Almost A Queen

Chapter 2

2

I fidget in the room, as always, feeling uncomfortable. In front of me, another “preacher”, whose name I struggle to remember is droning on and on about “atonement” and other lofty concepts that I have heard since childhood. These meetings and prayer nights are a stripped-down version of the Mass that the Catholics attend daily and officially, they are meant to encourage discussion and personal understanding of the word of God. I have never confessed this to anyone, but for me, these meetings are more like being scolded for being a naughty child. The men who run them seem angry and spiteful, and I rarely feel the presence of God during them. Instead, I feel as if I were watching a performance or lecture. After the man designated as the “minister” concludes his sermon, the congregation is encouraged to speak of their sins openly and confess them to one another. I am far from a shy woman, yet the idea of having my privacy violated in front of virtual strangers horrifies me.

The entire experience feels more like an excuse for a gossip session like those that run rampant amongst the lords and ladies of the court, except this is supposedly sanctioned by God. My bit of rebellion is to list demurely some shallow “sin,” such as loving my shoes too much or feeling as if I am unable to return my husband's love that he gives me. This ploy seems to satisfy the overbearing men who run the meetings and for a few moments at least, I am left alone.

Still, I long for an hour of solitude to be alone with my thoughts and for the blessed quiet to hear God's voice, not that of a preacher whose performance is scheduled for a given night. I wonder what it would be like in the hushed halls of a Catholic mass. But of course, as a Protestant princess, I am not allowed to know. I am not allowed to confess even that I am curious to learn. If I were to ask the Queen to allow me to accompany her during Mass, she would leap at the opportunity to bring her dear friend along, but she is wise enough to never put me in the position of “violating” my professed religious beliefs. Without any other options, I am forced to wince as the noise and din around me swirls until the meeting is over.

Condé and I take our places in the massive throne room of the Louvre palace. Navarre and his gentlemen have finally arrived in Paris safely, and to our relief, the formal betrothal will be held as planned. The ceremony demonstrates the tangled web of relations and religious preferences across the country; while the groom is Protestant, his cousin is the very Catholic Cardinal Bourbon, who will conduct the betrothal ceremony and the strange wedding ceremony that is to come. In deference to Navarre, they will be wed on a platform erected outside of Notre Dame Cathedral. After their vows, the new Queen of Navarre will be escorted by her brother the Duc d'Anjou, known as “Monsieur,” who will stand in the groom's place for the Catholic Mass that will follow the ceremony.

I cannot help but flash back to my wedding ceremony a month earlier, as Condé and I were wed in a thoroughly Protestant ceremony in the formidable Chateau Blandy near the village of Melun. Navarre had stood nearby while I was wed and now I would watch as he likewise was united in matrimony. Like the ring on my finger, our marriage had failed to settle upon me, being more of an intrusion than a comfort. I hoped that as time passed, this would no longer be so. I wished the same for Navarre.

The appearance of so many new people in Paris had also meant that the court had been reshuffled in our housing arrangements. My husband and I were allowed to move out of the Louvre and lodge in my sister's home with her husband, the Italian Duc de Nevers. Henriette was the heiress of our family, our elder brother having died a few years earlier, and her husband took her title, but not the management of her finances. Thanks to Henriette's wily use of her financial assets, she was fast becoming one of the most important creditors in France.

Perhaps every new groom is uncomfortable being lodged with his new wife's family, but I sensed that my husband tried little to integrate himself with mine. Henriette and her husband, Louis were devoted Catholics, like our other sister, Catherine and that brought no small amount of scorn from my husband. I would have thought that the idea of having so many fellow Protestant allies in Paris weeks after meeting for our ceremony would make Condé happy, but he seems so dour and determined to be quarrelsome that I doubt anything could make him happy. Even during our shared meals, he took the opportunity to criticize my sister and her studious husband.

“Must we sit here while the two of them continue crossing themselves?”

“Husband, it's simply in thanksgiving of their food. We should all be grateful for the bounty of God's providence,” I quoted a minister's lecture from a few weeks earlier, hoping that he would use the parallel to find some common ground with Louis and my sister.

“It's idolatry,” he sneered, poking at his fish.

“Making the sign of the cross is not creating an idol. We all revere the cross as the instrument of our Lord's t*****e and resurrection. Surely we can all agree on that?”

“I will be glad when this spectacle is over and we can get back to our regular lives.”

“And back to our rooms at the palace?”

He shrugged, “As far away from Paris as we can get.”

My husband's sulky attitude notwithstanding, we all felt the uneasiness surrounding the two factions stuffed into Paris that hot August. The stifling heat, bereft of any rain or wind to bring us relief, and the overcrowded streets turned the city into a tinderbox. I waited on Queen Elisabeth as best I could, but the crowds and our continual obligations to attend banquets, fetes, masquerades and dinners meant that I rarely had time to speak with her. I had hoped to be with her when her child came and like me, she had hoped to go into confinement in quiet.

The Queen's quiet descent into confinement was not to be; her sister-in-law's marriage demanded her attendance and despite their different natures, the two women were close friends. No matter how many demands pregnancy or decorum placed on her body, Elisabeth was determined to attend as many events surrounding her Margot's marriage as possible.

As I had suspected, the wedding ceremony was odd, to say the least. The platform gave the half-Protestant half-Catholic wedding a cobbled and confusing flair, and the fact that it was held outside meant that the atmosphere was more like an open market than a solemn rite. We held our breath as the vows were said, Navarre readily agreeing to the marriage and Margot holding her tongue. The King in his anger pushed her head forward, forcing her to give her assent to the marriage. In a typical wedding, this would have been suspect, but this was far from typical. Rumors abounded that Catherine had resorted to trickery and bribes to attain the dispensation from Rome for the close cousins to marry and few, if any of us, had seen the supposed letter from the church.

At last, the Cardinal Bourbon pronounced his kinsman and the Princess of France man and wife, and Navarre stepped aside to allow his new wife to celebrate the marriage mass. Dressed even more splendidly than the bride, the Duc d'Anjou led his sister into the cathedral and out of propriety, we Protestants in the assembly waited outside until the mass was over.

“Let the pompous boy take her inside. That's half an hour that I won't have to spend looking at him.” My husband mumbled in my ear and I turned to glare at him.

“This is hardly the time to resurrect old quarrels.”

He looked at the Duc de Guise, whose eyes were on Margot instead of my sister, his wedded wife. “Tell that to Guise.”

After the ceremony, we all sighed a sigh of relief that the feared violence that could stop the wedding from happening had not occurred. The streets of Paris stayed blissfully quiet through the following evening. Perhaps the Protestants were silly to worry that they were in danger.