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As Duchess Louise’s maids prepared her for the day, she pondered the best thing to do. First, she and King François must meet the Marqués de Gattinara, Regent Marguerite’s ambassador for the Duke of Burgundy. The Duke should have attended François’s coronation since he was her son’s vassal for parts of Burgundy, which made him a peer of France. It was a studied insult. He was already so rich in lands and power that he probably did not wish to humble himself before someone he perceived as only an equal — and possibly an inferior. Was there any advantage in insisting his ambassador kneel?
This morning she felt exalted. She did. Taller. Stronger. More beautiful. As if she gave off emanations like those of her son’s. She was a duchess now. People must address her simply as Madame. If she had felt so elevated after the ceremony yesterday, how much greater must have been François’s elation at his coronation. When the Abbot touched him with the mystical oil that consecrated him as king, she had heard a choir of angels sing. She tried to imagine how François had felt.
Lady Blanche, her favorite lady-in-waiting, arrived with Louise’s best French hood, the one embroidered with dozens of pearls. After Lady Blanche fastened it, Louise invited her to join her in breaking her fast.
“The Marqués de Gattinara’s entourage arrived last night after dark. We heard the bustle from our dormitory,” Lady Blanche said as they ate. “The servants who made up our fires this morning said he brought over two hundred in his retinue. The abbey kitchens have been working all night to feed the influx. There is much grumbling.”
She loved to gossip, did her Blanche. It was one of her attributes. “We trust that our Grand Steward will manage it with his usual aplomb.” Louise would not permit such mundane considerations to bother her today. She and François wanted to negotiate an alliance with the Regent Marguerite. The alliance would protect her César’s north-east as he advanced on Milan. Never lose sight of the goal, she reminded herself. So, there was no benefit to insisting upon the king’s right to deference at this moment. She would say so to François before they met the Marqués.
The Archbishop, Abbot of the Abbaye St. Corneille, led the mass in the vast gothic abbey church with its ancient stained-glass windows. Then he led François to the abbatial chair in the wood-paneled Chapter House where they were holding this rendezvous with the ambassadors.
The Marqués de Gattinara and the nobles of his retinue bowed as they approached the French. François braced, like a hunting dog with its hackles rising.
“Our first duty,” said the Marqués, his French strong with a Savoyard accent, “is to present humble apologies on the part of our lord, Duke Charles, for his unavoidable absence at your blessed consecration so recently held in Reims. As my first duty here, I offer vassalage for his fief as is your due.” He fell to his knees before the king and placed his hands between the king’s as he swore the required oath. Her son relaxed.
Clever of the duke to have his man swear. Honor was satisfied on both sides without the duke having to humble himself to François. Louise wondered whose idea it had been and suspected Gattinara. Her respect grew.
Gattinara suggested the three of them walk in the abbatial cloister gardens, under the winter sun. The interior court felt mild. Water splashed in the fountain and the glint of the sunlight on the carp in the basin charmed them as they pursued their conversation sitting upon the basin’s edge. The background spray muffled their words. Louise and Marguerite, who were first cousins, had corresponded since their childhood when both had been wards of Mme la Grande. Yet this was the first time she heard that the Regent was eager to embrace a French alliance on the Duke’s behalf. She wondered at it and probed the Marqués, but discovered nothing.
The Marqués’s next words startled her even more. “As a sign of indissoluble friendship and confederation, the Regent hopes you will accept Duke Charles’s offer of his hand in marriage to the Princess Renée.” Gattinara managed a courtly bow to King François even though he was seated. “As sister to your wife, Sire, and daughter of the late King Louis, it would do him great honor and make a solemn bond between us.” Ambassador de Gattinara’s expression was slightly anxious, as if asking the greatest favor France could bestow.
How fortunate both she and her son were adept at hiding their thoughts. It was much better that the Duke should propose the match.
François answered without missing a beat. “Our alliance with Flanders and Burgundy is equally important, for we are facing a delicate situation in the south.”
The Marqués’s expression became troubled.
François hurried on. “We value our sisters above all others, and this proposed marriage bond delights us. We agree in principle to betroth our sister Princess Renée to Duke Charles.”
Gattinara did not reply immediately. “And this situation in the south?”
“The Duke of Sforza illegally occupies my wife’s Duchy of Milan — to which I have a claim in my own right.” For a moment, the king almost pouted. Louise guessed he was considering a rodomontade about his claims. She elbowed him. He continued: “As her husband, I am duty-bound to reclaim it, and I intend to do so within the year.”
Gattinara frowned.
François was quick to say, “We do not look for financial or military support; simply the commitment that Duke Charles will not support young Sforza in any manner throughout any of his territories.”
“Ah, I see. There is the problem of the Holy See, however. Duke Charles supports Holy Mother Church wholeheartedly. He will do nothing that counters her interests.”
The ambassador’s growing reluctance dismayed Louise. She broke in. “My dear Marqués, the rift between France and our Holy Father ended with the late king. And perhaps as a Savoyard yourself, you have learned that my half-sister will soon marry Pope Leo’s brother?” His countenance cleared.
They agreed on the general principles of their alliance, although the details had still to be worked out. Louise kept to herself the news that her Savoyard brothers still bitterly opposed the papal match, considering it a misalliance with a parvenu. She was pleased with herself. They had taken another step towards Milan for François. And she had prepared her next move towards ridding herself of the baronne.
* * *
HEAVILY VEILED, DRESSED entirely in black, and wrapped in a black woolen cape, Duchess Claude rode through the narrow Parisian streets accompanied by a similarly attired Mme Jeanne. It was mid-morning. Their horses slipped into the courtyard of the Paris home of Sieur Jacques de Beaune, now Inspector-General of Finances. They were expected. Grooms rushed to assist them to dismount.
The chamberlain hurried them up the steep stairs, through the elaborate entrance, into a private anteroom and closed the door behind them. Mme de Beaune dropped into a court curtsey, profoundly gratified to receive them.
Claude was gracious but urgent. “Mme Jeanne will be pleased to wait with you. I shall meet with Sieur Jacques at once.”
Brought instantly to his presence, Claude was too nervous to glance at her surroundings. She threw back her veil and allowed him to help her to a seat.
Before she had a chance to speak, he said, “Please forgive my temerity in begging your presence here. I did so only because this meeting must be undiscovered. If we met at court or in another public place, I could not be assured that it would not be reported to Mme Louise.” He paused. “It may still be.”
Queen Claude blanched. “Is it so secret, then?”
“I believe so, Mme la Reine. The knowledge came to me in strictest confidence and I am deeply torn in conscience in sharing it. It is my deepest hope that it is already known to you. But my family has long served the Montfort de Bretagne I owe my loyalty to your late mother, an allegiance greater than to the royal service.” Fear gripped Claude. She squeezed her hands tighter and tighter to hide her agitation. “Please tell me.”
“A betrothal has been agreed between Princess Renée and Duke Charles of Burgundy.”
Why had she not known? How was it that she had not heard even a hint of gossip? Sieur Jacques offered her a cup of watered wine. When she put the goblet on the table beside her, it rattled on the wooden tabletop. She needed two hands to steady it. “Please tell me the details.”
Sieur Jacques was a blunt man and went straight to the point. “The tentative agreement was signed in Compiègne on February 4th, between King François and their ambassador, the Marqués de Gattinara. In return for a mutual alliance of peace and non-aggression, and assistance in case of attack by a third party, the Duke of Burgundy will betroth Princess Renée. The princess will stay in France until she reaches the age of twelve and be given a gouvernante fluent in Spanish and Flemish. She must learn both these languages.”
“Does this mean Mme Michelle will not stay with her?” Claude’s voice quavered.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
Claude moaned softly.
Sieur Jacques looked uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he went on, “at twelve, the princess will travel to the duke’s location for the formal marriage ceremony after a proxy marriage in France.”
Tears trickled down Claude’s cheeks.
“She will be dowered with the province of Berry and 100,000 gold écus. She will not receive any part of Brittany.”
At this, color flamed in Claude’s face and the tears dried on her cheeks. “This is the king’s doing?” She was both dazed and furious. She thought she knew her husband. How could he be so cruel to her sister — and so greedy? Except... Renée’s inheritance was not within his power to bestow. “No. Maman Louise!”
Her voice crossed that of Sieur Jacques, who said, “I believe the king’s mother, was deeply involved in the negotiations.”
Claude had never felt so outraged. “From whom did you learn this?”
Sieur Jacque looked uncomfortable. She wondered for a moment if he would answer. Then he said, “Chancellor Antoine Duprat, who took part in the negotiations. I trust this will remain between us?”
“Everything that has passed in this room will remain between us. As my presence here will remain between us, your wife and Mme Jeanne. If it does not—” She stood. “Do you know who the spies are among my household?”
He shook his head. “I will do my best to discover.”
* * *
“WHAT A MUDDLE!” DUCHESS Louise said. She climbed into the white-and-gold coach beside Queen Claude. Her words failed to hide her pride in all she and François had accomplished. “What a perfect, cloudless day. The chill will keep the odors at bay. Grâce à Dieu, the sun is shining on my glorious César for his Grande Entrée. I have dreamed of this day for years! And it will be as splendid as I had imagined.” Today the city would celebrate the most fabulous, the most magnificent, the most brilliant Grande Entrée Paris had ever witnessed. King François had promised himself this, and she had made it so. What a team they were. She smiled at her mousy, crippled daughter-in-law. Fortunate girl to have married such a shining prince and to be able to present France with his children.
She peered around at the dozens of litters, horses, brightly colored garments, and crowds of excited spectators. Their litter was the most dazzling of all, as was proper. How delightful to be at the center of everything, here in the vast plaza at the Basilica of Saint Denis. It swarmed with robed and uniformed men — from cardinals and archbishops to city counselors and guards; from the highest peers to 4000 beggars — everyone who was anyone, and those who were not. Slowly the mêlée sorted itself into a vast, splendid parade in which every corporate body in the city was taking part.
Tapestries, banners, and silken streamers hung from the balconies of houses, hostels, and taprooms. At each street-corner another church paraded its saint. Each guild marched, exhibiting its patron’s statue. Louise glimpsed the university scholars strutting in their colorful robes as they turned corners along the route, and aldermen swaggering their batons to hint at their power.
In their litter they passed their time in talk for, although there was much to see, they inched past the endless crowds. The constant waving required of them was tiring. There was a trick to it, one must rest one’s arm against a solid base, hardly moving one’s hand, and never moving the wrist.
Queen Claude asked Louise about François’s coronation and her investiture. Louise could not stop boasting. The coronation was the blessing of God upon her son, the culmination of her life’s work. As was this outpouring of the people’s love. Did Queen Claude not see this as a sign that France was ready for change, for renewal, for youth? Just as England and Castile had young rulers, so France was calling for youth.
Almost as if she did not want to hear Louise’s opinions, Queen Claude interrupted her. “Look at that set piece! Is not that Phoebus rising from the sea? With actual water? Stop the litter so we can watch it longer! It is so clever.”
“It is one of my ideas,” Louise crowed.
Queen Claude used the pause to ask her about their meeting with the Flemish ambassadors.
Louise — to discover whether Claude had learned about her sister’s betrothal and her plan to replace the baronne — asked Claude what she had heard. Claude was vague as always, and instead drifted off to another topic. “I heard Duke Charles did not attend the coronation as he should have. I was curious whether my husband was going to insist upon his rights and reprimand him, as Papa did.”
Louise chuckled. “It worked out well. Neither side lost face. We met his embassy in Compiègne where Ambassador de Gattinara made full vassalage for the fiefdom. So, we informed them of my half-sister’s wedding to the Pope’s brother next week and invited their representatives to attend. Perhaps they knew already — although I doubt it. Everyone went away pleased, and it will ease the way for my son’s war against Milan.” That seemed to satisfy Queen Claude, and Louise breathed more easily.
The procession enchanted Louise. The king’s Scots Guards, on their huge destriers, protected their litter fore and aft. Their very presence hinted at the damage they could inflict. Among these pressing crowds, who cheered incessantly for their gracious Queen Claude, daughter of their good King Louis, the jingling caparisons of the Scots Guards and the hot horsy smells were comforting. Surprising how popular Queen Claude was with the common riffraff.
Behind them Louise heard, “Three cheers for the king. Hoorah!! King François!” It rolled on like endless waves thundering on a rocky shore. She twisted to admire her son in his glory. Alone, huge, seated on his great white horse, more like a figure from myth than a living person — so grand and handsome. It had all been worth it, she thought, as she listened to the outpouring.
Crowds swarmed behind the procession as it made its way to Notre Dame. It helped that after the king passed, almoners on low carts pulled by sturdy horses and surrounded by armed guards, tossed numberless thousands of deniers — chosen because they were coins of the smallest denomination — so there was plenty for all. The almoners tossed carefully, high and deep into the crowd. Any scrambling occurred at the back and no one got hurt. It was a careful balance, since the armed guards monitoring the route were ruthless in ensuring order, as Louise had ordered beforehand.
* * *
IN HER SUITE AT THE Hôtel des Tournelles, Queen Claude cradled her growing belly, feeling isolated as she reflected on her conversation with her mother-in-law.
First, Louise had insulted her father, prattling on about how it was the time for young men. Did it not occur to her that perhaps Claude might not feel as delighted since it was her father who had died to make way for François? Or did Louise believe that her pleasure in becoming queen would outweigh her grief at losing her beloved Papa? Well, Maman Louise’s mother had died young and her father had abandoned her to grow up with no one who loved her or whom she could trust above all others. So perhaps she could not understand.
Claude spent hours praying in her oratory, gazing at the beautiful Virgin on the wall as she held her mother’s rosary. She must accept Renée’s betrothal, for it was the fate of royal girls, but her sensitive soul balked over the plan to replace Mme Michelle. She cried, imagining how she would have experienced the loss of Mme Jeanne. It would be worse for Renée, for she was more reserved. It would shatter her little sister. The more Claude brooded, the greater her alarm about how Renée would cope with losing Mme Michelle. In the past year, her sister had lost Maman and Papa. How could Maman Louise be so cruel as to separate Renée from her sister and Mme Michelle too?
If she were not such a coward, she would prevent it. After all, Maman Louise had promised Maman that she would not separate Renée from her gouvernante. Claude prayed to the Virgin to thwart Louise’s plan. She also asked for help to forgive Louise. But she found she could not.
After a week, Claude could bear her bewilderment no longer. She made an opportunity for her mother-in-law to inform her about Renée’s betrothal and the new gouvernante. Inviting Louise to play chess in her presence chamber, while her ladies played cards, strummed lutes, and stitched embroidery, Claude painted an idyllic future of Renée, Michelle, the new dauphin and his gouvernante at Blois together just as her mother had wished while she, François and Louise went on royal progresses. Maman Louise did not blink. She nodded, smiled, and added suggestions for the baby’s gouvernante. It was clear her mother-in-law had no intention of revealing their plans for Renée’s betrothal or new gouvernante. She must think Claude’s opinion about Renée’s betrothal was unimportant.
As she pondered the situation, she realized she could not allow it to happen. Much as opposing her mother-in-law caused butterflies in her belly, her Maman had wanted Mme Michelle to care for Renée. She had bequeathed Renée half of her wealth and property. Claude could not abandon her sister just because she was afraid. It would do no good to speak to her husband. He had already agreed with his mother and, Claude admitted sorrowfully, he was under his mother’s thumb. At night when he came to her bed, he talked on and on about how magnificently Louise was managing negotiations to make his dream of reconquering Milan a reality. He had signed the betrothal, too, yet he did not breathe a word to her about it. That hurt.
She was growing to know him. She could predict the way the situation would unfold. It had happened often enough already. He would make her extravagant promises. “Of course, no one will dismiss the baronne. Whatever gave you that idea? Maman, you are not planning anything like that? No, who would suggest such a thing? It is your imagination.”
Then they would find someone at court Maman Louise disliked, blame her suspicions on them, and dismiss them. She would feel guilty for causing some unfortunate courtier to lose their position and income. And, at some later time, Mme Michelle would still be dismissed. Better to say nothing to François.
Claude found herself becoming increasingly lonely and desperate. Who could she trust with this secret?