The Last of the Valois

The first son, upon waking,

Immediately coughed, spraying

Drops of blood along a satin robe.

He began to fret, red face turning

quickly to the palest white.

Not a promising entrance, but it

Saved an Italian mother from exile.

A spindly fellow, skinny neck,

And delicately spotted legs

Filling out the rest of his body.

They gave him a hearty wife with

All the flesh his torso lacked, but

He could not make his tired limbs

Endure the long wedding night.

His mother hovered, melting into

The wall with her black drapery.

Docile to a fault, but with eyes

That lapped up every sad detail.

Poor Francis, the first blight.

First symptom of the spreading,

Malignant tumor of Valois.

 

He attempted, mutely, to survive.

Young, unfulfilled wife slept silently,

Storing her fruit in a hungry womb.

Like her, the mother could not

Force the son to clear all blood

From his lungs or stay inside,

Guarded from the coming rain.

The mother had other sons,

The wife had other domains and

An appointment with the axe.

Poor Francis, jumped outside to

Breathe in the sturdy air but

It took him instead, and lay siege

To his flailing, weak organs.

Farewell, Francis, the  underwhelming.

Enter Charles IX.

 

Before Charles popped out of yoke,

Never to leave absolutely, to his own regret,

There came Elisabeth, the lost, the Spanish.

Sold to a man who had a natural talent

For outliving his wives and sons.

His temperament, though perhaps not unkind,

Too much for the fragile daughter.

She tried, she tried, but only gave out those

Cursed daughters that had so doomed

The queen of England’s mother.

But alas, not so lucky children

As that accidental, heretical heroine.

Elisabeth escaped the massacres, and the

Bloody wedding of her sister,

But not the trauma of those girls,

Or their heavy burden on her body.

Elisabeth gone, unimpressive.

 

The second sister inherited her mother’s

Ungainly looks without her cunning.

Most beloved as a daughter, but

Married off quickly, before her

Heart hardened, and blood spilled out.

Kind Claude, they say,

Dragging her foot from place to place.

She provided those precious boys,

One after the other, girls in between,

But it did not save her from the same

Grisly, unimaginative fate as her sister,

Or later, her sister’s replacement.

Claude, who had less sickness and greed

Than all the damned Valois brothers.

 

Charles, the first spare, headed

Into the throne room, still dreaming

Of his wet nurse’s soft hands.

Charles IX, but with the same

Mother breathing down his neck,

Ready to drain out his fluids.

She signs his name and takes his crown,

Willing it to murder men and soldiers.

He begins to feel weak, secondary.

Violence calls out, arching itself forward

To leak out his mouth, to find its way

To fund a mad dash towards infamy.

An alternate path and new regent,

Would perhaps lead Charles to sanity,

Or at least an exchange of guilt for

Quiet, scornful incompetence.

Instead he raves, he signs, he

Beats his sister to hide fear.

 

Like Francis, death already lurking.

Lungs begin to object to their state

Of breathing. Legs begin to falter.

The mother waits, not unwilling, for

A second spare waits in a foreign land.

She has two more chances, and this

Obstinate, careless king has served his

Turn, and now must move over.

He obeys, with choked words and a

Heady fear for the fate of family.

Dying, dying, coughing, crying,

Giving way to Henri the Cruel.

 

Some called him Henri the favorite,

The loved and amorously pursued.

Mother ignored his bedroom antics,

Handsome men spilling out his closets,

Swept up in his furs and cloaks.

He hid from both sides of his kingdom-

And wavered back and forth from choosing

A side, or a sister, or even a brother.

Not meant for royal dignity, but purely a

Product of royal intrigue.

Plots and schemes took the place of grain,

Of feeding peasants their cake and bread.

 

Henri, who so loved his bed, his clothes,

The endless parade of pageantry.

He calmly waited for the knife’s edge.

Married to the assassin, but wedded to

An underwhelmed princess.

Rumors persist about Henri-but the

Truth slid down his organs, and

Coagulated in his knife wound.

Not last born, but last to rule,

Stunting his sad lineage.

 

The most hated child, Marguerite,

Came after this narcissist.

A princess, who alone in her family

Could breathe deep, could go riding

Without a fear for expiration.

Lovely, romantic, waiting for a prince,

But given only a short, blocky man

With the wrong religion.

Destined to live while her brothers

Choked to death around her.

 

They beat her flesh to form a marriage,

Left her amidst all the happy mistresses,

Who let the king fill their bellies.

Marguerite, in prison, reformed,

Separated from her lovers.

Then welcomed back to court,

With history weighing on her neck.

Last daughter to breathe,

Last daughter to die.

 

The unloved Hercules came last.

Weak and shrill, like his brothers,

But unluckier as the runt.

Enveloped in pox, his face deformed.

Changed his name to avoid irony.

Hercules, now Francois,

Lost in all the betrayals,

The changes in allegiance.

Aligned with his hated sister,

Wanting to conquer in his own right.

But again, denied, like the Valois

He can’t help but be.

And Francois, not a hero,

Dies without glory.

All the Valois gone,

The Bourbon enter to

Mop up the blood and

Continue the long procession

To death and dissolution.