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Queen Marie paused inside the great doors of the Basilica of St. Denis and stood bareheaded in a sunbeam. At the vision of the queen’s sapphire eyes, rosebud lips, and long copper tresses falling to her hips, a murmur passed like a wave through the enormous congregation. The soft sound took Michelle back to another coronation and another queen. Her eyes glazed with tears.
It had been the same season, ten years earlier. Queen Anne had stood there in all her glory, her chestnut hair flowing over her slight shoulders to her waist. She had looked like a goddess in her gown of white brocade and satin embroidered in the ermines of Brittany and the fleurs-de-lys of France. Her beautiful face with its enormous amber eyes, long eyelashes, and perfectly arched eyebrows, had seemed to glow. This had been Anne’s second coronation as Queen of France, and she had carried herself with such grace and dignity that she seemed to float along the carpet.
Today, as it had been for Queen Anne’s coronation, the air was heady with the floral scent of thousands of red roses and white royal lilies. Their sweetness competed with the pungency of musk and myrrh incense, the smoke veiling the interior in mystery. The many perfumes vied with the tang of human bodies. Even the scents reminded Michelle of Anne’s coronation. Roses reminded her of Brittany and how much more valuable Queen Anne’s contribution had been to France than the unstable peace offered by this wisp of an English queen. King Louis did not have many years to live. She doubted that King Henry would further François’s dreams of foreign conquest by extending the alliance.
As choral music filled the air, Michelle clenched her fists. Behind Queen Marie and the Dauphin, Duchess Claude and Princess Renée led the parade down the central aisle of the Basilica. The Princes of the Blood — the Dukes de Longueville, Alençon and Bourbon-Montpensier, and Bourbon’s brothers — followed them. Next came the Princesses of the Blood in their order of rank. So many of the princes and dukes who had followed her queen had fallen in King Louis’s battles in Italy. The young and the brave lost, as her own husband had been lost... and her brother crippled. Michelle’s thoughts slipped to Brittany again. She pictured its tranquil forests and sweet-smelling wildflowers, its seven sacred saints, and its mysterious great stone Calvaries. Why did Queen Anne have to die so young?
Michelle stood stoically, watching the endless ceremony. The Cardinal-Bishop of Limoges — who had married King Louis to Renée’s nemesis in Abbeville — conducted this ceremony, too. When he robed Queen Marie in the regalia, the image of her late queen rose before her and she closed her eyes to control her emotions. She had attired Queen Anne’s cold body, her spirit fled Heavenward, in this very regalia. In her last memory of her beloved lady, Anne’s lifelike effigy was lying in state in this very Basilica. It was she who was wearing that crown, holding that scepter and rod. Only ten months previously. A piercing pain finally entered Michelle’s consciousness. Opening her fists, she saw the red half moon imprint from her fingernails engraved into her palms.
The rest of the coronation passed in a blur. Michelle was relieved when it was over, and she could escape the chilly yet stuffy Basilica and its sad memories. When Michelle, Claude, and Renée stood together in the courtyard, Michelle heaved a great sigh. Taking Princess Renée’s hand, she whispered to Duchess Claude, “Praise be that it is done.”
“It could have waited until Queen Marie gave France an heir,” Claude answered. “That is common practice. Papa did not need to rush this. He erases my maman more each day.”
* * *
FOR CLAUDE, THE QUEEN’S entry into Paris the next day was even more painful than the coronation. She had driven with her maman, waving to the crowds as Lyon and Grenoble feted them with flowers, bunting, ribbons, and endless applause. The cheering crowds of Parisians lining the streets to greet Queen Marie — dressed in her coronation robes, and wearing her small crown, her long copper hair loose again like a bride — as she waved from the open carriage pierced Claude’s heart like the thrust of a stiletto. The guildsmen and merchants of Paris marched in a square formation, carrying a cloth of estate high above their new queen. To add to Claude’s pain, Duke François rode beside Queen Marie, leaning close to hear her and to make her laugh. Following in the next carriage, Claude looked on with jealous eyes.
Riding with Claude were Princess Renée and their gouvernantes, Mme Michelle and Mme Jeanne. Behind them, in the third carriage, sat Countess Louise and Duchess Marguerite.
Countess Louise bent her head towards her daughter and said, “I told Mme Michelle she should not permit Princess Renée to attend the Entrée in this chilly weather for she has been ill and has not fully recovered. Observe how well my advice was heeded.” Accustomed to agreement, she was preparing her litany of the baronne’s many inadequacies.
“I imagine Princess Renée would have made a scene had she been denied.” Duchess Marguerite was no stranger to Princess Renée’s willfulness.
“She should learn to obey. Her gouvernante obviously does not know how to control the child.”
“I doubt that any but her mother or father could control her. Mme Michelle does admirably.”
Countess Louise sniffed. Sometimes Marguerite could be very irritating.
As the procession wended its way, Queen Marie applauded the pageants, music, jesters, acrobats, poets, and stationary floats decked out to celebrate her coronation. As they approached Notre Dame Cathedral, one float stood out from the others. White cloth blanketed its entire surface and sheathed its front and sides like frosting. Hundreds of white fleurs-de-lys lay heaped upon the icy white surface. Sprays of red and white roses wove together through this sweetly scented bed. Their blooms looked as fresh as if they were growing in the lily garden and smelled as sweet. Singers dressed as shepherds and shepherdesses crowded the float. As soon as they saw Queen Marie, they burst into song, pointing to the garden,
What a lovely English rose has been newly planted
In the lily garden of France.
O how this heralds a glorious new era of peace
And love between our two realms.
Not likely, groused Duchess Claude silently, as she listened to the words. As if to punish her for her lack of charity, Queen Marie halted the procession, clapped her hands, and insisted they sing the song again and again. As the procession jolted into motion, she instructed her guards to throw small coins as largesse. The same crowds who had so recently wept for Good Queen Anne now called, “Vive la Reine Marie,” “Vive la Reine Marie.”
Claude put her handkerchief to her lips to hold back her tears. Princess Renée muttered passionately, “I hate her.”
Only Claude heard her over the shouts of the crowd. Putting a hand on her sister's shoulder, she whispered: “You must dissemble your feelings, Renée, as Maman did. Royal persons must show an amiable face.”
When Renée turned and gave her a hurt look, shame flooded Claude’s conscience. She had been blaming the people of Paris for their fickleness since the Entrée began. She leaned her lips close to her sister’s ear and said, “Forgive me for reproving you. I am missing Maman, too.”