little family to view the jousting. My new son-in-law will be serving as his uncle’s squire. It’s a great honor, you know.” Montvert looked deeply pleased with himself. “And who knows, Demoiselle Sibille, you may find inspiration for one of your little poetic offerings that are so popular with the court ladies.”

“Why, we’ll be delighted to accept,” said Madame Tournet. “Sibille needs to distract herself from yearning after Nicolas.”

“Be brave, dear, love will find a way. I’ve already made approaches to the king’s maître d’hôtel concerning the possibility of buying him a pardon—but it’s delicate, you understand. And in the meanwhile, he is at last learning a trade. Someday, I hope he will be joining me in business.”

“I’d leave to be with him in a heartbeat, if it were not for the queen,” said Sibille, who had not touched the little cakes. “I would follow him to the ends of the earth barefoot. Couldn’t you help me escape?”

“You can hardly join him if you and all the rest of us are dead. You see, if that odious little thing in the box keeps following you, the only thing that protects you from those who want that box is the queen, and the only thing that protects you from the queen is the box, and her fear that you might wish on it yourself. Let us hope that she never finds out it is too occupied to put into motion any more of its malicious schemes. The moment she knows it’s not working anymore—then you’re in even worse trouble. The best way of hiding her past involvement with the demonic is—well—not healthy for you, I’m afraid. Florentines, my dear, are a vengeful lot, and conceal their secrets well—believe me on that, since I am one myself.”

“What a mind you have, Monsieur de Montvert—it is like a well-oiled clock. You overlook nothing. Won’t you have another cake?” Auntie gestured to the tray.

“Ah, these are delicious,” said Montvert, helping himself to another. “You must have one, my dear, so you won’t wither away. You must keep up the strength of your mind. You are in a delicate position, you know, and only your mind will get you out of it. To think, even I, a blundering father, once misunderstood your ties to the court.” He paused to consume the last cake, then brushed away the crumbs that had fallen on the bosom of his gown. “But delighted as I was to find you both virtuous and of noble lineage, you must admit that the true impediment to your marriage is far more vexing and complex than the ordinary sort. First, you possessed an accursed box; a definite drawback in a daughter-in-law. I feared lest you could never rid yourself of its diabolical influence. Now that you can rid yourself of the box, the fact that you know the queen’s secrets puts you in greater danger than ever. Unless, of course you keep the box, which inspires fear, as well as the most astonishing urge in certain parties to shed themselves of their souls. However, if you keep it, you are in constant danger of being attacked by those who desire the box. A quandary—one more complex than Menander’s, I fear. I find it difficult to imagine a way out, unless you flee somewhere beyond the reach of the queen’s agents, burying the box in some unknown spot en route. But then, are we absolutely sure that it has lost its ability to follow you? A problem, a problem—we must wait for the workings of Fate to show us the way.”

***

“Queen of Spain, yes, Queen of Spain! My dearest wish is being fulfilled, exactly as I desired. ‘All my children thrones,’ I said, and how perfect that she should become queen at exactly the same age that I was sent into France.” Through the days of balls, masques, and festivities that followed the wedding, Catherine de Medici clutched to her, gloated over, and glorified the memory that would forever be engraved in her heart: Elisabeth at the heart of the great cathedral, in a gown stiff with jewels, as the heavy Imperial Crown of Spain was lowered onto her narrow little head. At her side, King Philip’s proxy, the Duke of Alva, with his long, wispy goatee, his lace ruff stiff against his cold, narrow face, and surrounding her, the finest flower of French nobility, lineages so old they were lost in the dust of time, deferring to her little girl, her Elisabeth, as she was proclaimed Queen of Spain. Queen of the greatest empire in history. Queen of two continents, of two worlds, of east and west.
That
to the Duchess of Valentinois and her insults.
That
to years of feigned friendship.
Your
daughter must marry beneath the Princes of the Blood.
My
daughter is made a queen-empress.

“It is fate, Majesty. Thanks to you, the House of Valois is destined to progress from glory to glory.” As a maid pulled tight the laces of Catherine’s corset, Madame Gondi fetched the gold-embroidered petticoats from the locked armoire, and Madame d’Alamanni the jeweled overdress that the queen would wear to the evening’s masque. Tomorrow there would be the last and greatest event before Elisabeth departed for Toledo: the Joust of the Three Queens. And then—and then—Elisabeth would be gone.

“What risks, I have taken, and what cares—and all in secret! It is a sacrifice, you know, a mother’s sacrifice. Already I regret my Elisabeth’s company. She is so clever in her observation, so accomplished for only fourteen. My mainstay, my delight—but queens must live differently from anyone else—” Catherine sighed. Of all her children, it was Elisabeth who was her true companion, her favorite girl. Alone of all of them, she was not marred, not twisted, not simpleminded, but bright eyed and olive skinned, her intelligence quick, her manner tactful but sprightly. What pains she had taken to raise her through a sickly childhood. And what a rare thing, how precious, how worthy was her daughter-treasure! But now they would be queens together. Forever, Elisabeth would sit at Catherine’s right hand when they met, exactly as they would at the Tournament of the Three Queens that would crown the wedding festivities on the morrow. And, secretly, the worm of delight twisted in Catherine’s innards; on her left hand would be the Queen of Scotland, her snippy daughter-in-law, or Queen-Dauphiness, as she was now called. Queen of a shabby half-island, with years to wait, petulant and spoiled, for Catherine’s seat of honor, while
Elisabeth
, her Elisabeth, was Queen of
Spain
, and the greatest Empire of earth. Ah, sit and whisper all you want, Queen Marie, about “tradesman’s daughters,” today—
my
daughter is Queen of
Spain
!

A page in silk livery wandered through the array of ladies, maids, petticoats, and jewel boxes. Eagerly, the queen turned toward the lanky little twelve-year-old, the ungainly scion of a great house, so eagerly, in fact, that the attendant pinning her ruff had great difficulty in avoiding scratching her. “What said the king my husband when I sent him my colors to wear in the joust tomorrow?”

“Your Majesty,” croaked the page, his newly changing voice alternating from low to high out of pure nerves, “His Majesty the king said—he—would be wearing the colors of—the Duchess of Valentinois.”

“Thank you,” said the queen, as cold as ice. Inside her, the joy and glory turned into a stone, a tombstone, heavy and hard. The Duchess of Valentinois, poisoning the very moment of her glory. How much longer, how much, would she have to wait for the fulfillment of her other wish?

***

In the royal stables at Les Tournelles, an army of smiths, stable hands, and boys had been at work from sunup to sundown for the past week. The roar of the lion in the menagerie and the cries of peacocks in the park were mingled with the clang and clatter of horseshoeing and of tournament armor being adjusted, with the cries of servants demanding that others make way as one of the huge, vicious jousting stallions was brought through the stables to his stall. Then there was the braiding, the brushing, the polishing, the trimming, the hoof gilding—all the primping and brushing that make a nobleman’s jousting steed glisten in the sun like polished metal. Carts of oats, boys with buckets of water, saddlers with new bridles glittering with silver trim crossed paths and made way, for the stables were very crowded. Some of the guests had shipped in their own horses for the tourney. All had brought their own equipment, and their men and gear had to be stowed somewhere.

“Will the king be riding Le Victorieux?” a stable hand asked the master of the king’s horse.

“No bays or chestnuts. He will be all in black and white, in honor of the Duchess of Valentinois, and he wants a black horse. The one the Duke of Savoy brought, Le Malheureux. Down there in the last stall. And Le Defiant kept in readiness.”

A boy brought the big Turkish stallion, a gift from the king’s future brother-in-law, from his stall and tied him between two posts. As two stable hands brushed the huge black stallion to a high gloss, the man who had asked the question applied himself to the delicate task of gilding each of the stallion’s immense hoofs. As he worked, he whistled softly to himself. He’d get a good view, the next day, although it was only from the ground.

***

That night, Catherine de Medici, Queen of France, amateur sorceress, dabbler in magic, woke up screaming. It was late, late, and in the shadowy halls of the Louvre, the sputtering torches had burned almost to stubs. One of the archers stationed on the stair landing beneath the queen’s apartments thought he might have heard something, but it could have been a cat, or perhaps some curious night breeze. The queen’s sheets were tangled and sweat-damp, and it seemed to her that she had suddenly fallen from a great height. Terror lurked in the high corners of the brocade canopy of her bed, and in her ears she heard the dusty, metallic laughter of a thing dead and rotted for centuries. In her imagination, the thing was hiding somewhere in the room, somewhere in its box, laughing at her. “Your heart’s wish is granted, great queen. Time will show you the truth,” said the mummified thing, in a voice that rustled like dead leaves. And the vision, the vision that had waked her could not be banished from her mind: her husband, the king, lying stark and dead in a pool of blood, his eye a dreadful bleeding socket, his mouth agape in some last expression of horror and surprise.

“Not this, not this, oh, God, this is not what I wanted,” she said, or whispered, or thought—she could not tell.

“Oh, all this and more,” said the rustling, sinister voice. “I have taken away the influence of Diane de Poitiers, Duchess of Valentinois, forever, just as you wished.”

“What is wrong, Your Majesty?” asked the maid who slept on the truckle bed, wrapping the sheet about her naked body and hurrying to open the heavy bed curtains. Inside, she saw the queen, her face a mask of horror, her eyes staring at something invisible somewhere near the top of the bedposts. What the queen was seeing were letters of fire, which blazed and seared her heart, her entrails:

The young lion will conquer the old in single combat—

Single combat. Not combat in war, but combat against one person. The king jousts tomorrow. Let it not be with a man who bears a lion on his shield. Ah, let it not be. Holy Virgin Mother, forgive me, protect, save—

“Too late,” whispered the thing.

The maid saw that the queen’s lips were moving in prayer. Silently, she closed the bed curtains and withdrew. But she could not sleep any more that night.

***

The day was fine and clear, and joyful crowds crammed every available window and rooftop on the rue St.-Antoine, where the brightly painted barriers for the lists had been set up and freshly strewed dirt raked, thick and even, over the rutted cobblestones beneath. From every turret of Les Tournelles, the ornate palace of the turrets, newly embroidered silk banners fluttered. The ladies’ stand, canopied and hung with tapestry, was brilliant with color, and in the very center, at the place of greatest honor, sat the three queens, each more glittering than the next. Only one person was sour and angry, and he concealed it beneath a mask even deeper than the one with which the pale, round-faced Queen of France concealed her fear. This angry man, who sat in the grandstand reserved for foreign dignitaries and princes of the church, was the English ambassador. He had noticed that every banner, the embroidery on every herald’s sleeve, the arms of the Queen-Dauphiness displayed hanging from the grandstand railing next to the arms of the Queen of France and the arms of the Queen of Spain, in short, every French royal coat of arms on display, had been quartered with the arms of England. No clearer declaration of war to the death between Mary, Catholic Queen of Scots, Dauphiness of France, and Elisabeth, the young Protestant Queen of England could have been made. But to the French, it was all part of the glory of the day. The inevitable triumph of the Catholic alliance was but part of God’s great plan for France. What right had the ambassador of the bastard daughter of a divorced king to complain?