by Jean Plaidy
“No, he would not. I think I know what goes on in his mind. He was evasive. François is too young yet, he says. He bids me wait a while. François is not too young to be the heir presumptive, I hinted; therefore he is not too young to bear the title. Jeanne, I am alarmed. I see that I have my enemies. I am but a weak woman … and I am the only one to protect my little King from all those who would work against him.”
“You’re no weak woman,” laughed Jeanne. “François couldn’t have a better protector, even if his father lived.”
“But listen. Louis is determined to get an heir.”
“He never will. Jeanne is incapable of bearing a child. She proved that when she was Duchesse d’Orléans; she can’t become fruitful merely because she’s Queen.”
“That’s the point, Jeanne. Louis doesn’t intend that she shall remain his Queen. He’s determined to have an heir, and he’s going to rid himself of her in order to do so.”
Jeanne was startled now, seeing the threat to François’s hopes as clearly as Louise did.
“Still,” she temporized, “Louis is scarcely a strong man.”
“Strong enough to get a son if he had a healthy bride. I’ve heard rumors, Jeanne. He wants something else besides a son, and he’s looking to a new bride to give it to him … Brittany!”
“No!”
“’Tis so.”
“Anne of Brittany will never marry a divorced man.”
“Not if he is King of France? You don’t know Anne. I understand her well, and I’ll tell you why. She and I share an ambition. We want to be the mother of the King of France. She is a determined woman, and so am I. And you know as well as I do that if I realize my ambition she cannot, and if she gets what she wants that is enough to make me lose everything I hope for. We’re rivals, Jeanne. We’re enemies. And if this divorce takes place, I shall not know a moment’s peace for years … not until Anne is too old to bear a son—and she is but a young woman. Do you wonder that I am uneasy?”
They were silent, thinking of all that this meant.
At last Louise spoke. “Louis, I am sure, is certain of ridding himself of Jeanne and getting Anne. He’s certain that she will give him a boy.”
“Anne wasn’t very successful with Charles—three boys all dead.”
“But boys, Jeanne. And Charles was a dwarf … little better than his sister whom Louis is now trying to discard. No. I am sure his hopes are high. That is why he would not give François the Orléans title. He suggested he should become Duc de Valois instead.”
The two women stared into space as though they were trying to peer into the future.
The King came to Cognac. He had a fancy to see the boy who, unless he could get a son, would follow him as King of France.
There was a bustle in the castle and throughout the countryside. All along the route the people lined the roadside to cheer the new King.
Louise greeted the sovereign while on either side of her were two of the most beautiful children Louis had ever seen. The girl with the clear, intelligent eyes was very charming; as for the boy, he was as robust as any parent could wish.
Louis took them in his arms and embraced them warmly. He was impressed with the girl, but his eyes kept straying to the boy, who greeted him without a trace of shyness.
“I have a dog,” the boy told him.
“Have you?” asked the King.
“Yes, and I have a pony. I ride on their backs. My dog is big.” The plump arms were outstretched as far as they would go. “And we have a baby, Marguerite and I. Her name is Françoise. She is a very good baby.”
Louis noticed that the little boy was allowed to take the stage. Well, he could understand the mother’s fondness.
I’d give half my kingdom, he thought, for a son like that.
François had put his hand confidently in that of the King.
“Are you a king?”
Louis admitted that he was.
“I shall be one when I grow up.”
“Is that so?” said Louis with a smile; and he thought: Not if I can prevent it, my little man.
“Yes, a great king,” prattled François. “And I shall have two queens—Marguerite and my mother.”
Louis looked at Louise who was faintly embarrassed.
“I see,” he said, “that your son already displays excellent judgment.”
He was conducted to his apartments and when he was alone with his own attendants he was very thoughtful. He could not get that boy out of his mind. What vitality! Why had they not married him to Louise of Savoy instead of poor tragic Jeanne!
He was unhappy every time he thought of his wife, so he tried to thrust her from his mind and look ahead to the days when he would be married to Anne. He was thinking a great deal about Anne. There was something about that woman. It was true she limped a little and was somewhat pale and certainly severe; but she was a Queen in truth, born to rule; and once they had dispensed with this awkward business of freeing him from one who was useless to him, she would be a good wife.
He could trust Georges to arrange things. Before he had come to the throne he used to say, when he was in a difficulty: “Let Georges do it.” He said that now. There was no one quite so wily, when dealing with delicate matters, as a man of the Church. Georges would find a reason, which would satisfy even Anne, why his marriage should be dissolved. He did not anticipate a great deal of trouble, because he was so sure of help from that quarter from which it was most essential. The Holy Father would be ready to grant the divorce in exchange for certain favors to his son. It was easy to deal with a Borgia, and Pope Alexander VI loved his son Cesare so deeply that it should not be impossible to strike a bargain. Trust Georges to arrange this matter.
In the meantime he had the importunity of people such as Louise of Savoy to contend with. She would not be quite so complacent about this merry little fellow on whom she doted when he and Anne, safely married, presented the country with their son. That would put that somewhat long though enchanting nose of Monsieur François out of joint. Not that he was aware of that yet—with his dogs, ponies and babies.
Louis enjoyed his sojourn at the château and spent most of his leisure with the children. He would go alone unannounced to the nursery, and he thought how delightful Louise’s two looked, bending over a chess board; he would sit beside them and watch the little fingers—the boy’s still showing signs of baby fat—moving the pieces with a skill extraordinary in players so young. There was a real baby, he discovered; and he was very amused to hear that François had demanded it and that his sister, Marguerite, had promptly left the château and found her imperious brother that for which he’d asked.
The boy will be spoiled, he thought, left to the care of women.
And women who dote on him to such an extent! He would consult with Georges at an early opportunity, for they must remember that, as yet, he was not even married to Anne, and that while this state of affairs persisted young François could be King of France. He should not therefore be tied to women’s apron strings, but brought up as a man.
During his visit he broached the subject with Louise.
“You are justly proud of two such children,” he told her. “I’ll swear that you will wish to put such a boy in the care of a great soldier, and that soon.”
Louise was startled. “I had no such plans, Sire.”
“He is so advanced for his age that one forgets how young he is. Such a one needs to be brought up with boys of his own age and under stern discipline. He must learn how to become a knight—to use a sword, how to conduct himself in combat. Remember, he could one day hold a very important position in this land.”
“’Tis true, Sire. But I would wish to remain in charge of his education. He must learn all that a man should learn, but that will come later.”
“You have too much sense,” said Louis with a smile, “to wish to leave it too long. I will speak to de Gié of our François. As you know he is one of the greatest soldiers in France, and I am sure, Madame, you w
ill agree with me when I say that none but the best is good enough for François.”
Louise was trembling with apprehension but the King noticed the firm set of her lips, and he said to himself: There is a woman who will fight for her boy like a tigress for her cub. She is determined that one day he shall be King of France. Alas, Madame, you are doomed to disappointment.
He felt sorry for her and spoke gently to her when he took his farewell, complimenting her once more on her children, and adding that he believed she would never allow them to leave her care.
But when François knelt before him, looking so dignified that he brought tears to his mother’s eyes as she watched him, Louis stooped and picked the boy up in his arms.
“What a big fellow you are!” he said. “I’ll swear that when next we meet you’ll be showing me how well you can handle a sword.”
François’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “A sword … for me!”
“Well, you’ll be a man one day,” said the King. “You may need one.”
François was delighted. Now he wanted a sword.
The château seemed quiet after the King had left. Jeanne de Polignac sensed Louise’s concern and tried to soothe her.
“One thing is certain,” she said. “Louis does not believe he will ever get a son because he would not concern himself with the upbringing of François if he did not consider him to be the Dauphin.”
There was comfort in that thought.
“But I shall not allow anyone to take him from me,” said Louise fiercely.
When Georges d’Amboise sought an audience with the King there was triumph in every line of the Archbishop’s plump body.
“Alexander is willing, Sire,” Georges explained. “He is concerned at the moment for his son Cesare, and Cesare needs your help. Alexander says—most diplomatically and in that veiled language of which he is a past master—that if you will please him, you shall have your divorce.”
“What are his terms?” Louis asked.
“Cesare is tired of his Cardinal’s robes. He fancies himself as a conqueror. There is no doubt that he arranged the murder of his brother, the Duke of Gandia. You will remember, my Liege, that that young man’s body was found in the Tiber; he had been stabbed to death. Alexander loved that boy, but he has given up grieving now. He has another son, and so besottedly does he love his children that he now gives all his devotion to Cesare and his daughter Lucrezia. He seems to have forgotten poor Gandia now that he is dead—at least he forgives Cesare for murdering his brother.”
“It may be that he wishes to see the Borgias triumphant. Tell me what he asks for Cesare.”
“You will remember, Sire, that when Cesare became a Cardinal Alexander prepared documents which proclaimed him to have been born in wedlock. Now he has prepared further documents. Cesare is his bastard and therefore, being of illegitimate birth, cannot be accepted as a Cardinal. Cesare will leave the Church, and he plans to come to the Court of France; he wants you to help him to marry Carlotta of Aragon, and he would be pleased to accept a French dukedom. He wishes to make an alliance with you so that you may join forces in attacking Italy.”
“Alexander knows how to drive a bargain.”
“He does, Sire. But you have always greatly desired Milan and have had a claim to it. Cesare would come with the dispensation which will dissolve your marriage; and all we should have to do is have the case tried here before judges whom you would select.”
Louis was thoughtful. “You are an able man, Georges. You should have your reward too.”
Georges smiled. “I understand that Cesare will bring, in addition to the dispensation for you, a Cardinal’s hat for me.”
“The Borgia knows how to make a bargain irresistible.”
“ ’Tis so, Sire. And you need the divorce, unless we are prepared to sit back and see young François mount the throne of France.”
Louis nodded. “Have you put the case before Queen Anne?”
He waited nervously for the reply.
Georges was frowning. “She is reluctant. She feels that to marry so soon after the death of her husband would be a little unseemly.”
Louis beat his fist on his knee. “I am in no mind to wait.”
“You should have no fear on that account, Sire. There is one thing for which she longs and that is to be the mother of the King of France. I mentioned Louise and her François, and that was adding fuel to the flame. I am sure that Louise—and young François—are scarcely ever out of her thoughts. She sees Louise as her greatest rival. She cannot endure the thought of her triumph. I do not think we shall have trouble with Queen Anne, Sire, once you are free of Queen Jeanne.”
“I am sorry that I have to do this, Georges.”
Georges lifted his shoulders. “It is the fate of royal personages, Sire. I am sure she will understand.”
“Well, let us hasten on the affair. Have you prepared the case?”
“I have, Sire. You will swear that the marriage is impossible of consummation. The Queen is unfit to be a wife and a mother. That is good enough reason for a king to put his wife away.”
“Poor Jeanne, I fear she will take this sadly.”
“She will recover.”
“It is not strictly true to say that she is unfit to be a wife.”
“It is in this case, Sire.”
“There are times when I almost wish …” Louis did not finish his sentence. It was quite untrue of course. He was longing to be rid of Jeanne; he dreamed nightly of Anne who was becoming more and more desirable to him. He was certain that in the first weeks of their marriage she would conceive. But it was true to say that he wished he did not have to hurt Jeanne.
“It will be over very quickly, Sire. The physicians will ask to examine Queen Jeanne.”
“To examine her!”
“To ascertain her unfitness for marriage.”
“But she will never submit to such indignity.”
“Then all is well, Sire,” smiled Georges, “for then it will be assumed that she is indeed unfit, for if she were not, it will be said, why should she refuse the examination?”
Louis gazed at his friend; then he rose and going to the window looked out.
Yet it must be, he thought. There were demands of kingship to be served.
Jeanne could not believe it. Louis had always been so kind. It was true that he found her repulsive, but she had loved him dearly because he had always made such an effort to pretend this was not the case. He had been unfaithful to her; she had expected that. It was his kindness which had always made her feel so safe. He was also so genial, so logical—except when he was ill or anxious. Then he was inclined to be irritable, but that was natural.
And now he was assuring the Court of Enquiry that it was impossible to consummate the marriage, and on those grounds he was asking for a divorce.
She had wept the night before until she slept from exhaustion. Now her eyes were swollen and she looked uglier than ever.
“If only my brother Charles had not died!” she murmured. “Then Louis would not have been King. He would not have cared that I could not give him a son. And Anne of Brittany would not be free to marry him.”
The bishops came to her—one of them was the brother of Georges d’Amboise who she knew worked wholeheartedly for the King and had arranged this matter for him. They were determined, she knew, to give Louis the verdict for which he was asking.
Gently they told her that she was judged unfit for marriage.
“It is not true,” she answered. “Except that my back is crooked, my head set awry, my arms too long, my person unprepossessing.”
“Madame, you have but to submit to an examination. The royal physicians are ready to wait on you.”
Her thick lips, which did not meet, were twisted in a bitter smile.
“I’ll swear they know the answer to what they seek before they begin their examinations,” she answered. “Nay, messieurs, I will not submit to this further indignity. You—and others—forget, it seems,
that, unwanted as I am, I am yet the daughter of a king.”
“Madame, it would be wise …”
“Messieurs, you have my leave to depart.”
When they left her she covered her face with her hands and rocked to and fro.
This was the end of life as she had known it. The answer would be to go into a convent where she must devote herself to the good life and forget that she ever tried to be a wife to Louis.
She rose and picked up her lute. She had been a good lutist, and when she played men and women had been apt to pause and listen. They forgot then that she was deformed and ugly; they only heard the sweet music she made. Often she had found great comfort in her music and when she felt sad and neglected she had told herself: “There is always my lute.”
But one did not play the lute in a convent.
Deliberately she threw it to the floor and stamped on it; and looking down at what she had once loved she thought: Like the lute my life is broken and finished.
Louise, eager yet apprehensive, had moved with her family from Cognac to Chinon. Each day she was watching at her turret for messengers from the Court; and she would start up every time she heard the sound of riders approaching the château.
Jeanne comforted her as best she could. It was quite impossible, she pointed out, for the King to put away his wife. The Pope would never agree to a divorce. Jeanne, a king’s daughter, would never submit to such treatment; and Anne of Brittany would not marry until at least a year had elapsed since the death of her husband, for she would consider it quite indecent to do so.
“I know Anne of Brittany,” said Louise. “She wants to give birth to the heir of France. There is only one way in which she can do that, and that is by marrying Louis. She’ll take him if she has the chance. She is as jealous of me on account of my son as any woman could be.”
Louis traveled to Chinon with a great retinue and Louise’s anxiety increased, for there were plans to welcome a visitor to France, and this important personage was shortly to arrive in Chinon. His name was Cesare Borgia.
Why was the King so eager to do honors to the illegitimate son of the Pope? Louise anxiously asked herself.