Section CVIII - August 1533
Please note we've gone back in time by a month here, to show the immediate impact of Francis's death at the French Court. Otherwise you may be a bit confused!
Marie stares at the messenger, holding back tears by sheer force of will.
“Who did the King call for? At the end, who did the King call for?”
“Maman,” François protests, tugging lightly on her arm, “Papa is dead. Knowing who he called for when his wound went septic…What does it matter? It won’t bring him back.”
Marie spins her gaze to her son. Her King.
“It matters,” she replies, voice searing the air between them, “Believe me, mon coeur, it matters.”
François doesn’t look fully convinced, but he subsides, gesturing to the messenger to answer her.
The young man visibly steels himself. Her physical collapse after Henri’s death is common knowledge, after all. He probably fears that something similar may be imminent.
“His Grace called for the late Countess of Angouleme, as was only to be expected. Many men call for their mothers when they are fatally wounded, My Lady. But His Majesty also…also called for Your Grace.”
Marie’s knees go weak with relief. Francis called for her. At the very end, when there was nothing more that could be done for him, he called for her. Despite everything that had happened between them, he called for her, not Isabella.
That means more than she cares to admit to anyone save herself, even her beloved eldest son.
That being said, François probably senses something, for he tightens his grip on her, steadying her with an arm around her waist, before dismissing the messenger with a grim nod of thanks.
No sooner has the door swung shut behind the young man than Marie whirls to face her son.
“I want her gone. You promised me she’d never get to mourn your father, that you’d banish her from Court the moment you were King. I want her gone.”
François doesn’t need to ask who his mother is talking about. He nods, “She will be. I give you my word, she will not see another dawn at Court.”
He pauses, then shifts his hand to Marie’s shoulders, “I’ll go and give the orders. And I’ll also write to Margot. She needs to know.”
He waits for his mother’s nod of acknowledgement – as long as she’s acknowledging him, then she hasn’t slipped behind the impenetrable veil of grief she lived behind for well over a year after Henri and Edouard died -, then slips from the room. Marie doesn’t curtsy as he leaves, but he doesn’t mind. His mother was Queen of France for over twenty years, and she only lost the title four days ago. It’s going to take some time for them all to adjust to their new roles and the new protocol. He can forgive her the odd missed curtsy or two.
Isabella is playing quiet, mournful music on her virginals, the women of her household sewing around her, when the door to her solar crashes open. Her former fiancé, Rene de Rohan, stands in the doorway, face grim.
“Madame de Valentinois?” he barks.
Isabella looks up and, despite herself, can’t entirely suppress a jolt of alarm at the look on his face. Beneath the grim visage, he is clearly hiding a gleam of triumph, which doesn’t bode well. Rene was raised with the former Dauphin, their new King, with whom he is almost of an age. The boys weren’t close as children, but they bonded as teenagers over their mutual resentment of her relationship with Francis. For the King to send him to her, so unexpectedly… Well, it doesn’t exactly suggest that he has friendly intentions.
Still, she won’t let Rene see her fear. She’s the greatest Duchess in the land, mother to the late King’s youngest two children. She’ll be damned if she’ll let a mere Viscount rattle her, even if they were once betrothed.
She finishes her tune unhurriedly, then glides to her feet to face the young nobleman.
“You know I am, Rene. What brings you to my door. Can I offer you any refreshment? It’s a hot day, after all.”
Rene doesn’t bother responding to her pleasantries. Without compunction, he slams a warrant down on her instrument, causing a cacophony of jangled, discordant notes.
“His Majesty King François orders you to be gone from Court by sunset. Any attempt to remain later than this evening will be met with force and will earn you a stay in the Bastille.”
One of Isabella’s ladies lets out a little scream at the mention of the formidable fortress, but Isabella knows attack is the best form of defence. She tosses her head, scorning the announcement, “Is our new King so ignorant of what it takes to move a royal household? I cannot possibly pack so quickly!”
“Then I suggest you choose what is most essential to you, Madame. Leave everything else, for it can always be sent on after you. After all, His Majesty would never dishonour his father’s memory so far as to leave you completely penniless.”
There is a thinly-veiled sneer in Rene’s voice, one that indicates only too clearly that he would not be so generous, were he in François’s shoes.
Isabella lets him have his moment, for, while he has been pontificating, her sharp brain has been whirring. She might not be Francis’s favourite anymore, but that doesn’t mean she’s completely without allies.
But to be able to get word to them, she’ll have to play along long enough to get the implacable Rene out of her rooms.
That thought in mind, she nods coolly and turns to her chief lady, her older sister Alienor.
“Ali, go and fetch Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Magdalena,” she orders, emphasising the children’s titles in a way she never normally does to her sister to remind Rene just how beloved she was by King Francis, “Tell their nurses to prepare them for a long journey.”
She realises it is a miscalculation as soon as the words leave her mouth, for Rene’s smile sharpens wolfishly.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Madame,” he sneers, “Did I not make it clear? You won’t be taking your bastards anywhere. As the late King’s natural children, they belong to France, not you. King François has already asked the Dowager Queen to take charge of them.”
For the first time, Isabella feels a shiver of foreboding go down her spine. The Dowager Queen is to take charge of Gaston and Magdalena? That’s a complication she hadn’t considered arising. Nor is it an insignificant one, either. King François adores his mother to distraction, and she him. He’d never spring this on her if she hadn’t asked it of him. Which means this seizure of her children is pure vindictiveness on Queen Marie’s part.
For a moment, Isabella wishes she hadn’t encouraged Mademoiselle Louise and Lord Milan to look upon her as their mother quite so openly.
But she did, and so there is now nothing for it but to brazen things out.
She forces herself to nod to Rene, “Very well. I trust His Majesty will allow me to say goodbye to my children before I leave?”
“King François would not be so cruel as to deprive his young siblings of a proper farewell from their mother. You may take your leave of them in the Queen Dowager’s rooms,” Rene confirms, before turning smartly on his heel, “Now, I’ll leave you to pack. As you said yourself, you haven’t got long.”
The young man strides to the door, then pauses. He turns to face Isabella, his grey eyes glittering with malice.
“You may have been born a Princess, Isabella, and you may have held a King’s heart in the palm of your hand, but you’re not royal anymore. Not in this new world of ours.”
Isabella’s household shriek at his effrontery, not least his casual use of her first name, but Isabella forces herself to pay him no heed. It’s not like Rene himself has any real power over her, after all.
She simply dips her head and waits for him to leave.
No sooner is the younger man out of earshot than she whirls to look at her sister.
“Ali, take the children to Queen Marie so it looks like we’re playing along. But the rest of you, don’t do a thing! Lord Milan won’t let this stand!”
With that, she flings open the door of her apartments and disappears into the palace proper, leaving her ladies gaping behind her.
Chateau de Vincennes, August 1533
Marie stares at the messenger, holding back tears by sheer force of will.
“Who did the King call for? At the end, who did the King call for?”
“Maman,” François protests, tugging lightly on her arm, “Papa is dead. Knowing who he called for when his wound went septic…What does it matter? It won’t bring him back.”
Marie spins her gaze to her son. Her King.
“It matters,” she replies, voice searing the air between them, “Believe me, mon coeur, it matters.”
François doesn’t look fully convinced, but he subsides, gesturing to the messenger to answer her.
The young man visibly steels himself. Her physical collapse after Henri’s death is common knowledge, after all. He probably fears that something similar may be imminent.
“His Grace called for the late Countess of Angouleme, as was only to be expected. Many men call for their mothers when they are fatally wounded, My Lady. But His Majesty also…also called for Your Grace.”
Marie’s knees go weak with relief. Francis called for her. At the very end, when there was nothing more that could be done for him, he called for her. Despite everything that had happened between them, he called for her, not Isabella.
That means more than she cares to admit to anyone save herself, even her beloved eldest son.
That being said, François probably senses something, for he tightens his grip on her, steadying her with an arm around her waist, before dismissing the messenger with a grim nod of thanks.
No sooner has the door swung shut behind the young man than Marie whirls to face her son.
“I want her gone. You promised me she’d never get to mourn your father, that you’d banish her from Court the moment you were King. I want her gone.”
François doesn’t need to ask who his mother is talking about. He nods, “She will be. I give you my word, she will not see another dawn at Court.”
He pauses, then shifts his hand to Marie’s shoulders, “I’ll go and give the orders. And I’ll also write to Margot. She needs to know.”
He waits for his mother’s nod of acknowledgement – as long as she’s acknowledging him, then she hasn’t slipped behind the impenetrable veil of grief she lived behind for well over a year after Henri and Edouard died -, then slips from the room. Marie doesn’t curtsy as he leaves, but he doesn’t mind. His mother was Queen of France for over twenty years, and she only lost the title four days ago. It’s going to take some time for them all to adjust to their new roles and the new protocol. He can forgive her the odd missed curtsy or two.
Isabella is playing quiet, mournful music on her virginals, the women of her household sewing around her, when the door to her solar crashes open. Her former fiancé, Rene de Rohan, stands in the doorway, face grim.
“Madame de Valentinois?” he barks.
Isabella looks up and, despite herself, can’t entirely suppress a jolt of alarm at the look on his face. Beneath the grim visage, he is clearly hiding a gleam of triumph, which doesn’t bode well. Rene was raised with the former Dauphin, their new King, with whom he is almost of an age. The boys weren’t close as children, but they bonded as teenagers over their mutual resentment of her relationship with Francis. For the King to send him to her, so unexpectedly… Well, it doesn’t exactly suggest that he has friendly intentions.
Still, she won’t let Rene see her fear. She’s the greatest Duchess in the land, mother to the late King’s youngest two children. She’ll be damned if she’ll let a mere Viscount rattle her, even if they were once betrothed.
She finishes her tune unhurriedly, then glides to her feet to face the young nobleman.
“You know I am, Rene. What brings you to my door. Can I offer you any refreshment? It’s a hot day, after all.”
Rene doesn’t bother responding to her pleasantries. Without compunction, he slams a warrant down on her instrument, causing a cacophony of jangled, discordant notes.
“His Majesty King François orders you to be gone from Court by sunset. Any attempt to remain later than this evening will be met with force and will earn you a stay in the Bastille.”
One of Isabella’s ladies lets out a little scream at the mention of the formidable fortress, but Isabella knows attack is the best form of defence. She tosses her head, scorning the announcement, “Is our new King so ignorant of what it takes to move a royal household? I cannot possibly pack so quickly!”
“Then I suggest you choose what is most essential to you, Madame. Leave everything else, for it can always be sent on after you. After all, His Majesty would never dishonour his father’s memory so far as to leave you completely penniless.”
There is a thinly-veiled sneer in Rene’s voice, one that indicates only too clearly that he would not be so generous, were he in François’s shoes.
Isabella lets him have his moment, for, while he has been pontificating, her sharp brain has been whirring. She might not be Francis’s favourite anymore, but that doesn’t mean she’s completely without allies.
But to be able to get word to them, she’ll have to play along long enough to get the implacable Rene out of her rooms.
That thought in mind, she nods coolly and turns to her chief lady, her older sister Alienor.
“Ali, go and fetch Monsieur Gaston and Mademoiselle Magdalena,” she orders, emphasising the children’s titles in a way she never normally does to her sister to remind Rene just how beloved she was by King Francis, “Tell their nurses to prepare them for a long journey.”
She realises it is a miscalculation as soon as the words leave her mouth, for Rene’s smile sharpens wolfishly.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Madame,” he sneers, “Did I not make it clear? You won’t be taking your bastards anywhere. As the late King’s natural children, they belong to France, not you. King François has already asked the Dowager Queen to take charge of them.”
For the first time, Isabella feels a shiver of foreboding go down her spine. The Dowager Queen is to take charge of Gaston and Magdalena? That’s a complication she hadn’t considered arising. Nor is it an insignificant one, either. King François adores his mother to distraction, and she him. He’d never spring this on her if she hadn’t asked it of him. Which means this seizure of her children is pure vindictiveness on Queen Marie’s part.
For a moment, Isabella wishes she hadn’t encouraged Mademoiselle Louise and Lord Milan to look upon her as their mother quite so openly.
But she did, and so there is now nothing for it but to brazen things out.
She forces herself to nod to Rene, “Very well. I trust His Majesty will allow me to say goodbye to my children before I leave?”
“King François would not be so cruel as to deprive his young siblings of a proper farewell from their mother. You may take your leave of them in the Queen Dowager’s rooms,” Rene confirms, before turning smartly on his heel, “Now, I’ll leave you to pack. As you said yourself, you haven’t got long.”
The young man strides to the door, then pauses. He turns to face Isabella, his grey eyes glittering with malice.
“You may have been born a Princess, Isabella, and you may have held a King’s heart in the palm of your hand, but you’re not royal anymore. Not in this new world of ours.”
Isabella’s household shriek at his effrontery, not least his casual use of her first name, but Isabella forces herself to pay him no heed. It’s not like Rene himself has any real power over her, after all.
She simply dips her head and waits for him to leave.
No sooner is the younger man out of earshot than she whirls to look at her sister.
“Ali, take the children to Queen Marie so it looks like we’re playing along. But the rest of you, don’t do a thing! Lord Milan won’t let this stand!”
With that, she flings open the door of her apartments and disappears into the palace proper, leaving her ladies gaping behind her.
