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Countess Louise d’Angoulême stood beside her husband, Carlo, and his cousin, Duke Louis d’Orléans, close to the entrance into the great hall of the Château. She assumed the appearance of listening while Duke Louis described the flight from Brittany with Duchess Anne. Instead, she compared her finery to the attire of the other ladies and preened. In her opinion, her gown was the most stylish, although others glittered with finer materials and more jewels. She warmed with satisfaction.
It had taken ingenuity to design it to disguise her growing belly. Since the week previously when Carlo had announced this rushed journey to Langeais, she, her mother-in-law, and her ladies had been busy. Louise had designed her ensemble while her ladies cut, sewed, and embroidered, taking apart worn gowns and reusing fine fabric. Her gown’s decorative forepart1, made of salvaged cloth of silver embroidered with her pearl and gold swan emblem contrasted with the pale blue brocade of the over gown. The upper sleeves, saved from another cloth of silver gown, had matching swan embroidery. They were attached to long, hanging lower sleeves in matching blue trimmed with rabbit fur. To complete her attire, a long-sleeved shift trimmed in fine lace peeked out at her wrists.
Louise doubted that her rivals could guess that she had pieced its parts together to refresh her gown. She and her mother-in-law had agreed it was essential they hide the family’s straitened circumstances from inquisitive eyes. Nor did she want to display her hopes for an heir until she was certain she would not lose the baby. She could not bear people knowing of her failures.
When Carlo said she could bring only one lady-in-waiting to the secret wedding, she had almost refused to attend. It added to Louise’s conviction that she and the new Queen Anne would be enemies before they ever met. First, of course, Anne was a de Montfort, traditional enemies of the de Rohan family. Maman Marguerite, a de Rohan by birth, and sister to the Viscount who was the head of the family, insisted that the ducal coronet of Brittany should sit on her brother’s head. The so-called Duchess Anne de Montfort was nothing but a usurper.
Taking a swig of the mug of cider that was never far from her side, Maman Marguerite had said, “Si la fillette, the girl, she ‘ad done as she should and married my nephew, she would ‘ave saved herself and all of us this tragédie. Look what she ‘as done! La Bretagne, she should never be part of France. Petite Folle.”
Louise had many other reasons, and any of them would have been sufficient. At her husband’s sudden crack of laughter, Louise glanced at him. He resembled his cousin Louis, with his light brown hair and long Valois nose, and still lithe, athletic body. Unlike Louis, he took pride in dressing well. She wondered if he, too, resented that their penury resulted directly from his loyalty to Anne’s father. Because of it, both he and his cousin Louis had fought on the wrong side in the Guerre Folle, the Mad War. He had been luckier than Louis for he escaped prison, but Louise and he were still paying the fines Madame la Grande had levied against his lands. And what had she ever done that Madame la Grande should punish her by marrying her to a penny-pinched ancient, so that now she had to scrimp day-in, day-out to present a proper appearance on a meagre income?
But then, Madame la Grande was heartless. Louise would never forget what it had been like to arrive at Madame la Grande’s court as a lonely seven-year-old after her mother had died. The only person who had been unfailingly kind was little Marguerite, Mme la Petite Dauphine, as everyone called her. Louise was furious that Madame had tossed Marguerite aside like a worn-out shoe when she found a more useful bride for her brother.
Still, it was only at the instant that she saw Duchess Anne in the entryway to the great hall that Louise hated her. The feeling came over her in a molten flood, starting in her heart and burning outward through her veins until she could feel the heat flowing through the soles of her shoes and out the tips of her fingers. She was glad to curtsey so she could lower her head, for her face felt flushed.
Her eyes followed Anne after she passed. It was not only that the girl, who was obviously younger than she, was as tiny and delicate as a Breton faery. Nor was it simply that her clothing—her costly jewelled headdress, and the cloth-of gold wedding gown lined with sable—was as elegant as Louise’s own, besides being as costly as a Turk’s. Neither was it the beauty of Anne’s enormous hazel eyes, chestnut hair and golden rose skin, for Louise knew that her own tall willowy elegance, fair hair and skin, and large stormy grey eyes drew men like helpless flies. It was none of those things, infuriating as they all were. No. It was her insufferable air of arrogance.
* * *
STIFFENING HER SPINE, Anne slid her hands down the skirt of her cloth of gold wedding gown until she clutched the jewelled rosary that hung from her waist. The parting gift from her dying mother, it contained a thorn from the crown of Christ’s martyrdom and was her most precious possession. As she touched it, she sent a silent prayer heavenward.
A voice announced, “Anne, Duchess de Bretagne, Countess d’Étampes . . .” and continued to recite her titles. Anne glided forward into the light-filled room before her. Large circular candelabra hung from the high ceiling and marched down the centre of the large chamber, each blazing with wax candles. A fireplace burned bright at the far end. Someone had decorated the white-washed walls with boughs of pine tied with red ribbons and tiny silver bells. Their spicy scent added some warmth to the chill that had invaded Anne as she surveyed the scene. With this touch of the festive, she felt a dash of hope that this marriage might bring more pleasure than she had expected.
She glanced around as the courtiers rose from their obeisances. There were no more than thirty, most of them known to her, and she resented the scanty numbers and paltry display. As Duchess of Brittany, she deserved a grand ceremonial event with all her and her husband’s vassals and teeming crowds outside a great cathedral cheering the future of the bride and groom and diving for largesse. Worse, this was her second meagre wedding within a year.
Her hands tightened around the rosary once more as she glanced toward the makeshift altar set up at the far end of the room in front of the fireplace. The two bishops who awaited her had promised that the dispensations they had signed were sufficient to annul her first marriage to King Maximilian and sanctify this one to King Charles. She slowed her already funereal pace toward them. It was bad enough that her marriage should be dissolved. Although her flesh had touched that of the Count de Polhaim in front of her court when he served as King Maximilian’s proxy, she had never met Maximilian himself. He was a grown man who had promised to come to her rescue and had not. He deserved no better.
But Madame la Grande, deciding that Brittany was the greater prize, forced Charles to dissolve his marriage to young Marguerite d’Autriche even though they had been married for eight years. Even though he was king. The Regent herself had brought the little princess—who was King Maximilian’s daughter to add insult to his injury—to France when she was only three years old and married her to Charles the day she arrived. She had been treated as the queen all her life. Anne tried to imagine how she would feel in Queen Marguerite’s shoes. Probably she would loathe both King Charles and Madame la Grande. And likely she would blame the other woman, too.
That is me. What an unsettling feeling. I will have to do something to show her how sorry I am for my part in this.
Anne forced her mind back to her imminent wedding. A gold monstrance shone among the vessels sitting on the embroidered altar cloth that covered the temporary altar. Beside the altar, clad in gold and white copes and stiff mitres, two bishops lent their authority to the ceremony. Young King Charles, whom she had not seen since their brief stolen meeting in a small chapel outside Rennes almost two months previously, waited for her beside them. Anne relaxed a trifle. With proper modesty, she kept her eyes lowered and concentrated on moving gracefully on her uneven shoes, especially designed to conceal her one short leg and awkward limp. She would have no one remember that her body was imperfect. She reached his side without mishap. Although he was not tall, the top of her head came only to his shoulder, even with the lift in her shoe. In the chapel, he had been happy to discover that he was taller than she.
The Cardinal began the short service. The words of the marriage vows as they made them were uncomfortably familiar. “Charles, do you take Anne, here present, for your lawful wife according to the rite of our holy mother, the Church?”
Charles said, “I do.”
They were the first words Anne had heard him say since she had last met him in Rennes. As Charles made his vows, it astonished her once again that words so weighty they bound a couple for life in the eyes of God and Holy Church should take so little time to utter.
“Anne, do you take Charles, here present, for your lawful husband according to the rite of our holy mother, the Church?”
Anne replied, “I do,” her voice no louder than a whisper, so reluctant was she to remarry without the papal dispensations. Until the documents blessing their marriage arrived from Rome, she feared they were both legally wed to others. But she had spoken the vows now. Was she committing adultery? Would she burn in hell? Only her years of training kept her from wringing her hands. She wanted to turn and run from the room.
Before she could give way to panic, the Cardinal joined their right hands and married them, saying, “Ego conjúngo vos in matrimónium. In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti. Amen.”2
After he pronounced them man and wife, Anne raised her eyes to the king’s. Charles smiled down at her, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling, as he held her freezing hand in his. It was warm and she felt reassured. He was not handsome, for his nose was long and fleshy above his large, loose lips. But his eyes were large and fringed with thick, dark lashes and his hair looked as soft as her favourite puppy’s ears. She felt a sudden longing to cuddle Fanchon, who was waiting for her in a room upstairs.
She accepted her new husband’s arm and moved with him to the small nearby table where everything lay in readiness to sign the marriage contract, pleased that their cloth of gold wedding outfits with their sable-lined sleeves matched, as was traditional in France. It made their marriage feel less hasty. He had promised her he would see it done after she accepted his suit. When he made his proposal in the small candle-lit chapel, he had gone down on one knee. And when she agreed, he said she had made him the happiest man on earth. They both knew neither of them had a choice, but it was chivalrous of him to treat her as if she were his heart’s desire. She had warmed to him then. It was a relief to feel the ice within her melting again.
As the contract signing dragged on, the courtiers’ voices buzzed in her ears like the drone of lazy bees. Although the guests were few, each had an interest in the marriage. Madame la Grande and her husband were ensuring that none of the highest nobility in France and Brittany could deny their part so she insisted each must sign the marriage contract to demonstrate they had accepted its terms.
A flurry of activity caught Anne’s attention at the far end of the great hall. A quartet of servants in the king’s livery emerged carrying boards, trestles, and benches. They placed one table across the width of the hall and two more perpendicular to it. Anne watched the movements of soft-shoed butlers and pages from the corner of her eye while she conversed with the guests who had completed signing clustering near the fireplace.
Pages covered the tables with white linens that fell to the floor and placed a gilded salt boat on each table. Behind the centre table, two wooden armchairs raised higher than the benches on either side of them occupied the central position. A cloth of estate3 embroidered with the combined devices of Brittany and France hung above them. The position and prominence of the cloth of estate sent the message that her capitulation, and the attachment of her duchy to France, was the sole significance of her wedding. The king and Madame la Grande were boasting that they had gained what they wanted—her duchy of Brittany—by flaunting her under that emblem. They were presenting her like a prize won at a tournament, not a ruler of an independent state.
She tightened her lips to keep herself from glaring when the thin, sharp-nosed regent approached them with her husband and sketched a curtsey. She wore a gown that rivalled Anne’s in magnificence. A jewelled black and white headdress hid her hair but could not disguise her prominent forehead, washed-out brown eyes, pale lashes and eyebrows, and thin nose. Her honour insulted by the table decorations, Anne comforted herself that her magnificence outdid her enemy’s as noticeably as a peacock outshone a peahen.
“Madame la Grande,” she said, “you have been busy. That is an elaborate cloth of estate you have prepared.” A hint of scorn sounded in her voice
“As befits the King and Queen of France and Duke and Duchess of Brittany.” Madame la Grande’s eyes snapped, but her voice was smooth. “And may I present to you my husband, Duke Pierre de Bourbon. I do not believe you have yet met him. He is your new brother-in-law.”
“How rapidly my family grows.” It was true, Anne thought, and inoffensive. That Madame la Grande was now her sister grated like chalk on slate. Anne had adored her own sister, now an angel in Heaven. That she should be replaced by this... this... viper was just another painful sting of fate.
Well, the regent had held the position of first lady in France for far too long. She would soon discover that France had a queen now and she would have to accept she was no longer the first lady in the country.
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1 Forepart–Placket and matching forepart—a separate piece of expensive and highly decorated material inserted into the opening of the overdress to cover the kirtle, often with matching lower sleeves.
2 Ego conjúngo vos in matrimónium. In nómine Patris, et Fílii, et Spíritus Sancti. Amen.”—the traditional Latin marriage vow, translated as —By the authority of the Church I ratify and bless the bond of marriage you have contracted. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
3 Cloth of estate—a canopy-like arrangement of precious fabric above and behind a throne or dais.