Well, they'll never go back to the golden sweethearts they were in the early days, no.
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
Come on, it's gonna happen. I'll try and make it as painless as possible...
No, no she is not! And yes, little Isabella is hale and hearty, if a little sensitive at times - though she's nothing compared to Henry's next child as a toddler, let me tell you!
Marguerite and Charles are indeed settling into a new equilibrium
If Francis dies, then eleven-year-old François takes the throne and marries Renee of Brittany ASAP. Marie's position at Court would be secured at a stroke, because her eldest son has no reason to resent her. Not the way his younger siblings do. Tellingly, François's eldest daughter will be Marie, whereas his siblings choose other names for their daughters.
Yes, Marie made rightly angry with her all her children still alive excluding the Dauphin. And I fully approve them to not call their daughters Marie as that is a well deserved slight who Marie fully earned with her actions.
As the next chapter will show, Margot is still very loyal to her mother, actually. She was the one Marie doted on before she left, after all, But Louise, Jean and Charles all resent her. One of Margot's daughters will be a Maria, but not her eldest. Kate Parr gets that honour - Infanta Catarina of Portugal, anyone? Elisabeth is too young to know what's going on and will also actually be quite fond of her mother, because she'll only be a year old when Marie returns, so will never know a time when her mother isn't around. She might be the only other one of Marie's children to name a daughter for her mother, but I haven't decided on her family yet.
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Section LXXXIII - April 1529
Bordeaux, April 1529
Banners of royal blue studded with a ring of silver daisies stream above the crowd, snapping briskly in the April breeze.
Margot shivers as the wind tickles her spine, drawing her grey rabbit fur cloak tighter around herself. Hand at her throat to hold the garment in place, she turns to glance at the sea behind her, eyes lingering wistfully on the horizon.
It’s not that she expects Maman to come back in time to say goodbye. How can she, when every letter from Madame de St Pol declares more than plainly that her mother has no such intentions? Still, Margot can’t help hoping anyway. After all, she’s the eldest daughter, the most important of those who will be sent away. Maman ought to be here.
If the world was halfway fair, she would be.
Tears prick at Margot’s eyelids and she bites her lip so hard it hurts as she fights to keep them from falling. She’s Queen of Portugal. She can’t have France’s last memory of her being that of a wailing child.
She gets control of herself just in time. The Duke of Guise, one of her father’s oldest friends, turns and bows to her before offering her his arm.
“Your father wishes to say his farewells, Your Highness.”
Margot nods, letting the Duke lead her through the bowing crowd.
When they are within arm’s length of her father, they stop, and Margot curtsies deeply, her rose damask skirts pooling out around her.
“Papa.”
“Margot. What a woman you’ve become. Your mother would be proud.”
There is a tautness to Papa’s words, and Margot has to fight to keep her eyes from straying to the space behind his left shoulder, where Lady Isabella stands, Margot’s younger siblings clustering around her, even little Lisabelle, who nestles peaceably in her nurse’s arms.
What is Papa thinking, bringing her here? Surely this is a moment for family, not interlopers!
Lady Isabella bends just then, ducking out of Margot’s sightline to whisper something in Jean’s ear. He throws his head back, laughter ringing high and bright above the crowd, and Margot narrows her eyes. Is she the only one who can see how wrong this is?
Before she can protest, however, Papa takes her hand and pulls her into a warm embrace. Moments later, she is too busy burrowing into his chest, breathing in deeply so that she can memorise his musky scent, to think of anything else.
“If you lead Portugal half as well as you’ve led France this year, King Joao will be a very lucky man, cherie,” he whispers into her ear, tucking a curl that has sprung loose back under a jewelled pin.
Margot can’t answer him. All she can do is swallow hard, fighting the lump in her throat.
Seeing her distress, Papa strives to lighten the mood, tapping her nose with a fingertip, “I expect to hear that my eldest grandson is named Francisco in my honour, do you hear?”
“Understood, Papa,” Margot manages a watery smile and chuckle, and Papa hugs her close once more.
“You were born to be a Queen, my darling,” he breathes into her dark hair, “So be one.”
With that, he nudges her towards her siblings and Margot trots over obediently.
She shares a few words with Jean and Charly, promising to write, and cuddles baby Elisabeth one last time. She curtsies to François, and he kisses her hand as though she’s Queen already.
She flicks her eyes to Lady Isabella meaningfully, barely suppressing a scowl when she realises that the older girl has taken advantage of her approach to sidle up to her father.
François grimaces in sympathy, “I’ll do what I can, sister, but you know I’m away in Brittany.”
“I know,” she sighs, “But when you’re older…”
“The day I’m King, she’s gone forever,” François promises lowly, and she nods, satisfied, before pulling him into a brief hug, which he returns gladly, before turning to Louise.
The eight-year-old is holding her head high, clearly determined not to cry. Margot ignores her little sister’s pride, however, and simply pulls her into a hug, ducking her head so that her nose is buried in the younger girl’s dark curls.
“You have to look after them,” she whispers, tipping her head in the direction of Jean and Charly and Lisabelle, “You’re the eldest now, with François in Nantes more often than not. You have to look after them. Can you do that for me?”
Louise hesitates, then nods shakily into Margot’s chest. Margot sighs in relief and kisses her little sister’s head.
“Thank you.”
She wants to say more, but there isn’t time. Her grandmother appears behind her, slipping an arm around her shoulders.
“Come, Margot. You’re in danger of missing the tide. I’ll see you to your ship.”
“Oui, Grandmere.”
Margot squeezes Louise’s hand one last time and lets her grandmother steer her across the docks and up the gangplank of her ship – La Belle Marie, she is delighted to note. Of all her father’s fleet, she’s always loved the ship named for her mother the best.
It is only when Margot is safely aboard, standing by the stern rail that they look back. What she sees makes Margot’s heart clench. Not only is Lady Isabella so close to her father that she might as well be touching him, but she now has Lisabelle in her arms, as though she deserves to hold her, to playact at being her mother. Margot has to swallow back bile at the sight.
“Grandmere? Will Maman ever come home? Will she and Papa ever love each other again?”
Margot hates herself for asking the question. After all, she shouldn’t care. She’s thirteen and leaving for Portugal within the hour. Whatever mess her parents get themselves into isn’t her problem. Not anymore. Yet, she can’t stop herself. She has to know.
Grandmere hesitates. She comes to stand at Margot’s shoulder, sighing when she sees what has prompted Margot’s question.
“I don’t know, cherie,” she says at last, “But you mustn’t worry about them. You’ll have enough on your plate with learning to live in Portugal with King Joao. Leave your parents behind and focus on yourself. Promise me.”
Grandmere’s voice is too fierce to be refused. Margot struggles with herself, but eventually nods.
“I promise, Grandmere.”
Grandmere’s face softens, “Good.”
She places a hand on Margot’s shoulder and holds her for a moment, peering searchingly into her dark eyes.
She must like what she finds there, because eventually she smiles and stoops, kissing Margot’s brow.
“Safe travels, Reine Marguerite,” she murmurs and then she is gone, gliding away back to the quay before Margot can think of a thing to say.
The gangplank swings up behind her, shutting with a final ‘clunk’.
Margot watches her go, enduring the sight of Lady Isabella queening it at her father’s side for the sake of not taking her eyes off her family until she absolutely has to.
There is a rustle of silk behind her and she knows without looking round that Francoise and Nannette have slipped into place behind her.
She doesn’t quite lean into them. That wouldn’t be fitting. Not here. Not now. But she does feel the tension in her shoulders ease, just a little, at their silent support.
La Belle Marie lurches slightly under Margot’s feet and she feels her breath catch in her throat.
“Here we go,” she whispers, and Nannette hums in agreement.
Whether they are ready or not, they are off to Portugal.
Well Margot is the other one who received the biggest offense after Jean, but I guess she was too close to her mother for not forgiving her.
Nice chapter, but Marie’s children are too resentful toward Isabella of Navarre, who is their equal for birth, being a royal princess… If anything they would need to see Isabella as a victim of the fate, if not of their father, but is far from being an outsider or a nobody. She would a perfect Queen of France if Marie had truly died
@isabella To me, it seems as if only Margot and François are resentful. And, yes, definitely Isabella is basically a child who’s having a relationship with a grown man, but in their eyes, she’s a woman who’s having a relationship with their father while their mother is away.
I’d love to have a scene in the French nursery with Louise struggling with being the oldest child or in Nantes between François & Renee
I’d love to have a scene in the French nursery with Louise struggling with being the oldest child or in Nantes between François & Renee
Thank you, @BriarRose. You're right, It's not Isabella's birth Margot and Francois are objecting to, it's the fact that she's sailed so effortlessly into what they see as their mother's place at their father's side. Or at least that's what I was going for, anyway. I'm drawing a little on Mary Tudor's OTL resentment of Anne Boleyn here, because Margot and Francois are exactly the same age here as Mary was when the Great Matter kicked off. If Isabella had just kept her head down and warmed Francis's bed without seeking to be his uncrowned Queen, they'd probably be okay with her, but not when she's openly seeking to be acknowledged as his favourite. It might not work for everyone, but I think it makes sense for a nearly twelve-year-old boy and a thirteen-year-old girl to resent someone who tries to take their mother's place.
Eight-year-old Louise, six-year-old Jean and three-year-old Charly, on the other hand, have far less qualms about the pretty girl in Francis's life who spoils them rotten...
I'll see what I can do!
I haven't thought that far yet!
I know, right!
It's not on the cards just yet, don't worry.
Well, then I hope who Margot and François would understood who they are blaming the wrong person as nothing of that would happen if their mother had not decided to thrown away everything because she was unable to understood who the world would not stop because she wanted it
When they're older and have kids of their own, probably. But just yet? No.
Oh she will, you can be sure of that. Goodness knows she's had plenty of preparation, having had to be her father's hostess for the past twelve months