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January 18, 1486: How the Tudors Got Their Good Looks (even if they couldn’t keep them)

We all have the image of Henry VIII as that bloated bully in the Holbein portrait. Either fat had a higher aesthetic value in the 16th century or those English courtiers assured the tempermental King that he looked wonderful. Fortunately, Henry was easily convinced of his good looks. When a middle-aged blob, he certainly was self-deluded but at least he had an excellent memory.

Henry VIII was not born looking like Charles Laughton. The young king actually was handsome, a gift from his mother Elizabeth of York. She was a beauty, the gift of her parents: Edward IV and Elizabeth Woodville. They were regarded as the best-looking people in England! Elizabeth Woodville had to be a beauty; to have her, Edward IV caused a civil war.

She was a widow, with children, and only from the minor nobility; worse, her late husband and her family had been supporters of the rival Lancastrian dynasty. The lusty Edward IV wanted her as a mistress; she refused his advances and insisted on marriage. At that very time, Edward had commissioned his chief supporter, the Earl of Warwick, to negotiate a marriage with the sister-in-law of the King of France. Warwick, the most powerful noble in England, had successfully negotiated that marital alliance when he learned that Edward had eloped with the Woodville widow. “The Kingmaker”, as Warwick was known, was humiliated and furious; he then switched his allegiance and considerable forces to the Lancasters. Warwick succeeded in ousting Edward and restored Henry VI to the throne in 1470. A year later, Edward returned. Warwick was killed in battle and Henry VI was imprisoned in the Tower of London. The deposed King apparently fell on several daggers while in chapel.

In any case, handsome Edward IV and beautiful Elizabeth Woodville produced seven children. (He also acquired a pack of greedy in-laws and two stepsons who could have been role models for Paris Hilton.) Edward died in 1483, thinking his young son Edward would succeed him. Unfortunately, the regent of England was Richard, Duke of Gloucester. Although the late King’s brother, he had always resented the Woodville queen and her upstart family. Uncle Richard had other plans.

And the war over Elizabeth Woodville so divided the Yorkist party that the illegitimate Welsh branch of the Lancastrian line would soon kill its way to the throne. When the illegitimate half-second cousin, once removed, Henry Tudor ascended to the throne, he required a legitimate princess for some resemblance to respectability. The eldest daughter of Edward IV sufficed quite nicely, and today is their wedding anniversary.

p.s.  And let’s not forget this birthday: https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/01/18/adjective-orgy/

January 17th A.D. 395: the Emperor Theodosius definitely had a bad day.

However, he was one of the few Roman Emperors to die of natural causes.

Theodosius might be considered the true father of the Byzantine Empire. Until him, the Roman Empire had been considered one realm, even if it often had co-emperors to rule (and plot against each other). Theodosius decided simply to divide the empire in two, and it just so happened that he had a son for each half. His son, Arcadius the affable dolt, received the eastern half. It became the Byzantine Empire. His son, Honorius, the degenerate dolt, received the western half. It became a ruin. (Theodosius did have a reasonably bright child, but the Empire wasn’t ready for an Empress. She had the “consolation” of being the mother of an emperor, Honorius’ successor. Unfortunately, her son Valentinan III was just as degenerate as his uncle.)

Theodosius was also the first emperor to enforce the new religion on the Empire. Banning the Olympics was just one of his ways of suppressing the remaining institutions of paganism. Temples, and any of their assets, were seized. Some were converted into churches; many of the oldest churches today quite literally have pagan foundations. The other pagan buildings were used as quarries for their marble and columns; their material ended up in churches, too.

Theodosius’ polices incited a pagan rebellion in western Europe. The pagans’ choice for an Emperor was a grammarian named Eugenius. Since the annals do not record an Emperor Eugenius, you can guess who won.

January XV, LXIX:  The Glorious Reign of the Emperor Otho

Nero was the last of the Caesars; kicking to death a pregnant wife is not good for a dynasty. His uncle Caligula had merely thought himself a God; Nero was less modest and insisted on a career in show business. The entire Empire was a captive audience to this aspiring Homer. In fact, he did put on a good–and free–show with lavish spectacles that the audience enjoyed. Nero may have terrorized the patrician class and some obscure Jewish sect, but the public generally liked him.

However, the Emperor was not an elective position, and the pudgy, melodramatic Nero did not command the respect or loyalty of the generals, each of whom fancied himself a more suitable emperor. Rebellion was inevitable, and Nero’s response was to kill himself. He was succeeded by Galba, a man everyone respected but no one really liked. The cheap and charmless bureaucrat quickly inspired a wave of nostalgia for Nero. A playboy patrician named Otho exploited this popularity as well as the Praetorian guards’ susceptibility to bribes. In less than a year, Galba was dead and Otho was emperor, a reign beginning on this day in A.D. 69.

Unfortunately, Otho was less impressive than Nero. People tended to remember Otho for his wig, so he was not likely to have a long reign. Within a few months, he was overthrown by a Roman general named Vitellius. People tended to remember Vitellius for his gluttony; he didn’t last long either. Within a few months, he was overthrown by a Roman named Vespasian. (The year A.D. 69 would have an exhausting time for whomever was supposed to update the emperor’s portrait on the coinage.) People tended to remember Vespasian for his ability; he lasted ten years and had the originality to die of natural causes.

Born of more modest origins than a Caesar and conscious of his blood-stained inauguration, Vespasian sought to ingratiate himself with the Roman populace. His gift to the city is still standing: the Colosseum.

Televangelist Pat Robertson said Haiti has been “cursed” because of what he called a “pact with the devil” in its history. His spokesman said the comments were based on Voodoo rituals carried out before a slave rebellion against French colonists in 1791.

Of course, it seems probable that any pact with the Devil would be in French.  Nonetheless, Rev. Robertson may have overestimated the number of Haitian slaves who were graduates of the Sorbonne.  (At Robertson’s Regent University, the French philosophy curriculum consists of a cassette of “Gigi.”)  So, how did the French end up in Haiti?

The Spanish were the first Europeans to introduce themselves to the island.  If the natives did not fully appreciate the employment benefits of slavery, they did have the popular alternative of dying from European diseases.  While the Spanish traditionally used rape to replenish the labor force, on the newly-christened Hispaniola the Castillian “recycling” could not keep pace with the epidemics.  With the native population near extinction, the Spanish began importing Africans for all those annoying little tasks around the house and the plantation.

So, that explains the Dominican Republic.  What about Haiti?  Hispaniola was nominally Spanish, but in the 17th century French pirates seized the western end of the island.  (Remember Basil Rathbone’s accent in “Captain Blood!)  Another French pirate of the time, Louis XIV, wanted to seize Belgium and Alsace.  His efforts triggered a war with Austria, Spain and Great Britain.  (Spain owned Belgium, Austria controlled Alsace and Britain’s William III just liked fighting France).  The War of the Grand Alliance–the French certainly had a more profane term for it–lasted from 1689 to 1697.  The French actually were doing quite well; they now had most of Alsace and had even seized Catalonia from Spain.  Barcelona could have been part of the French Riviera.  But Louis already was anticipating the next war–for the Spanish Succession–so he was eager to settle this conflict and offered generous terms to Spain.  The French returned Catalonia and, as a token of appreciation, Spain formally ceded western Hispaniola to France.

Saint-Domingue, as the French named it, proved a very profitable colony.  Its rich soil and slave-cheap labor produced sugar, coffee and cacao.  The salons of Paris depended upon it.  According to a census taken in 1789, Saint-Domingue had a population of 32,000 Frenchmen and 500,000 slaves.  Of course, that census was not the most memorable event of 1789.  In fact, those 500,000 slaves assumed that the Revolution entitled them to be free, too.  In 1791, they began an insurrection for their emanicipation. (Pat Robertson would say that the French Revolution was caused by the Devil).  France, soon at war with all of Europe, was in no position to crush a rebellion in a distant colony.  Furthermore, a number of the French revolutionaries–including those vile Jacobins–actually agreed with the idea of abolishing slavery.  If only a triumph in principle, in 1794 the laborers of Saint-Domingue were promoted from slaves to peasants.  However grateful, they did not feel exactly French and soon were agitating for self-government and political independence.

In 1801, François-Dominique Toussaint L’ouverture, an educated former slave and leader of the insurrection, issued a proclamation of independence for Saint-Domingue.  Unfortunately, the French government was no longer controlled by devout liberals.  Napoleon Bonaparte’s response was to send a military expedition of 20,000 men to maintain French control.  Toussaint was captured and sent as a prisoner to France, where the northern climate quickly killed him.  But the island’s climate would have its revenge.  Most of the French expeditionary force died of Yellow Fever within a year of their arrival; the meager few who survived the disease then were overwhelmed by the rebel forces.  Accepting the inevitable, in 1804 France granted independence to a land that the natives called Haiti.

There was another consequence to the success of the Haitian rebellion.  By 1803 Napoleon realized that the colony was lost.  If France could not hold Saint-Domingue against poorly armed peasants, how could it hold New Orleans and Louisiana against the encroachments of that new America Republic.  Napoleon decided to make a deal as quickly as possible.

January 13, 532:  Green and Blue Clash With Purple

On this day in 532 the citizens of Constantinople protested against a corrupt and tax-loving government by burning down half of their city. The rioters displayed a remarkable unity; they were composed of two political factions–the Greens and the Blues–who usually hated each other. These two parties had evolved from the fans of two competing chariot racing stables; green and blue were the identifying colors of the respective teams.

However, the Byzantine personality (Greek pedantics + Christian theology – Hellenic charm) would not be content with just rooting for a sports team. The fans organized into political parties with vying interpretations of the Trinity. Of course, each interpretation of the Trinity would have a militia to expound it. Between the Greens and the Blues, Constantinople was always on the verge of a riot; but the Imperial government was usually adroit at balancing the factions, playing one off against the other.

The Emperor Justinian should have been a master of this statecraft. He had an amused contempt for mankind and had a genius for cultivating the vices in others; he literally brought out the best in your worst. Appreciating their “talents”, Justinian would appoint thieves to be treasurers, hucksters as diplomats, and elevated an actress to empress. Yet, this wily Emperor misjudged the temper and the patience of Constantinople’s factions.

The two rivals joined forces, and they gave their alliance a name: Nika. It is the Greek word for victory. In a week of rage, half of the city was destroyed. Demonstrating their new-found ecumenism, the Nika rioters even burned churches. Yet, the rioters did not attack the Palace. Since the Imperial Guard was content to hide in the barracks and avoid any dangerous exertions such as defending the city, the rioters respected the army’s privacy.

Reveling in their power the rioters now proposed a new emperor, a reluctant but pliant noble named Hypatius. The “old” emperor was free to flee the city: the rioters had left him unimpeded access to the port. Indeed, Justinian was about to take that itinerary. He had called an imperial council of his few remaining supporters to plan the evacuation. However, this ignominious flight was scorned by the Empress Theodora.

Still very much the actress, she declaimed, “For one who has been an emperor it is unendurable to be a fugitive. May I never be separated from this purple, and may I not live that day on which those who meet me shall not address me as mistress. If, now, it is your wish to save yourself, O Emperor, there is no difficulty. For we have much money, and there is the sea, here the boats. However consider whether it will not come about after you have been saved that you would gladly exchange that safety for death. For as for myself, I approve a certain ancient saying that royalty is a good burial-shroud.”

If the Empress was prepared to fight and die for the throne, the men of the court were shamed into being just as heroic. (The court eunuchs probably were still eager to leave.) Although the Imperial army was unreliable, several of the loyal officers had personal retainers who would follow orders. These troops numbered no more than a thousand, but they were an elite force of veterans. The rioters were in the tens of thousands but they were an undisciplined mob and, worse for them, oblivious to the danger. The Nika rioters had gathered at the Hippodrome, the social center of the city. It was a great place for a celebration but an even better place for a massacre.

The Hippodrome’s entrances were all at one end of the stadium. The troops seized the gates and then proceeded to scythe the trapped mob. Thirty thousand were killed; the Nika Riot was crushed. The hapless Hypatius was captured. He pleaded his innocence and Justinian believed him; however, Theodora still insisted on an execution.

As for Justinian, he did not view the riots as a warning but rather as an opportunity. First, he would have to raise even more taxes to rebuild the city. More importantly, Constantinople now would be rebuilt his way. For example, the rioters had destroyed the old church of Hagia Sophia. Justinian envisioned the new church to be a monument to him.

And it still is.

Luise Rainer has died.  She was 104, her lifespan lasting fifty times longer than her film career.

She had the distinction of winning consecutive Oscars for best actress of 1936 and 1937.  Given her limited range–she basically chirped rather than acted–her talent did not justify the awards.  Nor were her victories  due to her looks.  Miss Rainer was quite cute but if the Hollywood moguls had been so infatuated with nice-looking Jewish girls, they would have married some.  Perhaps the studios were simply trying to rebel against the tyranny of Bette Davis (For you younger readers, Miss Davis had Meryl Streep’s talent but Mussolini’s disposition.)  Miss Rainer’s specialty was her ability to smile while crying.  This earned her the epithet “the Viennese Teardrop” although she actually was from Dusseldorf.

The public quickly tired of her–and she has been relegated to trivia for more than sixty years. I do pity her if only because she was married to Clifford Odets. I wonder if he was as bombastic at breakfast as he was in his writing.

“Hear the glory of the cornflakes, children of the earth, the gifts of honest toil…”

She probably wondered if she should have stayed in Germany and taken her chances with Hitler.

Miss Rainer won one of her Academy Awards in the most ludicrously cast film in history: “The Good Earth.” If you recall–and what a waste of your synapses if you do–the Japanese complained about the Chinese actresses in “Memoirs of a Geisha.” When “The Good Earth” premiered, the Chinese were somewhat preoccupied being annihilated by the Japanese. But imagine how the Chinese might have reacted to being portrayed by Paul Muni, Luise Rainer and Walter Connolly….

Wang Muni: Do you know that it is impossible to hold a bagel with chopsticks? No wonder this country has famines!

Olan Rainer: Dahling. Vould you mind putting the nightsoil on the crops? I just did mein nails.

Uncle Connolly: Top of the morning to ya! Now I want you to be remembering to vote for Tammany Tong.

No doubt, Turner Classic Movies will show it. You are free to watch, but I did warn you.

p.s.  Regarding the Hollywood moguls, in fact their first wives usually were Jewish.

January 10, 1776:  Common Sense is published

The pamphlet was a best-seller, so you can easily imagine that Thomas Paine received a number of lucrative offers to dramatize his work.

Of course, everyone had an idea how to improve the original. David Garrick envisioned a theatrical epic, starting with the depiction of the Boston Tea Party. His version, however, had 200 ships, the naval bombardment of Boston and the subsequent destruction of the British navy.

Pete Beaumarchais wanted to change the title to “Common Senses“, as an indication of the sensual liberation of America. In this bedroom farce, the colonies would be depicted as a pubescent woman with a repressive father. Of course, the young woman’s tutor is handsome and French.

Mozart offered to write the opera if he could find a free week.

Although Thomas Paine was grateful for the free lunches, he declined the offers. He was hoping that Ben Franklin would invent movies.

Two shillings.

Today offers a surfeit of history and gossip!

January 8, 1815:  How To Make Andrew Jackson a Hero

Edward Pakenham’s watch must have been running fast. The British general evidently thought it was 1915 and that he had to slaughter his troops in as stupid a manner as possible. So, he ordered a full-frontal assault on the entrenched American positions at New Orleans. Andrew Jackson’s troops did not have machine guns but they certainly knew how to make the best use of their Kentucky long rifles . Men who can shoot a squirrel out of a tree are not likely to miss a prancing brigade in red coats.

Edward Pakenham was the brother-in-law of the Duke Wellington and actually had proved himself to be a brave and effective subordinate in the Peninsular Wars. In fact, Pakenham was leading the same troops who had performed so brilliantly in Spain, defeating larger French forces. At New Orleans, the British troops for once had the numerical advantage; they outnumbered the Americans by two-to-one. Perhaps that is why Pakenham did not bother with tactics. He assumed that his veterans would simply push the Americans aside. That was a mistake he did not live to regret; neither did a quarter of his command.

To add irony to the disaster, the battle was unnecessary. The War was over; however, the news of the Treaty of Ghent had yet to reach the opposing armies at New Orleans. Of course, the Battle of New Orleans might have taught the British military the disadvantages of a frontal assault. However, judging from the number of British War Memorials, commemorating 1914-18, that lesson was not in the syllabus at Sandhurst.

January 8, 1499:  The Strange Bedfellows of Louis XII

Let’s congratulate Louis XII and Anne of Britanny on their wedding anniversary. The customary gift (after the 75th anniversary) is formaldehyde. It was a second marriage for both, and the groom deserves special congratulations for surviving his first father-in-law: Louis XI!

One of the greatest dirty tricksters of history, the intrigues and machinations of Louis XI earned him the epithet “The Spider King“.

Louis XI was a genius at undermining his rivals, real and hypothetical. He fomented civil war in England, subsidizing the Lancasters and Tudors in their dynastic struggle that exhausted France’s oldest enemy. He undermined the Duchy of Burgundy, igniting a series of rebellions that eventually destroyed both the Duke and his vast duchy; and Louis managed to acquire many of the fragments. (He did fail to coerce the orphaned heiress of Burgundy to marry his son; she preferred the good-looking Hapsburg boy to the son of her father’s killer.)

However, his nastiest strategem was how he dealt with his second cousin, the Duke of Orleans. The Duke, the other Louis, was a virtuous and careful man, so he did nothing to justify even a suspicion of treason. Yet, his mere existence was a potential threat to the King and his young heir. If England could have dynastic wars, why not France. Louis XI wanted to eliminate even the potential for a threat. If he couldn’t blatently kill the Orleans line, he did have a way to sterilize it.

The King had a daughter Jeanne who was crippled and incapable of having children. In most cases, the handicapped children of royalty and the aristocracy were sent off to the church, where they could be forgotten. The Spider King, however, had a more practical idea. He forced the Duke of Orleans to marry Jeanne. What could the Duke do? A refusal would have been treason.

That should have been the end of the House of Orleans. When Louis XI died in 1483, he was succeeded by his son Charles VIII. Charles coerced another orphaned heiress, Anne the Duchess of Brittany, to marry him. None of their children survived 15th century medicine, however; and when Charles died in 1498, guess who succeeded him? The next in the succession was the Duke of Orleans, now Louis XII.

(So, the nastiest trick of Louis XI really didn’t work; but you have to marvel at its evil.)

The new King wanted his marriage annulled and divulged all the conjugal challenges before Pope Alexander VI. Since the Pope had six children, he saw no reason for a king to be celibate. Jeanne was obliged to announce her retirement to a convent. The now bachelor King married the widow of Charles VIII. As it turned out, Anne of Britanny had one leg shorter than the other. However, this handicap could be surmounted…ahem. Their union produced at least some healthy daughters. (Louis XII would be succeeded by his son-in-law Francis I.)

Queen Anne died in 1514, and political considerations obliged Louis XII to marry again. But this time, the middle-aged man was presented with a healthy, very pretty teenage bride: Mary, the younger sister of Henry VIII. Louis was delighted–finally. But, to quote Shakespeare, “how strange desire should so outlive capacity”! Louis was dead within four months: the diagnosis was over-exertion.

It had to be an amusing funeral. Louis definitely was laid to rest.

p.s. The teenage widow returned to England where (unprecedented in this narrative) she then married someone she actually loved. And she lived happily ever after–until she died at the age of 37. Even true love couldn’t conquer 16th century medicine.

Among recent death threats from readers, the most intelligible included the word “expunge.”  That particular word inspired some etymological musings.  Does “expunge” imply that there once was a word “punge” or “inpunge”? If so, I was going to inpunge the topic here.

Expunge, meaning to erase or obliterate, comes from the Latin word pungere:  to prick.  So, ex + pungere would mean out prick.  That was not a proposition from Caligula but far worse:  a death sentence.  When a Roman tyrant felt in a murderous mood, he would compile a list of his perceived enemies.  Those with an imminent mortality had a stylus prick next to their name.  (It was a neater and more precise method than crossing a name out with ink.  An ink smeared name might even confuse the Praetorians–is that Lucenius or Licenius–and they would kill the wrong senator.) 

So the word expunge preserved its original meaning, if not fatality.  Furthermore, pungere because the basis of other familiar words.  Since the act of pricking creates a hole, a hole-making tool is called a punch.  If you want to make a hole in someone, you can punch him.   A cowboy prodding the cattle along the trail (spurs make holes, too) gave us the term cowpuncher.  And a smell that pierces your senses is pungent.

Now, don’t you feel more erudite!

p.s.  Let’s not forget the historic significance of this day:  https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2009/01/07/profiles-in-vacuity/

January 5, 1589:  Hell Gets a Den Mother

On this day in 1589, ten thousand French foodtasters were thrown out of work. Catherine de Medici died and the people no longer felt terrified of eating. Ironically, Catherine was credited with introducing haute cuisine to France. Of course, the ulterior purpose of delicious food is to disguise the taste of any surprise ingredients.

In his novels, Alexandre Dumas has the Queen Mother finding the most remarkable ways to poison people. Jeanne de Navarre, the mother of the future Henri IV, shouldn’t have worn those gift gloves from Catherine. Henri of Navarre receives a book from his loving mother-in-law. Unfortunately, so the novel relates, King Charles IX sees the book and is the first (and last) to read it. Guess what the sticky substance on the pages was? At least, Charles wasn’t Catherine’s favorite son.  You’d have thought that Catherine would have applied her culinary skills to the St. Bartholomew’s Massacre. She probably couldn’t trust French waiters to get the orders right. “Was Admiral Coligny supposed to get the poisson or the poison?”

Even discounting Dumas’ literary license, Catherine was infamous.  Ruling through her weak and incompetent sons, her policies were intrigue and treachery as she presided over a France rent by religious and civil wars.  Who but Catherine would use a wedding as an invitation to a massacre?  Her Protestant guests on St. Bartholomews Day certainly could have complained how Paris treats tourists.  Yet her son-in-law and frequent target Henri IV said “I am surprised that she never did worse.”  And that was a compliment!

If one can justify a monster, Caterina Maria Romula di Lorenzo de’ Medici had a pitiful life.  Within her weeks of her birth in 1519 she was an orphan, her mother succumbing to 16th century medicine and her father to syphilis.  Yet, as a legitimate de Medici–a fairly rare species–the infant was an invaluable asset in the family’s ambitions.  To quote Luther “the de Medicis had more money than God” but Florence and Tuscany, however charming, did not give the family any great political or military weight.  Buying a papal election or two did enhance the Medici name and influence, but a dynastic marriage could further strengthen the Florentine family with a powerful ally. It just so happened that the King of France needed money and he had an available son.

So, at the age of 12, Catherina became Catherine and the Duchess d’Orleans.  While dynastic marriages are usually loveless, the relationship between Catherine and her husband Henri was especially callous.  Her dowry was much more alluring than she was, and Henri never hid his disdain.  Royal males were permitted infidelity, but a form of etiquette was still expected.  At court, the wife was supposed to have precedence over the mistress.  Henri dispensed with that courtesy.  As duchess, then princess and even queen, Catherine was humiliated by her husband.  However, Henri did pay one form of attention to his wife:  and the result was nine children–including four sons.  They would be Catherine’s immediate solace and her eventual revenge. 

Although Henri’s chivalry did not extend to his wife, he did love to joust.  In that pursuit, one day in 1559  his eye stopped a lance.  That proved an unhealthy tactic, and Catherine now was the Queen Mother of Francis II.  However, she was not yet the power behind the throne.  The new king was–at age 15–already married and henpecked.  His 17 year-old wife, Mary of Scotland, towered over him; and if the physical domination was not enough, her ambitious French uncles–the de Guises–were eager to guide the royal couple.  If the Guises did not give Catherine a second thought, at least they showed her more courtesy than her husband ever had.  As Queen Mother, she was given a place in the regents’ council and her name was included in royal proclamations.

Her life as a pampered cipher lasted a year.  Francis II died of an ear abscess at the age of 16.  Of course, Dumas suggests the Catherine “supervised” his medical treatment.  However cynical that seems, Catherine was not incapacitated by grief.  Young, widowed Mary was, for all the diplomatic euphemisms, expelled to Scotland (where the gallicized Catholic really endeared herself to her Calvinist subjects–but you know this story); and the new king was the ten-year-old Charles IX.  So the reign of Catherine de Medici began.

If she had some satisfaction in her power, she was not having fun.  France was trying to stave off domination by the Hapsburgs, the Guise clan craved power and possibly the throne itself, the Protestants agitated for official tolerance threatening civil war and possibly the throne itself.  To protect her son, his throne and kingdom, the Queen Mother was prepared to do anything.  Intrigue, treachery, even assassination were justifiable means of politics.  (In fact, a penurious Florentine bureaucrat had written a book on that subject and dedicated it to her wastrel father.)  To maintain the dynasty through those challenges, she would make and betray alliances.  First, she might side with the Huguenots, then with their Catholic nemesis, then back to the Huguenots, whenever and wherever the advantage lay. 

Perhaps she meant to set aside power when Charles IX became a mature adult; however, he never did although he lived to be 24.  As for her next son, Henri III had caprices rather capacity; so long as he had the luxuries, he ceded the responsibilities to his mother.  Catherine eventually realized that the dynasty was doomed.  French law only permitted males on the throne, and  the Valois were running out of them.   Charles IX  only had a daughter.  Henri III had neither the proclivities nor the diligence to produce any heirs.  But Catherine continued to intrigue, bargain and fight because France needed someone to do it, and none of her sons had the capacity.  

Within a few months of Catherine’s death, Henri III was assassinated and the Valois dynasty ended.  Her son-in-law would intrigue, bargain and fight to become Henri IV and founder of the Bourbon dynasty.  He won a kingdom that–against the odds–Catherine de Medici had preserved.     “I am surprised that she did not do worse.”