Well, Wikipedia told me Alojzia was Louisa in Hungarian, but I'm happy to change that. And I will mention those other claims in the next chapter.
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
Well, not really, as you can see. Alois merged with Louis only in French, in Hungarian that did not happen. Good to know, wish you good luck in continuing your TL.
So, I've been thinking about this, and, while I'm happy to be corrected, I'm assuming Ferdinand was accepted as Louis's heir in Hungary at least partly because he married Anne of Bohemia and Hungary? The Congress of Vienna Wikipedia doesn't make it clear.
But if that is the case, why couldn't Luzja's husband inherit Hungary in her name if Karoly doesn't manage a son of his own?
Huh, wouldn’t her position as a regent make things more shakey for her and thus less Abel to resist Charles? Afterall regents don’t always have the same job security as a true monarch.
Well yes and no. Technically she's less beholden to him as Regent of Hungary rather than of Burgundy, as she's not ruling lands that are theoretically his. Besides, she could always throw "The Turk threat" in his face whenever he tries to push her around.
Marriage to Anna helped to smoothen Ferdinand's reign, but the basis of his reign was 1515 Congress of Vienna. He could, theoretically, but both Ferdinand and Polish-Lithuanian Jagiellons will oppose that, unless you go for cousin marriage. Boleyn husband will certainly be ignored and seen as lowborn.
It's not a Boleyn husband, rather a Talbot-Tudor one, but I take your point.
Thank you.It's not a Boleyn husband, rather a Talbot-Tudor one, but I take your point.
I thought that George in question is George Boleyn, not George Tudor. George Tudor won't be seen as lowborn, but he'd have trouble because of distance while claiming.
ATTENTION ALL:
Daisy and Peggy are short for Margaret. How, you may ask?
It seems like there should be a long explanation for Daisy, but it's as simple as this: The French word for "daisy" is "marguerite."
As for Peggy? Well, Margaret was shorted to nicknames like Meg or Meggy, and the rhyming nickname trend turned Meggy into Peggy.
You have your answer; that's how Peggy comes from Margaret.
This has been your daily nerd announcement from me: your favourite nerd.
The rhyming thing is also how we get Bob out of Rob. Though I can’t think of any other examples of the top of my head.
I think Dick came from Richard kinda the same way: Richard -> Rickon -> Dickon -> Dick
And Guigui, Guigou, Guy, Guitou, Gee, Guitsou, Trouduc, Giome, Yoyome, Gill and Guiveline from the French form of William - Guillaume.
Section LXV - September 1527
You can all thank @VVD0D95 for this week's chapter. I had no idea how to write this scene until I read his chapter where Mary and Elizabeth Stewart talk about how things are changing in Albion Rising. So, thanks for the inspiration, V!
“That’s it, darling. Do a little twirl for me, so we can see how it hangs when you move,” Marie calls, beaming at her eldest daughter. Giggling, Margot spins around obediently, the pale blue damask rustling against the rush matting she stands on. In an unusual flash of the dramatics, the dark-haired girl even sweeps an exaggerated curtsy in Mademoiselle Durand’s direction when the seamstress claps in appreciation.
“Magnifique, votre Altesse!”
Marie laughs with her daughter, but her merriment is tinged with melancholy. Margot is eleven now, and more a woman with every passing day. Her dark curls ripple down her back, brushing her tiny waist, which is only further highlighted by the corset she wears.
The corset itself is a sign of Margot’s growing maturity. Her wedding dress is the first dress that’s been designed for her with a full corset rather than a simple set of stays, and as she wears it, Marie can see the Queen her daughter will become, even as Margot’s eyes shine with childish delight.
“King Joao is a very lucky man, my darling,” she whispers, smoothing flyaway strands back from Margot’s brow, “You’re going to look beautiful on your wedding day.”
“I hope so, Maman.” Margot says softly, before her pert nose wrinkles, “But how do you know the dress will still fit me then? I’m not leaving until April, and Lady Parr says I’m growing like a weed at the moment.”
Taken aback by her daughter’s earnestness, Marie almost laughs, before she shakes her head and taps Margot’s nose with a finger.
“Don’t be silly! Mademoiselle Durand would never make a mistake like that! She’ll put panels into the bodice and the waist, won’t you, Mademoiselle?”
Marie turns to the portly seamstress, who nods, “Bien sur! I’m horrified that you should ever think anything less of me, Madame! I’d never do Mademoiselle Margot the disservice of forgetting how she’s growing!”
“Exactly! So, you see, darling, it’ll be fine. The seamstresses in Lisbon will have lots of extra fabric to work with. They’ll make the final adjustments before you wear it to the church door. Don’t fret, we wouldn’t have you representing France in anything less than the finest dress we can make you.”
“Good,” Margot smiles then, her curved lips a blaze of sunshine just like her father’s. A moment later, however, she turns affectionate, nestling against Marie’s shoulder like a kitten, “I only want to make you and Papa proud, Maman.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Marie knows the words are an intimate confession for her eldest, who feels her position as the eldest keenly, and who always strives to be the ‘easy’ child, the one no one has to worry about, “You already do. I promise you, you already do.”
A thought strikes her then, and she sends Mademoiselle Durand and her assistants from the room, waiting for them to leave before she cups Margot’s cheek in her hand.
“But, darling, listen.”
“Yes, Maman?”
“When you get to Lisbon…” Marie hesitates, wondering quite how to phrase this next bit, particularly with Margot peeping up at her eagerly, hanging on her every word, “When you get to Lisbon, your father will want you to influence King Joao, to keep him on our side in the matters of Italy, Flanders and the New World. And by all means, do that if you can, but don’t let Papa browbeat you into anything. You’ll be a Portuguese Queen, not a French Princess. You have to put Portugal first, understand?”
She pauses and Margot looks up at her, wide-eyed. She’s clearly never heard Marie speak so seriously before. Perhaps unsure what to say, the little girl nods frantically, but Marie shakes her head, gripping her daughter’s shoulder.
“No, Margot. I need to hear you say it. This is important. Your Aunt Katherine never learnt to put England first, and it was one of the reasons Uncle Henry set her aside. I don’t want that to happen to you. So, promise me you’ll put Portugal first.”
“I promise, Maman. I’ll put Portugal first.”
“Good girl.” Marie lets out a breath she didn’t even realise she’d been holding and leans in to kiss Margot’s brow, but Margot ducks away, face clouding.
“I wish Kate was coming with me.”
Marie’s heart clenches. She should have known this would rear its head sooner or later. Lady Parr refused Kate permission to travel with Margot last month, claiming that, while Kate’s younger sister Nanette could go, Kate had a potential marriage in the offing, and so would have to stay behind. Personally, Marie isn’t sure there really is a match. She hasn’t heard of one being mooted. She suspects that Lady Parr simply wants to keep her favourite daughter with her for as long as she can. And to be honest, given Lady Parr has only seen young Baron Parr once since she left him in England all those years ago, Marie can’t blame her. But, not yet a mother herself, Margot doesn’t understand. She is simply disconsolate at losing her best friend just when everything else around her is changing.
“I know, darling, I know,” she whispers, holding her oldest daughter close, “And if I could make Lady Parr let you take Kate, I would, but you know why I can’t. Lady Parr has every right to decide her daughter’s future. Don’t be too down-hearted. You’re taking Nanette and Francoise, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but they’re not Kate! Kate’s the best, she always knows what to do!”
Tears well in Margot’s eyes and Marie says nothing to stop them, simply lets Margot cry into her shoulder. She still remembers how horrified she was to lose Mother Guildford just weeks after her marriage…and she was far older than Margot.
“You’ll have to write,” she breathes into Margot’s hair, “You’ll have to write and ask Kate’s advice when you need it. And you can make her godmother to your eldest daughter, if you like. I’ll wager Kate would make an excellent godmother.”
“I can?” Margot lifts her head at Marie’s words, jaw dropping. Clearly, she hasn’t considered the fact that she and Kate might be able to remain in each other’s lives once they are no longer spending nearly every day together.
Marie laughs and ruffles Margot’s hair, “Of course you can. You can even name your daughter for her. Catarina is a beautiful name for a Princess.”
“Oh,” Margot thinks for a few moments, chewing her lower lip discreetly, before she musters a watery smile and rises, “Thank you, Maman. I’m better now.”
“Good, because this trousseau won’t make itself!” Marie teases. She sends Margot running in search of Mademoiselle Durand, but has to take a moment before she can rise to join her, her heart too full to move.
Margot is so gentle and poised most of the time that it’s sometimes easy to forget just how young she still is. Eleven. Barely more than a child. The Portuguese alliance is important, yes, but is it really more important than Margot? Are they really sending her away in April, just a month after her twelfth birthday?
Rambouillet, September 1527
“That’s it, darling. Do a little twirl for me, so we can see how it hangs when you move,” Marie calls, beaming at her eldest daughter. Giggling, Margot spins around obediently, the pale blue damask rustling against the rush matting she stands on. In an unusual flash of the dramatics, the dark-haired girl even sweeps an exaggerated curtsy in Mademoiselle Durand’s direction when the seamstress claps in appreciation.
“Magnifique, votre Altesse!”
Marie laughs with her daughter, but her merriment is tinged with melancholy. Margot is eleven now, and more a woman with every passing day. Her dark curls ripple down her back, brushing her tiny waist, which is only further highlighted by the corset she wears.
The corset itself is a sign of Margot’s growing maturity. Her wedding dress is the first dress that’s been designed for her with a full corset rather than a simple set of stays, and as she wears it, Marie can see the Queen her daughter will become, even as Margot’s eyes shine with childish delight.
“King Joao is a very lucky man, my darling,” she whispers, smoothing flyaway strands back from Margot’s brow, “You’re going to look beautiful on your wedding day.”
“I hope so, Maman.” Margot says softly, before her pert nose wrinkles, “But how do you know the dress will still fit me then? I’m not leaving until April, and Lady Parr says I’m growing like a weed at the moment.”
Taken aback by her daughter’s earnestness, Marie almost laughs, before she shakes her head and taps Margot’s nose with a finger.
“Don’t be silly! Mademoiselle Durand would never make a mistake like that! She’ll put panels into the bodice and the waist, won’t you, Mademoiselle?”
Marie turns to the portly seamstress, who nods, “Bien sur! I’m horrified that you should ever think anything less of me, Madame! I’d never do Mademoiselle Margot the disservice of forgetting how she’s growing!”
“Exactly! So, you see, darling, it’ll be fine. The seamstresses in Lisbon will have lots of extra fabric to work with. They’ll make the final adjustments before you wear it to the church door. Don’t fret, we wouldn’t have you representing France in anything less than the finest dress we can make you.”
“Good,” Margot smiles then, her curved lips a blaze of sunshine just like her father’s. A moment later, however, she turns affectionate, nestling against Marie’s shoulder like a kitten, “I only want to make you and Papa proud, Maman.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Marie knows the words are an intimate confession for her eldest, who feels her position as the eldest keenly, and who always strives to be the ‘easy’ child, the one no one has to worry about, “You already do. I promise you, you already do.”
A thought strikes her then, and she sends Mademoiselle Durand and her assistants from the room, waiting for them to leave before she cups Margot’s cheek in her hand.
“But, darling, listen.”
“Yes, Maman?”
“When you get to Lisbon…” Marie hesitates, wondering quite how to phrase this next bit, particularly with Margot peeping up at her eagerly, hanging on her every word, “When you get to Lisbon, your father will want you to influence King Joao, to keep him on our side in the matters of Italy, Flanders and the New World. And by all means, do that if you can, but don’t let Papa browbeat you into anything. You’ll be a Portuguese Queen, not a French Princess. You have to put Portugal first, understand?”
She pauses and Margot looks up at her, wide-eyed. She’s clearly never heard Marie speak so seriously before. Perhaps unsure what to say, the little girl nods frantically, but Marie shakes her head, gripping her daughter’s shoulder.
“No, Margot. I need to hear you say it. This is important. Your Aunt Katherine never learnt to put England first, and it was one of the reasons Uncle Henry set her aside. I don’t want that to happen to you. So, promise me you’ll put Portugal first.”
“I promise, Maman. I’ll put Portugal first.”
“Good girl.” Marie lets out a breath she didn’t even realise she’d been holding and leans in to kiss Margot’s brow, but Margot ducks away, face clouding.
“I wish Kate was coming with me.”
Marie’s heart clenches. She should have known this would rear its head sooner or later. Lady Parr refused Kate permission to travel with Margot last month, claiming that, while Kate’s younger sister Nanette could go, Kate had a potential marriage in the offing, and so would have to stay behind. Personally, Marie isn’t sure there really is a match. She hasn’t heard of one being mooted. She suspects that Lady Parr simply wants to keep her favourite daughter with her for as long as she can. And to be honest, given Lady Parr has only seen young Baron Parr once since she left him in England all those years ago, Marie can’t blame her. But, not yet a mother herself, Margot doesn’t understand. She is simply disconsolate at losing her best friend just when everything else around her is changing.
“I know, darling, I know,” she whispers, holding her oldest daughter close, “And if I could make Lady Parr let you take Kate, I would, but you know why I can’t. Lady Parr has every right to decide her daughter’s future. Don’t be too down-hearted. You’re taking Nanette and Francoise, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but they’re not Kate! Kate’s the best, she always knows what to do!”
Tears well in Margot’s eyes and Marie says nothing to stop them, simply lets Margot cry into her shoulder. She still remembers how horrified she was to lose Mother Guildford just weeks after her marriage…and she was far older than Margot.
“You’ll have to write,” she breathes into Margot’s hair, “You’ll have to write and ask Kate’s advice when you need it. And you can make her godmother to your eldest daughter, if you like. I’ll wager Kate would make an excellent godmother.”
“I can?” Margot lifts her head at Marie’s words, jaw dropping. Clearly, she hasn’t considered the fact that she and Kate might be able to remain in each other’s lives once they are no longer spending nearly every day together.
Marie laughs and ruffles Margot’s hair, “Of course you can. You can even name your daughter for her. Catarina is a beautiful name for a Princess.”
“Oh,” Margot thinks for a few moments, chewing her lower lip discreetly, before she musters a watery smile and rises, “Thank you, Maman. I’m better now.”
“Good, because this trousseau won’t make itself!” Marie teases. She sends Margot running in search of Mademoiselle Durand, but has to take a moment before she can rise to join her, her heart too full to move.
Margot is so gentle and poised most of the time that it’s sometimes easy to forget just how young she still is. Eleven. Barely more than a child. The Portuguese alliance is important, yes, but is it really more important than Margot? Are they really sending her away in April, just a month after her twelfth birthday?
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Margot is growing so quickly! François and Marie definitely have a daughter to be proud of. And I will point out, corsets were not worn in this period. The support for the chest area was achieved by heavily stiffened bodices in kirtles and petticoats.