Виктория Холт: Madame Serpent

Thinking of Henry and Clement brought his mind back to an irritation which had been disturbing him a good deal of late. There was the boy― the object of his dissatisfaction― as one might expect, sitting moody and alone in a corner.

What an oaf! What a graceless boor! Francis thought about offering a groom-ship of the Chamber and a pension to anyone who could make young Henry laugh out loud.

How did I get me such a one? he asked himself. But I will endure his scowls and boorish ways no longer. He looked up and beckoned to him the two people whom he loved and admired more than any in the court― Anne, his mistress, and Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, his sister and beloved friend of his childhood. What a distinguishing pair! One could look at them and be proud that France had them both. Indeed, what other country could have produced them? They were both beautiful in different ways, Marguerite spirituelle , Anne voluptuous; they were both in possession of that other gift which Francis looked for, in addition to beauty of face and form, in all the women with whom it delighted him to surround himself. They were of an intelligence which, and he was not sure did not excel, his own; with them he could discuss his political cares; they had intelligence with which to advise and wit with which to amuse him. Mistresses, he had in plenty, but Anne remained his love; as for Marguerite had been a passionate devotion between them since he been old enough to talk. Mistresses could come and go but the bond between the brother and sister could only be broken by death.

‘I loved you before you were born,’ Marguerite had said. ‘Husband and child were as nothing compared with the love I have for you.’ She meant that.

She had hated her husband for deserting her brother at Pavia; she had left her home and tempted death in order to go to him in Madrid. Now she sensed his mood more quickly than did Anne, for he and she were like twins― never completely content unless they were near each other, quick to sense a sorrow, ever ready to share a joy.

She said, smiling at him: ‘My dearest, you are sad today?’

He signed to them to sit one on either side of him, and leaning towards Marguerite, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. All his movements were graceful and full of charm. ‘Sad? No!’ he said. ‘But thinking of this Italian marriage.’

‘I like it not,’ said Anne. ‘What is this family? Who are these Medici tradesmen to marry with the reigning house of France?’

‘My love,’ said the King, ‘you echo the words of my councillors. Repetition, alas! can be tedious, even from your sweet lips.’ He signed to the musicians.

‘Play! Play!’ he commanded, for he did not wish too much of this conversation to be overheard.

‘The Pope is a rogue, Sire,’ persisted Anne. ‘And if truth be tedium, then tedium must be endured.’

‘A rogue!’ cried Marguerite. ‘He is worse than a rogue; he is a fool.’

‘My dear ladies, I would tell you of the advice I have had from the boy’s god-sire. He thinks that it is a sorry matter when the son of a royal house should mate with the daughter of tradesmen. He adds, with Tudor ingenuousness, that there would have to be some great profit for a King to consider such a marriage; but he feels that if the profit were great enough, then God would bless the match.’

They laughed. ‘Had you not mentioned that was the opinion of young Henry’s god-sire,’ said Marguerite, ‘I should have known those were the sentiments of Henry VIII of England.’

‘The saints preserve him!’ said Francis mockingly. ‘And may he get all his deserts with his charming new wife. I have written to him and told him that is what I wish him.’

‘He will thank you from the bottom of his heart,’ said Marguerite. “ Now what are my deserts? he will say: What but riches, power, success and content for such a godly man as I! For if ever a man deserved these things, that man is Henry of England! He will think you had naught else in mind.’

‘I would poor Francis could offer the King of France one-tenth of that devotion which Henry Tudor lays at the feet of the King of England!’ sighed Francis. ‘Mind you well, I love the King of France― none better― but for his faults, where as Henry Tudor loves the King of England for his virtues. True love is blind.’

‘But he is right when he says there should be profit,’ said Anne. ‘Is the profit great enough?’

‘They are rich, these Medici. They will fill our coffers which alas! my Anne, you have helped to deplete. Therefore rejoice with me. Also, there are three very bright jewels which the little Medici will bring us. Genoa, Milan, Naples.’

‘Set in the promises of a Pope!’ said Marguerite.

‘My beloved, speak not with disrespect of the Holy Father.’

‘A Holy Father with an unholy habit of cheating his too trusting children!’

‘Leave Clement to me, my love. And enough of politics. I am disturbed and wish to unburden myself to you two wise women. It is the boy himself. By my faith, had his mother been the most virtuous woman in France, I would say he were no son of mine.’

‘You are perhaps hard on the little Duke, my King,’ said Anne. ‘He is but a boy yet.’

‘He is fourteen years old. When I was his age―’

‘One does not compare a candle with the sun, my beloved,’ said Marguerite.

‘My love, should not the children of the sun show lustre? I hate sullen, stupid children, and it would seem I have got me in that one the most sullen, the most stupid I clapped eyes on.’

‘It is because he is the son of your dazzling self, Sire, you look for too much.

Give him a chance, for as your gracious sister says, he is young yet.’

‘You women are over-soft with him. Would to God I knew how to put some sparkle of intelligence into that dull head.’

‘Methinks, Francis,’ said Marguerite, ‘that the boy is less stupid when you are not present. What think you, Anne?’

‘I agree. Speak to him of the chase, my love, and one sees in his face your very vivacious self.’

`The chase! He is healthy enough. Would to God the Dauphin were the same.’

‘Don’t blame your boys, Francis. Blame the King of Spain.’

‘Or,’ said Anne lightly, ‘blame yourself.’

His eyes smouldered for a moment as he looked at her, but she met his gaze challengingly. She was provocative, very sure of herself, alluring; and he was still in love with her after nearly ten years. She took liberties, but he liked a woman to take liberties. He was not her god, as he was Marguerite’s. But he laughed, for he could not escape that ability to see himself clearly. She was right. He had been a bad soldier, too reckless: And the result― Pavia! He was to blame, and the fact young Henry and his elder brother the Dauphin had had to take their father’s place in the Spanish prison as hostage for his good faith, was not their fault but his.

‘You take liberties, my dear,’ he said with an attempt at coolness.

‘Alas! my love, I fear ‘tis true,’ she answered pertly. ‘But I love you for your virtues as well as your faults. That is why I tremble not when I speak truth to you.’

Marguerite said quickly: ‘ ‘Twas an evil fate. The King had to return and the Princes to take his place. But let us face the real issue. The boys came back from Spain―’

‘Where young Henry had forgotten his native tongue!’ cried Francis.

‘Would I, a Frenchman, however long exiled from France, come back gibbering a heathen tongue?’

‘It was Spanish he spoke when he returned, Sire,’ said Anne. ‘And spoke it fluently, I understand.’

‘Indeed he spoke it fluently. He looks and thinks and acts like a Spaniard.