Marguerite, Dowager Duchess of Alencon, stood with her hands on her hips, facing down her brother.
“
Francois, you can’t be serious! After everything old King Louis did to stabilise the Crown; to expand its borders, you’re just going to throw it away to this Tudor upstart? Tell me you’re not serious!”
King Francis threw up his hands,
“What would you have me do, Marguerite? Lose my throne entirely? At least if I offer Henri these terms, I’ll keep my throne and all our lands except Normandy. And we’ll get everything west of the Orne back when his daughter Mary marries my Francois. We’re not making him King, only recognising his old claim to be Duke of Normandy.”
“
Normandy! Normandy! That land is fractious enough without us losing our hold on it entirely! What are you thinking?! Charles didn’t die so you could spit on his loyalty and throw his years of hard work away with months of his death!”
“Marguerite, Cherie...”
“No. You don’t call me Cherie anymore, majesté. You lost that right when you tried to pawn me off as a bargaining chip on the altar of your ambition! And then made it worse by failing to defend my betrothal, instead wilting beneath that Welsh dragon’s feeble puffs of smoke!”
Marguerite whirled on her heel and slammed the door as she strode out, ignoring both her brother’s frantic calls for her to return and the bows and curtsies being accorded to her by the courtiers who parted for her like the Red Sea as she passed.
Francis sighed and turned to the other woman in the room.
“Can’t she see that I’m doing my best here, Maman? Can’t she see that I’ve got my back to the wall here? You can. It’s your lands, your title, I’m gifting away, and yet you’re taking it better than Marguerite is. I don’t understand.”
“Ah, but mon roi, I’m used to the turns of Lady Fortune’s wheel. Marguerite isn’t. She’ll come round, I promise. She’s just disappointed, that’s all.”
“Disappointed? Marguerite is disappointed in me?” Francis’s voice rang with incredulity, the incredulity of the spoilt family favourite who has just been refused something or scolded for the first time in his life. Louise spread her hands and shrugged elegantly.
“Bien sur. You promised her a glittering future as the Queen of England, only to fail to protect it as it was stolen away from her by the sister of an old maid of hers. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, she now has to watch as her beloved brother hands our ancient enemy a large swathe of our territory almost on a plate. Of course she’ll be disappointed. How could she be anything other than disappointed?”
Francis’s shoulders slumped as he took in the truth of his mother’s words. Moments later, however, he raised his head again and his eyes were hard.
“I’ll get it back, Maman. I don’t care how long I have to wait. I swear I’ll get it back.”
*** *** ***
Henry glared at Francis over More’s shoulder. “What do you mean, he’ll only sign the treaty if I swear on oath that I’ll grant my daughter Mary almost half of Normandy as her dowry when the time comes? I hardly think he’s in a position to be making demands as large as that!”
“Of course he’s not, Sire,” More soothed, “Of course he’s not.”
“So why are we even humouring the scoundrel by discussing it?”
Henry’s face was puce with rage. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. He was pacing quickly up and down – three steps forward, three steps back.
“I’ve half a mind not to sign the damn thing at all, but to raze Paris to the ground; to sack it and raze it to the ground. Then he wouldn’t have the nerve to look me in the eye and demand something as audacious as half of Normandy!” he growled. Sighing, More held up his hand.
“I know, Sire, but if you were to grant Francis his wish, you’d be known throughout Christendom as the King who was the most gracious in victory. Wouldn’t that be something? You’d be a warrior as great as Henry V and a lord as gracious as old King Edward or even King David. You’d almost be on a par with Arthur himself.”
Henry paused at More’s words. Him, as great as King Arthur? That really would be something. That would really show his father’s ghost that he, not sickly Arthur, was the one who had been born to be King. Would signing the treaty as it was really be so bad?
Sensing he had the King baited, More carefully began to reel in his line.
“It’s not like you couldn’t make a demand of your own in exchange, Sire.”
More hated himself for being so conniving, but right now, all he wanted to do was get this treaty signed. Anything to get this campaign over and the King safely home to his new bride before anything could happen to him and before the weather got too bad to permit sailing. If being conniving was what it took, then he would be conniving.
For a moment, Henry fell silent, thinking. Then he smirked.
“All right. I’ll promise to dower Mary with the lands between Brittany and the Orne, if Francis wants me to. But I want his sword in exchange.”
“His sword, Sire?”
“His ceremonial sword. I will lay it at my love’s feet in triumph, just as the Pharaohs of Egypt used to do with their Queens.”
More gulped, hesitated a moment. Then he bowed, “Majesty.”
He walked over towards the French King, wishing he didn’t have to do this. Why in Heaven’s name had he ever suggested Henry make a demand in exchange for swearing to dower Princess Mary with the lands King Francis wanted when the time came? He might have known Henry would come up with something like this.
“Because it was the only way you’d ever see a halfway honourable truce concluded,” a voice said in his ear. Trying to ignore it, More bit the inside of his cheek and bowed before the French King.
“His Majesty sent me to tell you, Sire, that he will promise to dower Her Highness Princess Mary with the lands you request when she comes to France to marry the Dauphin, if you so wish it. But he wants something in exchange.”
King Francis attempted a laugh, “Something in exchange? What more can your master want than half my kingdom? Free trade with the other half?”
“He wants your sword, Sire.”
“My sword?” King Francis’s face was blank, uncomprehending.
“Your ceremonial sword, Sire. He wishes to lay it at Queen Mary’s feet in triumph.”
More kept his face carefully impassive, but it didn’t stop his heart inwardly wrenching for the French King as the younger man’s face went white.
“My sword? No! C’est Impossible!”
The words were out before King Francis could stop them. Louise of Savoy cut him off, stepping smoothly into the breach.
“I presume, Master More, that your master will see to it that an exact duplicate, perfect in every detail, is sent out from England before the next great feast days?”
More hid his surprise at the former Countess of Angouleme’s ever-consummate grace and confidence. Bowing more deeply than he feared Henry would like, he nodded, “I should think that could be arranged, Madame de Angouleme, yes.”
“Very well. You may tell your master we accept his terms. He’ll have our signatures on the treaty within the next forty-eight hours.”
More bowed once more and gratefully retreated to re-join the English entourage, torn between exultation on his King’s behalf and pity for the vanquished.