by Jean Plaidy
And now watching him from the window she thought: And so it shall be, my little love, until I see you on the throne of France.
François had leaped to his feet and started to run; Marguerite was immediately beside him, taking his hand. Something had happened to excite them. Louise left the window and hurried down to the courtyard.
Jeanne de Polignac joined her on her way down.
“I heard the horses,” she cried. “Someone has arrived, and I wondered who.”
“That must have been what the children heard,” answered Louise, and together they passed out of the château.
There was the messenger, but Louise’s eyes went first to the sturdy figure of François who was standing staring up at the man on horseback. She noted with pleasure that Marguerite was beside him, never for one moment forgetting her solemn duty; her restraining hand was on the boy’s shoulder, lest the bold little darling become over-rash.
François turned, saw his mother and Jeanne, and immediately ran to Louise to throw his arms about her knees. She lifted him in her arms.
“So my beloved heard the arrival of the messenger?”
“Beloved heard it,” he answered. “Look! See his livery. It is different from ours.”
Then she realized that the messenger wore the royal livery, and she signed to one of the grooms, who had hurried up, to take the man’s horse.
“Pray come into the château,” she said. “You bring me news from Court?”
“Yes, my lady.”
He would have told her there and then, but she was never one to forget her dignity.
“Come,” she said, though her heart was beating fast for it was a convention that messengers matched their expressions to the news they carried, and this one’s was very grave.
In the great hall she called to one of her servants to bring wine for the messenger and he, unable to contain himself, said: “Madame, the King is dead.”
“The King…dead!”
Instinctively she held François more firmly in her arms; the little boy did not wriggle even though the extra pressure made him uncomfortable. He always accepted the adoration of those about him with a meek resignation, as though he was aware that everything they did was for his good.
Even Louise could not now suppress her curiosity.
“Madame, his Liege had gone to watch a game of tennis with the Queen, and on his way through the château to the court he struck his head on a stone archway. He took little notice of this at the time and continued on his way with the Queen; but as they sat watching the game he was seized with a sudden fit. A pallet was brought for him to lie on, for it was feared to be dangerous to move him on account of his strange illness; and there he lay throughout the afternoon. He died just before midnight.”
“Died…and he so young!” murmured Louise. “God help the Queen. How is she taking this?”
“She is stricken with grief, Madame.”
Certainly she was! thought Louise. No husband! No son to follow him! It was understandable that that ambitious woman was stricken with grief.
The man stood back a few paces; then he proclaimed:
“Charles the VIII of France is dead. Long Live King Louis XII!”
“Long live the King!” said Louise; and all those about her echoed her words, so that the hall of the château was filled with the cry.
“Long live the King!” shouted François with the rest.
And Louise was thinking: My little love—only one now between you and the throne of France. Louis d’Orléans, thirty-six years old, yet no longer in the prime of life; he has lived his life without great care for the health of his body, and now it is said he must pay the price. Louis XII of France, married to Jeanne, the cripple. What hope have they of getting themselves a dauphin!
Very clearly could she see the crown on the head of her François.
Louis XII of France, who had been known as Louis d’Orléans until his cousin had walked into an embrasure at Amboise and died because of it, received the news of his accession with elation. He had always believed that he could give the French nation what it most needed, and naturally, since he was so near the throne, he had often visualized this possibility. Yet he had scarcely hoped that the crown would be his for who would have believed that Charles, who was so much his junior, would have died so suddenly.
What great good fortune that the little Dauphin had died not so long ago, for a Regency was never a good thing, and how much more satisfactory it was when there was a sober, serious-minded King ready to mount the throne.
As soon as he heard the news he summoned two of his greatest friends to his side in order to discuss the future with them. One of these was Georges d’Amboise, Archbishop of Rouen; the other was Maréchal de Gié, a celebrated soldier.
They came to him and knelt, but he shrugged aside their homage.
“Come, my friends,” he said, “let us dispense with the ceremony and concern ourselves with more important issues.”
He bade them be seated. They could see that this was the moment for which he had longed all his life; it was a pity it had come when he was no longer in good health. He sat painfully, being troubled by the gout; he looked much older than his thirty-six years, and that was not to be wondered at considering the life he had led. Being a rebel from his youth he had gone so far as to incite the country to civil war; but he had not come through his adventures unscathed and had suffered imprisonment. But already there was a change in him. The rebel had become the King and there was a serenity in his face—that of a man who has at last achieved what he has longed for since the days of his youth. He was wise; he would never desert old friends, nor forget those who had suffered with him; it was for this reason that these two whom he had summoned to his presence should be the chief advisers to King Louis XII, since they had proved themselves good friends to Louis d’Orléans.
He had never spared himself in the days when he was strong and healthy but had reveled in all sports and had indulged himself in all carnal pleasures; but it was different now. He was wise enough to know that he could only hope to go on living if he lived with care, and he did not intend to die yet; that was why he ate little, always had his meat boiled and retired early to bed. In fact he had put his days of dissipation behind him and would be more particular to do so now that the crown was his.
His friends, looking into his bright, over-prominent eyes, at his thick lips which were dry and parched, at his enlarged Adam’s apple, were concerned and they showed it.
Louis smiled. “Put your fears to rest,” he said. “I am alive and that is how I intend to remain.” He smiled suddenly. “I’ll swear there’s rejoicing at a certain château in Cognac this day.”
“Madame d’Angoulême, I have heard, believes her boy to be already the Dauphin of France,” said the Archbishop.
Louis nodded. “And we must accept the fact that, were I to die tomorrow, he would be the next to mount the throne—unless the impossible happens ere long and I get me a son.”
“Sire…,” began Georges d’Amboise; then he stopped.
“Speak on,” said the King. “You need not weigh your words with me now, Georges, any more than you did in the past. You were about to say that to hope for a son is to hope for an impossibility.”
“And that,” put in the Maréchal, “is no fault of yours, Sire.”
“I know, I know. The Queen has been a good wife to me. At least she has been a docile, affectionate and uncomplaining wife; and because she is the daughter of Louis XI it was considered I had made an excellent match.”
“And so it would have been, Sire, had she been fertile.”
“Alas!” sighed Louis. He was thinking of poor limping Jeanne, with her pale face and shoulder which was so much higher than the other—her only asset, her royalty. Their marriage had never been fruitful and never could be. And a king should have heirs. He said the last thought aloud: “A King should have heirs.”
Georges d’Amboise hesitated, coughed and then said recklessly: “
Sire, it is only possible if you find yourself a new wife.”
Louis’s eyes seemed more prominent than ever. “I had thought,” he said, “that it would be desirable to keep Brittany for the crown.”
The Maréchal caught his breath but it was the churchman to whom Louis was giving his attention.
“So recently a widow,” he whispered.
“Yet she has proved that she can bear children—sons. They did not live, it is true, but Charles was a weakling…like his sister Jeanne. If I were not married to Jeanne, if I could marry Anne of Brittany, I could perforce bring to my country all that as King I wish to. Brittany remaining in the crown; a Dauphin in the royal nursery.”
“It would be necessary first to divorce Jeanne,” the Maréchal pointed out.
“That’s true,” answered the King, still looking at Georges.
“If she would go into a nunnery,” murmured Georges. “If she would declare herself tired of life outside convent walls…and if Anne could be persuaded that there is nothing shameful in this divorce…it might be arranged.”
Louis laid his hand on Georges’s arm. “Think on it,” he said. “I know, my friend, that if you do, you will find the solution.”
In the royal apartments at Amboise, the Queen faced her husband. Louis had always found it difficult to look into her face because he was afraid that she would read there the repulsion he felt for her—and the pity. He was not a cruel man but in his youth he had been thoughtless. It had been a great shock to him when he was given this hunch-backed gnome for a wife; it had been small consolation to him that she had been the daughter of the King of France, and he later suspected that her father, the wily Louis XI, had married her to him to prevent heirs coming to the Orléans branch of the family and making trouble. It must have been a sore trial to him to see his only son, who had become Charles VIII, a malformed dwarf not much better than his daughter Jeanne.
It had not been necessary to remain at her side for long at a time, and he could never make love with her except in the dark. That was a fruitless occupation in any case for how could such a creature bear children? She had proved, as all had suspected she would, sterile.
Now she looked at him with affection for, oddly enough, she loved him. Poor Jeanne! She had been ready to love any who showed her kindness, and he had done that.
“Louis,” she said, coming to him with ungainly steps and looking up at him appealingly without touching him, for she knew that he did not care for her to do that, “I have heard rumors.”
“Rumors?” he repeated; and he felt a deep dismay. Had they already been talking of his proposed divorce? Had they already been linking his name with that of Anne of Brittany? He was regretful for two reasons. First that Jeanne must be hurt; and second that the proud Anne of Brittany might be shocked at the thought of marrying another husband so soon, particularly as he was a man who had to rid himself of a wife to marry her.
“I understand,” went on Jeanne mournfully. “I am of little use to you. I cannot give you a Dauphin and I see that that is what France expects of you…now.”
“You should not distress yourself,” he told her gently.
“But I do,” she replied. “You have always been kind to me, Louis, and I know how I have failed you.”
“There are many childless couples in France.”
“They are not the King and Queen.”
Then suddenly she began to weep. “Oh Louis, Louis, do not abandon me. I know I have nothing to offer you. Look at me! None would ever have married me had I not been a king’s daughter. And you do not need me. The crown is yours through your own line. I have brought nothing to you. You will cast me off, Louis. They will persuade you that it is your duty…”
He put his arms about her. “Jeanne,” he said, “set aside your fears. Why, I’d rather die without a son than hurt you.”
She slid to her knees and embraced his legs, alas looking sadly repulsive crouching there. He wished she would rise; he was hating himself because he knew that Georges d’Amboise was already preparing a plan to dissolve their marriage; and that she could not long be kept in ignorance of this. Her grief would be the greater because he had tried to soothe her with false words.
Louise of Savoy set out for Paris to see the new King. Jeanne de Polignac warned her to be careful, but Louise was full of purpose.
“Forget not,” she said, “that my position is different from what it was before the death of Charles. Am I not the mother of the heir presumptive?”
“All the more reason why you should act with care,” replied the practical Jeanne.
Louise laughed. “Do you think I ever forget that I am his mother and that he needs me! Set your fears at rest, Jeanne. I am going to have him acknowledged; and the best way in which I can do this is to get him the title which is his due and which will proclaim to all that the King regards him as the heir to the throne. Why, the title falls vacant, does it not, now that Louis has given it up to take that of King? François is going to be Duc d’Orléans—that royal title belongs to him now.”
“All I say is, Louise, take care.”
“And you, my dear, take care of the children while I am away.” She embraced her friend. “How I rely on you, Jeanne! I’d never leave him in anyone else’s hands.”
When François and Marguerite came to say farewell to their mother, she embraced the girl tenderly but clung to the boy as though she had almost made up her mind not to leave him.
“My precious will do what Jeanne and Marguerite tell him while I’m away?”
“Yes, dearest Maman, Precious will,” answered the boy.
“That’s my little love.” She looked appealingly up at Jeanne and Marguerite, and although she did not speak, her eyes told them that she was placing in their hands her greatest treasure.
François stood at the gates of the castle, Jeanne on one side of him, Marguerite on the other; Jeanne the younger, with Madeleine and Souveraine, stood behind him and a short distance from this little group were some of their attendants.
Louise turned to look back again. “I shall soon be with you. Take care while I’m away.”
They watched her until she and her band of attendants were out of sight.
“I should like to go to Paris,” François announced.
“You will one day,” Marguerite told him.
When he rode to Paris it would be in a purple robe and he would have a standard on which were the golden lilies. His mother had told him this, and the picture was clear in his mind. But it was not yet; and in the meantime he had to amuse himself.
Marguerite took his hand and they went to the nurseries where Madeleine and Souveraine were playing with their dolls.
They stood watching Madeleine who was dressing one of the dolls and talking to it as though it were a baby.
“Come along, Marguerite,” said Souveraine, “here is the little Papillon. See how dirty she has made her dress! Change it and scold her, will you? Tell her she will be in trouble if she cannot keep her dresses cleaner than that.”
Marguerite stared at the doll which was being thrust at her and said stonily: “How could that be blamed for making the dress dirty? It was Madeleine who did it.”
Souveraine looked as though she was about to cry. “Why will you never play our games, Marguerite?” she demanded. “I believe you laugh at us. And we’re older than you, remember?”
“You are too old to play with dolls,” said six-year-old Marguerite, “and so am I.”
François looked on with interest. He would have liked to join the game, only instead of being mother to the dolls, he would have been their King and they would have been his subjects.
“How silly!” said Madeleine. “Maman said that I was a little mother.”
(Both Madeleine and Souveraine called Jeanne Maman.)
“I would be a little mother,” said Marguerite, “if I had a real baby. But I would not play with dolls.”
She took François firmly by the hand and led him away. “I will read t
o you,” she said.
François allowed himself to be taken down to the gardens, and, when they were seated under a tree, Marguerite opened the book and began to read, but she had not read more than a few sentences when François laid his plump hand on the page and said: “Marguerite, I want you to be a little mother, and I want to be a little father.”
Marguerite shut the book and looked at him. “You want to play with Madeleine and Souveraine?” she asked reproachfully.
“No,” he answered vehemently. “They play with dolls. I want us to have a real baby.”
Marguerite was thoughtful. He looked so earnest and so certain that she could provide him with what he wanted that her great desire was to keep his high opinion of her.
She stood up and he was beside her, putting his hand into hers.
An idea had come to Marguerite. She began to walk resolutely away from the château grimly holding François’s hand. They were forbidden to leave the gardens but this was in a special cause; and she had only to walk to the cottage just beyond the castle gates.
François, trotting beside her, kept laughing to himself in an endearing way he had which meant that he was excited and happy. He knew he could always rely on Marguerite to make life both amusing and adventurous.
On a patch of grass before the cottage a baby was crawling.
François knew of course what was going to happen now. Marguerite had as usual provided him with what he wanted. She opened the gate and, going into the garden, picked up the baby, who was not very clean.
“And we shall not scold her,” said Marguerite, “for she is too young to know that she must be clean. This is our baby, François. We are not going to play with dolls.”
François skipped round his sister. “Shall I carry her, Marguerite?”
“No, you are not big enough. I’ll carry her and when we’ve cleaned her, you shall hold her.”
