At first Catherine refused to believe what she heard. Then she went to her husband. But Prince Henry was evasive. His interest at the moment was far removed from domestic matters. A typical sixteenth-century princeling, he showed his wife all respect and a certain affection, but it was to his mistress, the beautiful Diane de Poitiers, that he gave his full devotion. To the young wife who had given him her whole heart this was bitter humiliation, but she was wise in the ways of her world and did not complain. Now, however, she was thoroughly frightened; second choice she might be, but to be cast off entirely, this was unthinkable.
Catherine marshaled her forces of tact and gentle diplomacy, and then she went to the King. In all history there
First Dreams
23
have been few royal supplications to equal hers as she faced the monarch. She was not beautiful but she possessed that rare quality without which beauty is so much water poured through a sieve: she had charm. Even in her later years her personal magnetism won her many a diplomatic battle. Now, having obtained an audience with the King, she sank in a profound obeisance, fully aware of the pleasure he took in the rustle of brocade, the faint breath of perfume the gesture involved. His voice, his hand gentle upon her shoulder as he bade her rise, were proof enough that she had acted wisely.
"Your Majesty, my liege/' she began, her great eyes searching his, "it has come to me from divers sources that it is Your Majesty's desire since I have failed to bear an heir to this great kingdom that another woman be chosen as wife for my beloved husband and . . ."
"But my dear daughter/' Francis interrupted.
However, Catherine, her lines learned, was determined to finish her speech. ". . . and out of my gratitude to Your Majesty for having accepted me as your daughter-in-law I am resolved not to resist in the slightest degree your royal will but to accept it as God's will also. My one supplication is that I be permitted to serve in the train of my successor."
She paused, flushed and a little breathless, and found the King looking at her with an expression of friendly concern. Tiens, this girl really lias spirit, the expression said, and a fine sense of loyalty as well. This is pleasing, very pleasing. He took her hand. "My dear child/' he said gravely, "we would not have you distress yourself in this fashion. Since God has willed it that you should be the wife of His Highness, we have no wish to make a change, and instead let us pray that in good time God will grant us children to bless your marriage. Now go and do not grieve more."
With becoming humility Catherine backed from the royal presence, but once in her own bedroom, her women dismissed and the door securely locked behind her, she flung herself on the bed and burst into tears of rage. "So," she sobbed, "I've crawled like some craven animal before the King to save my marriage. I, Catherine de Medici, have been told I will do! But one day I swear the world shall know my
strength!" And in her heart the bitterness tightened its coils. Whether or not Catherine was correct in her suspicions has been a question history never has been able to solve satisfactorily. The young Cardinal of Lorraine was tutor to the Dauphin and both he and his brother, the Duke of Guise, were two of the Dauphin's closest friends, somewhat against the wishes of the King who had little use for the House of Guise. Catherine's suspicions were founded largely on the fact that both the Cardinal and his brother were on the friendliest terms with her rival, Diane de Poitiers. What was more reasonable than to believe this wily young trio, the Guises and Diane, between them had convinced Prince Henry that his marriage had been a mistake? Still, a motive seemed lacking unless, indeed, it was that Catherine was of the hated Italian Medicis.
Then as though to compensate her for her years of anxiety, on January 19, 1543, almost ten years after her wedding day, the Dauphiness bore a little son who was destined to become Francis II. The palace rocked with the tumult of rejoicing as bells pealed, and Te Deums drifting out from the chapel made the wintry air sweet.
The Dauphin permitted himself the rare luxury of a smile as he looked down at his young wife and the new baby who would soon be taken from her and put in the care of nurses and governors. "Praise God, Catherine/' he said, and let his fingers for a moment touch the fuzzy little head on her arm, "we have our boy! One day he will be King of France. His people will call him 'the wise/ 'the beloved/ 'the long-awaited/ "
Catherine closed her eyes to shut in tears of frustration. I am his mother, she thought, yet I mean less to you, his father, than the golden falcons lure you wear on the hunt to bring your Urd hack to your wrist. Aloud she said, "I trust you are right, my lord. We can only pray that when his day shall come he will reign as wisely as the great king for whom he is to be named." If only, the thought nagged, they had been peasant man and wife, interested only in each other and in their child instead of being virtual strangers! Fiercely her arm tightened around the baby. In an age of hatred and bigotry and cruelty unbounded he should be hers, all hers. She would see to that.
Francis was two years old, bravely trotting about in his voluminous black velvet gown
