by Jean Plaidy
Genial, approachable, shrewd, he was loved by those who surrounded him; he was capable of moments of irascibility, but these all knew were only when he suffered pain or was anxious over some danger threatening the country. He was, however, deeply respectful to his wife and apt to give her her way in everything; and as Anne of Brittany was a forceful woman, France was governed as much by her as by Louis.
It was a source of great disappointment that they had only one child—little Claude, who was undersized, walked with a limp and was clearly never going to be strong.
Reluctantly he told Anne they must face the fact that François had a very fair chance of following him to the throne.
“In that case,” said Anne tartly, “he should be brought up as a man and untied from a woman’s apron strings.”
Louis agreed that this was so and, sending for Maréchal de Gié, told him that he was to go to Amboise and become Governor of the household of Angoulême, his special charge being the boy François who was to be brought up in all manly activities.
De Gié recognized the importance of this task and set off with a will.
Louise received him with great apprehension, although she realized that now François was seven years old he could no longer be regarded as a baby. As for the boy himself, as long as he was not separated from his mother and sister, he was happy enough to have a chance to fence and learn how to joust.
On the day before de Gié was due to arrive at the château Louise was alone with her son and daughter. She sat with one on either side of her and put an arm about each.
“My children,” she said, “you are growing up and you will find that we cannot go on in the way we have. Soon life in the château will change. They are going to make our François into a man—and they do not think his mother, being a woman, is capable of doing that.”
“But you will be here with us, dearest Maman?” asked Marguerite anxiously.
“Do you think that I should allow anyone to part me from you? Nay, my children. We are as one—we three. We are a trinity. Let us remember it forever.”
“I shall never forget,” said Marguerite.
“Bless you, my daughter. I know you love your brother.”
“And I love my sister,” cried François.
“You love each other; and I love you both; and you love me. My dear ones, there was never such love to the world as we have for each other. Let us remember it. And one day when you, my son, are King of France, you will know that there is none whom you can trust as you trust your mother and sister—because we are as three in one: A trinity.”
François liked the new life. Maréchal de Gié was determined to ingratiate himself with one who might well be a King of France, but at the same time he laid down rules which must not be broken. He explained to the boy that these were necessary; to acquire manhood one must never ignore discipline.
François was a good pupil. Being strong and healthy he loved the outdoor life; being quick-witted, and for so long under the surveillance of his brilliant sister, he was fond of learning. He was good-natured and strangely unspoiled by the devotion of his family; he loved his mother and sister almost as devotedly as they loved him and was anxious never to displease them nor cause them anxiety.
De Gié’s first act had been to replace François’s pony with a horse. Louise came out to the courtyard to see him mounted, and tears of emotion temporarily blinded her at the sight of that upright little figure perched on the tall horse.
She had a whip made for him of gold decorated with fleur-de-lis in enamel; he was delighted with the gift and would not abandon it even when he was not riding. One of the charms of François was that, indulged as he was, he could always feel enthusiasm for small delights.
It had been necessary now to send the little Françoise back to her parents. It was no task for an embryo knight to care for a child; and as Marguerite was growing too old for such pastimes and had to increase her studies, they must say goodbye to their little protégée.
They both had plenty with which to occupy themselves, and life at Amboise seemed to François like one adventure after another.
One day Louise was at the window watching his equestrian exercises under the surveillance of de Gié. François was mounted on a new horse and he sat it boldly, brandishing his whip.
She watched him taking a jump. What a horseman the boy was becoming! He excelled in everything he undertook.
“I verily believe,” she said to Jeanne who was with her, “that he is a god in earthly guise.”
Then she caught her breath in dismay. The horse had started to rear; it had the bit between its teeth and was galloping blindly over the fields, while François was clinging to it with all his might. De Gié, who was talking to some of the attendants, had not seen what was happening, and for some seconds Louise was unable to move. She saw her life in ruins; she saw them bringing in his mangled body—her beautiful one, her beloved…dead. She would die with him. There would no longer be any purpose in life.
“Holy Mother, help me,” she prayed; and she dared not look at that madly galloping animal with the small figure still managing to stay in the saddle.
She rushed down the great staircase and out of the château, shouting to all who could hear as she did so: “The Comte’s horse is running away with him. Quick! All of you. Monsieur le Maréchal! Everyone! Help! The Comte is in danger.”
By the time she had reached the field in which François had been exercising his horse, de Gié had seen what was happening and, galloping after the boy, had brought the runaway horse to a standstill. Louise, watching, felt her knees tremble so violently that she thought they would not support her. The relief was almost unbearable; for there was François, laughing as though the whole affair had been something of a joke, being led back to the spot where his mother was waiting.
He took one look at her and saw the distress still in her face.
“It is unharmed, Maman,” he called reassuringly. “See, I have not broken it.”
He held up the whip for her to see; and the fact that he had believed she was concerned for the thing brought home to her that he was after all but a child.
She laughed, but the tears were very near.
It was fitting, said the Maréchal, that François should have friends of his own age. They should live at Amboise as his equals, because it was not good that a boy should believe himself to be superior to others until he had proved himself to be so.
Therefore he proposed to bring to Amboise certain boys, and they should play and fight together, as young boys will.
Louise did not raise any objection; she knew that it would be useless to do so; in any case she agreed with this decision and, as long as she was allowed to remain under the same roof as her darling, she was happy that the Maréchal should undertake part of his education.
Thus to Amboise came some boys of François’s age—all of noble birth, all willingly placed under the control of the Maréchal. François made friends with them, played games with them, learned to fence, hunt, joust and fight with them. They were Montmorency, Chabot, Montchenu, and Fleurange; they would sit together after the mock combat, talking of the real war, and longing for the days when they themselves would go into action. Although they knew that François would most probably one day be their King, they did not allow this to influence their attitude toward him; in fact they forgot it for days at a time; and François did not remind them. He was too intent on enjoying life as a growing boy to worry about the crown which was somewhat precariously held over him.
He would sleep deeply and dreamlessly each night, delightfully fatigued after his exercise. He would rise fresh in the morning, and drag his comrades out of their beds if they showed any desire to remain in them.
“Come on,” he would shout. “The sun is already up. I’ll race you to the stables.”
He was growing up.
Louise watched him often with delight, often in anguish. He was so like those other boys and yet so different, because he never f
orgot for one moment that he was part of that trinity; and friendly as he might be with Fleurange, dearly as he loved to tilt against Montmorency, his love for his sister and his mother was never dimmed in the slightest way.
De Gié, determined as he was to remain on good terms with Louise, yet tried to wean the boy from her. He would have preferred to have complete charge of François, to let him live entirely with male company; but he quickly realized that, short of a command from the King, he could not separate Louise from her son.
He tried means of persuasion.
Once he said to her: “It seems a sad thing that a lady—young and beautiful as you are—should remain alone.”
“Alone? I am not alone. I have my children.”
“You should have a husband.”
“I am content.”
“The King would arrange a match for you with Alfonso d’Este. It would be a good match.”
“Leave France! Leave François! Nay, Monsieur le Maréchal. That is something I shall never do.”
He looked at her sadly.
“Clever women can combine wifeliness with motherhood.”
“With the father of her children, yes. Alas, I lost my husband, and I am in no mind to take another.”
Later there was a rumor that Henry VII of England, recently widowed, was urgently looking for a wife and liked much what he had heard of Louise of Savoy.
“I have no mind to go to England,” was her retort to that. “My home is where my children are, and that happens to be in Amboise. There I shall remain.”
Such a woman! thought the Maréchal. And there were times when he felt almost tender toward her.
Who would take to wife a woman whose affections were exclusively occupied by another—even though that other were her own son?
So Louise clung to her widowhood; and François grew in stature so that he was taller than all his companions; he could almost always beat them at their sports. Each day, thought Louise, he grows more and more like a king.
Anne was pregnant once more, and there followed months of anxiety, until one day the news was brought from Court that she had given birth to a stillborn child. And that child had been a boy.
Then Louise went on her knees and cried: “I see, O Lord, that You are with me.”
And after that she was more certain than ever that the next King of France would be her son.
Louis despaired of getting a male heir.
His health was deteriorating rapidly and he was beginning to be exhausted at the least exertion. Moreover the Queen’s last confinement, which had resulted in the birth of a stillborn boy, had made her very ill and she showed little sign of regaining her former strength. He was afraid of what another pregnancy might do to her.
“We must perforce resign ourselves,” he said. “François will follow me. There is no help for it.”
Anne clenched her fists and her face was set in determined lines.
“And give Louise of Savoy what she has been dreaming of ever since she gave birth to that boy?”
“There’s no help for it. He is the next in the line of succession; and I suppose we should be thankful that he is so robust. He is being brought up as a king. Let us face it. We should accept him as the Dauphin.”
“While there is life in my body I never shall.”
Louis laid his arm about her shoulders. He admired her so much. She was so strong-minded, so intelligent; but her hatred of Louise of Savoy was almost unreasonable. It was surely natural that the mother of François should be ambitious for him; nor were her ambitions misplaced; when all was said and done the boy was the heir.
“We should affiance him without delay to our daughter.”
“Claude…to marry that…lout!”
“She is our daughter; we can at least make sure that she is Queen of France.”
“I am determined to have a son.”
“My dearest wife, I could not allow you to endanger your life.”
“It is my duty to bear a son.”
“No, no. Not when we have an heir in François. He is healthy enough to please anyone. The people are already interested in him. He has all the gifts that will appeal most to them. It is our fate and we must accept it.”
“He shall not have my delicate Claude.”
“If he is to be King she could not make a better match.”
“Could she not? I have decided that she shall have the grandson of Maximilian. Little Charles of Castile shall be for our Claude. I should like to see Louise’s face when she hears of that. Claude married to the Archduke Charles; and I to have a son. Where would Monsieur François be then…for all his mother’s ambitions?”
“Have you decided then?” he asked sadly.
“I have decided. François shall not have Claude.”
Louise laughed aloud when she heard.
“Does she think I shall mourn! Does she think I want that poor little insect for Caesar? It would be like mating a donkey with an Arab steed. Let the Archduke have her. Let him be promised to her. It won’t be the first time he has been promised in marriage.”
Yet she was annoyed, because the people would have been pleased by the match. And when a king is not a king’s son it was better that he married the daughter of a king.
Had Louis suggested the match she would have been pleased. She would have told François: “Marry the poor creature. It is your destiny.”
And François would have married her and, because he was François, would have provided France with heirs. She smiled thinking of the beautiful women who would count themselves honored to be his mistresses.
But she snapped her fingers. “Caesar shall have a princess for a bride—she will have beauty as well as rank.”
The King was ill and the news spread throughout the country that he was dying.
Louise was exultant. There would be none between François and the throne. He was not quite twelve years old, so there would have to be a Regency. Her mind was busy. She would impress upon him the need to keep his mother at his side.
She could scarcely contain herself. She paced up and down her room. Once again Jeanne de Polignac implored her to hide her exultation; if it were carried to Court that she had exulted because the King was dying she might be accused of sorcery, or at least treason. Had she thought of the consequences of that? She must not forget that Anne of Brittany was the Queen and her enemy.
“They’ll not dare harm the King’s mother. François loves me as he loves no other. He would not allow it.”
“François is yet a boy.”
“François will be King. Perhaps at this moment he is King. They will cry Le roi est mort, Vive le Roi—and they will mean Vive le Roi François Premier.”
“It is too soon to triumph.”
Louise embraced her good friend. “How wise you are to warn me. But I am so happy I cannot contain my happiness.”
Louise was downcast when the King recovered.
In the streets of Paris the people rejoiced because the “Father of his People” was still with them. But he was very weak, and it seemed that he could not live long.
Louise’s spirits were soon rising again. The King an invalid. The Queen an invalid. It seemed unlikely that they could produce a healthy heir, yet Anne would insist that they go on trying as long as there was life left in them both.
Anne, desperately afraid that she was going to lose her husband, decided that she would go on a pilgrimage to her native Brittany; and she left the King in the care of his physicians.
Louis lay limply in his bed and, when his Queen had been absent for some days, he sent for his old friend, Georges d’Amboise.
“Georges,” he said, “I fear my end is not far off.”
Georges was too wise a man to deny this, because he knew the King would not respect untruthfulness.
“At Amboise Louise of Savoy will be waiting for the moment when that boy of hers will mount the throne. It is coming, Georges, and the Queen and I shall not be able to prevent it. François Premier will follo
w me.”
“Sire, you are a little better. I had it from your physicians. There may be some time left to you.”
“I may get up from this sick bed, yes. But methinks I shall soon be back in it. I am worried about my daughter. I should like to see her Queen of France.”
“A match with François would be appropriate, Sire.”
“The Queen is against it.”
Georges looked at his master shrewdly. He saw the command in his eyes. It was the old cry of “Let Georges do it.” Georges d’Amboise must find a way in which a match between the heir presumptive to the throne of France and the King’s daughter should be made without delay.
Georges went away and considered the matter. The Queen was in Brittany. The affair should be concluded in her absence. Louis would have to answer to her when she returned and, as he hated to ignore her wishes, if one did not wish to displease the King there must be a very good reason.
Georges went back to his master.
“It is the will of the people,” he said, “that the Princess Claude should be betrothed to François.”
Once again, Georges had done it.
The two enemies watched the ceremony. Anne was sullen, but she knew there was nothing she could do to prevent it, because the people of Paris had sent a deputation to the King begging that their Princess be married to their Dauphin.
Louise was not, in truth, displeased, although determined to hide this fact from Anne. But she could not prevent her eyes shining with contentment as they rested on twelve-year-old François, so tall, so handsome, so bright-eyed, every glorious inch of him a Dauphin, and turned to poor sickly seven-year-old Claude who looked as though she would not live long enough to consummate the marriage.
Louis was well pleased. He did not suffer from the same envy as Anne did, and could not help eyeing the boy with satisfaction. It was good that a branch of the royal family could produce a boy so worthy in every way of his destiny.