Well, this show has history all tangled up like a messy skein of yarn, hasn't it? We've got at least three prominent figures from the past who, by all accounts, should've been long dead for over a decade, yet here they are, mingling like characters in a fan fiction I penned in high school. I'm game for the ride, but let's be clear: no one should be spreading tales about Charles V being alive in 1572 because, folks, he wasn't!
And then, there's Catherine's budding romance with Alessandro, Duke of Florence, which never blossoms in the sunlit gardens of Italy. Instead, it's abruptly cut short, sending her scurrying back to France to sit by the side of a gravely injured Hercule. Hercule's demise, another slap in the face for those of us who smugly cling to the annals of history, knowing full well he was destined to live another dozen years. This is chaos unleashed! Death strikes at will, casting a capricious shadow over all. Is it intriguing? Entertaining, perhaps? Undoubtedly. But let's set the record straight: Hercule succumbed to malaria, not a peasant's rock to the head.
Catherine's heart is heavy with grief, Hercule being her cherished one ("I love all my children equally... [with a silent aside earlier that day] ...except Anjou, he never quite captured my heart."). Her dreams are haunted by the imagery of crushed eggs in a nest and a slithering snake, ominous portents she interprets as the sacrifice of nearly all her offspring for the fulfillment of her power-hungry ambitions. Contrast this with the cavalier attitude of men towards such premonitions: "Oh, that egg dream again. Must mean I should invest in more chickens. And another son gone, but hey, there's plenty more where he came from." (These are the mindsets of 16th-century gentlemen.)
Imagine stepping away from your kingdom for a fleeting moment, only to return to a nightmare scenario: your beloved child hovering between life and death, a divisive figure locked away against your counsel, and a trade deal in the works without your consent. Charles, with a shrug, claims he followed his gut—a gut, I might add, that seems alarmingly misguided. And then, there's the added twist of Charles's unsettling infatuation with his own sister, which has me giving him a wide berth this week. Catherine's sole wish is for the Duke of Guise's release, but Charles, in a stubborn mood, denies her. Just when she thought her day couldn't get any worse, news arrives of the impending visit of the Holy Roman Emperor, and Catherine knows full well it's a ploy, a masterful manipulation in the grand game of politics. Truly, has her day not been arduous enough already?
Meanwhile, Charles de Guise, a relentless meddler, can't help but insert himself into every affair, declaring to Anjou that the Catholic League holds him in the highest esteem; they adore him for slaying a Protestant, and now they're indulging in a grotesque celebration by perpetrating similar atrocities against their own kind. Anjou, perplexed, remarks, "I thought they deemed me a deviant," to which Charles nonchalantly responds, "That was so last month." A clever jest indeed. Now, Charles urges Anjou to lead troops into the wilderness, intent on eliminating the same peasants François had targeted. He assures Anjou that the Holy Roman Emperor, alias Rupert Everett, will unwaveringly support this sinister endeavor.
Rupert Everett, the master of subtlety, once again weaves his web of deceit by whispering the secret scheme of Anjou and Charles into Catherine's ear. He desires Sister Edith's departure, but not at the cost of martyrdom. This episode teems with hidden motives, each clashing with the other, weaving a tapestry of chaos that threatens to unravel my sanity. Charles seeks Edith's life for Catholicism's sake, Anjou for Hercule's death, and Rupert Everett, because her presence is nothing short of an annoyance. Aabis yearns for her demise, hoping it might spare her apprentice, while Angelica strives to save her, yearning to escape Diane de Poitiers' service and reclaim her place at court. I'm no advocate of murder, but can someone please put Edith out of her misery? Her blasphemous words about God, like, "Let our blood nourish His forest," are blasphemous indeed, Edith! They do not bode well.
And speaking of Rupert Everett, his companion, Philip, hovers by his side. This is none other than Philip II of Spain, though here he seems to blur the lines with Philip's son, Don Carlos, who boasted a less illustrious ancestry and a reputation for cruelty, once forcing a shoemaker to consume his own footwear. Yet, it's Don Carlos's demeanor that echoes through Philip in this drama, as evidenced by his wanton act of setting a maid ablaze out of boredom (fortunately, she survived). Philip II, on the other hand, was a notorious figure, having abandoned Elizabeth I's half-sister Mary and later attempting to court Elizabeth herself with nefarious intentions. His nefarious deeds are legion, but let us, as always, keep our ire focused on the Tudors, the epicenter of our historical grudges.
Catherine rushes to consult her enigmatic magician friend, Ruggieri, her eyes alight with urgency. "I've had that egg dream once again," she confesses, her tone laced with a hint of anxiety. Ruggieri, the dream interpreter par excellence, responds with a mysterious flourish, captivating her with his words. "Imagine if your dream isn't a tale of nine children's demise and one's miraculous survival, but rather a metaphor for how one flawed element can taint the whole – like a rotten apple among the bunch."
Instantly, Catherine's face lights up with a realization that's almost too convenient. "Ah, so I must eliminate Anjou," she declares, a bit of a logical leap, perhaps, but entirely plausible in the realm of magic's whims.
But let us pause here for a moment and ponder a peculiarity – we're halfway through this season, and Rahima's presence feels like a fleeting glimpse. This new iteration of Rahima, whom I've grown quite fond of, is reduced to a mere handful of lines per episode. Is it merely to make room for Aabis' incessant tales of her unwavering devotion to her apprentice, a bond we've yet to witness blossom and thus find ourselves indifferent to? Last season's narrative was so intricately woven around Catherine's tutelage of Rahima; more of her, please!
And then, a fleeting glimpse of Elizabeth this week, a morsel that, while welcomed, only whets my appetite for more. Minnie Driver continues to enchant us with her portrayal of Elizabeth I – eccentric, unbalanced, yet breathtakingly brilliant. Her performance echoes a distant echo of Miranda Richardson's iconic Queenie in 'Blackadder', minus the bumbling ineptitude.
Enter Louis de Bourbon, an unexpected guest at the English court, who promptly finds himself under Elizabeth's scrutinizing gaze. She probes his faith with subtle yet pointed questions, "I am as faithful as you would like me to be," she tests him, leaving him momentarily flustered. Finally, Elizabeth forgoes the subtlety, instructing him bluntly to use Edith as a pawn to dethrone the Valois and claim the French crown for himself. This, my friends, is precisely what I crave – women of power, strategizing against each other, not Edith, dirt-smeared in the woods, urging her disciples to bleed on trees for a deity that seems far removed from this intricate game of thrones.
