Section LXXV - April/May 1528
Amboise, April 1528
To everyone’s surprise, little Monsieur Edouard lives just long enough to be baptised. He passes away in the Countess of St Pol’s arms scarcely fifteen minutes after he is received into the light of Christ.
As he takes his last, rattling breath, the ladies around him look worriedly to the Queen, hearts in their mouths. Two sons taken to the Lord in less than a month. How on earth will the beautiful, highly-strung Queen take such a bitter blow?
However, their fears are for naught. Marie isn’t even aware that her lying-in chambers have seen a death as well as a birth. Though she manages to hold her son and kiss his forehead as the midwife sprinkles him with holy water, by the time Edouard takes his final breath, she has slipped into a fitful, feverish doze.
The midwives rush to crowd her with cool compresses, determined to bring her temperature down. To lose Monsieur Edouard was bad enough, to lose the Queen as well would be catastrophic. After all, the Dauphin is eleven now. It won’t be long before he’s siring his own family. No one wants to be the midwife who let the Queen die. Not when there’s a place at Duchess Renee’s childbed hanging in the balance.
Francis sends little Edouard to lie with baby Marie at Blois, but Henri is laid to rest at Amboise, the palace of his childhood.
Despite Francis’s best efforts, Marie never summons the will to discuss the practicalities to the point of stating a preference. However, given the fact that she asked for Marie to buried where she knew her best and the fact that Francis knows she’ll never forgive herself if she leaves Amboise without saying goodbye to her favourite son, there’s only really one plausible choice.
Francis is with the master mason, discussing the details of Henri’s tomb, when the door to his Privy Chamber suddenly bursts open.
Margot stands there, panting.
“Papa!”
“Margot. I -”
“It’s Maman! You’ve got to come, please!”
There is sheer desperation on her face. Francis has never seen his eldest daughter so anguished, not even when they stood together before the Court to announce Henri’s death. He leaps to his feet before he even knows he’s doing it.
“What is it?” His hand clamps down on Margot’s shoulder. He pulls her with him, the young girl trotting to keep up as they make a beeline for Marie’s rooms.
“She’s asking for Edouard. No one knows what to do. I told Lisette I’d fetch you. Papa, she’s asking for Edouard!”
Margot’s voice cracks as she repeats the sentence and Francis’s heart twists. He wants to help her. He truly does. He knows how much pressure Margot has been under over the last month and he wishes he could make it better for her. But he also knows that, right now, Marie has to be his priority.
He presses a fleeting kiss to Margot’s temple as they reach her mother’s rooms.
“Merci, ma cherie. Go and spend some time with your siblings. I’ll see to your mother.”
He doesn’t wait for her curtsy of agreement. He barrels into Marie’s lying-in chamber, eyes fixed on his wife.
He is at her side in four great strides. He realises what the issue is at once. Marie’s eyes might be open, but they’re not fully lucid. She’s still too feverish to truly take in the world around her.
“Edouard! Where’s my son? Bring me my son!”
Her wails are plaintive and Francis has to swallow hard to control his own tears at the sound of them. He seats himself gently on the edge of the bed and laces his fingers through Marie’s.
“Marie, ma lionne, look at me. Look at me.”
He waits for her darting eyes to lock with his before he continues, “Have you seen our beautiful daughter? She’s got your red hair. I called her Elisabeth, like you wanted.”
Marie’s face softens for a moment, “Yes. But Lisabelle has a brother. I know she does. I held him. I kissed him as he was baptised Edouard. Why won’t they bring him to me?”
Francis’s heart sinks as he realises that Marie isn’t to be dissuaded. He will have to address Edouard’s non-appearance somehow. But she isn’t strong enough to hear the bald truth. Not if he wants to keep her from succumbing to her illness.
“He’s just napping, ma lionne,” he whispers, squeezing her hand, “You don’t want to disturb him in his slumber, do you? You know what little ones can be like if they don’t get enough sleep. But he’s safe with Lady Parr, I promise. I promise.”
Marie considers his words for a moment and Francis holds his breath, praying she’ll believe him. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she doesn’t.
“Oh. Well, why didn’t people just tell me that?”
She rolls her eyes, then yawns and curls deeper into her covers. She shifts slightly, getting more comfortable, and is asleep in seconds.
Francis waits a few moments, then beckons Anne over. The young Countess has always been one of Marie’s favourites, especially since Marguerite left for Brussels.
The dark-haired woman draws a coverlet up to Marie’s chest and smooths her hair back out of her eyes, letting her fingers linger at Marie’s temples to check her temperature, as any mother might check her daughter’s temperature.
“She’s cooler. And that’s the most peaceful I’ve seen her in days. I think – I hope – we may be past the worst,” she breathes.
Francis nods, and bends his head to kiss Marie in her sleep.
“Good. Look after her for me. I couldn’t bear to lose her. Not now.”
He rises and leaves before Anne can do more than nod in agreement.
Falkland, May 1528
The birds sail above the young men’s heads, crowing with joy at having been unleashed. James, King of Scots, whistles to his black gyrfalcon, calling her back to his wrist. He strokes her when she lands on his glove and rewards her with a sliver of venison.
A footstep behind him breaks his concentration. He raises his head, catching sight of his younger brother. He waits for Alexander to toss his own bird into the air and then breaks the comfortable silence that has stretched between them.
“I spoke to the Council this morning.”
“Oh?” Alexander doesn’t take his eyes off his falcon, a brown spotted female with a wicked turn of speed. She’s a beautiful creature, sent by the Duke of Cleves for Alexander’s twelfth birthday. James knows this and the sight of her makes him grimace. There may have been better places for this conversation. Still, in for a penny, in for a pound…
“We’re all agreed. Given the developments in both France and England, we think it’ll be for the best if we break your betrothal to Lady Anne.”
That gets Alexander’s attention. He whips his head round to stare at James, his round cheeks flushed with shock, “Whatever for?”
James arches an eyebrow, “You have to ask? We’re going to offer to make a match between you and the Princess Mary. At least we will if Lennox, Argyll and Otterburn have their way. Not to mention Mama.”
James rolls his eyes but Alexander doesn’t even notice his older brother’s scorn towards their mother. He is too shocked by the sudden change in his fortunes. His jaw drops.
“Marry Cousin Mary? Me? Why can’t you marry her? You’re the oldest.”
“Oh, come on, Sawney!” James snaps impatiently, running a hand through his unruly sandy-red hair, “I know you don’t particularly care for politics, but surely even you can work this out. Uncle Albany, Lord Hamilton and His Lordship of Arbroath have worked too hard on our French alliance to throw it away now. They can’t break my engagement to Mademoiselle Louise, at least not without reasonable provocation. And besides, even those of my council who favour a pro- English policy don’t want to see Scotland subjugated to London, which we would be if the Crowns were ever to unite. You know Arbroath as well as I do: While a hundred of us remain alive…”
“We will not submit in the slightest measure to the domination of the English,” Alexander finishes, rolling his eyes. James knows he should scold his brother for not taking the sacred document more seriously, but he can’t bring himself to. Both of them are sick to the back teeth of its phrases, having studied it almost to death in the schoolroom. Instead, he simply nods.
“Exactly. So, you’re the perfect compromise. You marry Cousin Mary, I’ll marry Cousin Louise, and between us, we’ll keep the Isles at peace as they’ve not been kept for many a year.”
James claps his younger brother on the shoulder and begins to move off, whistling for his dogs as he goes.
Alexander hesitates, mulling things over for a moment, and then calls after him.
“But what do I say to Anne? I can’t leave her without a word. It’s not her fault Mary’s the better match!”
James pauses mid-stride, then shrugs, “Tell her whatever you like. Uncle Albany’s drafting a letter for His Grace of Cleves as we speak, so the formal diplomatic notification is already underway. The Duke will understand. After all, it’s nothing personal, just politics. But I will give you one bit of advice.”
“Hmm? What’s that?”
“Get rid of the miniature of Anne you keep on your mantlepiece before you start courting Cousin Mary. Take it from me, she’ll not appreciate the reminder of your former fiancée. Christine hates it when I mention Elizabeth. She’s not even fond of little Adam.”
With that, James strolls off nonchalantly and Alexander groans aloud, whistling for his bird to keep himself from shouting something he might regret after his brother. Does Jamie really have to be so flippant about absolutely everything?!
