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Nothing to Celebrate

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Château d’Amboise, 6 January 1496

It was Epiphany, the last day of Christmas, and Charles insisted Anne attend every Three Kings Day celebration. Her thoughts gave her no peace, but she complied with her husband’s wishes. In a small act of rebellion, she wore a black French hood adorned with black pearls. Today, when the world celebrated the arrival of the kings who announced to the world the birth of its Saviour, she would not deny that she mourned. Charles could force her to attend the festivities, he could not make her enjoy them.

She joined him in the great council hall which today was being used for the morning meal. As she stood in the large stone entrance surrounded by her ladies, Charles caught sight of her and crossed the floor to take her arm, jauntiness in every step. As they made their way to their seats at the high table on the dais, he had cheerful greetings for everyone. Anne strained to keep a smile pasted to her lips, sourly reflecting that he lived up to his sobriquet of ‘the affable.’

The room hummed with the same excitement that Anne felt crackling throughout the building. The great hall was closed to all but those who prepared the evening entertainment, but everywhere the Château bustled with preparations, and the enticing aromas of food and drink floated in the air.

Madame la Grande, Duke Pierre, and Duchess Jeanne joined them at the high table, and Charles jumped up to kiss his sisters.

“It was generous of Duke Louis to take upon himself the entire preparation of our celebration this evening,” Charles said to his sister, Jeanne. “He begged the honour of organizing the Twelfth Night festivity.”

Anne saw her sister-in-law answer, but her thoughts drowned out Jeanne’s words. It was just Duke Louis’s way to draw attention to his status as dauphin; the position he had finally regained. When he had conducted her to Langeais, Louis had boasted of being dauphin and sounded aggrieved that she would deprive him of his position. Now that Charles-Orland was dead, he had regained it and was mocking her and the king for failing to guard their heir. The gloom that had enveloped Anne since she woke thickened, until the words around her seemed muffled, to her relief.

Charles’s voice broke into her thoughts, though he spoke to his sisters. “I believe this is his effort to cheer up the queen. I told him I was worried about Anne’s health and the depth of her mourning.” He took Anne’s hand and gave her an arch look. “I have not forgotten nor have my sisters that he was a suitor for your hand when your father was still alive. He admires you, for he told me so and said you were as strong as the walls of Saint Malo and as loyal as a guard dog.”

Anne gave him a strained smile. How tactless of Charles to bring up that time when Louis was a rebel against the crown trying to divorce Jeanne. Her mind scurried to a darker place. Or was he implying that she was being disloyal? 

Charles was off again, reckoning up the scale of the duke’s provisioning for the festivity. “Twenty-four hogsheads each of wine and ale; five-hundred livres of wax candles, 50 livres of pepper, 2 livres of saffron, 100 livres of almonds and 300 livres of sugar in cones, and. . .and quantities of other spices.” He tallied the supplies on his fingers.

“That is but the beginning: 10,000 salted eels in barrels, 200 live pigs, and 1,000 young hens.” He turned to his sister again. “He must have stripped Blois bare, for my Maître d’hôtel told me he has also supplied hundreds of napkins, and dozens of linens brought from your home as well as your pastry chefs with all the supplies to prepare, fill and bake 500 galettes de roi.”1

Jeanne smiled and nodded as the king rattled on. Madame la Grande gave her a sharp glance. When Charles turned to speak to her husband, she winked at Anne and asked her younger sister, “Did Louis really organize all that? I suspect he left it to you, did he not?”

Anne recalled Jeanne saying that Louis left the administration to her, as the Duchess put a finger to her lips, and said, “I would never take my husband’s credit.”

* * *

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Twelfth Night Celebration, After Vespers

THE COURTIERS MILLING in the outer chamber opened a path to allow Anne and Charles to pass through to the entrance of the great hall where Duke Louis and Duchess Jeanne awaited them. Anne noticed that the duke had dressed richly for once, in velvets and silks—like a king. Over his fine linen shirt, he wore a tightly fitted, short doublet in embroidered silk with contrasting breeches of velvet slashed with silk that matched the doublet.

Obedient to her chaplain, Anne wore a white kirtle heavily embroidered with fleurs de lys2 and ermines under her silk overdress, and her sleeves were slashed with white. A gold necklace strung with white pearls hung in the square neck, but her French hood was solid black. Nothing could hide the gaunt hollows in her cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes. Madame la Grande and Duke Pierre followed the royal couple with Queen Catherine of Navarre between them.

A fanfare sounded and, with a flourish, the Grand Maître des Ceremonies threw open the double doors that had been firmly sealed since the night before. Wafts of spicy air greeted them as the royal party, led by the Duke and Duchess d’Orléans, stopped just inside the threshold to admire the pastoral paradise that had been created in the lofty chamber.

Even Anne, whose mood had not improved, approved of the transformation. Pine and cedar trees, their branch tips glittered with gold and silver, stood in pots and fresh greenery hung high on the walls brightening the hall. Colourful strings of holly berries in shades of red festooned their branches. The circular chandeliers, now twined with green-leafed holly and shiny berries cast a warm light from their thick wax candles. An entire tree trunk burned in the width of the massive fireplace, adding its pine fragrance to the pinecones, juniper berries and dried laurel leaves placed in pots around the chamber.

On either side of the great portals, pages stood ready to offer tankards of wassail3 and portions of galette de roi1 as each guest entered. When they served the royal party, the King teased Duke Pierre and Queen Catherine, warning them to eat carefully for they would not want to swallow the special porcelain miniatures that identified the king and queen for the evening and miss their chance to rule France. All but Anne joined in the raillery. Instead, she gazed around at the decorations, her expression vacant.

As they proceeded further into the vast room, minstrels entered from the sides and strolled about the hall singing and playing as courtiers flooded in. When she was close enough to view the seating arrangements for the feast, Anne felt irritated. At the far end of the hall, a dais had been raised in front of the fireplace and the head table placed on it facing the great doors through which they had entered. Placed perpendicular to it, long tables covered with tablecloths awaited the guests. In the centre of the dais, Charles’s and her thrones sat under their cloths of estate. On royal purple cushions, in front of each throne lay a golden crown covered with paste jewels and a silver sceptre. No other thrones sat on the dais. To Anne, it was obvious; the evening’s royal couple were to usurp their places.

A second fanfare sounded. The Grand Maître requested the lucky guests who had received the miniature king and queen in their galette to step forward. When Duke Louis stepped into the centre and bowed, laughter, clapping, and whistling broke out. Anne did not join in. She was convinced, and she imagined everyone agreed, that the recipients of the miniatures had been decided beforehand. So, not satisfied with being dauphin, he is ready to take my husband’s crown!

She felt her husband’s eyes on her unsmiling face as he applauded. Why was he not annoyed? He should be. The noise and clapping abated, then surged again as Queen Catherine de Navarre, blushing and laughing, stepped forward with the miniature queen in her outstretched hand.

Charles pulled Anne forward by the arm to congratulate the pair. Then he took Queen Catherine’s arm and she had to take Duke Louis’s. They led the evening’s king and queen up onto the dais, to the royal thrones and invited them to seat themselves under the cloths of estate. A page stepped forward to hand first Anne, then Charles the regalia and they crowned the evening’s king and queen. Anne made short work of plopping the crown on Louis’s head and handing him the sceptre. Charles made quite a ceremony of it, laughing himself and inviting the crowd of courtiers to bow and curtsey to the new rulers. Then Charles seated himself beside Queen Catherine.

“Already dissatisfied with your rank as dauphin?” Anne sneered, as she took her place beside Louis. “You already crave my husband’s place as king?”

Louis shot her a pained look. He hesitated a moment, then replied, “Madame la Reine, the only pleasure I could hope for, were I so unfortunate as to find myself in the king’s place, would be the good fortune of having his wife.” His tone was light.

Anne felt herself turn hot. How dare he pretend this was all a jest. “You forget yourself.”

He gripped her hand, and spoke low, “Sister Anne, I meant to offer you a compliment. If it sounded insulting to your ears, please believe no offence was intended.”

This conversation must not continue. “I accept your apology.” She pulled her hand away. How dare he take Charles’s place upon his throne, pretending it was a nothing but a jape?

She became more and more annoyed as Duke Louis embraced his role as king for the evening. With a flick of the hand, he ordered the fanfare that heralded the first remove of the evening’s banquet. An army of pages entered carrying enormous platters. Roast boar, richly glazed with gilded apples in their mouths, bowls of vegetables, soups, fruits, pasties and all manner of drinks circulated, and guests filled their plates and cups. In the minstrel gallery, an orchestra played lively Italian music.

After the first remove, Duke Louis rose and clapped his hands. In ran acrobats, tumblers, jugglers, and fire breathers, who performed breathtaking acts and received prizes from the Queen for the Day as they departed. Another wave of the Duke’s hand, another fanfare, another parade of pages with the next remove. It was another excess: pies filled with eels, fish and venison; pies filled with small birds; pies of leeks and turnips; pies with medleys of spiced berries and fruits. As if that weren’t enough, more pages brought platters of fresh oranges, peeled nuts, and vats of sweet, mulled wine. What did Duke Louis intend with this extravagant display?

From the dais, the duke ordered the lower tables removed and he returned to the centre of the hall to announce the evening’s principal entertainment. 

“Getting rid of us,” Anne said to Charles, “so he can continue as the centre of attention.”

“Really, Anne,” Charles sounded exasperated. “Can you take no pleasure in it?” He frowned at her, looked ready to say something, stopped, and strolled away, leaving her to brood alone.

Louis announced they would receive a visit from the three Magi, who were following the star shining in the East, and invited applause for their appearance.

Anne saw a dais on the long wall, dark until this point, spring to life, illuminated by candelabra. At one end stood a rude wattle shelter with a thatch roof, inside of which sat an empty cradle. The platform floor was strewn with rushes and hay bales.  A few tethered chickens and goats completed the scene. Joseph and Mary arrived with a sleeping infant Jesus, whom Mary placed into the cradle. Joseph and Mary then sat on the hay bales. At the unexpected appearance of the infant, tears Anne could not control sprang to her eyes.

From the surrounding dark, three men, dressed in magnificent wise men’s robes, entered leading a costumed camel propelled by two sets of feet. Above, a Venetian glass star, probably threaded on an invisible metal wire began its journey towards the humble shed. After the wise men climbed the steps of the dais—followed by the camel who slipped and grabbed the closest wise man—Mary picked up the still sleeping infant and stepped out of the shed with Joseph. A very solid angel clambered onto the roof of their hut, shaking it ominously, and the star wobbled as it hung over the scene.

The three Kings thumped to their knees before Mary and the baby Jesus, and an unseen choir began to sing. Baby Jesus, already grizzly from being wrested from his cradle, decided it was all too much. He wailed, his voice so loud he out-roared the choir.

As the mystery play unraveled into a farce, Anne veered from repressing tears to suffocating hysterical laughter.

It became harder when the three Kings exchanged looks of horror, thrust their gifts at Joseph, leapt to their feet, and almost ran across the dais, pulling their stumbling camel. Mary, the squalling babe, and Joseph trailed them, Joseph juggling the precious gifts that looked in imminent danger of flying from his grasp.

Someone mercifully doused the candles before a disaster occurred and a fanfare drew attention to Duke Louis amid laughter and whistling. 

“Time for dancing,” he announced, cutting off the half-hearted applause and taking Queen Catherine’s arm to lead her onto the floor. Charles led Anne behind them to form the next pair in the double line that formed at once, ladies and gentlemen facing each other.

“Well, that went badly,” Anne said to Charles in a loud voice with a wide smile. He glared at her and spoke to the gentleman beside him.

At the first turn, when Louis partnered Anne, she said, “How unfortunate your playlet turned out so disastrously.”

He laughed. “It turned droll, did it not. I did not plan it, but if it amused you, I could not wish for more.” Flattery always irritated her, so his words reinstated her sour mood. Rarely had Anne been as relieved when a dance ended.

The evening wore on; servants circulated with wine and stronger intoxicants, biscuits and exotic sweets, and the dancing became more boisterous. On the dais, Duke Louis and Queen Catherine held court during their breaks from dancing. Charles spent his evening circulating among his guests flirting with the prettiest ladies, and Anne sat in the shadows with only one lady for company, refusing all offers to dance, and nursed her resentment.

As soon as she decently could, Anne sent a message to the king saying she planned to retire. Charles arrived and took her arm as she walked to the dais. Duke Louis and Queen Catherine rose to greet them.

Charles took the duke’s hands and said, “Cousin Louis, the queen is tired and will retire. We wish to thank you for this splendid Twelfth Night celebration.”

Bowing first to Charles and then to Anne, Louis replied, “It was my great pleasure, Sire.” He hesitated, then added, his tone light, “If I have offended, Madame la Reine, it was not my intention.”

Charles began, “How could—"

All evening Anne had been biting back her rage at the many insults he had offered to both her and Charles. She found his apology dismissive.

“Perhaps you did not intend to offend, Duke Louis, but you have. My son died one month ago.” She half-turned, gestured to the courtiers crowding the dance floor, bumping into one another, laughing uproariously and shouting to make themselves heard. “Do you think this . . . this hilarity, for want of a better word, is appropriate? I do not.”

Charles and Cousin Catherine looked horrified. Anne’s voice shook. “You rejoice, Cousin Louis. That is what I see. My precious son is dead, and you rejoice. . . for now you are dauphin.” Once started she could not stop the words that exploded from her like steam from a plugged kettle. “Not content with that, you cannot wait, but rush to step into my husband’s shoes. You have offended me.” With that, she hurried from the hall.

* * *

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THE NEXT MORNING, CHARLES came to Anne’s room wearing a thunderous expression. It got darker when he saw that every picture faced the wall, every ornament had been removed, every window was draped in black, and all the furniture covered in black cloth. So few candles lit the room it resembled a cave.

Charles gestured to her ladies to leave. They fled.

“I have spoken to my confessor. He requires me to forgive your uncharitable words to our brother because of your grief. I shall, but we must understand each other.” He strode to the nearest window and tore down the black hangings. When Anne moaned, he scowled at her again.

“I am ordering your chamberlain to remove all this black drapery. I will tolerate it no more. I understand that you grieve, but your duty is to recover your spirits, not to allow yourself to wallow.”

Anne had rarely heard him so curt. She felt aggrieved. She had been defending his honour as king. Was he so blind that he recognized nothing of Louis’s presumption the previous evening? “Did you not see that he was taunting us—flaunting his role as next king of France? Why do you blame me?”

“Your anger does not move me, Anne, nor your ridiculous accusations. Last night you came close to causing an irreparable rupture between me and my dauphin. Do you know how harmful that could be? Whatever you fear, Louis has been loyal to me, and he is a great warrior and war leader. While we have no heir, we cannot afford to alienate him.”

He strode across the room to loom over her and tightened his hands into fists. “If I were not a chivalrous man, I would shake you until your teeth shook. I spent hours trying to placate him, but he is still offended. He left this morning with my sister and his entourage. This quarrel you started will be all over Europe in no time at all.”

He strode to the door. “Anne, you are not the only one who is mourning. I, too, grieve. Cousin Louise has lost her husband. It is time you thought of your duty to France.”

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1 Galette de roi—a large, circular cake made of puff pastry with its crisp, golden top and soft frangipane centre, each crowned with a golden paper crown.] One special galette de roi was set aside because it alone contained the miniature porcelain king and queen that would identify the rulers for the evening.

2 Fleur de lys—the fleur-de-lys, translated from French as ‘lily flower’ is a stylized design of either an iris or a lily that is now used purely decoratively as well as symbolically, or it may be "at one and the same time political, dynastic, artistic, emblematic and symbolic", especially in heraldry. It is particularly associated with the ancient regime French monarchy.

3 Wassail—spiced ale or mulled wine drunk during celebrations for Twelfth Night and Christmas Eve.