(Part 1 of 4)
THE MAN BETWEEN THE TWO WOMEN: KING HENRY II OF FRANCE
Twilight lingered over the little clearing in the woods around the River Cher, before bowing out to an ink-smudged night. A veil of stars, softly aglitter, settled over the Château de Chenonceau.
Boats, with two and three people, peeled away from the dock. In each, the oarsman was a courtier in his doublet and hose, a sprightly heron’s feather in his velvet hat. The women’s gowns—trimmed with satin—rustled as they shifted in their seats, their necks gleaming pale in low-cut, form-fitting bodices. Here and there, diamonds sparkled on a slender throat and light hands flashed with jewels as they trailed their fingers in the placid waters of the Cher.
On the bank, in the garden laid out by the previous owner of the chateau whose name—Diane de Poitiers—was taboo now, footmen scurried about, appearing and vanishing in the wavering light of torches.
The boats floated softly in the mild current as their occupants turned toward the flat land of the garden. One servant fired a wooden taper from a torch and carried it to another, who was holding a. . .long baton? It had a drifting wick, which the servant lit, sprinting away as soon as the flame had caught the oil-drenched fabric.
As the sparks dashed up the wick, they could all see that the man holding the stick was shaking in fear. He leaned, his arm drawn back, and flung the stick into the air like a javelin. It shot up in an arc of gold, seemed to halt for a moment surrounded by the stars, and then erupted into a thousand flashes of pale amber.
On the river, there was a collective sigh of wonder. What was this marvelous invention that sent fire into the sky?
The show went on, the manservant flinging rockets upward.
When it was over and darkness descended again, the air was clogged with rolling smoke sliced with the scent of gunpowder. The spectators began to clap and bowed toward the lone woman seated stiff and upright in another boat away from the crowd.
She nodded with a rare smile, glancing up at that exquisite chateau set in the waters of the Cher, with its graceful arched bridge spanning over to the other side. As she gazed at the apartments she had built over the bridge at the Château de Chenonceau, servants moved within with candles, lighting the rooms until oblongs of shimmering gold flickered over water.
The exquisite Château de Chenonceau spanning the River Cher in the Loire Valley. Image Source: Indu Sundaresan.
It was perhaps one of the very few moments of exhilaration and triumph in Catherine de Medici’s life. Queen though she had been, there had been little to rejoice at in her past, with a husband who had utterly disregarded her and had paid attention instead to his string of mistresses. But, she had not cared for most of those fallen, nauseating women—it was only one particular woman she had despised.
That was Diane de Poitiers, who had so enchanted her husband, King Henry II, that her tether on him had only snapped when he died.
Even this jewel, the Chateâu de Chenonceau, had once belonged to Diane. . .
All that above ? Just a little bit of fun I had in fictionalizing the very first fireworks display in France, yes, sponsored by Catherine de Medici, and yes, at the Château de Chenonceau in the Loire Valley that she had hankered after for so long—since, in fact, she’d first seen it.
But, it would not be hers until she had donned her widow’s cap.
The king, Henry II, had not been born heir to France, he was merely the second son until his older brother died and he became the dauphin, the crown prince and heir.
When Henry II ascended the throne, he gave the Chateâu de Chenonceau to Diane de Poitiers. For the first time, after years of suppressed desires, Catherine de Medici went ballistic—you’ll see what she did in Part 4 of this blog post. It was of no avail; the Château de Chenonceau went to Diane.
A selection of the women who owned the Chateâu de Chenonceau. Thomas Bohier shows up in this collage only because I couldn’t find an image of his wife, Katherine Briçonnet, who actually oversaw the building of the chateau. Image Sources: First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth and Sixth.
The Château de Chenonceau has a long history of being owned by women—wives and a mistress. A woman was responsible for its construction (more on this in Part 4), and several women inhabited it in their own right.
But, its most famous owners were these three—caught up in that eternal triangle of marriage and love—Henry II, king of France, his wife, Catherine de Medici, and his mistress, Diane de Poitiers.
And just who were these people? Let’s begin with. . .
The King is dead. Long live the King!
Henry II became king of France on the 31st of March, 1547—the day his father, Francois I, died.
He had endured a long and somewhat unreliable path to the throne. Henry had not been born the eldest son and heir, the dauphin. And then, his father had not particularly liked him, showering his attention instead on his oldest son and his affections on the one younger than Henry. But, some eleven years before his father’s death, when the actual dauphin died, Henry became heir to the throne of France.
It didn’t redirect his father’s love toward him; instead Francois I concentrated all upon the younger boy, Charles. But, by the time Francois died, even that brother, Charles, was dead, and Henry II was left in undisputed and unthreatened possession of the French crown.
The oldest brother, had, of course, been a legal obstacle to Henry ascending the throne, but the younger Charles’s death had also been fortunate—Charles had been about to make a very advantageous marriage to either the daughter or the niece of the very powerful Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor. (It was all wrapped up in an agreement, a treaty; of course, it didn’t matter which girl married Charles!).
Even assured of the crown, when he actually came to don it—his brother’s marriage (and subsequent alliance with Charles V) would have been disastrous to Henry’s influence as a king. And then, fortuitously (and suspiciously) Charles died.
Charles, Henry II’s younger brother, who might well have married into the formidable Holy Roman Emperor’s family. If, he had lived. The royal children were pawns in games of politics and diplomacy and had absolutely no control over their personal lives. A few years before this alliance (ratified by a treaty) came into being, Henry VIII (of England—yup, he of the six wives and the Reformation) had suggested his one-year-old daughter Elizabeth (later queen of England) for Charles. That fell through. Image Source
Francois I’s official funeral took place in May of that year. Henry paid for it, lavishly. He also—or perhaps, it was Diane de Poitiers who suggested this to him—sent the bodies of both his brothers, the older one (who had died eleven years ago) and the more-recently (two years ago) dead Charles in state along with their father to the Basilica of Saint Denis in Paris to be buried.
Then, in July of 1547, Henry was officially crowned king of France at the cathedral at Reims.
(Just as the Saint Denis Basilica was the resting place of French kings, the Reims cathedral was the church for their coronations. You’ll see, as you read on here, how Catherine de Medici, Henry II’s beleaguered wife, had the last laugh on Diane de Poitiers—because Catherine is buried next to Henry at Saint Denis).
Henry II and Catherine de Medici in their coronation robes, immortalized in marble in the Basilica Saint Denis in Paris. This is not over their actual tombs within the basilica—that’s a short level below this. The below-level actual tomb replicates them twice more, first atop a canopy, kneeling in prayer, and second, within the canopy, half-naked and dying.
With Henry and Catherine side by side after their deaths in not one set of statues, but three, Catherine de Medici finally found a place beside her husband. Even it had to be after his death—and hers. Image Source: Google Maps.
In July of 1547, however, Diane de Poitiers’ star was still very much in the ascendent. (She would soon be given the Château de Chenonceau in a gift of deed).
The ceremony of coronation traditionally involved only the king—the queen was not officially crowned. But, Diane was among the most prominent of the spectators—perhaps, she even organized the entire service, chose Henry’s coronation robes, the silks and satins of the tapestries around the nave, and the lush carpets underfoot.
Where was Catherine? There, for sure, but relegated to some humbler spot.
The royal party went on to Lyons, and here again, the townsfolk, in their welcome festivities, paid scant heed to the queen.
A Lyons lady was dressed as Diana the Huntress, leading a tame lion with a black-and-white rope (Diane de Poitiers’ colors) which she very prettily presented it to Henry II. It was the symbol of a docile lion (for the city of Lyons) prostrating itself at the feet of their new king.
And again, where was Catherine de Medici—the rightful queen? Probably right there, in the royal enclosure, watching. . .with a sickened heart.
This is the coronation of a later king of France at the cathedral at Reims—Louis XV. If he looks like a child, he was, only thirteen years old. But, Henry II’s coronation would have been just as grand, perhaps grander, with the Archbishop of Reims presiding, and the cathedral packed with various bishops, minor canons, vicars and chaplains attached to the chapter.
In the second picture, I zoomed in on the gallery above—all sides of the cathedral have a gallery, but this one, so close to the altar, was the place where the most significant woman sat. In Louis XV’s case, it was probably his mother—he didn’t marry until he was fifteen. In Henry II’s case? It’s very possible Diane boldly occupied this space and Catherine de Medici was not far off, maybe right by her side. Image Source
What was this power Diane had over Catherine’s husband?
You see, Diane de Poitiers had been Henry’s mistress for perhaps ten years by now. It was a long tenure already upon a king’s flighty attachments.
But, even stranger? Henry was twenty-eight when he became king; Diane de Poitiers was forty-eight. You read that right; she was twenty years older than him.
She was, in fact—depending on whether you use 1499 or 1500 for her year of birth—almost exactly the same age as Henry’s mother, Queen Claude.
We’re cousins, y’all:
The curious thing—at least in this set of players in and around the royal court in France—was that they were all related to each other in one way or the other.
Let’s take the two rivals first: Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici were second cousins. Diane’s father was first cousin to Catherine’s mother. Diane’s paternal grandmother and Catherine’s maternal grandfather were brother and sister. And, their great-grandparents were the same.
That close. However, this consanguinity hardly came into play in their shared lives. I haven’t read anywhere that they either knew of this relationship or acknowledged it.
As for Henry’s own ancestry? We’ll go a little bit into his parents, only because it’s significant to what happened to Henry in his childhood, what early influences shaped him (hint: Diane) and how that fed into his eventual relationship with this mistress who became, well, his master?
King Francois I, when he was still alive:
Francois I, Henry’s father, came to the French throne by right, certainly, but he wasn’t a direct descendent of the then-king of France, Louis XII (who’d himself come to the throne as a second cousin). Louis XII had no male heirs, and Francois I was very much related to the royalty—his grandaunt had been queen of France.
Francois I, Henry II’s father, Catherine de Medici’s father-in-law and. . .he had a fling with Diane de Poitiers also? He loomed large in the lives of these two women—they had a somewhat. . .fervid relationship with him, and it will surprise you as to whose relationship was more fiery. What he very distinctly gave to his son, Henry II, was that nose—you’ll see when you come across Henry’s portrait further on. Image Source
Francois I was some sort of cousin to Louis XII. He had been considered heir for a very long time—Louis XII had married first one, and then a second wife, and neither had given him a son. So, he’d kept Francois by his side, petted him, given him all the privileges of an actual dauphin, and taught the court to direct their sycophancies this early on, before Francois actually sat on the throne.
One other thing Louis XII did to further Francois’s interest. Perhaps a little bit in his own also, because it involved his daughter.
However, just before he died, Louis XII also gave Francois a bit of a scare.
Take my daughter, please. . .and. . .
To set him up (officially) as the next heir, Louis XII gave his daughter, Claude, in marriage to Francois in May of 1514.
It didn’t come about that easily. Louis’s wife, Anne of Brittany, had other plans for her child. In fact, she wanted Claude to marry the man who became Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, and the (later) scourge of Francois’s life. (See, I told you everyone in Europe was connected with each other?)
Claude, the princess, was heir to the duchy of Brittany through her mother, and her mother did not want Brittany to go to France (even though she was herself queen of France). So when the mother died, Louis XII rushed up the marriage and made it happen.
. . .I’ll take myself yet another wife!!
Louis XII then—a widower now—decided to marry yet again. His third wife was thirty years younger, a mere child. Her name was Mary Tudor, and she was Henry VIII’s sister. Henry VIII, of course, is our king of England who effected the Reformation and annulled his marriage to Catherine of Aragon to marry Anne Boleyn (a little later in this timeline). However, again, the European courts were very linked to each other and we’ll hear a fair bit of these Anglo-French relations in this blog post.
One of the most beautiful princesses in Europe was Mary Tudor, sister of Henry VIII. And, supposedly, very hot in the European marriage market. Before she married Louis XII and became queen of France, she had also been betrothed to Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor (with whom Louis XII’s daughter was also associated—different generations you will say? Maybe, but that didn’t seem to matter. Anyhow, Mary Tudor was closer to her husband’s daughter’s age than his own). Image Source
Louis XII was fifty-seven when he married Mary Tudor, but she, certainly, was young enough to have children, that most-longed for male heir to the throne.
Francois I, now newly married himself to the king’s daughter, Claude, must have had a moment of fright at his father-in-law’s new marriage. What if it did produce that heir? Where then were his own pretensions to the throne—everything he had expected, everything he had been brought up to think of as his own?
But, luckily for Francois, Louis XII died within three months of this marriage, and Francois became King Francois I of France.
And, no children resulted from the Tudor alliance. Also, luckily.
A new, powerful queen? Yes, but the mother, not the wife:
There were two very important women in the new king’s life and. . .his wife was not one of them. In fact, Queen Claude, Henry II’s mother, suffered as much neglect and indifference as Catherine de Medici would from her own husband a generation later.
Francois I also had several mistresses, two of whom were eminent. I won’t speak of the first, but the second (after Claude’s death) was an Anne Pisseleu, whose reign overlapped with Diane’s. . .um, mistress-ship over Henry II.
As in, the king’s mistress was in conflict with the heir’s mistress—but, of the splendid way in which the two women battled each other, more in Part 3.
Early in his reign, Francois I’s two women were Louise of Savoy, his mother, and his sister, Margaret of Navarre. His influences—just as his son, Henry II’s—came from his childhood. His mother had been widowed very young and had dedicated herself to her children’s future, especially that of her son, because Francois stood so very near the throne.
Louise of Savoy (right) in her widow’s robes and Margaret of Navarre—mother and sister of Francois I. Image Source: Episodes of French History: Francis I and the Sixteenth Century.
Louise of Savoy was not going to let a chit of a girl—her daughter-in-law, Queen Claude—take any substantial part in her son’s life. Claude’s job was to provide heirs, and when Francois became king, she was deficient even in that one duty. In fact, Claude’s first two children were daughters. Then, finally, came the heir, the dauphin Francois. And then, Henry, the second son—Diane de Poitiers’ master and the next king of France.
Queen Claude went on to have three more children, a total of seven surviving children in ten years of marriage. And after that enormous rigor? She was dead.
Gosh darn it, if only I could take myself another wife:
When Francois became king, he had—so to speak—the. . .guardianship of Mary Tudor who had been married to Louis XII for three short months.
There are two stories connected to this late queen of France, who was Henry VIII of England’s sister, and one of them—if true—demonstrates Francois’s sentiment toward his wife, Claude.
Claude, Henry II’s mother, is always shown with this serene, almost beatific face and countenance, as though no shadows ever passed over her life. She was, or became, deeply religious, perhaps because she could not bestow her passions upon her the man she had married? There’s no documentation of what her true feelings were toward her husband and his mistresses—she maintained this immovable front, and died as quietly as she had lived. Image Source: H. Noel Williams, King Henri II: His Court and Times.
The first story was that knowing Mary Tudor to be an extremely tradable commodity, Francois immediately thought of her barter to another country/husband. Eventually, of course, if the deal were made, it would be because she was Henry VIII’s sister and Francois would merely have the immediate advantage of the sale, not the lasting one (which would naturally be an alliance between the new husband and England).
Knowing this, perhaps, the second story goes that Francois wanted to marry the newly-widowed Mary Tudor himself. But only, well, he was just married to Claude. Gosh darn it. He shouldn’t have married Louis XII’s daughter, after all, he had been the natural heir to the throne.
If Francois actually did consider this second option, which would only come to fruition if Claude were dead, it’s very likely to have come up in a conversation with his mother, Louise of Savoy. For she was that iron fist behind his throne, extremely shrewd, skilled at diplomacy, brimful with cunning. She would meddle deeply in what came to be known as the Constable Bourbon affair—and that will come up in Part 2 of this blog post. Only because Diane de Poitiers was also involved in it.
So. . .where’s Diane now? Let’s not lose sight of her:
Remember I’d said that Diane de Poitiers was as old as Henry II’s mother?
Well, Claude was married to Francois I when she was fourteen. When she was fifteen, he became king. That year—1515—Diane de Poitiers was married to the Grand Sénéchal of Normandy, a man named Louis de Brézé. (More about this wedding and the marriage in Part 2 when we look closely at Diane’s life).
A sénéchal was one of the officers of the court—very proximate to the king. Francois and Claude were thus present at Diane’s wedding, which took place in Constable Bourbon’s mansion in Paris. Yup, that same Constable Bourbon who would go on to incur Louise of Savoy’s (Francois I’s mother’s) wrath and rebel against his king—but that in detail in Part 2; it’s an interesting affair. I only mention Constable Bourbon here, again, because Diane was involved in that matter, and because she was married in his manor house; Bourbon was her father’s intimate friend.
Then, as was usual with the officials connected with the court—their wives and daughters finding prominent places in the royal family—Diane de Poitiers became a lady-in-waiting to Queen Claude.
The future queen of England in the French court:
As an aside, I’d like to point out that there was another young woman—almost exactly Diane’s age—who was also lady-in-waiting to Claude. Anne Boleyn. Yes, the future queen of England and wife of Henry VIII, who hadn’t yet met her, or started roistering for the Reformation. Or, obviously, much more in the future, parted Anne Boleyn’s pretty head from her neck.
There are a lot of portraits of Anne Boleyn, most of them dating to the 18th Century. So, they’re old, but they’re not exactly as authentic a depiction of Anne as they could be. This one dates to the 1500s, so is possibly an accurate representation of what Anne Boleyn looks like? That is, if this miniature is actually of her. Do you see what I see? A crooked nose, sure. But, that firm jaw, that determination in her eyes. Image Source
There was this constant traffic between the courts of Europe for one thing, but if you’re surprised at Anne Boleyn being, essentially, handmaiden to a French queen, here’s how it happened.
When the previous king, Louis XII married Mary Tudor (Henry VIII’s sister), Anne was sent to France in her train as an attendant. Mary Tudor, as I just explained, didn’t last long in France—her husband died in three months, and then she got herself married to a man that neither her brother Henry or Francois I wanted her to marry. Exit Mary Tudor from this narrative.
Anne Boleyn stayed on with the new queen, Claude. And she remained in the French courts for seven long years then, not returning to England (and meeting Henry VIII in a manner in which she made an impression upon him) until 1522. Her years at the more refined (?) French court had given her a charming French accent to her English; she was certainly fluent in French, she dressed in French fashions, perhaps her mannerisms were also foreign. And, Henry VIII fell in love with her.
Did Diane de Poitiers know Anne Boleyn well then? Undoubtedly. There’s no record of what Diane thought of this young friend of hers becoming queen of England, and losing her life so spectacularly.
Back to Henry II and Diane, the (very) early years:
Four years after Diane de Poitiers married Louis de Brézé and played her lady-in-waiting part to Queen Claude, the man she would gain mastery over was born. Diane was nineteen or twenty years old then.
Henry II of France was named for his godfather, Henry VIII of England—Francois I was making sure that the connection with England persisted.
Henry II, the future king of France, over whom Diane de Poitiers exercised a powerful influence. Image Source
The royal nursery would have had nursemaids and wet nurses aplenty, but Henry’s attachment to Diane de Poitiers—this early—was natural. She must have taken care of him as a baby and as a child. His mother was in a constant state of pregnancy, sick with nausea, exhausted from long labors, and had little attention to bestow upon her growing brood of children.
Later on, once she was past child-bearing, she might have taken more notice, but Queen Claude never quite had that later-on choice. She died in 1524, when Henry II was five years old. In that interim period after his birth, Claude had given birth to three more children.
Who did Henry II turn to then for love and affection? Diane de Poitiers. When his mother died, he probably turned to her again. And then, when his father sent him and his brother away to Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, it was her he clung to at parting, and her he first embraced when he returned.
Free me, and take my sons:
Perhaps the most traumatizing event in young Henry II’s life, after his mother’s death, was the exile from his home. It scarred him, and made him lose all sense of stability and security. And, more importantly, a sense of place—an enduring background against which to live out his childhood, to grow into manhood.
He was still very much the ‘spare;’ his older brother, the dauphin, Francois, was still alive. The French crown would never be his, and all he had to look forward to was some wealthy dukedom and maybe, if his brother’s line failed either immediately or sometime in the next few generations, fate would pick one of Henry’s own children or grandchildren as ruler of France.
Henry’s older brother, Francois—who, if he had inherited the French throne after their father, Francois I, would have become Francois II. (Instead, it was Henry’s son—a generation later—who came to the French throne as Francois II). This portrait likely dates him as a teenager, a few years after both Henry and he returned to France after their imprisonment by the Holy Roman Emperor. Image Source
What I mean is, in his childhood, Henry II was not being groomed as crown prince. He was just there. And yet, he became a pawn—his very blood, as a prince of France, had value.
The sins of my father:
Francois I, Henry’s father, upon bearing the crown on his head, also inherited what has now come to be termed the ‘Italian Wars.’ (He’d pass them on to Henry II also.) I won’t go into the battles fought, the maneuvers made, the alliances that shifted hither and thither depending on who was the enemy at one point, who at the very next.
Briefly, Francois had an understanding with Henry VIII of England against Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor (see image below). Then Henry VIII became friends with Charles V, then the English thought about their love for France again. . .and on, and on. A veritable round robin of partnerships.
That meeting between Francois I and Henry VIII of England happened just outside Calais in France. This was in 1520, and it had a grand name ‘The Field of the Cloth of Gold.’ It was a lavish, eighteen-day festival with tournaments and jousting—the men showing off their skills, the women being banqueted and feted. The idea was that this encounter between the two sovereigns was to cement an alliance against Charles V.
But the truth? Just before Henry VIII disembarked from English shores for this pageant, Charles V came across the English Channel to Dover to meet his uncle by marriage. (Charles’s aunt was Katherine of Aragon—at this point, anyhow, Henry did not want out of this marriage; that would come later). And right after this Field of the Cloth of Gold, Henry VIII went to visit Charles V, who then accompanied him to Calais to see him off French shores. Image Source
When Francois I went to war—almost constantly—he left his mother, Louise of Savoy, as housekeeper. . .um, regent. This is about the time, in the early 1520s, that the whole Constable Bourbon affair began and ended, with Diane de Poitiers involved in saving her father’s life (because her father had been part of the Constable conspiracy).
Louise of Savoy was somewhat directly responsible for the Constable Bourbon affair and conducted most of her jabbing at Constable Bourbon when her son, Francois, was away. (We’ll see the Constable affair in a bit more detail when we get to Diane’s life in Part 2).
One Italian war that doesn’t quite go right:
In 1525, Francois I suffered an enormous defeat, was captured by Charles V and imprisoned in Madrid. In January of 1526, Francois signed the Treaty of Madrid, giving up a fair bit of land and possessions for his freedom. He’d been a widower ever since Queen Claude’s death a couple of years ago, and he lost that bit of freedom also—Charles V forced him to marry his sister, Eleanor of Austria, and she came to be queen of France. (That was later; for now it was a firm promise that Francois I would marry Eleanor).
The Holy Roman Emperor (who was also Emperor of Austria and King of Spain and Naples and other places—really, Charles V was an enormous authority in the Europe of that time) also set two other prices on Francois I’s liberty.
The dauphin, Prince Francois, and Henry II had to be sent to the Spanish court as surety against their father’s future rebellion, before the king of France would be allowed to return to his own land.
Or. . .the French court could send one prince of royal blood, accompanied by twelve of the premier generals in France. One of the generals named was none other than Louis de Brézé, the Grand Sénéchal of Normandy.
Does his name sound familiar? Yup, our Diane de Poitiers’s aged husband.
The man in this portrait is typically titled as gentilhomme incconu, an unknown gentleman. But, he also could have, might have, been Diane de Poitiers’ husband, Louis de Brézé. He was one of the generals identified by name in Charles V’s demand for hostages—so, Louis de Brézé was obviously one of the grandees of the French court. Image Source
So the terms of the treaty were (a) the two royal princes, Francois and Henry II. Or (b) one of the princes and twelve of the generals.
Who was to make that decision? None other than Louise of Savoy—Francois I’s mother, and grandmother to the two boys.
Tough choice? Did Louise of Savoy choose her grandsons or the generals as hostages?
It was, supposedly, not a contest at all in the grandmother’s heart. When her son, Francois I, was securely back in France, that Treaty of Madrid could be safely disregarded. The Italian Wars could be recommenced. Who would fight the wars? Why, the generals of course.
So, the two royal princes had to be sent as hostages to the court of the Holy Roman Emperor.
Louise of Savoy journeyed from Paris to Amboise on the River Loire (two future blog posts—one on the Château d’Amboise and the other on the mansion Leonardo da Vinci occupied nearby). The dauphin and Henry II were in residence at the chateau. Picking them up, Louise of Savoy travelled to the southwest of France, near the Spanish border.
Louise of Savoy, who made that decision to send both her grandsons to the court of Charles V as hostages. Image Source
The exchange took place in the middle of the Bidassoa River just south of the French border.
At seven o’clock on the morning of the 17th of March, 1526, the captive king Francois I was brought to the southern bank of the river. Accompanying him were twelve Spanish soldiers. At the same time, the dauphin and Henry II were taken to the northern bank of the river, with a similar complement of French soldiers.
Two barges had been prepared and tethered on either bank, each with the same number of rowers. And, a raft had been moored in the center of the Bidassoa. Francois got into his barge with two of the Spanish officers, the boys got into theirs with one officer. They met in the center, climbing onto the raft from their boats. Henry II and the dauphin knelt and kissed their father’s hand. He embraced them and then jumped into their boat and was rowed to the northern side, while the boys were taken to the south and deeper into Spain.
The dauphin was eight years old. Henry II was seven.
Where was the new wife-to-be then? That Eleanor of Austria who was Charles V’s sister? She waited on the Spanish side for the two princes—once Francois had fulfilled all the obligations of the Treaty of Madrid, she would herself accompany them back to France and begin her duties to her new husband.
But that, was not to be.
I’m to give up Milan, Genoa, and Naples? Fat chance!
Back in France, lord of all he surveyed, Francois I began balking at the terms of the Treaty of Madrid. Was he to give up all these dearly-fought for lands and essentially become a vassal to the Holy Roman Emperor?
Charles V—among other things—the Holy Roman Emperor. He was nineteen in this portrait, and must have looked very much like this seven years later when he sent Francois back to France in exchange for his two sons. Image Source
I won’t detail all of Francois’s evasions here, but the talks with Charles V’s ambassadors dragged on. The crux of Francois’s argument was that he had been coerced into the harsh terms of the Treaty of Madrid, that he had not been a free agent when he had signed the documents, and so, it could not be held as valid.
Contemporary historians supported Francois—including the English ambassador at the French court (as I said, alliances shifted with the speed of quicksand). Later historians condemned the king of France.
Perhaps, even with his two elder boys in danger, imprisoned at the Spanish court, Francois I had the satisfaction of knowing he still had one heir remaining to him? His third—and favorite—son, Charles. But Francois did offer up a ransom for his two boys—something reasonable, he said.
Even with Henry II in captivity, Francois I now tried to make a marriage alliance with Henry VIII. How about his daughter, Mary Tudor—the daughter of Katherine of Aragon (aunt of Charles V)? Having broken with the Treaty of Madrid now, completely and without any pretense at maintaining it, Francois offered either himself or his son Henry II as a husband. (Francois I was technically engaged to Eleanor, sister of Charles V. . .but, it was merely an engagement). Mary Tudor was, at that time, eleven years old. That whole marriage thing fell through, but the alliance with England came into being (again).
By now, Francois I was immersed in another mistress, that Anne Pisseleu who would gain such ascendancy over him, and, would be an irritating burr in Diane de Poitiers’ side.
Anne Pisseleu, who was about eighteen years old when she became Francois I’s new (and latest) mistress. Just like Diane de Poitiers, she kept her hold on Francois I until his death. Some eight years into her liaison with the king, he made her Duchess d’Etampes. Or rather, he married her to noble in his French court and gave them the Duchy of Etampes. Image Source
Peace at last?
The battles with Charles V carried on until two women stepped in to create some concord between the two kings. One of them was Francois’s mother, Louise of Savoy. The two kings came to an agreement. Included in the terms of this new treaty was the payment of two million crowns to Charles V and finally, finally, the release of the dauphin and Henry II. Also, Francois I agreed to fulfill his long engagement to Eleanor of Austria, Charles V’s sister.
(The new mistress, Anne Pisseleu, became—what else—a lady-in-waiting to the new queen when that marriage happened.)
The two young hostages had suffered while their father, Francois I, was determined on violating the terms of the Treaty of Madrid.
In the early years of the two boys being taken as hostages for their father’s release, they had had the company of their French attendants, physicians, and tutors, in other words, they were treated as royalty and allowed their entourage.
It did not make up for being away from home, family, and all they knew, but it was something. When Francois I went to war with Charles V, the boys were taken from under the care of Eleanor of Austria (who was supposed to marry Francois) and put away in one fortress and then, finally, sent to the castle at Villalpando. Their attendants were also dismissed.
Their confinement had now stretched over four years.
Pardon, je ne parle pas Français—Excuse me, I do not speak French:
By the time the new peace treaty came into being for the release of the dauphin and Henry II, they had been moved to the castle at Pedraza—not that far from Madrid for us today, but in the mountains northeast of the city, a hard, rocky place, terrifyingly remote to two boys who had no one around them anymore who was familiar.
Their company was wholly Spanish, and they were surrounded only by uncultured soldiers, brutal in manners and talk. Francois I and Louise of Savoy sent an usher to Pedraza to check on the boys.
But, though the peace treaty had been signed, Charles V still maintained a strict guard over the princes. It took the usher two months to get to Pedraza—there were delays in even allowing him to come to Spain, irritations at the border, and he was kept in attendance near the king while Charles V mulled over whether to let him on to Pedraza etc.
When the usher finally reached the castle, he was taken into a stripped room, no carpets underfoot, no tapestries on the walls, no furniture even, just two straw mattresses on the floor and two stone seats. The dauphin and Henry II sat upon those seats. They were clad in shoddy black velvet, a riding costume, but unembellished by jewels and ornaments. The room had just one window, high up in the wall and this was their prison, bare of comfort.
The usher bowed respectfully and said, in French, that he had been sent by their father and their grandmother, that the treaty had been signed and that their confinement would be over soon.
The castle at Pedraza where the French princes were imprisoned. Image Source
They stared at him blankly. Then, the dauphin, turning to the Spanish governor of the prison, asked him (in Spanish) to translate what the man had said. Je ne parle plus Français. I no longer speak French.
The usher was flabbergasted and switched to Spanish himself to convey his message. He had found the future rulers of France living in shabby conditions, like animals, and found them unable to either understand or converse in their own language. They were unkempt, untutored, terrified of their jailors—it was a pitiable situation.
Eventually, the princes—though still under heavy guard—were given better quarters, good food and clothing. And, their retinue was restored to them.
But. . .freedom?
That took another year, almost, to achieve, not until Francois had raised the money for the ransom, which was a heavy burden on French taxes.
Before that, Francois sent the Vicomte of Turenne to act as proxy for him in the marriage with Charles V’s sister, Eleanor of Austria. The Spanish court was very uncertain of this proxy—why, what, was this man actually marrying their princess or was it Francois? There was no deceit here, Eleanor became queen of France that day, even though the man standing by her was not Francois I.
You can bet I tried to find an image of the proxy, Vicomte of Turenne, who stood at the altar with the queen of France, but, no luck. So, here’s Eleanor of Austria, who, on her second marriage, became queen of France. There’s no record of what she thought of her brother, Charles V, using her as a pawn in his treaty with France. And, no record of what she thought of her husband. They had no children together, perhaps because Francois I bestowed all his attentions upon his mistress, Anne de Pisseleu. Image Source
The money, some 1.2 million crowns in gold coins, was finally gathered to be given to Spain and transported to the south-west of France. It went bag by bag to the house of the Spanish ambassador and he counted each coin. Then, the Spanish—still suspicious—weighed the coins. Their specific weight was low, they were not as valuable as before; something to do with the coinage in France, again, not a deliberate deceit. So, Francois I had to pay another sum to reach the total (actual) value of the ransom.
All this to say that Spain was very skeptical of France in almost everything relating to the new peace treaty (they had just cause!) and so everything took a great deal of time, sniffing around, checking and rechecking every number and figure.
In the meanwhile, the dauphin and Henry II waited. And, waited.
After other delays, some flaring tempers and tantrums, the date of their release was settled for July 1st, 1530.
And the place?
The (makeshift) bridge over the River Bidassoa:
Four years ago, Francois I had waited on the south side of the Bidassoa River to be exchanged on a raft in the middle for his two sons.
Now, the queen (Eleanor, now queen of France, married by proxy to Francois I) and the two princes would be traded in the same manner for the ransom money, with a raft moored in the center of the river.
The barter of ransom money for the queen and the princes happened here, where the Bidassoa River drains into the Bay of Biscay. North is the French city of Hendaye; the Spanish city of Hondarribia is on the southern bank. When Francois I took his freedom in exchange for his two boys, and the boys were subsequently brought back to France at this spot, it would have been fairly undeveloped country. Image Source
Only, 1.2 million crowns in gold coins cannot be hoisted onto a small raft in the river without swamping all of them into the waters. So, they came up with an ingenious solution.
On the morning of the first of July, 1530, the French came over to the north side of the river with the bounty in heavy chests of wood. Again, ten French soldiers and officers boarded a special barge onto which the gold was loaded. On the south side, the two princes got into their own boat, with their own ten Spanish soldiers and officers.
When they got to the raft, a French soldier climbed on, met his Spanish counterpart, and then they each went to the other boat. This happened ten times, until the boat with the money was filled with Spanish soldiers, and the boat with the princes with all the French soldiers. Then, they each rowed to the opposite bank. The Spanish had their money; the French had their royal princes.
It was sublime, this.
Eleanor, queen of France, went over to the north side in her own boat—she was not part of this elaborate exchange, although she made the trip at the same time.
The Homecoming:
Imagine the roiling emotions of the two princes, apprehension, excitement and perhaps just a little bit of fright that everything would not go right after all.
They had been imprisoned for years, not always with good and kind jailors. They hadn’t been tortured or slapped around—maybe—but a prison is not a. . .congenial place, especially when they were so young, and knew absolutely nothing of what was happening. It had been a daily grind, left in a dimly lit cell, clothed indifferently, given their food on time or not, and not being allowed to go out into the fresh air for exercise.
The dauphin and Henry II had grown up as royal children with the best of everything, showered with adulation and riches, and then they had been taken away from their homes, and eventually everyone familiar around had also disappeared.
Perhaps even when their boat was being rowed to the north side of the river, they looked back fearfully over their shoulders in case they were taken into custody again, or worse yet, this was all a dream and they would wake up.
But, it was true, all right.
Queen Eleanor and the two boys made a grand progress into France. The towns and villages turned out to line the roads, to wave flags in welcome, to cheer the princes riding on their horses. The queen, at least, had some respite from constantly having to bow and smile—she rode in a litter (a palanquin with covered sides).
This is Jean de Veneur, the bishop of Lisieux. He was official head chaplain to Francois I (and to the previous king, Louis XII); his title was the Grand Almoner. He conducted a (more official?) mass when Eleanor and Francois met in the south of France. Image Source
On the 6th of July, 1530—five days after the boys had been released—Eleanor met her husband, Francois I, for the first time since they had been married. And, if you remember, it was a marriage by deputy —Francois hadn’t been there—so most likely some sort of a civil ceremony.
At midnight, the Bishop of Lisieux—First Almoner to Francois; he was top royal chaplain to the king—celebrated a nuptial mass. With that ceremony, Eleanor and Francois were truly married.
A brief note about the aftermath:
The two princes were expected to come back home as though the last four, horrifying years had not happened. They were required to joust, hunt, play the piano, jump around. . .you know, just what boys did then. There’s no record of anyone actually talking to them about their experiences, trying to understand what they must have gone through, how difficult had been the uncertainties of their situations, the loss of friends and family.
Perhaps no one who had not been a hostage could truly understand it—and they had been hostages for four years.
Another look at Henry II’s older brother, also named Francois (after his father). He was eighteen years old when he died under some rather suspicious circumstances—after being given a glass of water by an attendant who had come over from Italy as part of Catherine de Medici’s retinue. Had the Medicis killed him, so that Henry II could become the dauphin now? More on that in Part 3. Image Source: E. Maxtone Graham, Children of France, 1914.
The experience damaged both of them—the elder brother, the dauphin, did not live very long beyond this event (we’ll see that in Part 3) and even he was dull, morose, and couldn’t quite muster up interest in the frivolous activities of a rich court after all the depravations of the last four years.
Henry II? He was the same. Francois called them both “dreamy, sullen and sleepy,” and turned his attentions again upon his youngest son, Charles, who had stayed on at court, petted and feted.
One thing—if true—is telling. When Henry II came back home, the first person he ran to, and remembered, was Diane de Poitiers. He fell into her arms, sought comfort in her presence, dogged her footsteps, and found security only where she was.
Henry II was eleven years old. Diane de Poitiers was thirty-one.
She was also—or had been, because she was now well. . .old—his father’s mistress.
So, who was this Diane de Poitiers?
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Primary Citations and Sources: The Library, Fourth Series, Volume VII; Helen W. Henderson, The Enchantress, Being the life of Diane de Poytiers Mistress of King Henry the Second of France; The People’s Magazine, An Illustrated Miscellany; E. Maxtone Graham, Children of France; Reginald Blomfield, A History of French Architecture, From the reign of Charles VIII till the death of Mazarin; Marcel Monarché, ed., The Chateaux of the Loire; H. Noel Williams, King Henri II: His Court and Times; Charles Terrasse, Le Château de Chenonceau by Charles Terrasse.
On the next blog post—we’ll meet that belle dame sans merci—the mistress, Diane de Poitiers— Mortal Enemies: The Queen, the Mistress, and the ethereal chateau in France—Part 2
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