I mean Anne de Pisseleu had issues with Henri and all she did was convince Francis to exile Diane, which in turn led to Henri leaving court as well.
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
Okay, if we're getting to the point where we're discussing child poisoning, we might need a new chapter sooner rather than later...
Honestly, I'm beginning to understand how Cymraeg feels when Robb Returns goes to Ze Madness Place....
Honestly, I'm beginning to understand how Cymraeg feels when Robb Returns goes to Ze Madness Place....
Also, I am NOT robbing Marie of YET ANOTHER son. If I *was* going to kill another of her children, it would be Louise or Lisabelle...
Well, she could never have kept them all. That just wouldn't have been realistic...But why are you killing her children to start with
Yeah, though, Anne de Pisseleu couldn't hope that her children (did she have any?) could succeed Francis, Isabella can hope so.
The attempt could just not be succesful, you don't need to kill Marie's another son for it to happen.
Anne de Pisseleu (funniest surname ever) had no children
Yeah and compare that to Isabella situation who has a child coming in her belly, she'd surely want it to have best life possible.
I know, I know. But I honestly do think we've got enough going on without me turning Isabella into a Bessie Blount or Duke of Buckingham a la Queen Is Dead...
Ok, that's your story. If I can express opinion (it's not a requirement/bashing, it's just the personal opinion) I wouldn't want to see story going in angle of saint Isabella, the opressed victim of muh patriarchal system...
Oh, I'll try not to turn her into a white-washed innocent victim. I don't want any of my characters to be too one-dimensional. I just also don't want my stories to be carbon copies of each other and having Isabella attempt to murder Francois of Brittany seems too similar to Bessie smothering William and/or Buckingham trying to poison Marie in Queen Is Dead.
But I appreciate your thoughts
Section LXXXVII - June 1529
In an attempt to change the subject from the possiblities of infanticide...
“Her Majesty the Queen!”
The dining hall hushes instantly. Every eye flicks to the door. The courtiers don’t even bother to hide the fact that they are staring.
Marie stands between the double doors, the heavy oak door jambs framing her perfectly.
She has spent weeks preparing for this moment, ever since she came to the conclusion that she would have to go back to France one day sooner rather than later, and indeed, has commissioned the dress she is wearing especially for the occasion.
Her kirtle is of rich alexander, striped in various shades of blue, while her underskirts are a soft, penitent dove grey, pooling about her feet in swathes of velvet. She wears no crown, no headdress. In fact, unusually for her, she has left her hair completely unadorned, with nary a jewel in sight.
In short, she knows, she is striking the ideal balance between regal Queen and repentant petitioner.
She knows it and so does everyone else. Even her fiercest detractors have to admit it, and a ripple of reluctant admiration runs through the room, though it is quickly stifled. After all, a triumph of dressmaking is one thing. Actions are quite another. It’s going to take months for Her Grace to win back the trust of the Court. If, indeed, she ever does.
As such, not a single person moves. Marie isn’t offered a single bow or curtsy.
For the first time in her life, Mary ‘Marie’ Valois nee Tudor is treated as an equal by the nobles, not as one set apart.
To her credit, she doesn’t falter, or even flinch. After all, it’s not the nobles she has to worry about. They know which side their bread’s buttered on. They’ll follow Francis’s lead. Whichever way he chooses to treat her will dictate their attitude towards her for weeks to come, if not months.
She holds her head high and sweeps up to the steps of the dais, before dropping into what she knows may very well be the most important curtsy of her life.
“My lord husband.”
Francis keeps her there. Keeps her bent in submission to him for at least a full minute. Long enough for her legs to shake and her neck to ache from the effort of keeping her head bent, of not looking up at him to try and gauge something in his face.
Finally, just when she thinks she might actually collapse, he moves. He comes down from the dais and pulls her up to face him, clasping both of her hands in his.
“My Lady Queen. It pleases me to have you returned to us at last.”
He busses her cheek lightly with his lips and then leads her, for the first time in almost a year, to the throne by his side.
It has gone well.
It is going well.
It could have been so much worse.
Marie tells herself that firmly, reminding herself that nine months apart is not nothing, that she can’t expect things to just snap back to the way they were before, not after having left France for so long.
But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a tiny part of her that is hurt by Francis’s icy formality. She remembers when she returned to Court after Margot’s birth, how Francis could hardly dismiss the jongleurs and the other festive trappings quickly enough. How he took her, hard and fast, against the pillars in this very room, just three hours after her formal churching, even as she jokingly protested that she didn’t want to have to do her duty in the birthing bed again quite so very soon.
And yet now they are sitting side-by-side in awkward silence, hardly able to look at one another.
“How are the children?” she ventures at last, “I trust Margot set sail for Lisbon without any issues?”
“She did,” Francis replies, tearing his gaze from one of the lower tables with an effort, “She married King Joao in person on Whit Sunday and I believe there is to be no expense spared for her coronation in Lisbon. A letter arrived a few days ago. I’ll have it brought to your rooms after Vespers, if you like.”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
“The other children are in the nursery,” Francis offers after a few moments, “I had them brought up from Amboise. And Francois and Renee have come down from Brittany. I thought you’d like to see them all.”
“I would, thank you. It’s been too long.”
“Well, quite.” Francis’s lips quirk, just for an instant, at that, before he signs for the first course to be brought in, but he can’t resist a quick jibe, “You’ll not recognise Charly or Lisabelle.”
This time, Marie does flinch. But she knows there’s nothing she can say in retort, so she simply turns her attention to the venison stew the servers have set before her.
Formal, stilted. Such is the little conversation the two of them manage throughout the next two hours. It is stultifying.
It almost makes Marie want to scream, to have a raging fight with Francis, right there in full view of the entire Court. Anything to break down the walls between them and save them both months of pussyfooting around each other.
On the other hand, however, she is only too aware that she is only back at Court because Francis has allowed her to return. And that he has only done that because of who she is. Moreover, she knows that her status now hangs entirely on his continued acceptance of her. As long as he accepts her without qualms, or at least appears to, the rest of France will have no choice but to do the same. And, high rank or not, not every husband would be so forbearing. Louis de Breze certainly wasn’t. She’s been lucky. Very, very lucky.
Marie clings to that thought throughout every moment of the excruciating meal, repeating her internal mantra over and over again.
This has gone well.
This is going well.
This could be so much worse.
St-Germain-en-Laye, June 1529
“Her Majesty the Queen!”
The dining hall hushes instantly. Every eye flicks to the door. The courtiers don’t even bother to hide the fact that they are staring.
Marie stands between the double doors, the heavy oak door jambs framing her perfectly.
She has spent weeks preparing for this moment, ever since she came to the conclusion that she would have to go back to France one day sooner rather than later, and indeed, has commissioned the dress she is wearing especially for the occasion.
Her kirtle is of rich alexander, striped in various shades of blue, while her underskirts are a soft, penitent dove grey, pooling about her feet in swathes of velvet. She wears no crown, no headdress. In fact, unusually for her, she has left her hair completely unadorned, with nary a jewel in sight.
In short, she knows, she is striking the ideal balance between regal Queen and repentant petitioner.
She knows it and so does everyone else. Even her fiercest detractors have to admit it, and a ripple of reluctant admiration runs through the room, though it is quickly stifled. After all, a triumph of dressmaking is one thing. Actions are quite another. It’s going to take months for Her Grace to win back the trust of the Court. If, indeed, she ever does.
As such, not a single person moves. Marie isn’t offered a single bow or curtsy.
For the first time in her life, Mary ‘Marie’ Valois nee Tudor is treated as an equal by the nobles, not as one set apart.
To her credit, she doesn’t falter, or even flinch. After all, it’s not the nobles she has to worry about. They know which side their bread’s buttered on. They’ll follow Francis’s lead. Whichever way he chooses to treat her will dictate their attitude towards her for weeks to come, if not months.
She holds her head high and sweeps up to the steps of the dais, before dropping into what she knows may very well be the most important curtsy of her life.
“My lord husband.”
Francis keeps her there. Keeps her bent in submission to him for at least a full minute. Long enough for her legs to shake and her neck to ache from the effort of keeping her head bent, of not looking up at him to try and gauge something in his face.
Finally, just when she thinks she might actually collapse, he moves. He comes down from the dais and pulls her up to face him, clasping both of her hands in his.
“My Lady Queen. It pleases me to have you returned to us at last.”
He busses her cheek lightly with his lips and then leads her, for the first time in almost a year, to the throne by his side.
It has gone well.
It is going well.
It could have been so much worse.
Marie tells herself that firmly, reminding herself that nine months apart is not nothing, that she can’t expect things to just snap back to the way they were before, not after having left France for so long.
But that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a tiny part of her that is hurt by Francis’s icy formality. She remembers when she returned to Court after Margot’s birth, how Francis could hardly dismiss the jongleurs and the other festive trappings quickly enough. How he took her, hard and fast, against the pillars in this very room, just three hours after her formal churching, even as she jokingly protested that she didn’t want to have to do her duty in the birthing bed again quite so very soon.
And yet now they are sitting side-by-side in awkward silence, hardly able to look at one another.
“How are the children?” she ventures at last, “I trust Margot set sail for Lisbon without any issues?”
“She did,” Francis replies, tearing his gaze from one of the lower tables with an effort, “She married King Joao in person on Whit Sunday and I believe there is to be no expense spared for her coronation in Lisbon. A letter arrived a few days ago. I’ll have it brought to your rooms after Vespers, if you like.”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
“The other children are in the nursery,” Francis offers after a few moments, “I had them brought up from Amboise. And Francois and Renee have come down from Brittany. I thought you’d like to see them all.”
“I would, thank you. It’s been too long.”
“Well, quite.” Francis’s lips quirk, just for an instant, at that, before he signs for the first course to be brought in, but he can’t resist a quick jibe, “You’ll not recognise Charly or Lisabelle.”
This time, Marie does flinch. But she knows there’s nothing she can say in retort, so she simply turns her attention to the venison stew the servers have set before her.
Formal, stilted. Such is the little conversation the two of them manage throughout the next two hours. It is stultifying.
It almost makes Marie want to scream, to have a raging fight with Francis, right there in full view of the entire Court. Anything to break down the walls between them and save them both months of pussyfooting around each other.
On the other hand, however, she is only too aware that she is only back at Court because Francis has allowed her to return. And that he has only done that because of who she is. Moreover, she knows that her status now hangs entirely on his continued acceptance of her. As long as he accepts her without qualms, or at least appears to, the rest of France will have no choice but to do the same. And, high rank or not, not every husband would be so forbearing. Louis de Breze certainly wasn’t. She’s been lucky. Very, very lucky.
Marie clings to that thought throughout every moment of the excruciating meal, repeating her internal mantra over and over again.
This has gone well.
This is going well.
This could be so much worse.
Awww this sounds very tough for Marie, but I guess this isn't even the hardest part, she still has to face her children after all. Still, as she says it could have gone worse, and I hope in time Francis will find a reason to return to her again, even if only because his mistress is pregnant. Even if they have no more children, in the end, Francis and Marie reconciling a little would be nice. Lovely chapter!
Definitely no more children, but I suppose I might be able to find them some equilibrium at some point... But not just yet. Everything is still too raw for that.
And yes, Marie will be facing her children next chapter. These scenes were too important to put them together, I felt.
As much as Mary did wrong, I still feel bad for her, hopefully she and Francis can recover from this soon enough.
Oh, I'll try not to turn her into a white-washed innocent victim. I don't want any of my characters to be too one-dimensional. I just also don't want my stories to be carbon copies of each other and having Isabella attempt to murder Francois of Brittany seems too similar to Bessie smothering William and/or Buckingham trying to poison Marie in Queen Is Dead.
But I appreciate your thoughts
I haven't read Queen is Dead though, so that might influence my judgement somewhat
Okay, yeah, then I can see more of where you're coming from. The link is in my signature should you be interested in seeing a world where KOA dies early and Henry marries a different Boleyn girlI haven't read Queen is Dead though, so that might influence my judgement somewhat
I don't think they'll ever be the same again, but they might manage something of an equilibrium given enough time (and possibly Isabella retreating into confinement...)
