do you think?” he asked.
François stood, his hands on his hips, facing his three senior advisors, all of whom were still seated at the long council table. Montmorency looked down at a stack of papers which he was shuffling. He was visibly perplexed by the delicate situation that had been left for them to decide. Philippe Chabot shifted in his seat and propped his chin in his palm. He tried to avoid the King’s gaze. François loomed at the head of the table and surveyed their blank faces.
“It is an unusual suggestion,” Duprat finally said, his heavy face worked into a frown. The King gripped the back of his own large chair and leaned forward. The air was filled with tension. It had been a long day in a dark, damp hall and they were all weary. “You do know what he was really suggesting beneath that polite exterior of extended vagaries, do you not?” asked the King.
Duprat and Montmorency exchanged a glance as they watched the King’s anger build.
“He suggests that We plead Our good brother’s case before the Pope!” He slammed the large tapestried chair into the parquet floor to punctuate his claim. “
Mon Dieu!
That is what he wants for the promise of his support against the Emperor!”
“The Ambassador requests only another hearing of King Henry’s case, Your Majesty. He believes your support could have great influence in Rome,” Chabot cautiously defended.
“He requests an annulment, Admiral!” the King raged, “and he wants France to support it so that he can marry that whore of his, Anne Boleyn! How can he even ask such a thing as annulment when the Queen already has a daughter by him?” Chabot lowered his head. “Gentlemen, my friends. . .we are a Catholic nation. Henry VIII requests that all the world turn their heads while he commits a mortal sin, and he wants our support in doing so; can you not see that?”
“Well. . .I suppose by a stretch of one’s imagination, it could be seen, as the English Ambassador paints it, as a case of incest, which King Henry is trying to put right by divorce. After all, Your Majesty, he did marry his brother’s wife.”
“His brother’s widow,” Chabot corrected.
“Monty,
mon vieux,
what say you of this?” the King asked as he sat back down among his aides.
“I say it is preferable to the marriage of your son to the Pope’s niece. . .Your Majesty.”
François ran his jeweled fingers through his thick chestnut hair and then sat down. In this world alliances were everything. England or Italy. Spain or even Turkey. He closed his eyes. “Perhaps We should leave no stone unturned in this expedition of Ours. Very well. We shall put the matter over to further consideration. We shall have an answer to give to both King Henry and to the Pope by the time We return to Blois.”
A NNE D’ H EILLY’S APARTMENTS were lit with the bronze glow from brightly burning wall sconces and the reflection of the flames from the large carved fireplace. The air was filled with the gentle scent of rosewater and dried hibiscus leaves that were set about the rooms in large silver urns.
In the far corner warming his hands before the fire, was François de Guise, the Cardinal’s young nephew and the King’s newest page. He was chatting in low tones with one of Anne d’Heilly’s attendants, a striking raven-haired girl names Caroline d’Estillac.
On the other side of the room, Admiral Chabot leaned against a rich paneled wall beside Jacques de Saint-André, the son of the tutor to the absent Prince Henri. Even though the Admiral looked like he was listening to Saint-André, he could not take his eyes from Anne. He watched her flit about the room checking the wine and the silver trays filled with tiny meat pastries. He also saw when she landed on the lap of Christian de Nançay, Captain of the King’s Guard.
Philippe’s narrow eyes narrowed still further as he watched, with kindling jealousy, Anne whisper seductively in the young man’s ear.
François stood, his hands on his hips, facing his three senior advisors, all of whom were still seated at the long council table. Montmorency looked down at a stack of papers which he was shuffling. He was visibly perplexed by the delicate situation that had been left for them to decide. Philippe Chabot shifted in his seat and propped his chin in his palm. He tried to avoid the King’s gaze. François loomed at the head of the table and surveyed their blank faces.
“It is an unusual suggestion,” Duprat finally said, his heavy face worked into a frown. The King gripped the back of his own large chair and leaned forward. The air was filled with tension. It had been a long day in a dark, damp hall and they were all weary. “You do know what he was really suggesting beneath that polite exterior of extended vagaries, do you not?” asked the King.
Duprat and Montmorency exchanged a glance as they watched the King’s anger build.
“He suggests that We plead Our good brother’s case before the Pope!” He slammed the large tapestried chair into the parquet floor to punctuate his claim. “
Mon Dieu!
That is what he wants for the promise of his support against the Emperor!”
“The Ambassador requests only another hearing of King Henry’s case, Your Majesty. He believes your support could have great influence in Rome,” Chabot cautiously defended.
“He requests an annulment, Admiral!” the King raged, “and he wants France to support it so that he can marry that whore of his, Anne Boleyn! How can he even ask such a thing as annulment when the Queen already has a daughter by him?” Chabot lowered his head. “Gentlemen, my friends. . .we are a Catholic nation. Henry VIII requests that all the world turn their heads while he commits a mortal sin, and he wants our support in doing so; can you not see that?”
“Well. . .I suppose by a stretch of one’s imagination, it could be seen, as the English Ambassador paints it, as a case of incest, which King Henry is trying to put right by divorce. After all, Your Majesty, he did marry his brother’s wife.”
“His brother’s widow,” Chabot corrected.
“Monty,
mon vieux,
what say you of this?” the King asked as he sat back down among his aides.
“I say it is preferable to the marriage of your son to the Pope’s niece. . .Your Majesty.”
François ran his jeweled fingers through his thick chestnut hair and then sat down. In this world alliances were everything. England or Italy. Spain or even Turkey. He closed his eyes. “Perhaps We should leave no stone unturned in this expedition of Ours. Very well. We shall put the matter over to further consideration. We shall have an answer to give to both King Henry and to the Pope by the time We return to Blois.”
A NNE D’ H EILLY’S APARTMENTS were lit with the bronze glow from brightly burning wall sconces and the reflection of the flames from the large carved fireplace. The air was filled with the gentle scent of rosewater and dried hibiscus leaves that were set about the rooms in large silver urns.
In the far corner warming his hands before the fire, was François de Guise, the Cardinal’s young nephew and the King’s newest page. He was chatting in low tones with one of Anne d’Heilly’s attendants, a striking raven-haired girl names Caroline d’Estillac.
On the other side of the room, Admiral Chabot leaned against a rich paneled wall beside Jacques de Saint-André, the son of the tutor to the absent Prince Henri. Even though the Admiral looked like he was listening to Saint-André, he could not take his eyes from Anne. He watched her flit about the room checking the wine and the silver trays filled with tiny meat pastries. He also saw when she landed on the lap of Christian de Nançay, Captain of the King’s Guard.
Philippe’s narrow eyes narrowed still further as he watched, with kindling jealousy, Anne whisper seductively in the young man’s ear.
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