Mary, Queen of France: The Story of the Youngest Sister of Henry VIII

“I heard the horses,” she cried. “Someone has arrived, and I wondered who.”

“That must have been what the children heard,” answered Louise, and together they passed out of the chateau.

There was the messenger, but Louise’s eyes went first to the sturdy figure of Francois who was standing staring up at the man on horseback. She noted with pleasure that Marguerite was beside him, never for one moment forgetting her solemn duty; her restraining hand was on the boy’s shoulder, lest the bold little darling become over-rash.

Francois turned, saw his mother and Jeanne, and immediately ran to Louise to throw his arms about her knees. She lifted him in her arms.

“So my beloved heard the arrival of the messenger?”

“Beloved heard it,” he answered. “Look! See his livery. It is different from ours.”

Then she realized that the messenger wore the royal livery, and she signed to one of the grooms, who had hurried up, to take the man’s horse.

“Pray come into the chateau,” she said. “You bring me news from Court?”

“Yes, my lady.”

He would have told her there and then, but she was never one to forget her dignity.

“Come,” she said, though her heart was beating fast for it was a convention that messengers matched their expressions to the news they carried, and this one’s was very grave.

In the great hall she called to one of her servants to bring wine for the messenger and he, unable to contain himself, said: “Madame, the King is dead.”

“The King … dead!”

Instinctively she held Francois more firmly in her arms; the little boy did not wriggle even though the extra pressure made him uncomfortable. He always accepted the adoration of those about him with a meek resignation, as though he was aware that everything they did was for his good.

Even Louise could not now suppress her curiosity.

“Madame, his Liege had gone to watch a game of tennis with the Queen, and on his way through the chateau to the court he struck his head on a stone archway. He took little notice of this at the time and continued on his way with the Queen; but as they sat watching the game he was seized with a sudden fit. A pallet was brought for him to lie on, for it was feared to be dangerous to move him on account of his strange illness; and there he lay throughout the afternoon. He died just before midnight.”

“Died … and he so young!” murmured Louise. “God help the Queen. How is she taking this?”

“She is stricken with grief, Madame.”

Certainly she was! thought Louise. No husband! No son to follow him! It was understandable that that ambitious woman was stricken with grief.

The man stood back a few paces; then he proclaimed:

“Charles the VIII of France is dead. Long Live King Louis XII!”

“Long live the King!” said Louise; and all those about her echoed her words, so that the hall of the chateau was filled with the cry.

“Long live the King!” shouted Francois with the rest.

And Louise was thinking: My little love—only one now between you and the throne of France. Louis d’Orleans, thirty-six years old, yet no longer in the prime of life; he has lived his life without great care for the health of his body, and now it is said he must pay the price. Louis XII of France, married to Jeanne, the cripple. What hope have they of getting themselves a dauphin!

Very clearly could she see the crown on the head of her Francois.

Louis XII of France, who had been known as Louis d’Orleans until his cousin had walked into an embrasure at Amboise and died because of it, received the news of his accession with elation. He had always believed that he could give the French nation what it most needed, and naturally, since he was so near the throne, he had often visualized this possibility. Yet he had scarcely hoped that the crown would be his for who would have believed that Charles, who was so much his junior, would have died so suddenly.

What great good fortune that the little Dauphin had died not so long ago, for a Regency was never a good thing, and how much more satisfactory it was when there was a sober, serious-minded King ready to mount the throne.

As soon as he heard the news he summoned two of his greatest friends to his side in order to discuss the future with them. One of these was Georges d’Amboise, Archbishop of Rouen; the other was Marechal de Gie, a celebrated soldier.

They came to him and knelt, but he shrugged aside their homage.

“Come, my friends,” he said, “let us dispense with the ceremony and concern ourselves with more important issues.”

He bade them be seated. They could see that this was the moment for which he had longed all his life; it was a pity it had come when he was no longer in good health. He sat painfully, being troubled by the gout; he looked much older than his thirty-six years, and that was not to be wondered at considering the life he had led. Being a rebel from his youth he had gone so far as to incite the country to civil war; but he had not come through his adventures unscathed and had suffered imprisonment. But already there was a change in him. The rebel had become the King and there was a serenity in his face—that of a man who has at last achieved what he has longed for since the days of his youth. He was wise; he would never desert old friends, nor forget those who had suffered with him; it was for this reason that these two whom he had summoned to his presence should be the chief advisers to King Louis XII, since they had proved themselves good friends to Louis d’Orleans.

He had never spared himself in the days when he was strong and healthy but had reveled in all sports and had