I may not update for a few weeks. I like to have something of a backlog of chapters to keep me ahead, and I'm running out, so I need to do some writing before I update again. But I couldn't not show you the birth of Mary and Francis's eldest child first...
St Germain-en-Laye, March 1516
“Her Majesty has given birth to a healthy daughter.” Thomas de Foix bows slightly as he pronounces the happy news to the new father.
Francis is praying by the altar rail, but even from the door of the chapel, Thomas can see his face light up as he hastily crosses himself and jumps to his feet.
“Mary? The child? They are well, you are sure?”
“So the midwives and Madame de Alencon tell me, Sire,” Thomas assures his King, careful to keep a smile on his face as he speaks. Everyone has been hoping for a boy. A boy to keep France safe; a boy to marry his aunt-cousin, Renee and secure Brittany for the Valois Crown. Encouraging though the birth of a healthy
fille de France is, especially given the tragic record staining the French royal nursery in recent decades, the new-born Princess is not the child everyone has been praying for. Nor is she the one the young King has been constantly assured is bound to arrive, the one he has been boasting about every time the Queen has been taken ill and had to retire early from one festivity or another.
And Francis is mercurial, his temperament a legacy of a childhood of overindulgence. He has never been denied anything he’s truly wanted before. It’s hard to know how he will react to not having a Dauphin at the first time of trying, especially after everyone has spent the past six months assuring him that he will.
All of this flashes through Thomas’s head as he watches his monarch bound towards him, before he catches up with what Francis is saying.
“Sound the bells! Sound the bells and have Te Deums sung throughout the land. I want every man, woman and child in France to know that my English Rose has broken the curse on the nursery before the week is out!”
So saying, Francis is gone before Thomas has even nodded agreement, leaping towards Mary’s rooms with the energy only a new father can muster.
*** *** ***
The baby is clean and swaddled by the time he arrives, snuffling contentedly in Mary’s arms as she looks towards the door, beaming at him tiredly.
Marguerite stands at the head of the bed, looking down at the child in Mary’s arms, adoring pride clear as day on her face. At the sound of Francis’s tread, she raises her head, catching his gaze with a brilliant smile.
“Congratulations, brother. She’s beautiful. Your colouring, but Mary’s eyes and nose, you’ll be pleased to know.”
Francis chuckles, as he knows he is supposed to, though frustration wells in him for a moment. How dare Marguerite steal Mary’s thunder? Oh, he has no doubt that his sister will be a devoted and doting aunt, and Mary does consider her a sister, but all the same. Mary is his wife. It should have been for her to tell him of their daughter’s beauty, of her looks.
But then Mary reaches up to cover Marguerite’s hand with her own where the older woman has hold of her shoulder, soft gratitude in her gaze, and the moment passes. Francis seats himself on the edge of the bed and holds out his arms so that Mary can place their daughter – their daughter! – in his hold.
“What shall we call her?” he breathes, scarcely daring to raise his voice above a whisper. In some strange way, this moment feels sacred. He is loath to profane it by speaking too loudly.
“I thought Marguerite.” This time, it is Mary who speaks, and when he looks up at her, tearing his gaze from the baby’s downy head, she raises one shoulder slightly, though she winces as she does it.
“I’d prefer Elisabeth for my mother. You doubtless thought she’d be Louise for yours. But we both have a sister named Margaret. What could be fairer, then, than to name our eldest daughter for both our sisters?”
Francis laughs and nods wonderingly.
“Even fresh from the throes of childbirth, you know how to wheedle me, Mary,” he teases, leaning over to kiss her on the brow, “Marguerite of France she shall be.”
“Marie,” his wife murmurs. Francis blinks in confusion. Haven’t they just agreed that their daughter shall be Marguerite?
Sensing his bewilderment, Mary drags herself back from the brink of exhaustion and reaches out to put a hand on his arm where it is curved around little Marguerite.
“I was talking it over with Marguerite while I was in confinement. Our little girl seals my place as a French Queen rather than an English Princess. I should probably start using the French form of my name.”
“Marie, not Mary? Are you sure?”
Francis can’t help but ask. Despite how happy they are together, Mary has always been adamant that she won’t give up the use of her English name, at least not in informal situations. This is such a sea-change in her thinking that he can’t help but wonder whether it’s not just the motherly emotions speaking, whether she’s going to go back on her word as soon as she’s slept and eaten.
But when Mary meets his gaze, there is no guile in her eyes at all.
“Marie, not Mary,” she confirms softly, and tilts her chin so that he only has to lean forward the tiniest bit to kiss her. Silence stretches between them for several long moments. Their hearts are so full that they cannot find the words.
“Weh…weh…”
With a baby’s unerring instinct to know when they are no longer the centre of attention, little Marguerite breaks the moment. She squirms and fusses, but before Francis can do more than register her cries, the wet nurse is already there, swooping the little Princess into her arms and bearing her off to feed. At the same time, the midwife descends on Mary, plumping her pillows and clucking her tongue about too much excitement all at once.
A little startled at the sudden peremptory movements all around him, Francis knows when he is not wanted.
Rising, he kisses Mary – Marie! – one last time and disappears to tell his mother the good news.