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As Michelle watched the king’s doctor examine the unconscious queen, she guessed Dr. Loysel also recognized the queen was dying from his request to meet her in the queen’s library. She doubted he would want the responsibility of treating her. Ministering to a dying queen could be dangerous. Dr. Loysel — Principal Infirmarian to the King, robed in his gown as Senior Professor at the Sorbonne — his pale blue eyes veined with red and his thin hair slicked to his skull, spoke to her as if he were the Grand Master of a great order speaking to an uninitiated adolescent. “Though her symptoms are contradictory, I diagnose an overabundance of black bile caused by a malfunction of the excretory systems. An overabundance. Yes. She winces when touched between the ribs and hip, an indication of blockage in the renes. A sure indication. Yes. Her cutis is yellowing, indicating that her urinea is not draining as it should. The urinea is not draining. Not as it should. No. Therefore, my dear young lady, I grieve, yes, grieve, I must conclude, yes I infer she is beyond earthly help, yes, that her best hope lies in the hands of our Savior. At most, I recommend purging and bloodletting. You would be capable of carrying out that procedure, hmm, carrying that out?”
Michelle forced herself to adopt a subservient tone, keeping her eyes lowered. “As you say, Dr. Loysel.”
The good doctor rose. “Then we are agreed. You shall manage here, Mme... uh... Madame. I must hasten to the king. His Majesty will be inconsolable when the queen leaves this earth. When she ascends, yes. It causes me much worry, yes, great anxiety, for he is by no means a healthy man. No, by no means. I must prepare for his needs. Must prepare, yes.” He tapped his heels together and bowed in Michelle’s general direction. “Thank you, yes, thank you for your—” And he was gone.
Michelle watched him go, her mouth a determined line. It was one thing to fear that the queen was dying; it was another to hear a professor from the Sorbonne agree. Yet what cruelty to suggest purging or bloodletting when such treatments could not possibly cure her. She needed time to make peace with her end, prepare her last testament and say her last goodbyes. And remedies that reduced her pain.
It was time to insist to the queen that she make her final preparations. Michelle fought back tears as she kneeled by her friend’s bedside and said, “Dear Madame, you can wait no longer to put your affairs in order. It will not be long before you pass from this world into a better one.”
The queen lay as still as a wax effigy. When she spoke, her voice was no louder than a breath on the wind. “So... it is come.” Her hands clung to her mother’s rosary with its tiny crystal reliquary that contained a precious thorn from Christ’s crown. “Thank you, dear friend. I am so tired, Michelle... and I long for the pain to end. Yet I cannot rest.”
She turned her head toward Michelle, eyes pleading. “Louis is not well. I pray for him, for his health... Still, you have cared for our daughter, Renée, from the moment of her birth... You are her second mother. Will you promise.... Will you stay with Renée? Until she grows to womanhood?”
“I swear it.” Michelle kissed her fingers and reached out to touch the queen’s face. Losing the queen was going to be a hard, a terrible loss. She had been pushing away the thought of parting from Princess Renée too, each time it forced itself into her mind. Renée was closer to her than her own children.
Tears slid down Queen Anne’s face. “I did not fear you would refuse. Yet I am so grateful.”
“It would break my heart to leave her, Mme la Reine.” Michelle pressed a fist against her breast. “But will the king agree?”
“I shall inform Louis it is my wish. Once I am with God, I cannot be certain he will do as I desire, but he loves me. I will have him swear on my rosary.” Her voice grew feebler.
“Thank you, dear Madame. I shall educate her as you would wish.”
Pain flitted across the queen’s face.
“You need something for the pain. It is time to—”
“I have one more subject we must discuss... alone.”
“Only if you drink this. And we must not talk long.” Michelle added a few drops of pain mixture to watered wine. Then she raised Queen Anne until she could drink from the goblet. The queen took several sips.
“Finish it, Your Grace,” Michelle insisted.
Queen Anne grimaced, but she swallowed several times. “Done.”
Michelle lay her back against the pillows. Her lips were bluish. “I worry about my girls. About Louis. He is not well.” She paused to recover her breath. “If he dies while the girls are underage... Renée is still so young... who will protect their inheritance? And he is so determined to make Brittany French that I cannot trust even him with Brittany.” The last came out almost as a wail.
She stopped, panting. “Although I leave a great estate, I cannot name those I trust as guardians, for it would lead to endless litigation — perhaps even war.” When Michelle protested, the queen frowned. “We both know it is true. When Louis was Duke d’Orléans, he went to war against his sister-in-law for the regency of her brother.”
Michelle nodded reluctantly. It was true.
“So, I must appoint the person whose claim is least likely to be disputed.”
The baronne nodded again.
“Therefore, I shall name Countess Louise d’Angoulême as their guardian.”
Michelle reeled. The countess and Queen Anne loathed each other. Until today, Queen Anne had used every twist and turn to avoid leaving even the duchy of Brittany within her grasp. And now she was proposing to leave the entire inheritance of both her daughters under her guardianship. The queen and she had despised Countess Louise as a manipulator who charmed men — and King Louis in particular — into giving her whatever she wanted. After her husband died, she had hoodwinked King Louis into believing she would collapse if he separated her from her only son. She had even persuaded the parsimonious king to settle her and her household at Amboise at his expense.
She knew the queen had seen her recoil, but Queen Anne continued to stare at the devices on the canopy over her head. “Yes, she has always been my enemy. But Mme Louise will be Claude’s mother-in-law. Duke François is her favorite child and he will be king when Louis dies.” Her whispery voice hardened. “Therefore, the countess should have no incentive to steal from Claude’s estate... since it would be stealing from her own son and grandchildren. By making this disposition, my fortune should remain intact for my descendants, since they will also be hers. And as Duchess de Bretagne in her own right, Claude can protect her inheritance once she marries. I shall make it her duty to guard her sister’s inheritance, even though I cannot name her guardian since she is not yet of age. Claude and Louis must promise a half-share of my estates for Renée’s dowry. I will make Louis swear to guarantee Renée’s rights....” She gave a long sigh. When she spoke again, she sounded exhausted. “Do I reason well, Michelle? It is the best I can do....” Her voice drifted away and Michelle could hear a rattle in the queen’s chest.
Michelle’s eyes filled with tears. She did not argue, although she thought there could be no worse choice than Mme Louise who loathed Michelle almost as much as Queen Anne. Would she keep Michelle as the princess’s gouvernante? She could not imagine how she and Mme Louise would ever agree on Mme Renée’s upbringing.
Queen Anne’s voice was hardly more than a whisper. “Send for Mme Claude. I must speak to her. Then the king.”
She was failing rapidly. Michelle crossed herself. “Mme la Reine, now that the Lord has made His will known to you, you must rest! You promised you would, rather than wasting what little strength you have.” As her fears increased, Michelle’s voice sharpened.
The queen’s lips were gray. “I will. Just fetch them: Claude. Louis. The notary. Countess Louise. I promise I will rest after they leave.” Her whispery voice dwindled, and she closed her eyes.
* * *
PRINCESS CLAUDE ARRIVED after Matins1 determined to keep a vigil while her mother slept. She resisted all Mme Michelle’s efforts to dissuade her from her night watch. After the third attempt, the baronne gave up. “If you stay, shall I retire? I have not slept in a bed for three nights. Send a page if there is a change, or if you wish me for any cause.” Her shoulders sagged from exhaustion.
Claude kneeled on the prie-dieu near her mother’s bed. Alone in the enclosed area surrounding her Maman, lit only by the braziers heating it, she prayed desperately for her mother’s recovery. The sacred music flowing from her mother’s chapel choir, chanting at the far end of the queen’s dim, chilly bed chamber, added to her grief.
After a time, her father entered. He hugged her when she rose and kissed her forehead. He wiped at the tears that rolled down his cheeks. “I see you, too, wish to be close to her,” he said. “I will not interrupt your prayers.”
He went to the far side of the bed. She could hear him pull an armchair forward. After she threw some sandalwood incense onto the braziers she returned to her prayers. Quiet settled back into the room. The choir continued its dirge. The brazier crackled from time to time, sending out whiffs of acrid smoke, scented now with aromatic spice. Occasionally Claude’s mother shifted and moaned on her high bed.
Claude repeated her rosary endlessly. Out of the darkness, she heard her mother’s voice. “Dear husband. It warms my heart to find you beside me.” Sounds of kissing followed. Claude thought it was her father who wept. Her mother spoke again. Claude had to strain to hear. “I have news to please you, husband. I promised our daughter, Claude, to support her marriage to Duke François. I thought to tell you sooner, but...”
“Was she pleased?” Papa’s voice sounded husky. “What changed your decision, dearest love?”
Had he forgotten she was here? Claude wondered.
Then she heard her mother sigh. “Claude spoke of the... discomfort she would feel... were she to leave France. She feared being treated... unkindly since she could not learn another language quickly.” The queen’s voice weakened. “She feared being mocked because she’s crippled and... plain.”
Listening to her mother, Claude cringed. She sounded like a sniveling child, unable to face the least hardship. What were a few harsh words compared to all the grief her mother had borne? Both her parents had died before she was twelve. Her younger sister had died a year later. Her allies had abandoned her; she had lost a bitter war and had been forced to marry the victor. Every son she bore died a few days or months after birth. And yet Maman soldiered on, never giving up her fight to maintain Brittany’s independence. How would she ever find the courage to save Brittany’s independence if she did not even have the mettle to live anywhere but France?
The silence grew. Claude heard her father’s loud sniffles as he forced himself to stop weeping. Claude was choking on her own swallowed sobs, burying her face in the skirt of her harsh brocade gown and almost missed his next words.
“Thank you, ma Bretonne, for your approval. It is a gift.” The thickness in his voice blurred his words. “I love you.”
“Yes, Louis, I know...” Maman coughed and coughed and coughed.
Give her some watered wine, Papa. It is on the table beside you, Claude shouted at him in her head. She did not dare rise now and show herself an eavesdropper.
When her mother finally caught her breath, her voice rasped. “When we married, I had been living in France for six years and was accustomed to the country. Besides, I was never gentle, like Claude.... I fear she will not make a good duchess for Brittany.”
Claude froze. She sank to the floor, as winded as if her mother had just punched her in the stomach. It was one thing to fear that her mother did not trust her with Brittany; it was another to hear it from her lips. Curling into a ball, she wrapped her arms around herself, unable to pay attention to the voices that rumbled on. Then she heard her name.
“Claude will not mind. Nor oppose me.” Her mother’s voice trailed off. The bed creaked as she moved.
“Maybe she would not. But I would, and so would Duke François. And Mme Louise. Brittany must remain part of Claude’s dowry. You cannot change that now.”
Her mother fell into another coughing fit. Papa shushed and murmured until she had calmed. He said, “Let us not quarrel, my love. We must not waste our precious time together.”
“Promise me! Mme Michelle will continue as Renée’s gouvernante... Promise that Renée will receive her portion from my estate.”
Her father’s voice sounded as soothing as syrup. “Of course, my love. It shall all be as you desire. No more, my love. Rest.”
“Just one more thing.” Her mother’s voice was scarcely more than a hoarse whisper. “Promise me you will marry again.... Quickly. You must have a son.”
The noise of a chair scraping on the floor warned Claude to stay as still as a hunted rabbit. Then her father, sounding — what — angry? No, distraught. “You are making it too hard, my love. I cannot think of such a thing. Do not push me beyond endurance. Please.” His voice broke.
But Maman was relentless as only she could be. “Yes, Louis. You must marry and have a son for France. Promise me, Louis.” Claude heard her sob but did not believe her tears. “I failed you. But you must not fail.”
Claude clamped her hands over her mouth. Maman would do anything, anything, to deny François the throne... and to keep Brittany independent. It was not love for Louis and his lineage. Only Brittany’s independence. She felt hot with rage, and still she did not dare reveal her presence.
* * *
AFTER VESPERS, MICHELLE walked from the chapel to the queen’s chambers. Wood smoke from the kitchens scented the crisp evening air. As darkness fell, the faint glow on the cloudless western horizon signaled the close of what had been an unusual, sunny day.
King Louis hunched beside the sleeping queen his chin prickly with gray stubble. He did not move, even when Michelle touched the queen’s chilly forehead and lifted her limp arm to feel for the beat of her life force. It was weak and irregular. For several minutes she observed the faint rise and fall of her breath and the bluish pallor of her skin.
Sinking into a curtsey, Michelle waited for the king to acknowledge her. He rubbed his reddened eyes. “Yes, Baronne?”
“Sire, it is time to call the queen’s confessor. She must make her last confession.”
She did not think he heard, or perhaps he did not wish to believe her. “Your Grace, it is time. Shall you send for Queen Anne’s confessor, or shall I?” When he still stared at her blankly, she reached out to shake his arm. “The queen’s confessor, Majesty?”
At her touch he roused, and tears spilled from his red-rimmed eyes. He pushed himself up, using the arms of the chair like an old man, and gazed down on his wife’s still face. He looked every one of his fifty-one hard years.
Clamping his rosary in one hand, he kissed Queen Anne’s withered cheek. His love for his wife was palpable. “Send for me once her confessor has left. You know how precious she is to me.” He still stared at the immobile body on the bed. “Lord, forgive me, but why? Why are you taking her from me?” His voice breaking, he shuffled away. At the screens he turned and said, “I will send for her confessor.”
Her confessor slid into the queen’s room carrying the sacramental vessels. Silent on slippered feet, he glided to the foot of her bed and kneeled. Although he was a man of God, Michelle became rigid when she saw him. He was a harbinger, his rites the pathway to lead her mistress from them. Although she should be grateful that her lady would no longer suffer, that she would join those who loved her, and rise to glory, Michelle did not want to lose her. How would they go on without her?
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1 Matins — nighttime, traditionally 12:00 a.m.