Catherine found herself in a position calling for much tact. The Guises were definitely in command, put there by their own stealth and daring, and the King, willy-nilly, as their niece's husband, must side with them. So that it should not appear that in so doing he was siding against his mother, which would have been wholly illogical and therefore suspect, Catherine apparently joined them. What bitterness and hate were in her heart they may have guessed, but outwardly at least there was peace.
This astounding woman was accustomed to waiting a long time for vengeance which she felt was hers. With deep satisfaction she must have thought of the courtiers who had scorned her as "the Italian woman/' when she came to France as a bride twenty-six years earlier; now they paid homage to her as the mother of a king, a queen, and a duchess. Patiently she had waited through the years while Diane de Poitiers held first place in the affections of Henry. Now, quietly, knowing exactly what searing grief she was causing, Catherine appropriated the fabulous jewels and the magnificent chateau of Chenonceaux which Henry had
given Diane across the years of their association. Diane, an aging woman, was retired to a small estate in Normandy, stripped of everything which had made her one of the most glamorous women in history. This, too, Catherine found deeply satisfying.
She would wait for the Guises to overreach their limits in audacity, as she was sure they would eventually with the young King. She was an excellent waiter for the things she wanted. She would wait fifteen years to avenge the death of Henry II, her husband. For the moment she apparently was quite content to let young Captain Montgomery go free following Henry's courtly exoneration. The Captain became a soldier of fortune and was captured by the French Catholics when he led a Huguenot force in battle. Brought before Catherine, having been promised amnesty, he was beheaded at her command—and in her presence.
Elizabeth meanwhile was torn between grief over the death of the father whom she loved, and relief at the delay her brother's coronation was causing in her departure for Spain.
"Stay, please stay, little sister/' Francis coaxed the day before the coronation. "I do not want this crown they are giving me. Stay! Mayhap we can be children again. I like not the terrors at Amboise, nor do you. But my uncles, the Guises, say the country must be purged of all heresy—and I am afraid."
Afraid he might well have been, poor sick lad. The country was torn by religious civil war and, like all adventurers bent on making the best possible impression on the outside
world, the Guises were heading the most ultra-conservative, orthodox party of the Catholics against the Huguenots. In Amboise, a Huguenot stronghold, they were merciless as they tried to wipe out the Huguenot "heretics." Francis, still worn after the long solemn coronation rites at Rheims Cathedral, could only ask plaintively, "Sister, why do my subjects hate me so? What have I done that is wrong? I have obeyed my uncles in all things, which I know is right, but still something I do must be ill-chosen or I would not be so despised. What is it?"
The sick boy did not know that each death sentence was prefaced with the sovereign preamble: "In the name of His Christian Majesty, Francis . . ." and that thus he stood accused of perpetrating the very horrors from which he turned in loathing.
History has little to say about Mary Stuart's attitude toward the hideous carnival of death being celebrated at Amboise. She was a Guise with the practical outlook and iron nerves of her family, so she probably took it all calmly while trying to convince her husband that he was being very silly, indeed. As for Catherine, without any religious scruples, hoping that time would do what men's conflicting ambitions never could: bring peace, and that Catholic and Huguenot alike might each worship as he chose, Catherine did nothing. So much bloodshed she felt was in questionable taste.
Philip was growing impatient to have his bride at his side. He had returned from Holland, was now in Spain, and in August dispatched his closest friend, Ruy Gomez, Count of Melito, to Paris to notify Elizabeth of his return. By the Count he sent rare jewels that had been his mother's. With them came not one but a series of love letters which were a combination of stiff ceremonious discourses and ardent declarations of love to the beautiful girl whose portrait had captivated him.
Far from being reassured, Elizabeth found her terror growing. The gifts, the letters, all seemed to pre-establish his claim upon her, forerunner of the grim subjection she dreaded in the days to come. Adding to her panic were the
daily, almost hourly admonitions of the Spanish ambassador, Thomas Perrenot de Chantonnay, a shrewd, rather unpleasant individual who seemed to be everywhere, listening, interrupting, and quite obviously making notes of her every move. But at last the days of waiting ended. Francis was crowned, the Court returned to Amboise, and the date for Elizabeth's departure was set: November 17th. Antoine of Bourbon, King of Navarre, a distant relative, would accompany her as representing her family.
King Philip had insisted upon appointing or sanctioning the appointment of all members of Elizabeth's household. Then how is that historical fact reconciled with the other equally authentic one about the tremendous size of the retinue Catherine formed for the young Queen? Especially is this interesting as Philip's dislike of foreigners was well-known and the entire entourage was French. Catherine must have been very sure of herself. Did Elizabeth, dreading the
