Chinon, June 1521
The waiting is the worst.
The talk of war is all very well for the first few weeks, while France is afire with preparations, when she is girding her loins for what is probably the most ambitious war she has fought in a century. Marie thrives on the hullabaloo.
She stitches banners and writes to recalcitrant nobles on Francis’s behalf, badgering them into honouring their pledges of allegiance by sending men to augment the royal forces, or if they will not do that, then at the very least, sending plate and jewels to fill the coffers, so that her husband can feed, arm and pay the men who do come. She visits the armoury, inspecting shipments of billhooks, swords and matchlocks and watching as the armourers scour Francis’s plate and chain mail until they gleam so brightly that even to look at them is to risk one’s sight.
When preparations are complete, she rides with Francis at the head of the men all the way to Boulogne, thrilling despite herself at the cheering crowds that throng the hedgerows to watch their King and his army pass, calling blessings and throwing flowers.
There is such energy in the air during their journey that, for a short while, she is even able to forget just
why they are marching north. It could almost be the previous summer, and they on their way to Balinghem for another grand summit, rather than riding to war.
But when the spectacle is over, when Francis has said his farewells to her twice over – once by showering her in kisses in the privacy of their bedchamber and once by taking a grand formal leave of her on the steps of the Basilica, placing the seal of the Kingdom in her hands to symbolise her Regency – when he has mounted up and bowed to her, very deeply and correctly, from his saddle before turning his horse’s head and trotting away, when she rises from her very careful curtsy, well, then it is a very different story.
She stands on the steps of the Basilica, watching as 7000 men in the prime of their lives stream past her in row upon row of shining masculine pride and the enormity of what is actually happening begins to sink in. As it does, her heart leaps into her mouth and she has to fist her hands into the folds of her skirts to hide how they shake.
But she can’t let anyone see her fear, so she tries to stifle it by keeping busy. She rides south and collects the children, even sending for little François to come from St Malo. As soon as they are all together, she takes them to Chinon. There, in one of the most defensible castles in central France, she sets up her Court. She hears petitioners, sits in on Council meetings, rides to her hawk and hounds twice a week. Every evening, she sends for the children and they spend a pleasant hour or two as a family, Henri’s blatant jealousy of four-month-old Louise notwithstanding.
On the outside, then, Marie is the perfect, poised Queen Regent, keeping the country running without so much as a hitch in her breath. But those who admire her composure don’t see the way her legs give out beneath her the moment she is in the privacy of her bedchamber, or closeted before her
pre-dieu. They don’t notice how she clutches her rosary beads until the smooth pieces of jet dig grooves in her fingers. They don’t hear her start awake multiple times a night with tears on her cheeks and her husband and brother’s names on her lips.
Nor will anyone ever see any of it, except perhaps Marguerite or Lady Parr. Marie has enough pride to make sure of that. However, that doesn’t mean that every day that passes without word isn’t another turn of the screw in the invisible bands that seem to constrict her chest. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t long for the war to be over with every fibre of her being. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t yearn to be able to take a more active part in the campaign, if only so as to be able to see her husband and brother for herself and reassure herself of their safety. If she could, she’d guard their backs herself, as she has exhorted them both more than once to make sure they do for each other should they find themselves on any battlefield.
She can’t, however. Her gender precludes her from that. All she can do is watch and wait, greeting every messenger with bated breath, praying they won’t bring bad news.
