A FATAL JOUST.
It is the wedding-day of the two princesses, Elizabeth and Marguerite;
the first a daughter, the latter a sister, of Henry II. A tournament is
to be held in the Rue Saint-Antoine, near the Palace des Tournelles, so
called from its many towers.[7]
King Henry and the elder princes, his sons, are to ride in the lists and
to break a lance freely with all comers. Queen Catherine and the
brides--Elizabeth, the very youthful wife of the morose Philip II. of
Spain, lately husband of Mary Tudor, known as Bloody Mary, now deceased;
Marguerite, wife of the Duke of Savoy, and Marguerite de Valois, second
daughter of Catherine, then but a child--are seated in the centre of an
open dais covered with damascened silk, and ornamented with feathers,
tassels and gaudy streamers, which flutter in the summer breeze. Behind
them are ranged the greatest ladies of the Court, among whom Diane de
Poitiers, now Duchesse de Valentinois, occupies the place of honour. The
ladies in waiting on the Queen and the great officers of state are
ranged at the back.
It is a lovely morning in the month of July. The summer sun lights up
the gay dresses and fair faces of the Court into a glowing parterre of
bright colours. At a signal from Queen Catherine bands of wind
instruments burst into martial music; the combatants enter the arena and
divide themselves into different squadrons. First rides the King at the
head of his knights. His appearance is the signal for all to rise, as
much out of respect to him as the better to observe his chivalrous
bearing and magnificent accoutrements. He wears a suit of armour in
which gold is the chief metal. His sword-handle and dagger are set with
jewels, and from his shield and lance fly streamers of black and
white--the colours of Diane de Poitiers. He rides a Spanish barb,
caparisoned with crimson velvet, that tosses his head and curvets
proudly, as if conscious of its royal burden. Three times the King
passes round the list within the barriers, preceded by pages and
esquires bearing shields bound with ribbons, on which are engraven, in
letters of gold or of gems, the initials of their masters’ ladye-loves.
The King is followed by squadrons of knights. All range themselves near
the open dais occupied by the queens and the princesses.
A herald in a parti-coloured dress advances into the centre of the open
space, and to the sound of trumpet proclaims that the lists are open.
The barriers are then lowered by the pages and the esquires, and the
tilting begins.
Catherine looks on with a troubled countenance. Her eyes incessantly
follow the King and watch his every movement. As knight after knight is
unhorsed and rolls in the dust, and loud cries and shouts of laughter
rise at each discomfiture above the tumult of the fight, the anxious
expression on her face never changes. Now and then, when the King,
excited by the mimic warfare, deals and receives hard blows and vigorous
lance thrusts, Catherine visibly trembles. Like the wife of Pilate, “she
has suffered much because of a dream concerning him”--a dream that has
shown him to her, disfigured and dabbled with blood, lying dead in a
strange chamber.
In the early morning she had implored the King not to enter the lists,
but Henry had laughed and had ridden forth wearing the colours of her
rival.
Now the long day is drawing to a close; the sun is low on the horizon
and the tournament is over. The King, who has fought like the son of
Francis I., and broken the lances of the Ducs de Ferrara, Guise, and
Nemours, has retired from the lists into his tent to unarm. The young
princes have dismounted and ascended into the dais beside their mother
and the brides. Catherine breathes again; the King is safe--her dream
but the coinage of her brain! But hark! the faint sound of a trumpet is
heard, proceeding from the extremity of the long street of
Saint-Antoine. The Queen grows pale and bends her ear to listen. The
sound comes nearer; it becomes more distinct at each fresh blast. Now it
is at hand, and as the shrill and ill-omened notes strike her ear, a
herald advances preceded by a trumpeter, and announces that a masked
knight has arrived and challenges his Majesty to break a lance with him
in honour of his lady.
The masked knight, habited entirely in black armour, rides into the
arena. Certain of the fatal event, the Queen rises abruptly from her
seat. Her countenance expresses absolute terror. She beckons hastily to
the Comte d’O, who is in attendance. “Go,” says she in a low voice,
speaking rapidly; “go at once to the King. Tell him if he fights with
this stranger he will die!--tell him so from me. Haste! for the love of
the Virgin, haste!”
No sooner has the Comte d’O left her, than, leaning over the dais,
Catherine, with clasped hands and eager eyes, watches him as he crosses
the enclosure. She sees him parley with the King, who is replacing his
casque and arranging his armour. Henry laughs. The Queen turns to the
young Comte de la Molle, who is near--“Call up hither his Majesty to me
instantly. Tell him he must come up to me here before he enters the
lists. It is for life or death--the life of the King. Go! fly!”
This second messenger crosses to where Henry is just mounting on
horseback. “Alas! alas! he does not heed my messenger. Let me go,” cries
the Queen in the most violent agitation; “I will myself descend and
speak with his Majesty.” She rushes forward through the astonished
courtiers to where a flight of steps leads below into the enclosure. As
her foot is on the topmost stair, she sees the King gallop forth, fully
equipped, in face of the masked knight. The Queen is ashy pale, her
large eyes are fixed on the King, her white lips tremble. She stands
motionless, supported by the balustrade. Her daughters, the brides, and
her ladies gather round her, full of wonder. By a great effort she
masters her agitation, and slowly turns back into a retiring-room behind
the dais, and seats herself on her chair of state. Then with solemn
gesture she addresses herself to the princesses--
“Elizabeth, my daughter, and you, Marguerite, come hither. My sons,
Francis and Charles, come to me all of you quickly.” At her invitation
they assemble around her in astonishment. “Alas! my children, you are
all orphans and I am a widow. I have seen it. It is true. Now, while I
speak, the lance is pointed that will pierce the King. Your father must
die, my children. I know it and I cannot save him.”
While they all press with pitying looks around her, trying to console
yet unable to comprehend her meaning, she slowly rises. “Let us, my
children,” says she in a hollow voice, “pray for the King’s soul.” She
casts herself on the ground and folds her hands in silent prayer. Her
children kneel around her. There is a great silence. Then a loud cry is
heard from below--“The King is wounded; the King is unhorsed; the King
bleeds; _en avant_ to the King!” Catherine rises. She is calm now and
perfectly composed. She approaches the wooden steps leading into the
arena below. There she sees, stretched on the ground, the King
insensible, his face bathed in blood, pierced in the eye by the lance of
the masked knight, who has fled. Henry is mortally wounded, and is
borne, as the Queen saw in her dream, into a strange chamber in the
Palace des Tournelles, hard by. After some days of horrible agony he
expires, aged forty-one. The masked knight struck but a random blow, and
was held innocent of all malice. He was the Sieur de Montgomeri,
ancestor of the present Earls of Eglinton.