I am a catch
Ambois, 07 December 1523
‘Womens doings for the most part are voide of al reason; because the maner of them is alwayes to cleave to the woorst, and like sheepe to do that they see the first to do, bee it well or yll: beside that they be so spiteful emong themselves.’
The door flung open and Jeane burst in. Madame put down the manuscript she was reading. Antoinette raised her head and looked at the newcomer with these, so typical of her, pursed lips and stern expression.
‘The King, your son supports your claim, Madame,’ Jeane breathed out.
‘Lord bless His Majesty’s filial love,’ Louise de Savoy said quietly.
‘And his down-to-earth calculation,’ interjected Antoinette. ‘He surely knows that if He backs you up, the Bourbon inheritance sooner or later will become royal, that is His property.’
‘Don’t be so cynical Antoinette. My son knows well this is best for the country.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure it is. I doubt the lords of the realm will applaud this turn of events. It’s a gesture signalling the King aims at undermining their power.’
‘And how about my aunt, Ann of France?’ Madame turned to Jeane.
‘She passed away a week or so ago. She was so grief-stricken after Suzanne’s death. Her daughter was all her hope. She hadn’t given any clear instructions before her demise and admittedly her own inheritance is a knotty issue.’
‘And Charles?’
‘He will be a problem. Especially, if you do insist on your son’s confiscating the Bourbon estates on your behalf even before the lawsuit has been settled. I mean he hasn’t left his Dutch lands; the ones he’d been given for his bravery in war against the Empire. He’s barricaded himself there and he’s probing the nobles’ feelings, looking for supporters.’
‘And we’re not talking about any minor noble here, Madame,’ added Antoinette. ‘He’s the Constable of France, the title he was rewarded for his services to the Crown. And the Governor of the Low Lands, the freshly-conquered area, the area most disloyal to the Crown.’
‘There’s no doubt I am in the right here. On basis of the proximity of blood Suzanne’s inheritance is mine. There’s no use waiting for any legal adjudication. And isn’t His Majesty’s will the ultimate will in this kingdom?’
‘Does it mean we’re moving to Moulins, Madame?’ asked Jeane.
‘Yes. Shortly.’
'...it's mine. Mine.'
Moulins, 02 April 1524
‘This delite of yours proceadeth not wholy of the beawty but of the affection. And if you wil tell the troth, the first time you beheld that woman, ye felt not the thousandth part of the delite which ye did afterward, though her beauty were the very same. Therfore ye may conceive how affection beareth a greater stroke in your delite than beauty.’
‘I deny not that, but as delite ariseth of affection so doth affection arise of beauty, therfore a man may say that beauty is cause of delite.’
Madame put down the manuscript she was reading and got out of the coach. Spring came early this year and trees and grass were so green and fresh in the midday sun that it almost hurt her eyes. She sent Jeane and Antoinette inside to tell the servants to unpack their luggage and ready a meal for them. She herself decided to take a stroll, to walk about the palace grounds. ‘So this is my family home,’ she thought looking at the whitewashed walls, elegant shapes of the building, carefully-tended lawns and park around the edifice. ‘And it’s the first time I’ve been here. Aunt Anne invited me many a times to her estates but never here. It’s a bit like Ambois, not that grand maybe, but it’s mine. Mine.’
Jeane dashed out, stopped in the doorframe for a while looking around. She spotted Louise, waved and shouted, ‘Madame, Madame! There’s a portrait gallery here. Come! Come and see! There’s a painting of your family.’
‘My family?’ asked Madame.
‘Oh, the one your father commissioned years ago and your half-brother Carlo sold to Anne of France when he had cash-flow problems financing his Catalan wars. You’ve always said you’d like to see it. It’s here!’
They went inside and Jeane led Louise to a long narrow corridor joining the wings of the palace. Antoinette was already there looking at the painting. None of them spoke. Louise took in the picture. Her parents sitting at a table, chessboard on it; there was a little girl standing next to her father. ‘That’s me,’ she realised ‘And there’s a cradle, one of my brothers in it. Is it Girolamo, who died in infancy, or ever sickly Filiberto? When was the painting made?’ She scoured it for any detail which might give her a clue and then she spotted it. Her mother was holding a piece of amber in her hand. Louise’s hand involuntarily went up to her neck, she felt for the pendant on her breast. There in a silver casing was lying, hidden, the very same piece of amber.
‘There are more portraits here,’ Antoinette broke the silence. They slowly walked along the passage. Louise gazed at familiar faces. Her uncle Peter with Anne of France, his wife. ‘Oh how she ordered him about!’ Anne of France again, depicted with Suzanne, both kneeling, hands pressed, the figure of Saint Anne towering above them. ‘How illusive this protection turned out!’ There was her other uncle, cardinal. There were other faces and silhouettes, ones she only vaguely recognised.
‘Here’s a looker!’ shouted Jeane who had moved on. The other two walked closer then stopped to admire the portrait. It was of a handsome man in his thirties, brown-bearded with dark bold eyes, a full sensual mouth, a good figure, broad shoulders and slim strong legs. He was wearing armour and looked like a man ready to set out to conquer either an empire, or a woman. ‘Do you know him, Madame?’ asked Jeane.
‘I’ve never actually seen him, but I think that’s…’
‘Yes, that’s Charles, the Constable,’ concluded Antoinette. ‘I’ve seen him a couple of times.’
Her confidantes looked from the portrait back to Madame’s face. Antoinette was first to grasp the change in Louise’s features; the widening of the eyes, the parting of the lips.
‘He’s very… pleasing,’ whispered Madame.
‘Look at these tender hands,’ Jeane pointed out.
‘Yes,’ Madame breathed.
‘And such slender waist,’ Jeane added jokingly. ‘If only late Charles, your husband…’ she didn’t finish.
‘Yes,’ Louise said absent-mindedly, apparently no offence taken.
‘Huh! His nose is somewhat too large,’ commented Antoinette, now seriously afraid of what her protectoress might be thinking about.
‘Hmm… I don’t think so. It’s just fine. Just fine,’ answered Madame, a tone of resolve in her voice. After a pause she added, ‘He’ll marry me. This man will marry me.’
‘But how, my Lady!’ shouted Antoinette.
‘You’re fifteen years senior to him,’ Jeane was both shocked and terrified.
‘Surely, he’ll want to recover and keep his Bourbon inheritance, won’t he?’
‘And you’re the condition? Remember, Madame, he’s just been widowed by a young wife. He’s the Constable of France, probably the most powerful noble in the realm. Why do you think he’d agree? And look he’s a catch. He can easily choose a new wife from the wealthiest and most powerful families of France.’
‘
I am a catch. I am the best party, from – as you’ve put it – the wealthiest and most powerful family of France.’
‘But it was you who took his inheritance, this very house including, away from him. He’s bound to hold a grudge. He’s already started making waves, remember?’ Antoinette didn’t seem convinced. ‘And how are you planning to go about this? Are you going to propose? Such a shame!’ But uttering these words Antoinette, just like dumbstruck Jeane, knew it was too late to talk reason. They could see Madame hunch her shoulders and turn away. They’d known her for too long so as not to recognise the gesture. The gesture of a stubborn woman who had made her choice. No wise words would change her mind.
‘Go now,’ she said and when the two hesitated as if waiting for her to join them, she added turning her head to the portrait, ‘Go, I might look at it again.’
'Will you marry me?'
Moulins, 26 September 1524
‘For sins women are moste unperfect creatures and of litle or no woorthynesse; they were not apt to woorke any virtuous deede of them selves, that they should have a bridle put upon them with shame and feare of infamye, that shoulde (in maner) by force bring them into some good condicion.’
‘He refused.’
Madame put down the manuscript she was reading.
‘What?’
‘He declined your proposal,’ repeated Jeane with a trembling voice.
‘How come?’
‘What a cheeky, cocky upstart!’ exclaimed Antoinette. ‘But he feels strong enough to do so. You gave him too much time, Madame, I’m afraid,’ she commented.
‘But this is not everything,’ continued Jeane. The other two looked at her, alarm in their eyes. ‘Many nobles rallied round him. Actually most veterans of the war with the Empire are on his side.’
‘My son will deal with them in no time.’
‘And I hear Isabela of Castile, herself childless, is seriously considering his marriage proposal to her younger sister. Her previous husband Alfons, the infamous short-lived King of Aragon, officially declared a traitor, now that Isabela disinherited his children...'
'The Emperor is also trying to contact Charles. The Low Lands will soon be in open rebellion. I hear, there’s even talk of secession.’
‘Can this be stopped?’ asked Madame, her face pale, her voice a barely audible whisper.
‘Your son, the king declared he’ll cut any talk about Spanish or Austrian Netherlands short, cut with his sword.’
‘War?’
‘Fraid so.’
No Spain?
Moulins, 29 December 1524
‘Women are as full of vertues as men be’
‘Nay, a great deale more, and that it is so you may see, virtue is the female, and vice the male.’
The news must have been bad. Madame could read it from Jeane’s face. ‘This woman is incapable of hiding any information or controlling her emotions,’ thought Louise. She stopped reading and put the manuscript aside, placing it carefully in a silver casket.
‘Tell me, Jeane.’
‘Your son, his majesty,’ stuttered Jeane, ‘the battle was lost and, and he… he’s been taken hostage.’
The three women exchanged glances and crossed themselves. Louise could see reproach in her confidantes’ eyes; but she could also see there unwavering loyalty.
‘How are we going to go about it, Madame?’ asked Antoinette.
‘Will you negotiate?’ asked Jeane.
Oh, humiliation!
***
As for the game itself, not that much was going on in Savoy, I mean Sardinia-Piedmont 
for the past two years save pirate problems and the Jewish question. The news from France was very interesting though, and somewhat ‘historical’. Wasn’t at some point Francis I kept hostage by his Constable? Also, you can imagine how startled I was when I saw Castile saying ‘No!’ to the ‘Viva España’ thing. (The French event happened earlier but for the sake of the story I swapped them.)
Old quizzes:
1) The connection between Queen Blanca, lute player Gaston and Justine is they all read and venerated the works of Peter Valdo.
2) The ‘Dear Granny’ letter exchange is copied from ‘Natural English’ upper-inter textbook (there were a bunch of mini-sagas there, the one I, slightly changed, put here – my favourite)
New quiz:
The quotations come from the manuscript Louise of Savoy was reading. What’s the title of this book?
