But Catherine s nursery was full; her fears regarding the succession were allayed; henceforth her ambitions would be centered in her children. Of them all, Elizabeth was unquestionably the favorite of both parents—lovely Elizabeth of Valois,
Chapter 2 ELIZABETH
THE beautiful palace at Fontainebleau was new. Standing in its whispering miles of forest it looked even in its pristine freshness like the hidden retreat of a fairy princess. And it was to Fontainebleau that the Dauphiness, Catherine, came for the birth of her second child.
It was spring, April, 1545, and the French countryside was at its loveliest. Plum, apple and chestnut trees were in bloom; larks tumbled in shrill delight across the cloudless sky; hidden waterways bubbled along through the delicate new grass.
The journey north from Blois was not long and the cortege winding along through the sunshine seemed in a holiday picnic mood. Ladies and gentlemen of Catherine's household cantered or laughingly held their mettlesome mounts in check, exchanging quips; heavy travel wagons carrying chests and hampers of clothing and the royal layette rumbled along behind, leather suspension springs creaking,
The Dauphiness herself reclined in a litter curtained and lined in cloth of gold and borne by two palfreys, each led by a gentleman usher whose place was alternated with another as the journey progressed. For all its sumptuous beauty the litter must have been an uncomfortable vehicle as it swung and bumped along. But Catherine had traveled in litters all her life and did not mind. She laughed and chatted with her ladies, sang snatches of a song. Here for a while she could forget Diane de Poitiers.
Two weeks later the little girl who was born at Fontaine-bleau seemed to have absorbed within her tiny body all the shining friendliness of the spring. In her great dark eyes and in the black ringlets covering the baby head one glimpsed the Italian endowment of her maternal kinswomen. Whether in her cradle or out she seldom cried, gurgling, smiling happily, bringing two dimples into play with unconscious skill whenever a jeweled finger was waggled in her direction or a propitiating voice cooed honeyed nothings to her. Elizabeth seemed to enjoy them all
''She'll die young, poor bird/' her Italian wet nurse observed darkly. "Such angelic behavior is not meant for this world. You'll see." She made the sign of the cross above the sleeping baby, shaking her head.
But none of these dire predictions impressed Catherine. Francis, aye, one day he'd be the Dauphin and then, by God's grace, King (so she dreamed, her relentless will upon future covenants), but Elizabeth, that sweet, faultless gem of perfection, ah. ... The mother's smile was unusually tender. Elizabeth should rise to such heights of grandeur as
no woman of the Valois or even the Medici family ever had known. All her life through Catherine de Medici would use her children as so many puppets manipulated by the strings of her will on the stage of international politics. For Elizabeth already she envisioned a major role in a setting of matchless splendor.
She was a child of good omen, said her grandfather, Francis I, for hadn't a most satisfactory peace treaty been concluded between England and France the very week of her birth? And wasn't she but two weeks old when ambassadors arrived from Henry VIII confirming under oath the terms of the newly consummated treaty? And best of all, hadn't His Most Christian Majesty, the English king, jubilantly consented to be the little girl's godfather? Propitious signs, all of these.
The christening took place in early June. In the center of the grim, imposing Cour du Donjon at Fontainebleau a platform had been built, above it a canopy of blue silk bespangled with golden stars. Below and around the platform were displayed jeweled cups fashioned by Benvenuto Cellini; ivory carvings, cups and shields and exquisite devices which had been Charlemagne's; gold plate, carvings in the most elaborate design, all set out for the enjoyment of the visitors from England.
A gallery had been erected for the procession of the christening party leading from the royal apartments to the chapel, and this was hung with heraldic banners bearing alternately the arms and devices of the Houses of Valois and Tudor. A dramatic setting this, heavy with the weight of dynastic
wealth, bleak, for all its color, with the sinister, all-pervading presence of intrigue, a composite of the cruel, dazzling era in which Elizabeth of Valois was born. It was an imposing company that wound through that long gallery honoring the baby girl about to be christened. First came two hundred gentlemen of the King s household, defenders of the little princess, bearing their battle-axes; then came heralds, princes and nobles, and finally Lord Cheney, representative of Henry VIII, carrying the baby.
Did she grow a bit weary, smothered as she was that warm summer day in the folds of a christening robe so heavy and cumbersome that four nobles were required to carry its train? Did she cry in sheer fury and discomfort? Did she just for an hour forget to be angelic? We do not know, though probably she did, her small bleating complaints lost in the trumpet blasts and the thunder of cannons with which her name was greeted.
Long after Elizabeth was
