The Serpent and the Moon: Two Rivals for the Love of a Renaissance King (7 page)

W
HEN once a posthumous dauphin succeeded to the throne, it became the custom in France that the royal widow must remain in quarantine for six weeks following the death of her husband the king. Mary Tudor dressed entirely in white and remained in the Hôtel de Cluny for forty days, her darkened room lit only by candles. As soon as her quarantine was over, François I called on the young queen dowager.
It seems impossible to imagine, but a number of contemporary accounts allege that he proposed marriage to her. Had not his predecessor, Louis XII, put aside the hideous daughter of the previous king and married instead the attractive royal widow? The dashing young François I was clearly very taken with “
La Reine Blanche
,” as Mary was known, and although he would have lost Claude’s dowry of Brittany in a divorce, he pressed his suit.
¹⁸

To his utter astonishment, he was refused. Mary was still deeply in love with the Duke of Suffolk and determined to marry him instead. Under a portrait of the young dowager-queen, François wrote the inscription: “
Plus folle que reine
”—“more madwoman than queen.” Mary had been terrified that either her brother Henry or the new king’s dynastic ambitions would force her into the bed of another old man; but she hardly expected François I to woo her himself. After a barely decent interval, the eighteen-year-old dowager-queen cajoled her lover, Suffolk, into marrying her secretly.

Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, had been sent from England by Henry VIII to recover Mary’s dowry, as well as the crown jewels King Louis had given her on their marriage. (François I did return some of Mary’s dowry but kept the jewels.) A man of Henry VIII’s libido should have realized that sending Suffolk to carry out this mission was utter foolishness. His delicious sister would never be able to resist the man with whom she had been in love for so long. Mary had only agreed to marry the old king of France on condition that she could
marry Suffolk when Louis died; but Henry VIII never felt himself bound by promises. He was furious when he heard of Mary’s clandestine marriage, as she could have been dynastically useful again, perhaps as the wife of Charles of Habsburg. But Mary’s charm won Henry round. He forgave his little sister and arranged a sumptuous wedding celebration in London on her return. Suffolk was thirty-one at the time, twice married, widowed, and had two daughters.
¹⁹

A
T last, the new king of France could make his solemn entry into Paris. There was a traditional formula for such an event, particularly in the capital, and François’
entrée solennelle
was described
as the most dazzling ever seen. Alongside tournaments and executions, parades were the principal source of mass entertainment in the sixteenth century, and a new king’s entry into his capital was an important event.

To begin the
entrée solennelle
, the religious and civil dignitaries met the king on the outskirts of the city and offered him a handsome gift in return for his confirmation of their privileges. Then the procession began: twelve hundred courtiers—princes, dukes, counts, and noblemen—and in their midst, the king’s great warhorse, walking slowly, draped in crimson velvet and carrying on his back the royal seal in a blue velvet coffer sewn with gold
fleur-de-lys
and secured by a large golden lock.

When François I finally rode into public view on February 14, behind endless lines of mounted courtiers and guild representatives, he dazzled as only a twenty-year-old Hercules could. His suit of silver cloth shone in the sunlight, the feathers on his bonnet and on his horse’s head bobbing to the steed’s excited prancing as the king threw coins to his subjects. He was indeed a worthy sight. The new sovereign was followed on this part of the
entrée
by his courtiers, his nobles all mounted and dressed in white and wearing his symbol of the salamander. The people, overwhelmed by the splendor of it all, could not but notice how sharply the youth, the gaiety, the energy of their new king contrasted with the recently deceased, sober and solemn Louis XII. When the amazing procession reached the Cathedral of Nôtre-Dame, François I entered to give thanks to God and Our Lady. This was the end of the
entrée solennelle
.

The second part was called the
entrée joyeuse
: it took place outside the cathedral and resembled a carnival parade. There were sideshows, theatrical mime
routines, street decorations, and the traditional fountains flowing with wine. The anonymous contemporary chronicler of the
Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris
praises the magnificence of François I’s entry, although, surprisingly, there is little printed evidence of theatrical performances. Several of the king’s biographers point out that the Parisians had only recently staged a most elaborate and expensive entry for Queen Mary Tudor and blanched at the expense of another.

Following the coronation, François indulged in his new status, spending his time in pursuit of pleasure, the chase, jousting, and women. The Venetian diplomat Lorenzo Contarini, who spent three years at the French court, described the new king as most generous, giving out pensions and favors. He tells of François’ daily routine at that time: “He rises at eleven o’clock, hears Mass, dines, spends two or three hours with his mother, then goes whoring or hunting, and finally wanders here and there throughout the night, so one can never have an audience with him by day.”

As for his mother, Louise, still beautiful at thirty-seven, she had triumphed at last. Having professed humility throughout her life until this moment, Louise de Savoie happily abandoned that virtue until her death. At last the young king was in a position to reward his mother for her devotion to his cause. He created her duchesse d’Angoulême and Anjou, and included her in every royal activity and decision.

A
FTER the coronation, Diane de Poitiers, as the queen’s maid of honor, retired with her to the château of Blois, on the Loire. As a companion to the young queen her duties were largely honorific, but they gave her an entrance into the court and increased her chances of making a good marriage. Diane’s beauty made her noticed and the king enjoyed chatting with the attractive ladies of the court. Prior to his reign, it was not customary to have ladies at court, which had been a man’s world dedicated to politics and war; François, however, wanted a court dedicated to beauty and pleasure. Queen Claude clearly loved Diane’s quiet sense of duty and disciplined intelligence; she fitted so well into the tone of her court. But, apart from her beauty, Diane
was not considered sufficiently special at this time to warrant the comments of her contemporaries. Her place at court was merely a consequence of the important appointment held by her father.

Not long after the coronation, Diane was summoned by Anne de Beaujeu and informed of her imminent betrothal (Anne had also arranged the marriage of Diane’s parents). At fifteen, Diane knew her time had come to marry, and she had heard whispers that a great match had been planned for her. The husband Anne chose was her Bourbon kinsman, Louis de Brézé, comte de Maulevrier, and Grand Sénéchal
²⁰
of Normandy—the most important province in France. Louis’ many titles included baron de Bec-Crespin and de Mauny, seigneur de Nogent-le-Roi, d’Anet, de Brissa, Brévalta et Montchauvet. His most famous ancestor was Pierre de Brézé, first minister under Charles VII, described by one poet as being “courageous as Hector, wise as Nestor and a better captain than Caesar.”

The new Constable Charles de Bourbon, husband of Suzanne de Beaujeu, showed his friendship for the house of Poitiers by negotiating the marriage settlement. In 1512, Jehan de Poitiers had been appointed to the government of the Dauphiné, and a year later, Grand Sénéchal of Provence—and he knew he owed it all to his liege lord, Charles de Bourbon.

The bridegroom, Louis de Brézé, was extremely rich and powerful, and famous as a courageous huntsman; in the whole kingdom, only Princes of the Blood held posts higher than his. His mother was Charlotte de France, half sister of Louis XI, the illegitimate daughter of Charles VII and his dazzling mistress Agnes Sorel. Louis de Brézé’s father, Jacques, was not best pleased to be forced by King Louis XI (who disliked everything about his late father, including his mistress) to marry his beloved half sister. Even though she had been legitimized, it was a slur on the noble house of Poitiers. Jacques de Brézé and Charlotte loathed one another; but although the marriage was a disaster, they produced five children. Charlotte, who was said—according to witnesses at the subsequent trial—to have been “moved by an inordinate lechery,” was discovered by her husband in bed with his master of
hounds, Pierre Le Vergne. Without hesitation, Jacques de Brézé ran them both through with his sword where they lay—one hundred times, so it was claimed.