He was christened with pomp and ceremony such as had attended the christening of other members of the royal family. His names were Edward Alexander; but right from the first she called him Henry and he became known by that name.
‘It is because he reminds me so of his father!’ she said.
She tended to him more than she had any of the others and he did much to soothe her. There was less watching through the floor, less spying generally, less mingling with the crowds in the city, than there had ever been before.
Young Henry compensated her in some measure for the pain the older Henry caused her. She adored the child. It was to her he turned; he had cried when Diane took him into her arms. He did not stare wonderingly up into the King’s face, but he clung to his mother.
At last there was a second love in her life, this child who comforted instead of tormented, and who gave something in return for what he took, love for love.
THE DREAM OF NOSTRADAMUS
TWENTY-THREE YEARS of marriage― and her love for her husband had not abated. She was young yet― only thirty-seven― but she was beginning to grow fat; she had produced ten children in the last thirteen years; and she was still so passionately in love with Henry as she had been when a young girl.
Catherine knew― with that unerring instinct of hers― that there would be no more children. This year she had given birth to twins― little Jeanne, who had died a few hours after her birth, and Victoire, who had lived a few months before she followed her twin. But between the births of the twins and the beloved Henry had been born to Catherine two other children. One was Margot, now three years old and as enchanting a child as young Mary Stuart; the other was Hercule, born less than a year after Margot. Catherine could rest from childbearing now. She had lost three children, but she had a goodly brood of seven, and four of them were boys.
She felt that she could congratulate herself on her children, though Francis, the Dauphin, caused both Henry and herself a good deal of anxiety. He had had a bad attack of smallpox, and on finally recovering was even more delicate than he had been before. Short in stature and not always very bright at his lessons, he was completely under the influence of the scheming little Scots Queen. He was thirteen, but looked no more than eleven; she was only fourteen, but she appeared to be quite seventeen. Young Charles, who was six, adored her, jealous because she was to marry his brother; Charles had turned out to be quite a little musician; he liked to play his lute to Mary, and to read verses to her. She was willing to listen, the little coquette, always ready for adulation; and Heaven knew there plenty of that for Mary Stuart at the court of a France. The child’s airs and graces might have been intolerable but for her charm. They often were intolerable to Catherine― who was indifferent to charm, except in her two Henrys― but she bore with the girl, for she had decided that one day Mary Stuart should answer for her sins.
Catherine loved her daughters, Elizabeth and Claude, though mildly, for they were pretty, charming girls. Young Margot, even at three, showed signs of becoming a stronger personality. Lovely to look at, and imperious already, she had easily won the hearts of Diane and her father; she was bolder with her mother than any of the others― except Henry― dared be. Catherine admired her young daughter, but her great love was already given to young Henry.
He was five now, her beloved child― a Medici in every respect. He was entirely hers. She had one great regret regard and that was that he was her third son, and not her first; she would have given much to have made him Dauphin of France. He was delightful; his beautifully shaped hands were her hands; his features were Italian; his eyes were the flashing Medici eyes. He was not, like his brothers, fond of the chase, though he rode well; Catherine had seen to that.
An ardent horsewoman herself, she insisted that all her children should learn how to manage a horse. It was not lack of courage that made him less eager for the chase and outdoor games. He preferred to shine intellectually rather than by physical prowess. His manners were gracious and charming.
Everyone noticed how she loved this child, for, as it had been with her husband, where her love was concerned she threw caution away.
‘The. Queen loves the little Henry as she loves her right eye!’ it was said.
And it was true. When she embraced him, when she listened to his rather lisping, delightful way of speech, when he showed off in his fine new jacket― for he loved his clothes and was more interested in them than were any of the girls in theirs― when he brought his lap dogs for her to caress, she would think to herself: ‘Oh, my beloved son, you are all Medici. Would I could put you on the throne of France.’ h When she thought of the future, she would see him, in her mind’s eye, mounting the throne. Is it truth I see? she would ask herself; and be unable to discover whether what she had seen was a vision of the future or a picture conjured up from her own powerful desires.
‘If only he might be King!’ she would sigh; and then: ‘He shall be King!’
Her longing to see into the future increased, and when she heard reports of a certain prophet, she had him brought to court that she might question him.
This was a black-bearded Jew from Provence, a certain Michel de Nostredame, but he had Latinized his name as did other scholars, and he was known as Nostradamus. He had been a doctor before he discovered his powers, and had studied at Montpellier at the same time as that quick-wit Francis Rabelais.
Catherine told him that she wished him to foretell the future of her children, and for this purpose she had him brought to the royal nurseries; and as the court was at Blois at the time, he lived there in the household of the royal children.
Many were the conversations she had with him. She grew to admire him for his knowledge and to respect him for goodness. He was a clever talker; she enjoyed his company.
He quickly realized that although she had engaged him to foretell the future of her children, it was the future of Henry in which she was most interested. He pointed this out to her and she agreed.
‘Leave the others and get to work on Henry’s future,’ she said.
He did this, and after some weeks he had news for her.
He pledged her to secrecy, for what he had to say he felt to be of great importance. He was a man who hated violence; as a doctor he had faced death many a time in poor towns where he had worked among plague-stricken victims, wrapped in a tarred cloak and wearing a mask to protect him from infection; he was ready to face danger to save life; he loathed having any part in that which might take life.
Catherine met him in his apartment where he did his work.
‘It is of your son Henry I would wish to speak, if it pleases your Majesty.’
Catherine said nothing could please her more.
‘I beg of you, Madame, keep this matter to yourself. I have future. Your son Henry will one day wear the crown.
She was overcome with joy, and promised that she would tell no one what she had heard. But when she was alone she began to think of the lives between.
Henry― beloved husband, whom she adored― was one, and the thought of his being supplanted, even by young Henry, was agony to her. This love for her son was great, but it could not be compared with her love for her husband. Young Henry was but compensation for the loss of greater joys. But, she assured herself, the King is young yet; he is strong and healthy― far more so than any of his children many years before him.
It is not of the King I must think. It is of the future of my darling Henry. Yet there was Francis to come before Charles and Charles before Henry.