by Jean Plaidy
And now he was assuring the Court of Enquiry that it was impossible to consummate the marriage, and on those grounds he was asking for a divorce.
She had wept the night before until she slept from exhaustion. Now her eyes were swollen and she looked uglier than ever.
“If only my brother Charles had not died!” she murmured. “Then Louis would not have been King. He would not have cared that I could not give him a son. And Anne of Brittany would not be free to marry him.”
The bishops came to her—one of them was the brother of Georges d’Amboise who she knew worked wholeheartedly for the King and had arranged this matter for him. They were determined, she knew, to give Louis the verdict for which he was asking.
Gently they told her that she was judged unfit for marriage.
“It is not true,” she answered. “Except that my back is crooked, my head set awry, my arms too long, my person unprepossessing.”
“Madame, you have but to submit to an examination. The royal physicians are ready to wait on you.”
Her thick lips, which did not meet, were twisted in a bitter smile.
“I’ll swear they know the answer to what they seek before they begin their examinations,” she answered. “Nay, messieurs, I will not submit to this further indignity. You—and others—forget, it seems, that, unwanted as I am, I am yet the daughter of a king.”
“Madame, it would be wise…”
“Messieurs, you have my leave to depart.”
When they left her she covered her face with her hands and rocked to and fro.
This was the end of life as she had known it. The answer would be to go into a convent where she must devote herself to the good life and forget that she ever tried to be a wife to Louis.
She rose and picked up her lute. She had been a good lutist, and when she played men and women had been apt to pause and listen. They forgot then that she was deformed and ugly; they only heard the sweet music she made. Often she had found great comfort in her music and when she felt sad and neglected she had told herself: “There is always my lute.”
But one did not play the lute in a convent.
Deliberately she threw it to the floor and stamped on it; and looking down at what she had once loved she thought: Like the lute my life is broken and finished.
Louise, eager yet apprehensive, had moved with her family from Cognac to Chinon. Each day she was watching at her turret for messengers from the Court; and she would start up every time she heard the sound of riders approaching the château.
Jeanne comforted her as best she could. It was quite impossible, she pointed out, for the King to put away his wife. The Pope would never agree to a divorce. Jeanne, a king’s daughter, would never submit to such treatment; and Anne of Brittany would not marry until at least a year had elapsed since the death of her husband, for she would consider it quite indecent to do so.
“I know Anne of Brittany,” said Louise. “She wants to give birth to the heir of France. There is only one way in which she can do that, and that is by marrying Louis. She’ll take him if she has the chance. She is as jealous of me on account of my son as any woman could be.”
Louis traveled to Chinon with a great retinue and Louise’s anxiety increased, for there were plans to welcome a visitor to France, and this important personage was shortly to arrive in Chinon. His name was Cesare Borgia.
Why was the King so eager to do honors to the illegitimate son of the Pope? Louise anxiously asked herself.
François was untouched by her apprehension. From the window of the château, his mother beside him and Marguerite close by, he watched the Borgia’s entry into Chinon.
The little boy could not stand still but leaped up and down in his excitement.
“But look, look,” he kept crying, for he had never seen such dazzling color. The Pope’s son had determined to impress the French with his worldly possessions. His attendants were clad in crimson livery; his pages rode on the finest horses; his baggage, covered with satin in dazzling colors, was carried on mules brilliantly caparisoned. Thirty noblemen attended him, all magnificently attired and behind them, accompanied by Georges d’Amboise who had ridden out from the château to meet him, was the Borgia himself, lithe, dark and sinister, sitting his horse whose accoutrements glittered with pearls and precious stones of all colors, himself more dazzling than anything which had gone before. His person appeared to be covered in jewels, with rubies—such a foil for his dark lean looks!—in predominance.
Louise, catching at her son’s hand, wondered whether in one of those coffers with which the jewel-decorated mules were laden, was the dispensation which would enable Louis to marry Anne of Brittany.
She was soon to learn.
Louise was in despair. The King had obtained his divorce and Anne of Brittany had overcome her scruples. They were now married.
Louise lay awake at night thinking of them, indefatigably pursuing their efforts to get a child. They were both so eager. Could they fail?
“Holy Mother,” she prayed, “hear me. My little François was born to be a king. I beg of you let nothing stand in the way of his coming to the throne.”
Yet, she thought, Anne is offering her prayer to the Virgin with the same vehemence. But surely all must see that it is my François who should be King of France.
There was further cause for anxiety. Louis was growing more and more delighted with his bride, and consequently giving way to all her wishes. He knew that he had a wife on whose fidelity he could rely absolutely; Anne of Brittany might not be a beauty; she might walk with a limp; she might be pale and severe; but she was regal, intelligent, a Queen of whom a King—not very young himself, not very robust—could be proud. It was clear that Anne was going to have a great influence on the King’s actions.
Above all, she would not forget Louise and François. Although, no doubt, she prayed every night that she might be fruitful, that prayer had not yet been answered, so she wanted Louise where she could keep an eye on her.
Thus she persuaded the King that as, until they had a son they must, though reluctantly, regard François as the heir to the throne, they should keep him under surveillance.
Consequently Louise received orders from Court. She was to leave Chinon for Blois.
There was no help for it. The command must be obeyed, and Louise moved her household to Blois. But she hated the place with its nearby tanneries giving off foul odors which she feared might be harmful to the children. The great château, built on a rock, supported by buttresses, with its many underground dungeons in which deeds too horrible to be contemplated had been committed, seemed no place for her gay little François, for her beautiful Marguerite.
She felt as though she were a prisoner at Blois; and she never ceased to deplore the King’s marriage to one who, she knew, through envy of her François, was a rival and an enemy.
She wrote pleadingly to Louis, hoping to reach him without his wife’s knowledge. It was impossible. Anne was determined to rule with her husband; and he was so indulgent that he allowed this to happen.
So Louise of Savoy felt that Blois was like a prison, did she? Let it be. It was necessary to keep a sharp watch on that woman who was ambitious beyond reason.
But as the weeks passed Anne of Brittany softened toward Louise. If the woman hated Blois so much, let her go to Amboise.
Louise was delighted when she received permission to leave Blois, for Amboise would be more salubrious, and she was happier than she had been since she had left Chinon when, surrounded by her family and household, she rode into the little town and saw the conical towers of the old château which dominated it.
A royal château, she thought, a fitting place to house her little King.
But before many weeks had passed she lost her complacence.
News came to her from the Court. The miracle had happened. The Queen had conceived. She was taking every precaution regarding her pregnancy, consulting the holy men, making all the necessary pilgrimages, carrying many holy relics
; she was doing everything possible to ensure the birth of a healthy boy.
There followed some of the most anxious months of Louise’s life. She questioned everyone who came from the Court as to the Queen’s health, until Jeanne trembled for her and begged her to desist. She remained for long periods on her knees, night and morning, beseeching the saints and the Virgin for their help. It did not occur to her that to plead for the death of an unborn child was unseemly, for she was incapable of seeing anything as evil which furthered the future of her darling.
Naturally François was unaware of his mother’s anguish. He liked Amboise; and when he passed through the town the people cheered him. Marguerite was his constant companion, and they had little Françoise with them. There had been talk of a sword though; he had not received that yet; and when he mentioned it, his mother—usually so eager to give way to his whims—shook her head and said that was for later.
When plague came to certain cities Louise left Amboise in haste for Romorantin, a quiet retreat in the heart of woodland country. Amboise had been unaffected but there was much coming and going there, and she could not allow François to run the slightest risk.
Louis had gone off to Italy to carry out his treaty with the Pope, while his Queen was patiently waiting for the end of her pregnancy at Blois.
When Louise sat with Jeanne one day while they worked on their tapestry, Jeanne tried to reason with her. “You are unlike yourself, Louise. You are over-wrought.”
“Once Anne has given birth to a girl or a still-born child I shall regain my composure. Although there could well be other pregnancies. But Louis is away at the wars. Long may he stay there. And if this child she is bearing should prove to be…”
Jeanne shook her head. “You must be more at peace. If the worst should happen…” She shrugged her shoulders. “Well then, François would still have a great future, I am sure.”
“A great future! There is no future great enough for him but that of kingship. He is a king from the top of his lovely head to his dear little toes. God bless him, my King, my Caesar.”
“Louise, forgive me, for I love the boy dearly, but I think that you could allow your devotion to him to drive you mad.”
“Mad! Then mad I would be. He is my life and my love. I would die tomorrow if I lost him. And I think that if another took the crown from him I should begin to die from that moment.”
It was no use talking to her. She was a woman besotted with love and ambition for the loved one.
“I hear the approach of horses,” said Jeanne, rising. “I wonder who comes this way.”
She went to the window and, looking out, exclaimed in such astonishment that Louise came hurrying to her side.
When she saw the litter which was being carried she caught her breath in wonder. There was no mistaking that litter. It was decorated with the golden lilies of France.
“Anne herself!” whispered Louise. “But what can this mean?”
“You should go and find out,” Jeanne told her.
Louise hurried down to greet the party. Anne of Brittany, Queen of France, noticeably advanced in pregnancy, was helped from her litter.
Louise knelt before her till Anne bade her rise.
The Queen looked down somewhat cynically at the little woman with the fierce blue eyes and the firm jaw.
“We are greatly honored at Romorantin,” said Louise.
“There is plague at Blois,” answered the Queen. “I dared stay no longer.”
“Madame, if we had but had warning…”
“There was no time to give it, but we knew that we could rely on Madame d’Angoulême.”
Louise’s sharp eyes swept over the Queen’s body. She looked tired. She was pale. The journey must have exhausted her. So there was plague in Blois. What if some of the party already carried it? My King, my Caesar! What if…It was unthinkable. But if the Queen herself were suffering, if the child…
She must banish her wild thoughts and give her attention to entertaining the Queen at Romorantin.
How ironic! So the Queen was to give birth to that all-important child under that very roof where Louise was living with her cherished heir presumptive.
What strange days they were! Anne kept to the apartments which had been hastily prepared for her. The Queen was in a dilemma; she longed to summon holy men to her, but she feared they might be carriers of the plague. She wanted to make her pilgrimages; but she felt exhausted and was afraid that a journey might harm the precious child she carried.
She was fully aware of the watchful eyes of Louise—blue, cold and calculating.
She hated the woman; she knew what was going on in her mind, and when she caught glimpses of that boisterous boy who seemed to run everywhere and take sudden leaps into the air in an excess of good health and high spirits she was overcome with envy.
“Holy Mother,” she prayed, “give me a boy such as that one and I will spend the rest of my life in good works.”
“How is the Queen today?” Louise asked Anne’s attendants.
“A little tired, Madame.”
“The saints preserve her.”
When the Queen’s women told her of the solicitude of Madame d’Angoulême Anne smiled graciously, but inwardly she was sardonic. She wishes me as much good will as I wish her, she thought. How I long for the day when my son is born!
It was a pleasant pastime, planning how she would summon Louise to her bedchamber and proudly display the heir to the throne, how she would thank her for all she had done to make her confinement comfortable.
Every night Louise paced up and down her own apartments. Jeanne was with her, attempting to comfort her.
“It cannot be long now, Jeanne. It must be soon. If it should be a boy…”
“Calm yourself, Louise. She may have her spies close at hand. If she knew what harm you wished her child it might amount to a charge of treason.”
“How she would like to see me and my little King in the dungeons at Blois! Praise be to the saints, we have a good King on the throne. He is her dupe, I know, but he would never be persuaded to murder us.”
“You are growing distraught and it is not like you.”
“Distraught! How can I sleep? How can I eat…until I know that she has failed.”
There was much running to and fro in the Queen’s apartments. The pains had started. The Queen had ordered her attendants to pray constantly, all through her labor, for a boy.
Louise sat calm, waiting. The tension was relaxed because now she soon must know.
Then from the royal apartments came the cry of a child.
Louise clenched her hands in an ecstasy of pain. “Why don’t they tell me!” she demanded. And yet she dreaded to be told.
Jeanne brought her the news, but as Louise looked into the face of her faithful friend she did not need to be told. Rarely had she seen such shining happiness in that well-loved face.
“A girl!” cried Louise.
Jeanne was laughing on the edge of hysteria.
“A girl, Louise!”
“Oh praise be to the saints. All glory to my King, my Caesar.”
“A sickly girl…I heard. But it may be false. I heard that she was deformed and may not live.”
The two women fell weeping and laughing into each other’s arms.
François in Jeopardy
THE CHILD WAS CHRISTENED Claude and when Louise saw her she realized that rumor had not lied. The little girl was unhealthy and as far as could be seen had a squint.
Louise brought François and Marguerite to see the child, and from her bed Anne watched them at the cradle with narrowed eyes; she could have wept at the sight of the boy’s sturdy limbs, his glowing dark eyes, the vitality which, on instructions from his mother, he was trying to suppress.
“What a little baby!” That was the boy’s shrill voice.
“She is but a few days old, my love.”
“Was I a little baby like that once?”
“You were never a little baby. You were alw
ays a big one.”
The boy had started to jump, and his sister laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. Spoiled monster! thought Anne. He thinks the whole world was made for him. But if only I had one like him…
“I like our Françoise better,” declared François. “She is pretty.”
Louise had taken his hand and turned to smile at Anne. Such high spirits! And how can one so young and innocent be expected not to say what comes into his mind? You have to admit, the baby is sickly.
Would that I could call the guards, thought Anne, and have her taken down to one of the dungeons and kept there with her precious son.
She looks ill, Louise was thinking. She cannot take confinements lightly. She will have to take care of her health, and in view of the failure she has had with Charles, and now this weak little infant by Louis, it seems she may well continue to fail.
Louise stooped to François. “You will love the little Princess when she is old enough to run about.” That’s if she’s ever able to, she thought. It wouldn’t surprise me if she took sick and died.
Louise had come to the bed. “He loves playing with little children,” she said, her expression soft again. “Madame, you should see him with the little Françoise, this child whom he and his sister brought into the château because they wanted a baby to care for.”
Besotted fool, thought Anne. Does she think everyone is going into ecstasies of admiration at the childish doings of that boy?
“He is five years old, is he not? The Princess Claude will mayhap prefer to play with children of her own age.”
The Queen closed her eyes; it was the sign of dismissal. Through lowered lids she watched the little party leave. If she thought that boy was going to marry Claude, Louise was mistaken. If she could marry Claude to a foreign Prince, if her next child were a son—Madame Louise was going to find herself and her adored François very much less significantly placed than they were at this time.
Louis had returned from the war. He was not the most successful of generals and, although he had longed to bring Milan back to France, he knew that his real genius was for home government. He was never extravagant on his own account; but he was eager to see his people living in greater comfort, and during the first years of his reign, France prospered. His subjects were aware of his virtue and conceived a great affection for him. He became known as the Father of his People.
