Loading ...Okay, I should just call it “Story whenever I get around to it.” But I like the parallelism of continuing to label these stories “Story a Day.” Here is a slightly revisionist take on a bit of French history.
Does Your Mother Know
A cry of agony echoed through the bedchamber of Charles IX.
His attendants quickly responded, but there seemed to be no physical location to his pain. It was vague and all encompassing. A complete mystery to everyone there.
“What is it, my Lord?” asked his nurse. “How may we ease your suffering?”
Charles looked at her as if she had slapped him in the face. For a moment, she feared for her life. Ever since St Bartholomew’s Day two years ago, her Lord had become more and more mentally unstable. She and all the courtiers genuinely feared for their lives. But his ill looked passed as quickly as it came, and his nurse breathed a sigh of relief. Thankful for her reprieve, she quickly issued a grateful prayer to the one, true Catholic God.
Charles turned to his attendants. They felt helpless before him. He looked upon them with what might have been regret, or disappointment, or anger, so quickly and confusingly did his emotions turn. Languishing in his bed, he declared, “I die! I am dying! I am not long for this wicked world!”
There were some there who suspected him of being overly dramatic, but Charles IX, King of France, was, in fact, dying. And at only 23 years old. He had followed his father and brother to the throne, and now he, like his brother, was going to depart with no issue.
One of his attendants asked, “Shall we call for your brother-in-law?”
Charles looked at him with murder in his eyes. He picked up a cup from beside the bed and threw it at the man. “I am not dead yet! I am still your king!”
His main advisor coughed lightly to calm the king and said softly, “My Lord, we only think of . . .”
“The succession?” Charles spat. “I know that’s what you are thinking of! It is all you ever think of! It is all France thinks of! Like my brother before me, I have fathered no sons, and now you hover over my body before it is even in the ground and demand to know who will succeed me. The succession will follow strict Salic law. The crown will go to my younger brother, Henri Duke of Anjou and King of Poland. Upon my death, he will become Henri III, King of France. The crown will never go to Henri of Navarre! We have worked for too long and too hard to have that Bourbon filth sitting on my throne. My brother will be king. Navarre can rot in his own kingdom. His protestant hands will never touch my crown! Never!”
His advisor knew that strict Salic law proscribed this, but there were reasons that some preferred Henri of Navarre to Charles’ brother Henri Valois on the throne. Not the least of which was that Valois was becoming something of a religious fanatic, taken to flagellation and flagrant spectacles of holy subordination. And, if the rumours were true, and the advisor knew them to be so, Valois’ conquests among the men of the court were numerous, and he had little interest in the women. This did not bode well for a long Valois line. But, most importantly, thinking he would never inherit the French crown, Henri Valois had been put forth as a candidate for the King of Poland, and he had been duly elected. It was unlikely Poland would allow him to leave to come back to France.
The advisor gently reminded Charles of this fact. “But your brother is king of Poland. Surely he cannot be both their king and ours.”
Charles considered this. “There is always le petit Monsieur, François, Duke of Alençon my youngest brother. He will get my throne before Navarre does.”
The advisor was becoming tired of this train of conversation. He deftly redirected it. “My apologies my Lord, but I am afraid I have been the cause of some unfortunate misunderstanding. We did not speak of the succession. It is without doubt that Salic law will be followed on the unhappy occurrence of your ascension into Heaven. Instead, when I spoke of Henri of Navarre, I was simply trying to follow your wishes. If you remember, you, yourself, have called Navarre to your side. He is awaiting permission to enter your chamber.”
Charles seemed confused. His thin, weak, and bloody body sank deeper into his bedclothes. “Yes, Navarre. I will speak to him. But not yet. Not, yet. I have to . . .”
Charles drifted off, not finishing his thought. The courtiers leaned in expectantly awaiting his next proclamation and Charles began to cough up blood with a violence that surprised them all. Everyone drew back in order not to get splattered, but they tried to look as if they were not recoiling in horror from their king. It was a difficult balancing act.
When the spasm had passed, Charles said mournfully, “I will be dead soon.”
Those in the room did not know what to say to him. They dared not contradict him, but they also dared not look as if they were eager for his death. His trusted advisor took a middle ground, turning the conversation once more.
He said softly, “There are others who await an audience with your royal highness. Your brother, Alençon for one.” He paused for a moment and then said even more quietly, “And your mother eagerly awaits word of your condition. Have you spoken to her?”
Charles thrust his body forth in a fit of rage. “That whore! She has led us to ruin! She can be kept in shameful ignorance of all things! She can rot for all I care!”
His advisor drew a sigh, and said, “Henri is in Poland. Alençon cannot be crowned in his stead according to Salic law. If my Lord is truly dying, and we all pray to our one Catholic God that you are not, then we need to take certain . . . precautions. We need to have a legitimate regent in place. Naturally, that person should be your mother. Unless you want the throne to pass to your brother-in-law, Henri of Navarre. Of course, Navarre as king would not be all bad. After all, Valois blood would still be on the throne since he is married to your sister, Maguerite. Not ideal, but not entirely unsuitable, surely. So I ask you again, my Lord. Have you spoken to your mother? Does she know that your end is near?”
But Charles did not follow his advisor to the end of his argument. He had stopped listening at the mention of Marguerite, Charles’ sister and Navarre’s wife. “Marguerite is worse than a whore.” He spat.
His advisor smiled inwardly. That was exactly the reaction he had hoped to bring forth. “On that, you and your mother are in complete agreement. Perhaps you can at least share your distaste for her once more before you pass on to the next realm?”
Charles looked at his advisor and a smile came to his lips. In spite of their current differences, he and his mother had some very good times together. And one of the best times had occurred when they discovered that Charles’ sister Marguerite was sleeping with that traitorous Henri of Guise. Charles and his mother had dragged Marguerite out of her bed and proceeded to beat her, tear her clothes, and pull her hair out in chunks as punishment for her association with Guise. For Charles, it had been an imminently fulfilling and completely familial moment.
He had never felt quite as close to his mother as he did that day. So often, his mother was the true power of France. So often she had the upper hand. In the beginning, it was that way out of necessity – after all, Charles had ascended the throne at only nine years old. But even when he declared his majority, his mother never truly gave up her power.
But in that moment, beating his sister, he and his mother were acting as one. She was not above him. It was one of the few times that he truly felt like King of France.
“Thank you,” Charles smiled. “That is such a good memory. In fact, because of that memory, you may bring that devil woman in to my chamber so that I may gloat as I die.”
His advisor nodded and said, “As you wish, my liege.”
He turned to leave and Charles said, “And bring Navarre and Alençon , as well.”
His advisor he quickly left the room before Charles could change his mind. He would go and get Charles’ mother, Catherine de Medici.
No matter what else she was, Catherine was a practical woman. She knew she had to reconcile with her son if only to keep France Catholic, but she was finding it exceedingly difficult to do so because her access to him had been severely forestalled. Charles wanted nothing to do with her. Ever since the murder of Coligny, ever since St. Bartholomew’s Day two short years ago, she had been systematically kept from the seat of power.
St. Bartholomew’s Day had started so well. She had managed to force her daughter Marguerite to marry that protestant filth Henri of Navarre. As unlikely as it was, Catherine had to make sure that her blood was on the throne if her sons died. Salic law prevented any woman from ever ruling France. Marguerite could therefore only be Queen if she married a future king. After her two remaining sons, Navarre was next in line for the throne. Catherine had even forced Navarre to convert to Catholicism in order to marry his daughter. Of course, it was also to save his own neck upon the threat of death. And she had laughed when he had done given up his Huguenot protestant faith simply to stay alive.
Everything was going according to plan.
But her fool son ruined everything. He practically worshipped Gaspard de Coligny, the Huguenot military leader. Catherine could see that gradually Coligny was gaining more influence over her son than she was. For this, Coligny had to die. Given the volatile religious environment in France, the pretext for Coligny’s death was easy enough to arrange. She manipulated Charles into forfeiting Coligny’s life, and also, by association, the lives of his Huguenot followers. No one, however, had counted on the absolute hatred the Catholics of France held for the Huguenots. Things quickly got out of hand, and before it was over, the streets of France flowed with the blood of over 10,000 murdered protestants. Not everyone thought the Massacre a bad thing. In fact, the Pope declared it a glorious holiday and celebrated their deaths every since. But for Charles, it was the last straw. He had been manipulated by his mother, and he had lost not only Coligny, but also, as he reckoned, his very soul with the death of all those innocents. From that moment on, he had as little to do with his mother as possible.
And from that moment on, he slowly started to lose his mind.
It was less than two short years ago, but to Catherine it seemed one thousand lifetimes.
She had to do what she could to make it right. And here, within her grasp was her chance. Her first son, Francis II had died at 15 after spending little more than a year on the throne. And now her next oldest son Charles was on his last legs. When that pathetic Charles died, then Henri, her favorite son, her chers yeux, would finally ascend. He could leave that dreadful Poland and rule France as he was meant to! He wasn’t sickly like his brothers. He would make a fine king, the greatest that France had ever known!
First thing was first, however. She had to get on Charles’ good side, to enshrine herself as regent, and to bring Henri Valois home.
When the advisor came to her she knew that the tide was turning her way. “He called for me, didn’t he?” she asked with a small gloat in her voice.
The advisor said, “He calls for you to put you in your place, Madame. I thought it only fair to warn you.”
Catherine sighed. “He was always the weakest of my children. Why doesn’t he just go ahead and die?”
The advisor asked, “Without his establishing you as regent?”
Catherine said, “I’ve been through a change of regal power twice before, when I put my son Francis on the throne and when I put Charles there. Both times I came out on top. I can do it again.”
The advisor nodded, “I have no doubt, but it would be so much easier to do with an air of legitimacy, don’t you think? For your son Henri’s sake if for no one else’s.”
Catherine sighed and nodded her head. “For Henri’s sake!” She said. Her strong, virile, brilliant Henri. He would surely issue forth as many children as she had and the Valois would rule France for all time!
“Yes,” she finally said, “Let us go see my son.”
Her advisor paused and said, “He requires Alençon and Navarre as well.”
Catherine was furious. She wanted to attend her son alone, but knew better than to defy his wishes. Not letting on how she truly felt, she simply smiled, “Of course, we will get them on the way.
They gathered together the Duke of Alençon and the King of Navarre and they rushed to Charles’ chamber.
When they entered, Charles looked near death. But upon seeing his mother, he sat upright in bed. He looked confused and then he asked quietly, “Is my brother here?”
Alençon said, “I am here, my Lord.”
Charles looked at Alençon as if he did not know him. Then recognition flooded across his face. “I do not speak of you, I speak of my true brother, Henri of Navarre.”
This caught everyone off guard. Alençon flushed with rage and embarrassment, but said nothing. He simply stepped back, once more out of the limelight. Navarre looked to Alençon apologetically. He did not know what this was about. Charles had shown him no love in recent time. In fact, Charles had imprisoned both Navarre and Alençon not long ago. But given Charles’ state, everyone felt it not best to contradict him.
Navarre approached the bed. Charles leaned forward and gripped him tightly. Weeping he said, “Brother, you are losing a good friend. Had I believed all that I was told, you would not be alive. But I always loved you…I trust you alone to look after my wife and daughter. Pray God for me. Farewell.”
Navarre said warily, “Of course.”
Charles gripped him tighter and said almost in a whisper, “There are things I must tell you. Things I must confess.”
Navarre had no wish to be Charles’ confessor and said, “It is not necessary. I can call your priest.”
Charles shook his head, “There is something that I must . . .”
Catherine did not like where this was going and quickly interjected, “My Lord, please do not. . .”
Charles pushed Navarre away from him and looked at his mother as if he could kill her. Navarre quietly moved to the edge of the room, not wanting to get in between Charles and his mother.
With a forceful rage, Charles commanded, “Do not interrupt your king, whore!”
Catherine did not recoil in the slightest at the insult. She simply bowed and said, “My Lord.”
“Your lord?” Charles demanded. “Your lord? When was I ever your lord? You have ruled France in my stead my whole life! I am glad that I die so I can be rid of you!”
“Your untimely death will bring me nothing but sadness, however you may feel about your poor wretched mother,” Catherine said, her head still bowed.
“Liar!” Charles yelled. “You filthy murdering pig! All those deaths! Ten thousand people! Ten thousand people of France. And you did it!”
Catherine’s composure began to break somewhat. This old argument was vexing her. “My Lord must remember that it was he who commanded, ‘Then kill them all! Kill them all!’ when asked what to do with the Huguenots.”
“I commanded that at your insistence!”
Catherine stood up and faced him. “Are you so weak a king that you would let your mother, a mere woman, rule in your stead? If that is true, and I know it is not, then you should be ashamed. I no more caused those deaths than the Pope himself. The orders came from your mouth. On your shoulders lay the glory of what happened on St. Bartholomew’s day! It is you who have caused this to come to pass.”
“Who but you is the cause of all of this? God’s blood, you are the cause of it all!” Charles snarled at her.
Catherine’s eyes became rigid slits of contempt. “If that is how you feel, then I have a lunatic for a son,” she said quietly and evenly.
“Do not!” Charles clammered, pointing at his mother. “Do not dare to insult your king!”
Catherine snapped, “Do not dare to insult your kingdom! I offered friendship to those traitorous Huguenots. No one was more welcoming than I, but they plotted, they attempted to murder us, and we had to do what was right! Their blood running through the streets of France was good in God’s eyes! Do not ever forget that, Charles Valois! Quit your contemptible self-chastisement. It is unbecoming of your majesty, of your office! You will always be remembered as the righteous Catholic king who wiped the blight of the Huguenots from the face of this divine country! Rejoice in your accomplishment! Do not insult yourself, do not insult me, and do not insult your subjects by wallowing in this pitiful pathetic self-loathing!”
Charles snapped back as if struck, his withered body sinking once more into his bedclothes. He pulled at his hair and shouted to everyone and no one at once “What bloodshed! What murders! What evil council I have followed! O my God, forgive me…I am lost! I am lost!”
The attendants in the room shifted uncomfortably.
Catherine approached his bed, “Then be lost,” she whispered. “But do not let France suffer for your weakness.”
Charles shrank back from her side. Catherine simply leaned in closer.
“Appoint me regent, Charles, and I will see that your name is honored forever,” she whispered so that none but he could hear. “Remember, you are not long for this world, and I shall outlive you. What is the legacy you want me to leave behind, the glorious slayer of Huguenots, or the ineffectual boy king who cried at his own coronation?”
“You attempt blackmail even now,” Charles said incredulously. “Plotting, always plotting. You have suckled at Machiavelli’s teat, mother,”
She smiled, “And you’ve suckled at mine. So I ask again, what will your legacy be?”
Charles looked at his mother, trying to decide what to do. She frightened him. And he was dying. She would get what she wanted no matter what. She was, however, giving him a choice. If he agreed, he would once more be seen as little more than Catherine’s servant. If he disagreed, however, she would still get her way, in a forgery no doubt, after his death. And she would be free to malign his memory.
Better to be seen to have some control. Better to let it seem to be his idea.
Charles sat up and said loudly so that all could hear, “Mother, with death so near, I cannot bare to think of our fighting. You, as always, are our honored mother. Upon the moment of my death, I wish to appoint you regent until that time that Henri can return to France from Poland.”
A smile slid across Catherine’s face. Her smile was far more frightening than her look of contempt could ever be. She placed her gloved hand on his face and said, “Your actions please your God. And they please me.”
In spite of himself, Charles was touched. The soft touch of his mother’s hand brought warmth to his face. It was as if her touch were an unexpectedly healing one. Slowly, the warmth radiated out from her palm.
Suddenly, Charles’ breathing became haggard. This was it. He was going to die. Now. Of all times. Right when his mother had finally reached out to him.
With her hand.
Her gloved hand.
Charles’ eyes drew wide. How could he have been such a fool? He knew Catherine’s ways. She had disposed of more than one enemy by offering them her gloved hand. Her glove, of course, having been dipped in poison before it was offered. And now she offered it to him.
He tried to speak and she smiled, putting a finger over his lips.
“Don’t speak, my son,” she said so that all could hear. “Save your strength. You just may recover and all of this would have been for naught. It is my hope not to be your regent. For it is my deepest wish to see you well and to see your reign last a very long time.”
Shocked to be killed by his own mother, Charles tried to protest. But his breathing became even more ragged. He croaked, “Oh, my mother . . .”
And then he died.
Of course, no one knew that Catherine had killed him. As far as they knew, they had witnessed a dramatic last minute reconciliation between mother and son. They were truly touched at the apparent tenderness of the moment.
Just as Catherine knew they would be. She cried out, “Oh, my son!” for dramatic effect, never mind he was actually about to accuse her of regicide. She cried on her son’s corpse for what seemed like the appropriate amount of time, and then slowly stood up, only to collapse on the advisor as if overcome with emotion. The advisor played his part, tutting softly and moving slowly to take her from the room.
Just as they reached the door, Catherine looked back at the body of her son and broke down again. Navarre and Alençon took this opportunity to rush to her side, to offer comfort to a grieving mother. And to offer an excuse to leave the chamber of the dead king, leaving behind the coterie of courtiers, who now became mourners.
When they had cleared the room and closed the doors behind them, Catherine’s transformation was as abrupt as it was dramatic. Gone immediately was the grieving mother. She turned to the advisor and gave him a letter. It was to her son Henri, and read, in part, “I am grief-stricken to have witnessed such a scene and the love which your brother the king showed me at the end … My only consolation is to see you here soon, as your kingdom requires, and in good health, for if I were to lose you, I would have myself buried alive with you.” No one remarked upon its preparedness.
She ordered him, “Depart with all haste and free Henri from that pitiful kingdom. He will come to rule France as he was born to!”
Her advisor bowed and said, “At once, Madame.”
She then turned to Navarre and Alençon. She said, “We will say it was your idea that I be appointed regent. Is that clear?”
They both nodded quickly. They alone of the people in the room suspected what had caused Charles IX to breathe his last.
Catherine then said, “Then begone, both of you.”
They quickly made their exit.
As they departed, Catherine looked to her glorious future. She had suffered much in her life. Both her parents had died when she was only weeks old. She had lost her husband to that whore Diane Poitiers. And she had lost both her first and second son to the weaknesses of their bodies. But finally, the best of her children was coming home. To France. To her!
And what a son he was! Henri was young. And handsome. Catherine knew that it would be no problem for him to produce heirs. The rumours about him simply could not be true. She and he would rule together. With Henri and Catherine at the helm, France would become the greatest country the world had ever seen! And with the help of her favorite son, she had just ensured there would always be a Valois to lead her!
Buy me a beer!
If you enjoyed this article please with your favourite bookmarking tool, or donate to assist with site maintenence and to keep tarot readings free. Thanks!
Email this post to a friend
330 Views
Recently:
- Story a Day: Elephant Bones
- Story a Day: Does Your Mother Know
- Story a Day: Eight Summers In Addis Ababa
- Story a Day: A Simple Question
- Story a Day: Arsenal of Flavor
- Story a Day: The Cardboard Doll
- Story a Day: Beggars Would Ride
- Story a Day: Born Into Light
- Story a Day: Deep Fried Moose
- Story A Day: Roscoe Falls Reflections
For those who do not know, Catherine was ultimately cut out of Henri’s government, and he also died without issue. In addition Alencon died (in disgrace) before Henri did.
Out of her 5 male children, one died in infancy and the other four had no male heirs. The Valois line died out, and France entered into what some thought of as a golden Age under Henri of Navarre, the first Bourbon king.
And just to top it off, Henri Bourbon divorced Marguerite (or Queen Margot, as she is known) and although he had heirs, none came from her.
And, by the way, there is absolutely no indication that Catherine killed her son, even though he did accuse her of causing the Massacre and she did call him a lunatic.
His dying words were supposedly “Oh, my mother.” And it was those dying words which caused me to write this story.
And, despite the rumours, there is little evidence that Catherine de Medici ever killed her enemies with poison gloves.
Another awesome story Prev. Keep’em coming!