Fontainebleau, November 1532
“Anne?!” Francis splutters, unable to believe his eyes, “Why on earth would they name him
Anne!”
“Presumably they intended to honour Renee’s mother,” Marie replies dryly, arching an eyebrow, “Or perhaps they had Montmorency in mind, since they asked the Bishop of Limoges to stand as godfather. Montmorency was His Grace’s older brother, after all.”
Francis snorts, and she shoots him a sharp glance, “You didn’t kick up anywhere this amount of fuss when Margot named her son Afonso rather than Francisco like you asked. Why is our son any different?”
“I’m not saying I needed to be our grandson’s namesake,” Francis defends himself, “But, really, Marie, whoever heard of a King named
Anne? It’s preposterous. I’d have been happy with Charles or Rene or Henri. Even Louis would have been acceptable, but
Anne?! What was our son thinking?”
“I imagine François wanted to name his son for someone who could be held up as a good Christian example,” Marie answers, a touch of asperity in her tone, “I think it’s a good idea. François and Renee are still only young, after all.”
There is nothing outwardly wrong with her words, but they still make her husband bristle. After all, the unspoken “
unlike you” hangs clear in the air between them.
He scowls blackly, “This is your fault, you know. You’ve spoilt that boy since the day he was born. Any
true son of mine would have picked a Valois name for his heir.”
It is Marie’s turn to laugh derisively, “
I’ve spoilt him? You’re the one who sent him to St Malo at seven weeks old, under the care of Madame Landais. If he thinks of himself as a Breton more than a Frenchman, then you’ve only yourself to blame. But then, I’m not surprised you haven’t noticed before. God knows you’re too wrapped up in playing happy families with your Navarrese chit. What did you name the new brat? Amabel or some equally insipid name from a romance?”
"Magdalena, for Isabella's grandmother,” Francis grits out, clenching his fists at his side to keep himself from striking Marie. The passion has always burned hot between them. Unfortunately, in recent years, it has burned as hate, not love.
Marie nods grimly, “Of course. Gaston and Magdalena. How silly of me. I should have known. Of course you’ll allow your moll to name your children for her family. After all, their names don’t matter. They’re just bastards. They’ll never follow you on the throne.”
“Louise, Jean, Gaston and Magdalena,” Francis returns coolly, his voice dripping venom, “Isabella was saying only the other day what a beautiful young woman Louise is growing into. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? Have you even
spoken to Louise in the last month?”
His words cut Marie to the quick, but she knows she can’t let it show. Three and a quarter years since she returned from England, she and Francis have learned how to put on a united front for the sake of the Court when they need to, and learned it well. Indeed, in public, they can sometimes even appear almost as happy as they ever were, if somewhat less physically affectionate. But, behind closed doors, their marriage has deteriorated to the point where it can be said to resemble a battlefield, one where the children are their armies. Those left to them, at least. There is an unspoken, inviolate agreement between them that Margot, safely away in Portugal, is off limits. Neither of them ever seek her support, if only to keep from hurting her. But Francis has Louise and Jean, that is undeniable. For her part, Marie has the younger two, Charly and Lisabelle. Moreover, she has the one who really matters. Much to her husband’s chagrin, fifteen-year-old François has grown into his mother’s staunchest ally and defender. He’s already promised Marie that, the day he becomes King, Lady Isabella will be sent from Court, never to darken its doors again. She will be sent from Court and Marie will take charge of her children, as Isabella has taken Louise and Jean from her.
Marie takes a savage pleasure in the thought, and it is this which enables her to ignore her husband’s jibe and turn on her heel.
“Where are you going?”
Francis will never admit it, but his voice is querulous. He hates not having the last word, especially not when it comes to his beautiful, spirited wife.
Marie doesn’t bother turning. She simply throws her answer over her shoulder.
“The nursery. I promised to help Lisabelle with her stitches this morning. Or is even the domestic sphere now forbidden me?”
Francis snarls softly at the bite in her tone, but he knows he has no real reason to keep her from their youngest, so he simply waves her away.
