As though she had foreseen their approach, the queen turned to the door as Louise du Savoy and Marguerite entered in a rush. Marguerite wore a flame-colored velvet gown edged and lined everywhere with either golden satin or whitest ermine with black flecks in the fur, whereas the more subdued Louise’s heavier body was swathed in richest burgundies weighted with gold thread, jeweled girdle, and heavy pearls. Each woman took Claude’s hand solicitously. Mary and the other ladies stepped back to the wall, for the queen never liked to be without several attendants. The royal ladies clustered together before the hearth. Though the queen sat down again and tried to hold herself erect, her back was like a bent bow, but the other two reminded Mary of taut strings ready to send out a brace of sharp arrows.
“My poor daughter Claude,” began Louise du Savoy in her guttural voice, “how does this future prince you carry?”
“He stirs about and turns me blue along my belly, Mother,” the queen answered her mother-in-law, and Mary marvelled at her meekness with these two.
In both Marguerite and the queen mother, Mary could see the long-nosed, dark-eyed Francois, in each the coiled spring of wound power beneath the surface.
“And how does my husband lately?” the queen was asking. “He is much burdened by his rightful inheritance of the cloak of Holy Roman Emperor?”
“Oui, Oui, greatly burdened,” Marguerite responded in her quick sing-song French. “But if anyone can help to sway those wretched Germans who hold the important votes, it is the king’s envoy Bonnivet. The Pope is already ours, Madam, but that she-wolf Margaret of Austria hates our house. I would strangle her for her meddling, if I could get my hands on her!”
Mary’s head snapped up at the mention of her first royal guardian, the kindly Archduchess Margaret. It puzzled her that the dear old woman could hate Francois. She must remember to ask father someday if he would have time to explain.
“The money—the money is another problem, Madam,” Marguerite continued, her head bobbing vivaciously to punctuate her words. “Millions of francs and still the bankers quibble. Quibble with the King of France!”
Claude’s voice came pale and listless after Marguerite’s. “I am grateful that my dear lord’s family can sustain him in these court matters. I am often from the realm of his influence.”
“That is as it should be, dear daughter,” Louise du Savoy responded. “Your support for your lord is made manifest here, in the loving care of his children. This is as it should be,” she repeated slowly.
“I do prefer it to other courtly duties, for what need is there of that when du Roi has you and his Marguerite?”
Louise du Savoy nodded silently as though that closed the matter, but Marguerite began again. “Francois is much unsettled lately, since you asked, sister. The English stance worries him and, you may be pleased to know, he has had a falling out with his ‘lady’ the haughty Francoise du Foix. It is long overdue that he sees that woman’s true colors.”
“Marguerite, please, I hardly think our dear Claude wishes to hear court gossip in her condition...”
“You detest that woman too, mother, and always have,” Marguerite answered, tossing her dark tresses. “The snow-goddess has carried on once too often with Bonnivet, and she shall reap her own harvest now.” She laughed quickly, sharply. “Maybe it is partly the cause of Bonnivet’s appointment as legate in Germany far from the lady’s wiles.”
“Hush, mignonne,” scolded the older woman. “Your preoccupation with Guillaume du Bonnivet much questions your own interest in the man.” She frowned and shook her head.
Yes, remembered Mary suddenly, it is often rumored the Lady Marguerite has long favored Bonnivet though she is wed to Alencon.
“Anyway,” put in the unquenchable Marguerite, glancing down her nose at her annoyed mother, “our roi du soleil is bored and unsettled, and it is hardly weather to tilt at jousts or chase the deer or boar afield.”
Claude listened impassively, and though Mary could not see her face clearly, she pictured her white stare and blurry gaze gone awry.
“We must be going, dear Claude,” Louise du Savoy said in the awkward silence. “I would like to stop by the royal nursery wing on our way.”
“Of course,” said Claude properly, rising slowly with them. “All was well yesterday when I saw them, and the dauphin can nearly speak in sentences. They told me his first words were ‘du roi.’ It is appropriate, is it not?”
“Indeed, my daughter,” her mother-in-law said over her velvet shoulder as they approached the door.
Marguerite’s falcon eyes caught Mary standing nearest the door. “Boullaine’s daughter?” she asked, half to herself. “But not in gold and pure white today.” She laughed and was gone with her awesome mother trailing in her sweet-scented wake.
Mary fervently hoped the queen would not think the remark meant she had done anything wrong, for she had remarked kindly to Mary how lovely she and her dear husband had looked together at the feast. But Claude had sunk down in her vast cushions again and seemed to doze almost immediately. Mary sat at her feet for a soundless time, then rose to leave. Claude’s voice floated to her again.
“Do not let Madam du Alencon tease, nor the queen mother frighten you, petite Boullaine. But have a care not to cross them either.”
Mary turned and her silken skirts rustled loudly in the quiet room. “Merci, Your Grace.”
But Queen Claude leaned as though she drowsed heavily, her bulky form outlined before the low-burning hearth.