Stepson. Eleonore (at least in my interpretation) thinks of him as her son, as he would be after marrying Francois. From what I’ve read, she was closed to him than the rest of the French royal family, so it made sense for her to treat him as family. But I will update for clarity.
So Long, Sweet Sparrow - Catherine de Medici dies
- Thread starter Kynan
- Start date
Oh that makes sense. What sources did you read, though? I can't find anything that describes her relationships with the French royal family. (But the Dauphin dies in 1536 - welp)
It's not much, but this is from Queens and Mistresses of Renaissance France by Kathleen Wellman, which was actually my most recent read on the subject; "The dauphin Francis was the only member of the royal family who showed a marked affection for Eleanor and sometimes acted as her advocate with his father."
October 27th, 1535
October 27th, 1535
Anne Boleyn
The death of the Duchess of Orleans had been an oddly affecting moment of the Queen of England. Very early in her pregnancy, she yet to tell anyone her secret, but she was emotional. And sitting beside her husband after an evening of appropriate revelry, she held back the low weep in her gut as she remembered the girl’s mother in France.
That little lady, Madeline de La Tour d’Auvergne, had been a friend. As Anne watched the lords and ladies of the court wander into their presence, her mind wandered to her memories of that girl. Demure, sweet, ad fragile. A mother for such a short time, with no presence now her daughter was dead. Once she was forgotten, that was it.
Her hand instinctively went to her stomach.
I will not be forgotten.
The French ambassador came to them, dressed in black. They were all in mourning – a tactful choice made in recognition of the French acceptance of her status. Considering negotiations were still open for Elizabeth to the French King’s youngest son, it was important to remain respectful.
As he bowed, she scanned the room for her family. The Earl, her father, stood to the side with her mother, finally back at court after a return to Hever following Mary’s departure. Behind them, George and Jane sat hand in hand, the picture of martial harmony. The family stood a united front, with her Howard relatives surrounding them. She did note the Duke of Richmond kept a bit aways from his wife, focused instead on some pretty girl she couldn’t place by name. That worried her. His match to her cousin only strengthened her position.
Pleasantries with a Monsieur Pierre were had, and then, suddenly, it was business. While their guests played the game of pretending to ignore the King, her husband all but dragged the slight man to his side. Usually, she’d have joined him, and he looked expectantly over to her. But that well of sadness kept distracting her.
Instead, she stood and nodded to the two, and Henry’s face flashed with worry. Maybe even for her. Holding her arm stiff to stop it gripping her stomach as she felt a churning, she shook her head. There was no need to fuss. Still, he sat silently and watched her as she walked down the room and out the door. The ambassador was made to wait. Only Mistress Seymour stopped to watch him and the King, although when his eyes fell to her, she demurely looked away.
Anne caught her looking at him and increased her stride. Panic was setting in, but she couldn’t let that grotesque blonde get the better of her. She needed desperately to lie down, away from the hustle of the court.
George was the first of the Boleyns to catch her, grabbing her arm while she refused to stop. His tender fingers did little to decrease her speed, but he did nothing but help her move. Her other hand now pressed hard against her stomach, she began to breathe quickly. Heaved, really. She could hear her father muttering.
Her sister Jane was shortly behind, although her mouth ran rapid, as it usually did.
“What is wrong?”
“Did she upset you?”
“What can we do?”
All questions she couldn’t answer. If she did, she might just begin crying. The pain was sharper now, and the Queen couldn’t keep herself walking like it. It was either run or stop, and she knew running would look ridiculous. Doubling over, it was suddenly a rush of hands and faces.
I cannot lose you now.
It was so early. Only a few months at best. She and Henry had reintroduced themselves to each other so slowly after losing the last child, and she wanted to give him a son so badly. But when that hand, coarse from sewing, came to her view, she knew she needed to do something to kill the audience. Her back straightened, and she looked past the Mistress Seymour and out to the crowd.
“Ladies, I am in need of bedrest. Jane,” she spoke to her sister-in-law, “please go ahead and have the room prepared. Make sure there’s wine. The rest of you may go back. Please be mindful of your behaviour.George will assist me from here.”
As they dispersed, she grabbed Seymour’s arm.
“Not you. You can stay with us.”
Even as she felt coals in her womb, the fear that crossed that woman’s plain face gave her a bit of relief. With one hand on each arm, she walked helped step by step to her rooms.
---
Elizabeth Boleyn
Her daughter had all but ran out of the room. Her guess was morning sickness, the poor girl was likely pregnant again. So, when her family had followed, the Boleyn matriarch had instead chosen to sit in the corner of the room, on a bench, alone. There was no need to crowd the Queen, and it would look ridiculous if every Boleyn and Howard fled at the first sign of trouble.
Elizabeth Boleyn had returned to court still deeply upset in her eldest daughter’s absence. Yes, Mary had made a grievous mistake in marrying the Stafford man. Especially in turning up pregnant and all but demanding they ignore the obvious. But once tempers had flashed, too many insults were thrown to keep her home. The last she’d heard, her daughter was living across the channel. Her letters were returned unopened.
And so the old woman sat, dressed in black, and watched as the men gossiped like they complained women did. Richmond, clearly relaxed now his frigid bride had departed, talked easily to another young man. Suffolk was leaned against the fireplace, and she caught a few lewd gestures.
It’s like I’m not even here.
Pushing a greyed lock back into her head dress, she began to walk towards the king and French ambassador. The Norris man forever shadowing her daughter ran up to her, but she ignored his elbow. She was not yet unable to walk unaided. Her back straight and her chin up, she entered their circle and put on her gravest face.
“Your Majesty.”
Her bow was as low as it had been as a girl, and she made note as the skinny man looked with embarrassment at her décolletage. The King, however, just looked concerned.
“My Lady Mother, how is my wife?”
“Sir,” she placed a hand on his shoulder, “her brother is attending to her. Likely just too much excitement. She was so disturbed by news of the Princess’ demise.”
That last line was directed at the ambassador, and with it, she successfully had inserted herself into the conversation. Thomas always bragged that he had a diplomatic mind, but she was just as cunning. When the King called for the bench to be brought over for her, it was even better.
“Our king,” nodded the -still standing- ambassador, “is grateful for this alliance. Especially in such a sorrowful time.”
“Yes,” King Henry nodded, leaning into the newly formed trio, “it is times like this I wish for our friendship to be permanent.”
“I’ve yet to receive official word from my King. But I do know that he remained interested in a marriage between the Lady Mary and the Dauphin.”
“We were previously speaking of the Lady Elizabeth and Francois’s youngest son. Surely there’s more room in Paris for a real Princess, over my bastard daughter?”
Careful, Harry, don’t lose your temper.
“King Francois has always held affection for you and the Queen-“
“And yet it is the Princess of Wales’ child you look to.”
“I seek only an alliance-“
“Then take the one I’m offering, goddamn it.”
Elizabeth leaned in now, interrupting the brewing argument.
“My husband told me such wonderful stories of Paris from his time there. My daughter too. But I’ve always wanted to visit Calais. Sea towns are always so good for children’s health, as well as wives.”
The two men looked at her confused, but she continued on,
“After my granddaughter was born, plans were made for the Kings to meet again in France, were they not? It would be such a blessing to have that meeting again. Particularly if your Prince and our Elizabeth could meet. She’s a beautiful child, and so mature. I think she takes after the Queen Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth Boleyn knew that mentioning the other Elizabeth, that dearly departed Princess, would distract her son-in-law. The fact that the spritely little girl in Hever, with her large black eyes and mop of red curls, more favoured her own family, mattered little. Men usually forgot about their mothers, except to praise them when drunk. Well, the King was into a third glass of wine.
“She really does look like my mother, doesn’t she?” he murmured, almost on accident.
Excellent.
“She does, your Majesty. I never met someone with such a heart as the Queen’s.”
Looking back to the ambassador, she smiled ever so sweetly.
“Monsieur, have you even met the Lady Elizabeth yet?”
“No, madam. I hear she will be here at Christmas.”
“Then I must show you the sketch I have of her. It sits in my rooms. Come along!”
“But the King and I-“
Henry, meanwhile, was leaned back in his chair and staring over at a portrait of his mother hung in these chambers.
“Hush, now, boy. Let an old woman indulge you in some art of her grandchildren.”
And with that, she dragged that man into her chambers, the room she had away from her husband. They stayed there for a long while, alone, before the ambassador returned to the King’s chambers and confirmed when the King’s youngest daughter would be at court. Thomas Boleyn, meanwhile, stayed at his daughter’s bedside as she lost her child. When he greeted Elizabeth in their rooms, she was sitting by the fire, reading scripture.
Anne Boleyn
The death of the Duchess of Orleans had been an oddly affecting moment of the Queen of England. Very early in her pregnancy, she yet to tell anyone her secret, but she was emotional. And sitting beside her husband after an evening of appropriate revelry, she held back the low weep in her gut as she remembered the girl’s mother in France.
That little lady, Madeline de La Tour d’Auvergne, had been a friend. As Anne watched the lords and ladies of the court wander into their presence, her mind wandered to her memories of that girl. Demure, sweet, ad fragile. A mother for such a short time, with no presence now her daughter was dead. Once she was forgotten, that was it.
Her hand instinctively went to her stomach.
I will not be forgotten.
The French ambassador came to them, dressed in black. They were all in mourning – a tactful choice made in recognition of the French acceptance of her status. Considering negotiations were still open for Elizabeth to the French King’s youngest son, it was important to remain respectful.
As he bowed, she scanned the room for her family. The Earl, her father, stood to the side with her mother, finally back at court after a return to Hever following Mary’s departure. Behind them, George and Jane sat hand in hand, the picture of martial harmony. The family stood a united front, with her Howard relatives surrounding them. She did note the Duke of Richmond kept a bit aways from his wife, focused instead on some pretty girl she couldn’t place by name. That worried her. His match to her cousin only strengthened her position.
Pleasantries with a Monsieur Pierre were had, and then, suddenly, it was business. While their guests played the game of pretending to ignore the King, her husband all but dragged the slight man to his side. Usually, she’d have joined him, and he looked expectantly over to her. But that well of sadness kept distracting her.
Instead, she stood and nodded to the two, and Henry’s face flashed with worry. Maybe even for her. Holding her arm stiff to stop it gripping her stomach as she felt a churning, she shook her head. There was no need to fuss. Still, he sat silently and watched her as she walked down the room and out the door. The ambassador was made to wait. Only Mistress Seymour stopped to watch him and the King, although when his eyes fell to her, she demurely looked away.
Anne caught her looking at him and increased her stride. Panic was setting in, but she couldn’t let that grotesque blonde get the better of her. She needed desperately to lie down, away from the hustle of the court.
George was the first of the Boleyns to catch her, grabbing her arm while she refused to stop. His tender fingers did little to decrease her speed, but he did nothing but help her move. Her other hand now pressed hard against her stomach, she began to breathe quickly. Heaved, really. She could hear her father muttering.
Her sister Jane was shortly behind, although her mouth ran rapid, as it usually did.
“What is wrong?”
“Did she upset you?”
“What can we do?”
All questions she couldn’t answer. If she did, she might just begin crying. The pain was sharper now, and the Queen couldn’t keep herself walking like it. It was either run or stop, and she knew running would look ridiculous. Doubling over, it was suddenly a rush of hands and faces.
I cannot lose you now.
It was so early. Only a few months at best. She and Henry had reintroduced themselves to each other so slowly after losing the last child, and she wanted to give him a son so badly. But when that hand, coarse from sewing, came to her view, she knew she needed to do something to kill the audience. Her back straightened, and she looked past the Mistress Seymour and out to the crowd.
“Ladies, I am in need of bedrest. Jane,” she spoke to her sister-in-law, “please go ahead and have the room prepared. Make sure there’s wine. The rest of you may go back. Please be mindful of your behaviour.George will assist me from here.”
As they dispersed, she grabbed Seymour’s arm.
“Not you. You can stay with us.”
Even as she felt coals in her womb, the fear that crossed that woman’s plain face gave her a bit of relief. With one hand on each arm, she walked helped step by step to her rooms.
---
Elizabeth Boleyn
Her daughter had all but ran out of the room. Her guess was morning sickness, the poor girl was likely pregnant again. So, when her family had followed, the Boleyn matriarch had instead chosen to sit in the corner of the room, on a bench, alone. There was no need to crowd the Queen, and it would look ridiculous if every Boleyn and Howard fled at the first sign of trouble.
Elizabeth Boleyn had returned to court still deeply upset in her eldest daughter’s absence. Yes, Mary had made a grievous mistake in marrying the Stafford man. Especially in turning up pregnant and all but demanding they ignore the obvious. But once tempers had flashed, too many insults were thrown to keep her home. The last she’d heard, her daughter was living across the channel. Her letters were returned unopened.
And so the old woman sat, dressed in black, and watched as the men gossiped like they complained women did. Richmond, clearly relaxed now his frigid bride had departed, talked easily to another young man. Suffolk was leaned against the fireplace, and she caught a few lewd gestures.
It’s like I’m not even here.
Pushing a greyed lock back into her head dress, she began to walk towards the king and French ambassador. The Norris man forever shadowing her daughter ran up to her, but she ignored his elbow. She was not yet unable to walk unaided. Her back straight and her chin up, she entered their circle and put on her gravest face.
“Your Majesty.”
Her bow was as low as it had been as a girl, and she made note as the skinny man looked with embarrassment at her décolletage. The King, however, just looked concerned.
“My Lady Mother, how is my wife?”
“Sir,” she placed a hand on his shoulder, “her brother is attending to her. Likely just too much excitement. She was so disturbed by news of the Princess’ demise.”
That last line was directed at the ambassador, and with it, she successfully had inserted herself into the conversation. Thomas always bragged that he had a diplomatic mind, but she was just as cunning. When the King called for the bench to be brought over for her, it was even better.
“Our king,” nodded the -still standing- ambassador, “is grateful for this alliance. Especially in such a sorrowful time.”
“Yes,” King Henry nodded, leaning into the newly formed trio, “it is times like this I wish for our friendship to be permanent.”
“I’ve yet to receive official word from my King. But I do know that he remained interested in a marriage between the Lady Mary and the Dauphin.”
“We were previously speaking of the Lady Elizabeth and Francois’s youngest son. Surely there’s more room in Paris for a real Princess, over my bastard daughter?”
Careful, Harry, don’t lose your temper.
“King Francois has always held affection for you and the Queen-“
“And yet it is the Princess of Wales’ child you look to.”
“I seek only an alliance-“
“Then take the one I’m offering, goddamn it.”
Elizabeth leaned in now, interrupting the brewing argument.
“My husband told me such wonderful stories of Paris from his time there. My daughter too. But I’ve always wanted to visit Calais. Sea towns are always so good for children’s health, as well as wives.”
The two men looked at her confused, but she continued on,
“After my granddaughter was born, plans were made for the Kings to meet again in France, were they not? It would be such a blessing to have that meeting again. Particularly if your Prince and our Elizabeth could meet. She’s a beautiful child, and so mature. I think she takes after the Queen Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth Boleyn knew that mentioning the other Elizabeth, that dearly departed Princess, would distract her son-in-law. The fact that the spritely little girl in Hever, with her large black eyes and mop of red curls, more favoured her own family, mattered little. Men usually forgot about their mothers, except to praise them when drunk. Well, the King was into a third glass of wine.
“She really does look like my mother, doesn’t she?” he murmured, almost on accident.
Excellent.
“She does, your Majesty. I never met someone with such a heart as the Queen’s.”
Looking back to the ambassador, she smiled ever so sweetly.
“Monsieur, have you even met the Lady Elizabeth yet?”
“No, madam. I hear she will be here at Christmas.”
“Then I must show you the sketch I have of her. It sits in my rooms. Come along!”
“But the King and I-“
Henry, meanwhile, was leaned back in his chair and staring over at a portrait of his mother hung in these chambers.
“Hush, now, boy. Let an old woman indulge you in some art of her grandchildren.”
And with that, she dragged that man into her chambers, the room she had away from her husband. They stayed there for a long while, alone, before the ambassador returned to the King’s chambers and confirmed when the King’s youngest daughter would be at court. Thomas Boleyn, meanwhile, stayed at his daughter’s bedside as she lost her child. When he greeted Elizabeth in their rooms, she was sitting by the fire, reading scripture.
November 4th, 1535
November 4th, 1535
Diane
It had been a big, unhappy family reunion when she and Henri had returned to Paris. The boy had taken his sweet time touring through Normandy, stopping to “mourn” via long, private dinners at the houses of various gentry. He always sat her by his side, as she played the hostess and smile politely.
One man, a Monsieur de Barry, had outright refused to eat with them. Leaving his own house, he was heard shouting that she had killed young Catherine. When Diane had gone to try and talk to him, he had thrown a dagger into a nearby tree in rage. She’d made a note to send his family two horses for Christmas, and some silk for the lady of his house.
Grace becomes a lady.
But here now, sat beside an eager young Henri, she watched as the French royal family attempted to play nice. Her hair in a net with pearls, her plain black dress adorned with a recent gift from her…boy. A broach on silver, with a black pearl at the centre, surrounded by diamonds. It had seemed an appropriate piece of jewellery for the occasion. She was, of course, mourning her cousin.
Without the watchful eyes of most of the court, the family seemed to have paired off. The King sat with Charles, the Dauphin with the Queen, and the Marguerites were discussing a tapestry of St. Cecilia, which she believed Queen Claude had commissioned before her death. Madeline played on the floor with the little heiress to Navarre, her tiny frame nearly eclipsed by the large child. Her father watched them in his little corner, the only loner. And to the side, watching them all, was she and Henri.
“Have you considered my offer yet?” was whispered in her ear.
“Not here, Henri.” was her automatic response.
The offer had been on the table since the day that news had come. Run away, marry Henri, and immediately consummate the union. Her daughters would be Princesses, their sons would be Kings. Diane had repeated reminded him she was as old as the Queen (not quite, but close enough) but he would not budge. Had she no business here, she would have abandoned court.
But of course, there was business.
She and her sisters were the heirs to the late Duchess’ fortune. Not all of it, but the French parts at least – in her opinion. Auvergne was her main goal here. With the boy’s infatuation, she might be able to walk away from this victorious. First, however, she needed to talk to the King. Untangling herself from her charge, she stood with all the poise she could muster, lightly pulled her hand away from the teenaged boy’s grasp, and walked over to the tall man on the high-backed chair and his hyperactive pet.
The Duke of Angouleme was not, in her estimation, a child of great potential. For all the fault she could find in Henri, he had a kind heart and a gallant soul. Polishing was needed to get him to a place where these would be evident, but even in the past year, she’d brought him to life. Yes, there was this doomed fancy, but all she needed was for him to find the right bride. His brother, dressed in a stained black doublet, did not have that same underlying promise. Why the King fancied this snotty Prince, she didn’t understand. He was abhorrent to her sensibilities. There was rudeness, there was meanness, and then there was Charles de Valois. The fact he made a choking sound as she walked over, sending his father into a fit of giggles, set her teeth on edges. The King rose to greet her and paused her curtsey.
“My lady, it is a kindness for you to have stayed with my son during this time. I must thank you for your generosity.”
If you hadn’t known better, you couldn’t have heard the sarcasm in his voice. The boy clearly did, considering his giggles, but she avoided eye contact with him. Thirteen was a disgusting age for a young man.
“I was wondering if we might speak, your Majesty.”
“Of course.”
Taking her by the arm, they walked into the hall and out of sight. She didn’t notice Henri as his eyes followed them out, but she did feel Charles run to his brother.
Good, maybe Henri can teach him some manners.
Away from it all, his royal hand began rubbing the cloth on her sleeve, and she pulled away slightly. It was bad enough that the young one was after her. She didn’t need a run in with the King too. His little smile said enough.
“Your Majesty–“
“Speak freely, my lady.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She stopped them and pulled away,
“I come to you to ask about something of great importance. My inheritance.”
“Your inheritance?”
Don’t be coy with me!
“Yes, sir,” she kept her voice lowered to a whisper, “in Auvergne. The Duchess and I shared blood, and as such, I and my sisters are legal heirs to that county and various other lands.”
“Are you?” his voice dropped ominously.
“I believe so.”
He walked away and seemed to study the stonework of the walls. The hall was chilly, and she took a second to breathe hot air into her hands while he looked away. But when he turned back, she was standing steady, arms by her side.
“Lady Diane, I believe you might be mistaken. My poor daughter left her properties to me and my son. There is no inheritance for your family.”
That wasn’t true.
“Really?”
Laughing, he stepped forward , pulled her in, and leaned into her ear.
“There’ll be nothing in Auvergne for you.”
His hand was gripping her arm, and despite the lightness of his tone, she was frightened. An attempted to pull away only brought his fingers down harder, and the hairs on her neck stood to attention.
“Sir!”
“You may have my son until he tires of you, but that land is mine and his. You are a plaything. A distraction he unfortunately hasn’t gotten over yet.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“Good.”
He let her go and laughed again, like a joke had been said. Unamused, she smoothed her sleeve. But rage bubbled in her stomach, and despite all logic, she smiled back. His own face fell.
“I will have to ask my lawyers about this. Of course, I am but a silly widow. But my father always said I had a head for contracts.”
He shrugged, and they turned, only to see Henri charging at his father. As they fell to the ground, she saw the flash of black at the door. She once again cursed that boy. Guards pulled father and son apart, and the royals comes out to see the commotion. The King, with a bruised cheek, was forced to carry his fainted eldest daughter away. Henri was dragged away spitting and snarling.
When Diane returned to her rooms, she asked for two things: her trunks to be packed and a lawyer to her quarters.
Diane
It had been a big, unhappy family reunion when she and Henri had returned to Paris. The boy had taken his sweet time touring through Normandy, stopping to “mourn” via long, private dinners at the houses of various gentry. He always sat her by his side, as she played the hostess and smile politely.
One man, a Monsieur de Barry, had outright refused to eat with them. Leaving his own house, he was heard shouting that she had killed young Catherine. When Diane had gone to try and talk to him, he had thrown a dagger into a nearby tree in rage. She’d made a note to send his family two horses for Christmas, and some silk for the lady of his house.
Grace becomes a lady.
But here now, sat beside an eager young Henri, she watched as the French royal family attempted to play nice. Her hair in a net with pearls, her plain black dress adorned with a recent gift from her…boy. A broach on silver, with a black pearl at the centre, surrounded by diamonds. It had seemed an appropriate piece of jewellery for the occasion. She was, of course, mourning her cousin.
Without the watchful eyes of most of the court, the family seemed to have paired off. The King sat with Charles, the Dauphin with the Queen, and the Marguerites were discussing a tapestry of St. Cecilia, which she believed Queen Claude had commissioned before her death. Madeline played on the floor with the little heiress to Navarre, her tiny frame nearly eclipsed by the large child. Her father watched them in his little corner, the only loner. And to the side, watching them all, was she and Henri.
“Have you considered my offer yet?” was whispered in her ear.
“Not here, Henri.” was her automatic response.
The offer had been on the table since the day that news had come. Run away, marry Henri, and immediately consummate the union. Her daughters would be Princesses, their sons would be Kings. Diane had repeated reminded him she was as old as the Queen (not quite, but close enough) but he would not budge. Had she no business here, she would have abandoned court.
But of course, there was business.
She and her sisters were the heirs to the late Duchess’ fortune. Not all of it, but the French parts at least – in her opinion. Auvergne was her main goal here. With the boy’s infatuation, she might be able to walk away from this victorious. First, however, she needed to talk to the King. Untangling herself from her charge, she stood with all the poise she could muster, lightly pulled her hand away from the teenaged boy’s grasp, and walked over to the tall man on the high-backed chair and his hyperactive pet.
The Duke of Angouleme was not, in her estimation, a child of great potential. For all the fault she could find in Henri, he had a kind heart and a gallant soul. Polishing was needed to get him to a place where these would be evident, but even in the past year, she’d brought him to life. Yes, there was this doomed fancy, but all she needed was for him to find the right bride. His brother, dressed in a stained black doublet, did not have that same underlying promise. Why the King fancied this snotty Prince, she didn’t understand. He was abhorrent to her sensibilities. There was rudeness, there was meanness, and then there was Charles de Valois. The fact he made a choking sound as she walked over, sending his father into a fit of giggles, set her teeth on edges. The King rose to greet her and paused her curtsey.
“My lady, it is a kindness for you to have stayed with my son during this time. I must thank you for your generosity.”
If you hadn’t known better, you couldn’t have heard the sarcasm in his voice. The boy clearly did, considering his giggles, but she avoided eye contact with him. Thirteen was a disgusting age for a young man.
“I was wondering if we might speak, your Majesty.”
“Of course.”
Taking her by the arm, they walked into the hall and out of sight. She didn’t notice Henri as his eyes followed them out, but she did feel Charles run to his brother.
Good, maybe Henri can teach him some manners.
Away from it all, his royal hand began rubbing the cloth on her sleeve, and she pulled away slightly. It was bad enough that the young one was after her. She didn’t need a run in with the King too. His little smile said enough.
“Your Majesty–“
“Speak freely, my lady.”
“Thank you, sir.”
She stopped them and pulled away,
“I come to you to ask about something of great importance. My inheritance.”
“Your inheritance?”
Don’t be coy with me!
“Yes, sir,” she kept her voice lowered to a whisper, “in Auvergne. The Duchess and I shared blood, and as such, I and my sisters are legal heirs to that county and various other lands.”
“Are you?” his voice dropped ominously.
“I believe so.”
He walked away and seemed to study the stonework of the walls. The hall was chilly, and she took a second to breathe hot air into her hands while he looked away. But when he turned back, she was standing steady, arms by her side.
“Lady Diane, I believe you might be mistaken. My poor daughter left her properties to me and my son. There is no inheritance for your family.”
That wasn’t true.
“Really?”
Laughing, he stepped forward , pulled her in, and leaned into her ear.
“There’ll be nothing in Auvergne for you.”
His hand was gripping her arm, and despite the lightness of his tone, she was frightened. An attempted to pull away only brought his fingers down harder, and the hairs on her neck stood to attention.
“Sir!”
“You may have my son until he tires of you, but that land is mine and his. You are a plaything. A distraction he unfortunately hasn’t gotten over yet.”
“You’re hurting me.”
“Good.”
He let her go and laughed again, like a joke had been said. Unamused, she smoothed her sleeve. But rage bubbled in her stomach, and despite all logic, she smiled back. His own face fell.
“I will have to ask my lawyers about this. Of course, I am but a silly widow. But my father always said I had a head for contracts.”
He shrugged, and they turned, only to see Henri charging at his father. As they fell to the ground, she saw the flash of black at the door. She once again cursed that boy. Guards pulled father and son apart, and the royals comes out to see the commotion. The King, with a bruised cheek, was forced to carry his fainted eldest daughter away. Henri was dragged away spitting and snarling.
When Diane returned to her rooms, she asked for two things: her trunks to be packed and a lawyer to her quarters.