“Madame, I weep because my father is doing his best to marry me to a man I cannot love, who will carry me off to Ireland to keep company with the snakes.”
Marguerite regarded her with sympathy. “Alas, it is the fate of women to be disposed of in marriage where men choose. I too was married to a man I could never love, a man whom others sneer at for his illiteracy. They call him oaf, buffoon, and worse. It was all for King Louis’s advantage. And yet my lord is kindly. I have not done so badly after all.”
“But, madame, do you not want more?” Anne burst out, before she remembered that she was speaking to the King’s sister.
Marguerite’s face clouded. “No, I do not,” she said sharply, and Anne was astonished to see tears in her eyes. She remembered hearing talk that the Duchesse was unnaturally close to her brother the King, but had never believed it. Now she wondered.
“Be true to yourself, mademoiselle,” Marguerite said. “You can refuse this marriage.”
“I intend to,” Anne told her. “But I fear my father would just ignore me.”
“Stand your ground, ma chère. Never let any man, even your father, take advantage of you. That’s advice that was given not so long ago by a French princess to her daughter. She even wrote a book about it. You see, women can be strong when they have a will to it. Remember Queen Isabella of Castile? She ruled alongside her husband and rode into battle at the head of her army. Together they drove the Moors from Spain. Isabella’s example proves that women can be as capable as men when they set their minds to it. It’s just that we are not taught to think for ourselves or question our subjection.”
Marguerite’s forthrightness startled Anne out of her self-pity. Here was a woman with a mind like her own. “I am intrigued by your Highness’s opinions,” she told Marguerite. “They remind me of the writings of Christine de Pizan, whose works I read at the court of Burgundy. I had long discussions with the Regent Margaret about the status of women in the world. As a sex, we should be stronger, and make the most of our capabilities.”
“Indeed!” Marguerite replied, her face lighting up in surprise. “Mademoiselle, I am impressed. The Regent is known for her enlightened views. It is refreshing to find one who shares them. Ma chère, you must take courage from Christine de Pizan and persist in your refusal. Marriage is founded on mutual consent, and to be forced…” To Anne’s utter astonishment, the Duchesse burst into tears, sinking to her knees and burying her face in her hands.
“Madame! What is wrong?” Anne cried. “Here I am, complaining about my lot, when you are so unhappy.” She knelt by Marguerite and stayed there until the older woman’s shoulders stopped heaving and her breathing slowed.
“Forgive me,” the Duchesse sniffed. “I should not be burdening you with my troubles—and you have enough of your own. But I shall go mad if I do not talk to someone. Can I trust you?”
“Of course, madame—I swear it on my life.”
Marguerite paused. It was clear that she was struggling to find words. “A friend of the King my brother, and a man I admired and trusted…No, I cannot say it.” The tears were streaming again, and for a while she could not speak.
“Madame?” Anne whispered.
Marguerite turned a ravaged face to her. “He has raped me!” she cried out.
Anne drew in her breath and shivered. The word rape touched her too nearly. Here was more proof, if she needed it, that men could be beasts. What kind of man would presume to take advantage of his sovereign’s own sister, a woman of famed virtue?
“Who is this man?” she asked, outraged.
“I could never tell you—or anyone. I cannot risk being accused of slander.”
“But have you not complained to the King?”
“I doubt he would believe me. He loves me truly, but he would never credit it. You see, when we were young, this man attempted to rape me before. I complained to my brother, but the man denied it vehemently. My brother believed him.” She almost spat the words out. “He is a man, of course, and all men see women as the descendants of Eve, who led Adam into temptation. Of course, I must have led this man on, even unwittingly!” Her tone was tart. “And Fran?ois will think the same if I complain a second time.”
Anne’s anger burned fiercely again. How could any woman ever obtain justice for this most foul of crimes if the King of France not only committed it with impunity, but refused to believe that his own sister had been a victim of it? How dare he hold women so cheaply!
“Madame, in England, I believe, raping the King’s sister is treason, and punishable by death.”
Marguerite stood up. “That is as may be, but it avails me little. In France, the honor of men is paramount—even of men who have no honor! Mademoiselle, speak of this to no one. You did not hear it. I am sorry to have cast my burden on you. And tell your father that you do not consent to the marriage he is planning. Be strong!”
And she was gone, leaving a faint smell of rose water behind her.
—
The next day a page dressed in Marguerite’s livery approached Anne as the Queen’s ladies were watching knights running at the ring, practicing for yet another tournament.
“Madame the Duchesse requests that you attend upon her, mademoiselle,” the page said, and led Anne back to the chateau of Ardres, where Marguerite had her apartments. The Duchesse, wearing a low-necked gown of brown velvet with wide slashed sleeves, and her dark hair in a snood beneath a jaunty bonnet, was waiting for her in a room flooded with sunshine and crowded with ladies. At Anne’s entrance, she laid down her book.
“Mademoiselle Anne!” she cried, stretching out her hands in greeting. Anne regarded her shrewdly, noticing how composed she was. There was no trace of yesterday’s distress. Clearly the matter was to be forgotten.
“Ma chère!” Marguerite smiled, raising Anne from her curtsey. “I have a proposition to put to you. The Queen has agreed that, if you wish, you may leave her household and serve me, for I think we agree very well together.”
For a moment, unable to credit her good fortune, Anne could not reply. She was being offered a release from the stultifying routine and rules of Claude’s household. It would afford her endless opportunities for intellectual stimulation, and a powerful champion should Father try to force her into marriage with James Butler. And she could remain at court, where Marguerite was firmly established. The oaf of a husband had evidently never asserted himself sufficiently to drag her away to his estates.
She took a breath, controlling her delight and excitement. “Madame, I will be honored to serve you,” she said, and curtseyed again.
“Then that is settled. Have your maid prepare your things.”