Section CLVI: February 1541
Chateau de Chambord, February 1541
Anne leans back in her seat, sighing amusedly, “So, Lisabelle’s discovered she has a will of her own, has she?”
Her dark eyes are sparkling, for she knows that she, the only original member of Marie’s household left in France, can get away with flirting with the line of disrespect in a way that another woman wouldn’t.
Indeed, rather than take offence, Marie stifles a chuckle, pressing a hand against her mouth and then, a moment later, against her breastbone. Worry flickers in Anne’s mind at the Dowager Queen’s actions, but, before she can pay it any serious mind, Marie returns her smile.
“Oh, she’s always had a mind of her own, you know that. But yes. Apparently, she’s refusing to even contemplate preparing for her Lorraine match. I’m told she’s swearing blind that, if she can’t marry your Georges, she’ll run away to a convent and take her vows as a nun.”
At that, Anne can’t hold in her laughter, “Oh, she really is your daughter, isn’t she?!” she wheezes, between peals.
Marie raises an eyebrow, “It’s not funny. François and Renee are at their wits’ end with her…”
“And to think she’s not even thirteen yet!”
“I know. And perhaps we shouldn’t be considering indulging her. But she’s my youngest. Part of me wants to keep her close. Perhaps I would in any circumstances, but given that… well…”
“She’s your favourite.” Anne interrupts, saying what she knows the older woman will never admit to. Marie opens her mouth to protest, but Anne holds up a hand, “It’s understandable. Margot’s in Portugal and your relationship with Jean and Louise never recovered from the debacle in 1528.”
Relief washes Marie’s face at the blatant sympathy, and she nods, “Exactly. I tried, but Louise was always so much her father’s creature…” Marie trails off, her wistful tone dissolving into a coughing fit, a fit that is harsh and prolonged. It only eases when Anne props her against a slew of cushions and calls for a jug of watered wine to be brought.
The server who pads in with it is a young girl, one with thick dark hair and soft, mellow, brown eyes. There is something strangely familiar about her bearing, something that tugs at Anne’s memory. However, it is only when the child turns sideways, lifting the cup to Marie’s lips and cradling her head to help her drink, that her long, hooked nose betrays her paternity irrevocably.
The little girl curtsies before Anne can say anything, however, murmuring to Marie, “I’ll fetch the unguent and the honey, ma royne. Hopefully, they’ll ease your chest so that you can sleep this afternoon.”
“Thank you, Lena, my sweet,” Marie replies, patting the cherubically rounded cheeks, “You’re a good girl.”
“Thank you, Madame,” the little corvid chirps, before curtsying again and leaving the room. Anne watches her go, waiting for the door to shut before she asks for confirmation of what she already knows.
“Is that…”
“Magdalena, yes. She’s a sweet child, despite her mother. I got to her early enough, and she has no ambition. All she wants is to become a nun. And I don’t see why she shouldn’t. I intend to leave her the dowry in my will, for heavens knows François will never give it to her.”
“Is he still refusing to let Gaston inherit Valentinois?”
Marie sighs, “Yes. He’s claiming that, as an ill-begotten bastard, Gaston has no right to the Duchy, whatever his father’s intentions may have been. I mean, he’s right, the Duchy is within his gift now that he’s King, but I just worry that he’s poisoning a chalice for himself. After everything that happened with Jean, can he really afford to risk another sibling growing resentful of him?”
Before Anne can respond, Marie waves an exhausted hand, “But enough of that. I didn’t bring you here to talk of Francis’s bastards. What I really want to know is whether you have a match planned for Marguerite yet?”
“Griet?” Anne sighs, tipping her head back against her chair, “No. I know some would say I’ve been remiss as a mother, not securing her future already, but she’s only fourteen. I married at fourteen and I realise now just how very young that was. I’ve always said my children would be children before they were wed, and then, with Fran dying and Georges having to get used to being Count, I just… I never really had the headspace to think about the girls’ betrothals. They were all so young at the time, after all. I’d just begun to wonder if I should match Georges to one of his Guise cousins, but if you’re offering me Lisabelle, well, I’d be a fool not to take you up on the offer!”
“I’m offering you more than that,” Marie admits, fighting a sudden spasm of breathlessness, “If Lisabelle becomes Georges’ bride, then we have no one of a suitable age to offer for Francis of Lorraine, and we need to keep him and his father in our camp if we possibly can. We all know how loyal the Bourbons of St Pol are to our Crown, so how would you like to see your eldest daughter become a Duchess?”
Anne has always considered herself a consummate courtier. After all, she grew up as the Holy Roman Empress’s little darling, the adored older friend of the Queen of France. She always tells herself that she’s seen it all, that nothing can ever shock her now, but this? This is – To have a bona fide Princess of the Blood as her daughter-in-law – to see her beloved Griet a Duchess, and not just any Duchess, but the wife of a sovereign Duke – Her mouth falls open.
“Madame! This is – this is too generous!”
Marie shrugs, “I don’t see why. Your husband was a highly-favoured Prince of the Blood, and Griet is hardly badly connected on your side, either. Your father might only be a Viscount, but your nephew is to be an Earl, and your baby sister stands every chance of becoming Queen of Scotland. If my Louise isn’t delivered of a healthy boy…”
Marie breaks off before she can finish the sentence, but they are both canny enough to know what she’s not saying. Still, Anne refuses to be drawn into the glittering temptation just yet.
“They’re related within the seven canonical degrees,” she warns, feeling it behoves her to sound a note of caution, “We’d have to get a dispensation.”
“As if that’s difficult,” Marie waves a careless hand, and, for a moment, Anne sees a flash of the bold, impetuous girl her mistress was when they first came to France. An instant later, however, Marie slumps back against her pillows, a sudden pallor betraying just how exhausted she is, and Anne knows it is time to withdraw, before she tires Marie beyond endurance. She drops to her knees and kisses Marie’s beringed hand.
“You’ve been more than generous in even suggesting these matches, Madame,” she whispers, her breath brushing the older woman’s mottled skin, “I’ll speak to Renee as soon as I get back to Court. If she agrees, then we’ll work on our menfolk. You have my word.”
She curtsies deeply and backs out of the room. Worn out by the length of the conversation, Marie is asleep before the doors have even swung shut in front of her.
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