She said, smiling at him: ‘My dearest, you are sad today?’

He signed to them to sit one on either side of him, and leaning towards Marguerite, took her hand and lifted it to his lips. All his movements were graceful and full of charm. ‘Sad? No!’ he said. ‘But thinking of this Italian marriage.’

‘I like it not,’ said Anne. ‘What is this family? Who are these Medici tradesmen to marry with the reigning house of France?’

‘My love,’ said the King, ‘you echo the words of my councillors. Repetition, alas! can be tedious, even from your sweet lips.’ He signed to the musicians.

‘Play! Play!’ he commanded, for he did not wish too much of this conversation to be overheard.

‘The Pope is a rogue, Sire,’ persisted Anne. ‘And if truth be tedium, then tedium must be endured.’

‘A rogue!’ cried Marguerite. ‘He is worse than a rogue; he is a fool.’

‘My dear ladies, I would tell you of the advice I have had from the boy’s god-sire. He thinks that it is a sorry matter when the son of a royal house should mate with the daughter of tradesmen. He adds, with Tudor ingenuousness, that there would have to be some great profit for a King to consider such a marriage; but he feels that if the profit were great enough, then God would bless the match.’

They laughed. ‘Had you not mentioned that was the opinion of young Henry’s god-sire,’ said Marguerite, ‘I should have known those were the sentiments of Henry VIII of England.’

‘The saints preserve him!’ said Francis mockingly. ‘And may he get all his deserts with his charming new wife. I have written to him and told him that is what I wish him.’

‘He will thank you from the bottom of his heart,’ said Marguerite. “Now what are my deserts? he will say: What but riches, power, success and content for such a godly man as I! For if ever a man deserved these things, that man is Henry of England! He will think you had naught else in mind.’

‘I would poor Francis could offer the King of France one-tenth of that devotion which Henry Tudor lays at the feet of the King of England!’ sighed Francis. ‘Mind you well, I love the King of France― none better― but for his faults, where as Henry Tudor loves the King of England for his virtues. True love is blind.’

‘But he is right when he says there should be profit,’ said Anne. ‘Is the profit great enough?’

‘They are rich, these Medici. They will fill our coffers which alas! my Anne, you have helped to deplete. Therefore rejoice with me. Also, there are three very bright jewels which the little Medici will bring us. Genoa, Milan, Naples.’

‘Set in the promises of a Pope!’ said Marguerite.

‘My beloved, speak not with disrespect of the Holy Father.’

‘A Holy Father with an unholy habit of cheating his too trusting children!’

‘Leave Clement to me, my love. And enough of politics. I am disturbed and wish to unburden myself to you two wise women. It is the boy himself. By my faith, had his mother been the most virtuous woman in France, I would say he were no son of mine.’

‘You are perhaps hard on the little Duke, my King,’ said Anne. ‘He is but a boy yet.’

‘He is fourteen years old. When I was his age―’

‘One does not compare a candle with the sun, my beloved,’ said Marguerite.

‘My love, should not the children of the sun show lustre? I hate sullen, stupid children, and it would seem I have got me in that one the most sullen, the most stupid I clapped eyes on.’

‘It is because he is the son of your dazzling self, Sire, you look for too much.

Give him a chance, for as your gracious sister says, he is young yet.’

‘You women are over-soft with him. Would to God I knew how to put some sparkle of intelligence into that dull head.’

‘Methinks, Francis,’ said Marguerite, ‘that the boy is less stupid when you are not present. What think you, Anne?’

‘I agree. Speak to him of the chase, my love, and one sees in his face your very vivacious self.’

`The chase! He is healthy enough. Would to God the Dauphin were the same.’

‘Don’t blame your boys, Francis. Blame the King of Spain.’

‘Or,’ said Anne lightly, ‘blame yourself.’

His eyes smouldered for a moment as he looked at her, but she met his gaze challengingly. She was provocative, very sure of herself, alluring; and he was still in love with her after nearly ten years. She took liberties, but he liked a woman to take liberties. He was not her god, as he was Marguerite’s. But he laughed, for he could not escape that ability to see himself clearly. She was right. He had been a bad soldier, too reckless: And the result― Pavia! He was to blame, and the fact young Henry and his elder brother the Dauphin had had to take their father’s place in the Spanish prison as hostage for his good faith, was not their fault but his.

‘You take liberties, my dear,’ he said with an attempt at coolness.

‘Alas! my love, I fear ‘tis true,’ she answered pertly. ‘But I love you for your virtues as well as your faults. That is why I tremble not when I speak truth to you.’

Marguerite said quickly: ‘ ‘Twas an evil fate. The King had to return and the Princes to take his place. But let us face the real issue. The boys came back from Spain―’

‘Where young Henry had forgotten his native tongue!’ cried Francis.

‘Would I, a Frenchman, however long exiled from France, come back gibbering a heathen tongue?’

‘It was Spanish he spoke when he returned, Sire,’ said Anne. ‘And spoke it fluently, I understand.’

‘Indeed he spoke it fluently. He looks and thinks and acts like a Spaniard.

More like the son of my enemy than mine own.’

“Tis true he is a sullen boy,’ said Anne. ‘What will the Italian child think of her bridegroom, I wonder.’

‘She will take him most thankfully,’ said Marguerite. ‘Is he not the son of the King of France?’

‘I wonder,’ said Anne mischievously, ‘if she will think the sullen boy worth those three glittering jewels― Genoa, Milan and Naples.’

‘She will,’ said Marguerite. ‘For we do not bargain too hotly when we buy with other people’s money.’

‘Particularly when the bills may never be paid!’

‘Enough!’ said Francis with a hint of asperity. ‘Clement is a slippery rogue, but I can hold him to his promises.’

‘How will the child arrive?’ asked Anne.

‘Not without much pomp and many rich gifts as well as the Holy Pope himself. Not only will he bring her, but he will stay for the marriage.’

‘What!’ cried Anne. ‘Does he not trust us to make an honest woman of her?’

‘Doubtless,’ put in Marguerite, ‘he thinks our Henry will rob her of her virginity and send her back.’

‘After filching her jewels and her dowry!’

Francis laughed. ‘He does not know our Henry. He can rob a banquet of its gaiety, but never a maiden of her virginity. Holy Mother! I wish the boy had a bit more fire in him. I could wish he resembled his god-sire across the water, for all that fellow’s pomp and perfidy.’

‘I hear,’ said Anne, ‘that his Grace of England was a fine figure of a man.

And still is, though mounting fast to middle age.’

‘We are of an age,’ growled Francis.

‘But,’ mocked Anne, ‘you are a god, my love. Gods do not grow old.’

‘I am thinking of the boy,’ said Marguerite. ‘Now that he is to become a bridegroom something should be done. He should have a friend, a good friend, who will show him how to lose his fear of us all and, most of all, his father; someone explain that he is awkward largely because he lacks confidence in himself, someone to explain that the only way to overcome the effects of those unhappy years in Spain is to banish them from his thoughts instead of brooding on them.’

‘As usual you are right, my darling,’ said Francis. ‘A friend― a dashing young man of charm and beauty, a gay young man with many fair friends.’

‘Dearest, it was not exactly what I had in mind. There is no man at court who would have that subtle touch necessary. Spain is branded on the boy’s brain― how deeply, none of us know; but I fear very deeply. It needs a gently hand to erase such evil memories. He must recover his dignity through a subtle, gentle influence.’

‘A woman, in very fact!’ said Anne.

‘A clever woman,’ said Marguerite. ‘Not a young and flighty creature of his own age. A woman― wise, beautiful, and above all, sympathetic.’

‘Yourself!’ said Francis.

Marguerite shook her head. ‘Gladly would I perform this miracle―’

‘Miracle it would have to be!’ put in Francis grimly. ‘Transform that oaf, ingrained with Spanish solemnity, into a gay courtier of France! Yes― a miracle!’

‘I could not do it,’ said Marguerite. ‘He would not allow it for I have witnessed his humiliations. I have been present, Francis, when you have upbraided him. I have seen the sullen red blood in his face and the angry glitter in his eyes; I have seen that tight little mouth of his trying to say words which would equal your own in brilliance. He does not realize, poor boy, that wit comes from the brain before the lips. No! He would never respond to my treatment. I can but make the plan; some other must carry it out.’

‘Then Anne here―’

‘My well-loved lord, your demands upon me are so great that I could serve none other; and my zeal in serving you is so intense that I should have nothing but languid indifference for the affairs of others.’

They laughed, and Marguerite said quickly: ‘Leave it to me. I will find the woman.’

Francis put an arm about each of them. ‘My darlings,’ he said, and kissed first Marguerite, then Anne, ‘what should I do without you? That son of mine is like a hair in my shirt― a continual irritation― passing and recurring. The Virgin bless you both. Now let us dance. Let us be gay. Musicians! Give us some of your best.’