Fontainebleau, September 1528
“You’re investing Jean!”
Francis’s Privy Chamber door crashes open. He looks up, startled.
Marie stands there, her bright hair almost sparking in her fury.
“Who told you?” He doesn’t see any point in denying it. Not with his Master of Ceremonies decorating Fontainebleau’s Great Hall as they speak.
“Maud!” Marie’s eyes are burning into him and his heart sinks. He should have known Lady Parr would think nothing of telling Marie that their son was about to become Duke of Milan. Indeed, the older woman might even have been trying to help – to enthuse Marie for life again with news of her son’s great and glittering future. But now Marie will only see it as a betrayal – not only of Henri’s memory, but that he didn’t tell her himself.
Francis rises and stretches out an imploring hand. “
Ma lionne…”
“No!” Marie jerks back, instinctively recoiling, though she is already well out of his reach.
The two of them stare at each other in heavy, fateful silence.
“How could you? How
could you?!”
Marie’s words are anguished and Francis winces at the sound of how raw her grief still is.
“Henri has been dead five months,
cherie,” he says softly, “I grieve him too, but life must go on. Milan must have a new Duke. Or do you want to lose it to the Emperor because the men don’t have a figurehead to rally to? Jean will be made Duke at the end of the week, and I hope to affiance him to Isabella of Poland before the year is out, if Queen Bona and King Sigismund are agreeable. Her Sforza blood will help him hold Milan when he’s older.”
Marie can’t help but let out a little scream, “Oh, but this just gets worse and worse! Do you care so little for our sons that one is much like the other to you?! Never mind that Henri is barely cold in his grave. All you care about is pushing Jean on to his ducal throne!”
Marie pauses, panting for breath. She spits her next words out like poison.
“I suppose I should be grateful my niece Mary is too old for Jean. Otherwise you’d probably be pushing him into Henri’s place in her bed too, like Isabella of Spain and my father did to Katherine and my brothers.”
“Marie, that’s not fair…” Francis makes to protest, but Marie cuts him off with a scornful sniff.
“Well. On your head be it. I hope you’re content with our family as it is, my lord husband, because I’ll be
damned if I’ll give you any more children! Not when all you do is use them as interchangeable pawns on your chessboard of politics!”
She drops a sharp, mocking curtsy and turns on her heel, stalking out of earshot before Francis can think of a single word to say. He flops on to the nearest window seat with a groan.
That could have gone better.
Jean jumps as the heralds blare their trumpets and has to very quickly straighten his royal blue tunic and try to look serious before the guards open the doors for him. He’s a big boy now. He’s six. He can’t look scared before all the people, especially not when Papa’s gone to all this trouble to hold a special ceremony for him and give him a nice new title.
He’ll be a Duke now, not a Count. He’ll be a Duke like François. Maybe now Charly will listen when he tries to teach him things. After all, Dukes are important. You have to listen to them.
So enthralled is Jean by the idea that his annoying little brother will finally have to listen to him that he scarcely even realises that he’s reached the dais. Margot has to hiss at him to remind him to kneel.
Margot. Why is Margot sitting beside Papa? Where’s
Maman? Oh, she always liked Henri best, everyone knew that, but even so, she’s never missed any of their big days before, not unless she was in confinement. So why has she missed this one? Is she ill? And where’s Madame de St Pol? She’s his godmother. She promised him she’d never miss any of his important days, and being made a Duke definitely counts as being important. So where is she? Is she with
Maman? But then, where are they both?
Jean wants to look around, to see if he can see either of the most important women in his life, but the herald next to Papa doesn’t give him a chance. The boring old man unrolls his scroll and begins to read, droning on and on.
“Lord Angouleme, it is His Grace’s sovereign pleasure, on this, the nineteenth day of September,
anno domini 1528, to exchange your title of Count of Angouleme for that of Duke of Milan, the latter to be held by you and your lawfully begotten heirs male in perpetuity. Your Highness is hence to be known as His Grace of Milan and will receive an annual income of 700 marks per annum from the revenues of the Duchy of Milan for the maintenance of your ducal household until such time as Your Highness is declared to have come of age, at which point you will come into your estates in full.”
The words wash over Jean, going into one ear and out of the other. He doesn’t understand half of them, and even if he did, what do they matter? What he wants to know is where
Maman and Madame de St Pol are hiding.
Papa comes down from his throne then, and wraps him in an ermine-trimmed cloak, before settling a heavy crown on his head.
“Arise, My Lord Milan,” he says gruffly, his hands lingering on Jean’s shoulders. Jean wants to ask him where
Maman is, but Papa’s eyes have that dark light in them that they get when he doesn’t want to be asked any questions, so Jean clamps his mouth shut, fighting to swallow his words.
He asks Margot instead, whispering the words in her ear as she leans down to give him the kiss of peace after passing him the scrolls that show off all his new titles. Margot’s practically a grown up anyway. She’ll know what’s happened to
Maman. She must do, they’ve been spending so much time together recently.
Margot stiffens and her hands tighten on his shoulders for a moment before she clearly forces herself to relax and smiles down at him.
“I’ll tell you later,” she promises quietly. “But we need to focus on the banquet for now. It’s your day. Don’t worry about
Maman. She wouldn’t want you to spoil your special day by worrying about her. Now, come on, the Court are waiting for us.”
Before Jean can protest, she takes his hand, curtsies to Papa and leads him down into the throng of cheering, clapping courtiers,
((holds up one of each))
