Sarzeau, April 1536
They are dancing when the news comes. It had been Renee’s idea to come back to Brittany for François’s nineteenth birthday, to come back to the Chateau d’Suscino, where Anne was born and they’ve both always been so happy. She thought they’d needed it, a chance to relax after all the grief and strain of the past few years.
And for a few precious days, even weeks, it works. The Chateau d’Suscino rings with merriment as the young Court throws itself into celebrating the young King and his bright future. François’s birthday ball is no exception.
The nineteen-year-old King is at the centre of proceedings, as is only right, dancing pavanes, galliards and allemains with every young woman in sight, and even some little girls, for his eight-year-old sister Lisabelle and her companions have been allowed to stay up for this one precious night of the year.
Two hours into the ball, François’s red hair is damp with exertion and his dark eyes sparkle with joy, a joy that is utterly infectious. His grin widens excitedly every time he glances over to his wife, presiding on the dais in a gorgeous gown of pale blue taffeta, for, unbeknownst to anyone else in the room, Renee has already given him the best birthday present anyone could ask for. She whispered to him as they left Mass that morning that she is pregnant again – that Anne and Marie will have another sibling before the year is out. The two of them are like children again, hugging their secret between them conspiratorially.
François is dancing with ten-year-old Griet de St Pol, whirling the pretty dark-haired child under his arm to make her giggle, when the mud-splattered figure in the corner of the room catches his eye.
For a split-second, he falters, but when the messenger carries straight on to the dais, he dismisses it and throws himself back into the dance. It’s his birthday. It’s his birthday and Renee is more than capable. She can deal with this importunate petitioner, no matter how urgent the matter may be.
He pulls Griet away from the dais, galloping her down the length of the hall without missing more than half a beat.
By the time they are coming back up the hall, however, Renee is on her feet, scanning the crowd for him. His heart leaps into his throat. The way her jaw is set tells him that, whatever that letter contains, it’s bad news, and urgent bad news at that.
He leaps up the steps of the dais without so much as a goodbye to Griet.
“What is it? What is it, my love?”
In answer, Renee simply holds up the letter, letting him scan it over her shoulder.
The music falters to a discordant halt, as, all around them, people begin to realise that something is very, very wrong.
François pays it no heed, taking in the close-written words with frantic eyes.
Jean, whom they have been watching carefully since he arrived in Narbonne without warning a couple of weeks ago, has finally made his move. He has left the southern city and is pushing north to Orleans at the head of 8500 men. He claims only to want to take up his place on François’s council and replace those who are giving his brother terrible advice, but who knows? He’s very much Madame de Valentinois’s creature. He always has been. And Madame de Valentinois has no reason to be friendly to either François or Renee. Moreover, with Lord Nemours, Henri of Navarre and the Archbishop of Narbonne behind him, Jean has powerful men trying to pull his strings. This could very easily spiral out of control, if they don’t get on top of it, and quickly.
Renee suddenly tips her head back to look up at him, her blue eyes wide with horror.
“Orleans,” she whispers, making it only too clear that her thoughts are running in concert with François’s own.
Orleans is where Jean’s namesake, the Maid, famously relieved the siege, rescued the Dauphin and turned the tide of the Hundred Years War, thereby reviving the fortunes of the House of Valois.
Ever since then, the bustling city has held almost mythic status in the hearts of the populace. In fact, it is treated almost as a second capital, dwarfed only by Paris itself in importance. If Jean can seize it, then…
François shies away from that thought, shaking his head to clear it. It’s not going to come to that. He won’t let it.
Renee reads faster than he does. As such, it is her gasp that pulls François from his musings and directs his attention to the second page of the letter.
Shocking as Jean’s rebellion is, it’s not the worst of it. Not even close. Even as Jean marches north, the Emperor has seen fit to challenge the Treaty of Rouen. The Marquess of Pescara set sail from Rotterdam last week, a fleet of thirty ships under his command. Given Señor de Avalos’ experience in the Italian theatre, and the fact that Jean’s sudden return to France must already be common knowledge throughout Christendom, there is only one place such an Armada can be bound.
Milan.
Cursing under his breath, François squeezes Renee’s shoulder in a futile attempt at reassurance and then shouts across the suddenly silent hall.
“Claude, Guy, Rene, Charles, Antoine! With me. Now!”
The five men so summoned gather hastily and François leads them to a hidden antechamber almost at a run, leaving Renee to rescue what shreds of his birthday party she can.
By dawn, they have their orders. The Duke of Guise is to sail from St Malo with 5000 of the finest Breton soldiers to try to bolster the Duke of Bouillon’s defence of Milan. If they can only get there in time.
Guy de Laval and Rene de Rohan, both of whom have connections to Madame de Valentinois and Henri of Navarre, are to ride to Orleans with all possible speed, taking a cadre of 6000 soldiers with them. With any luck, they will be able to treat with Jean and bring him to heel, but, if all else fails, François has reluctantly conceded that they may try to force his surrender through battle.
Charles de Vendome is to escort the pregnant Renee, Marie, Charly and Lisabelle to Marie’s dower property at Chambord. With any luck, the 3000 soldiers he commands will be enough to keep the Queens, Lord Angouleme and Mademoiselle Elisabeth safe from any villainy Jean and his cronies may be plotting. Meanwhile, Lord Vendome’s son, Antoine, is to take another 3000 men and retreat to Nantes with the Dauphin and Mademoiselle Marie.
At just eighteen, Antoine is the youngest of François’s commanders. In fact, the two of them grew up together, and François sincerely hopes that stationing Antoine in Brittany with his son will be enough to keep his boyhood friend safe. Getting him killed would be a very poor way of rewarding the Vendomes’ loyalty to the Crown.
As for François himself, he is to hot foot it to the central stronghold of Chinon, where his mother waited out the Italian War of 1521, 4000 soldiers and the 24 -year-old heir to the Duchy of Bouillon, Robert de La Marck the Younger, riding with him to keep him safe. From Chinon, with any luck, he will be able to coordinate everyone’s movements and oversee the destruction of his brother’s rebellion before it ever really takes off.
François is reluctant to be parted from Renee, particularly since she is pregnant once more, but he is eventually persuaded that, the more scattered the royal family is in this time of trial, the safer the Crown will be.
All in all, there are soon to be 21,000 of France and Brittany’s finest soldiers on the move throughout the country and overseas.
All François can do, as he kisses Renee, Marie and Lisabelle and bundles them into a litter, charging ten-year-old Charly to be the man of the house until they can all be together again, and then races to the stables to find his own mount, is pray that it won’t all be too little, too late.