Jean Plaidy - Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII
In the meantime he had the importunity of people such as Louise of Savoy to contend with. She would not be quite so complacent about this merry little fellow on whom she doted when he and Anne, safely married, presented the country with their son. That would put that somewhat long though enchanting nose of Monsieur François out of joint. Not that he was aware of that yet—with his dogs, ponies and babies.
Louis enjoyed his sojourn at the château and spent most of his leisure with the children. He would go alone unannounced to the nursery, and he thought how delightful Louise’s two looked, bending over a chess board; he would sit beside them and watch the little fingers—the boy’s still showing signs of baby fat—moving the pieces with a skill extraordinary in players so young. There was a real baby, he discovered; and he was very amused to hear that François had demanded it and that his sister, Marguerite, had promptly left the château and found her imperious brother that for which he’d asked.
The boy will be spoiled, he thought, left to the care of women.
And women who dote on him to such an extent! He would consult with Georges at an early opportunity, for they must remember that, as yet, he was not even married to Anne, and that while this state of affairs persisted young François could be King of France. He should not therefore be tied to women’s apron strings, but brought up as a man.
During his visit he broached the subject with Louise.
“You are justly proud of two such children,” he told her. “I’ll swear that you will wish to put such a boy in the care of a great soldier, and that soon.”
Louise was startled. “I had no such plans, Sire.”
“He is so advanced for his age that one forgets how young he is. Such a one needs to be brought up with boys of his own age and under stern discipline. He must learn how to become a knight—to use a sword, how to conduct himself in combat. Remember, he could one day hold a very important position in this land.”
“’Tis true, Sire. But I would wish to remain in charge of his education. He must learn all that a man should learn, but that will come later.”
“You have too much sense,” said Louis with a smile, “to wish to leave it too long. I will speak to de Gié of our François. As you know he is one of the greatest soldiers in France, and I am sure, Madame, you will agree with me when I say that none but the best is good enough for François.”
Louise was trembling with apprehension but the King noticed the firm set of her lips, and he said to himself: There is a woman who will fight for her boy like a tigress for her cub. She is determined that one day he shall be King of France. Alas, Madame, you are doomed to disappointment.
He felt sorry for her and spoke gently to her when he took his farewell, complimenting her once more on her children, and adding that he believed she would never allow them to leave her care.
But when François knelt before him, looking so dignified that he brought tears to his mother’s eyes as she watched him, Louis stooped and picked the boy up in his arms.
“What a big fellow you are!” he said. “I’ll swear that when next we meet you’ll be showing me how well you can handle a sword.”
François’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “A sword … for me!”
“Well, you’ll be a man one day,” said the King. “You may need one.”
François was delighted. Now he wanted a sword.
The château seemed quiet after the King had left. Jeanne de Polignac sensed Louise’s concern and tried to soothe her.
“One thing is certain,” she said. “Louis does not believe he will ever get a son because he would not concern himself with the upbringing of François if he did not consider him to be the Dauphin.”
There was comfort in that thought.
“But I shall not allow anyone to take him from me,” said Louise fiercely.
When Georges d’Amboise sought an audience with the King there was triumph in every line of the Archbishop’s plump body.
“Alexander is willing, Sire,” Georges explained. “He is concerned at the moment for his son Cesare, and Cesare needs your help. Alexander says—most diplomatically and in that veiled language of which he is a past master—that if you will please him, you shall have your divorce.”
“What are his terms?” Louis asked.
“Cesare is tired of his Cardinal’s robes. He fancies himself as a conqueror. There is no doubt that he arranged the murder of his brother, the Duke of Gandia. You will remember, my Liege, that that young man’s body was found in the Tiber; he had been stabbed to death. Alexander loved that boy, but he has given up grieving now. He has another son, and so besottedly does he love his children that he now gives all his devotion to Cesare and his daughter Lucrezia. He seems to have forgotten poor Gandia now that he is dead—at least he forgives Cesare for murdering his brother.”
“It may be that he wishes to see the Borgias triumphant. Tell me what he asks for Cesare.”
“You will remember, Sire, that when Cesare became a Cardinal Alexander prepared documents which proclaimed him to have been born in wedlock. Now he has prepared further documents. Cesare is his bastard and therefore, being of illegitimate birth, cannot be accepted as a Cardinal. Cesare will leave the Church, and he plans to come to the Court of France; he wants you to help him to marry Carlotta of Aragon, and he would be pleased to accept a French dukedom. He wishes to make an alliance with you so that you may join forces in attacking Italy.”
“Alexander knows how to drive a bargain.”
“He does, Sire. But you have always greatly desired Milan and have had a claim to it. Cesare would come with the dispensation which will dissolve your marriage; and all we should have to do is have the case tried here before judges whom you would select.”
Louis was thoughtful. “You are an able man, Georges. You should have your reward too.”
Georges smiled. “I understand that Cesare will bring, in addition to the dispensation for you, a Cardinal’s hat for me.”
“The Borgia knows how to make a bargain irresistible.”
“ ’Tis so, Sire. And you need the divorce, unless we are prepared to sit back and see young François mount the throne of France.”
Louis nodded. “Have you put the case before Queen Anne?”
He waited nervously for the reply.
Georges was frowning. “She is reluctant. She feels that to marry so soon after the death of her husband would be a little unseemly.”
Louis beat his fist on his knee. “I am in no mind to wait.”
“You should have no fear on that account, Sire. There is one thing for which she longs and that is to be the mother of the King of France. I mentioned Louise and her François, and that was adding fuel to the flame. I am sure that Louise—and young François—are scarcely ever out of her thoughts. She sees Louise as her greatest rival. She cannot endure the thought of her triumph. I do not think we shall have trouble with Queen Anne, Sire, once you are free of Queen Jeanne.”
“I am sorry that I have to do this, Georges.”
Georges lifted his shoulders. “It is the fate of royal personages, Sire. I am sure she will understand.”
“Well, let us hasten on the affair. Have you prepared the case?”
“I have, Sire. You will swear that the marriage is impossible of consummation. The Queen is unfit to be a wife and a mother. That is good enough reason for a king to put his wife away.”
“Poor Jeanne, I fear she will take this sadly.”
“She will recover.”
“It is not strictly true to say that she is unfit to be a wife.”
“It is in this case, Sire.”
“There are times when I almost wish …” Louis did not finish his sentence. It was quite untrue of course. He was longing to be rid of Jeanne; he dreamed nightly of Anne who was becoming more and more desirable to him. He was certain that in the first weeks of their marriage she would conceive. But it was true to say that he wished he did not have to hurt Jeanne.
“It will be over very quickly, Sire. The physicians will ask to examine Queen Jeanne.”
“To examine her!”
“To ascertain her unfitness for marriage.”
“But she will never submit to such indignity.”
“Then all is well, Sire,” smiled Georges, “for then it will be assumed that she is indeed unfit, for if she were not, it will be said, why should she refuse the examination?”
Louis gazed at his friend; then he rose and going to the window looked out.
Yet it must be, he thought. There were demands of kingship to be served.
Jeanne could not believe it. Louis had always been so kind. It was true that he found her repulsive, but she had loved him dearly because he had always made such an effort to pretend this was not the case. He had been unfaithful to her; she had expected that. It was his kindness which had always made her feel so safe. He was also so genial, so logical—except when he was ill or anxious. Then he was inclined to be irritable, but that was natural.
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.
