Am taking suggestions for an eighteen year old James, who I know is a redhead like his mother...
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
Continuing on with the cast list of Stewart siblings: fifteen-year-old Meg Douglas is played by Sophie Turner.
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Tom Glynn-Carney is 27 but without a beard I think he could totally pull off 18
He's too smooth looking for a Stewart, I think. I was wondering about James or Oliver Phelps..
Too old imho but would do nicely for James or Alexander once they reach their 30s
Fair. Will keep thinking. At least we have an Alexander.
Section XCIII - April 1530
Falkland, April 1530
The unicorn of Scotland rears against the hazy blue sky, as do the three silver lions rampant of Ross.
Alexander sits mounted beneath the latter, trying to hide how his heart is thudding.
He’s known this day will come for months, but knowing it and doing it are two very different things. Now that the actual moment has come for him to ride south and collect his bride, he isn’t sure he’s ready at all.
He tugs anxiously at his doublet of Lincoln green velvet. Lincoln green velvet embroidered with the silver swans of Lancaster that Mary recently told him she plans to quarter with the white rose of the Virgin to form her personal standard as Duchess of Ross. Tudor colours and Lancaster emblems. He hopes she appreciates the effort.
Sensing Alexander’s nerves, his dappled chestnut horse sidles beneath him and he curses softly, shifting his grip on his reins automatically, “Sorry, boy.”
“Sawney.”
Alexander starts at his brother’s voice. When did Jamie arrive? And how did he not notice? Surely the trumpets must have blared.
He flushes at his own distraction, and his blush only deepens as his older brother takes his horse by the bridle and holds it so that Alexander has no choice but to look at him.
“Stop fussing. You look fine. Moreover, I know for a fact that you’ve an even finer version of that doublet stowed away for the actual wedding ceremony.”
“It’s the principle of the thing,” Alexander protests, but he still his hands when Jamie glares at him.
“That’s better. You’re a Stewart of Scotland, not some lovelorn swain. Act like it. Because if you don’t, the sassenachs down south won’t respect you, and you deserve their respect. You’re a Prince, come to claim the bride you’ve been promised these past sixteen months. There’s nothing wrong in what you’re doing.”
“No.” Alexander swallows convulsively and tries to square his shoulders. Jamie watches him for a moment, then nods.
“Remember who you are,” he whispers, imparting one last piece of brotherly advice, before he steps back and raises his voice so that the whole travelling party can hear.
“Lord Ross, you go to London with our blessing. We wish you Godspeed and all the very best for your impending nuptials. We look forward to welcoming you and your Duchess back to Holyrood this summer. Virescit vulnere virtus!”
“Virescit vulnere virtus!”
Alexander and his companions roar the old Stewart motto back at Jamie and then they are off, trotting briskly through the Palace gates, the trumpeters marching ahead and blowing with all their might to let all of Fife know that Lord Alexander of Scotland is on his way to claim his English bride.
Alexander looks back only once. Jamie stands tall and proud on the Palace steps, his tawny hair gleaming in the spring sunshine. Newly eighteen, his brother looks every inch the King he was born to be.
Beside him stands their mother, the Dowager Queen. Her own red-gold hair is fading with age, but she is still a formidable figure, tall and imposing, even as she beams at the thought of her son going to marry his English heiress of a cousin.
“I hope Mary has inherited the Tudor steel. She’s going to need it to deal with Mama.”
The thought flashes through Alexander’s head and then a shout up ahead draws his attention to more immediate concerns. He puts Falkland from his mind and sets his face for London.
Oh yessssssss, Alexander leaves to marry Mary, and seems poised to make a good impression... Lovely chapter!
Thanks. The question is, will he make a good impression on the *right* people?
Is this implying Henry VIII dislikes him?Thanks. The question is, will he make a good impression on the *right* people?
I'm sure he does. I haven't actually written Henry and Alexander's first meeting , though, of course I have spent a great deal of time on Alexander's sojourn in England. Mary deserves no less.
Section XCIV - June 1530
I was going to hold off on this chapter for another few days, but I just couldn't wait any longer. I have been dying to get to this chapter for so, so long...
There is a collective gasp when Mary finally dismisses the dressmakers and steps out from behind the screen to let them all see her chosen wedding finery.
She has picked a flowing gown of rose-pink alexander layered over cloth-of-silver underskirts. Her lustrous blonde hair is caught up in a finely-woven net of diamonds and silver wire, just waiting for Alexander to pull it free, and her creamy skin gleams with health.
For once, she ignores Meg and Nora, and turns to face her mother.
“What do you think, Mama? Will I do?”
Katherine, usually so poised, finds she has a lump in her throat. When did her precious daughter grow up so fast?
“Maria, mi bonita,” she breathes, impulsively sweeping forward to embrace the fourteen-year-old. She holds Mary tight, breathing in the girl’s delicate adolescent scent, committing it to memory. She kisses Mary’s brow and gently settles the rose pearl and diamond necklace more squarely in the hollow of Mary’s throat.
Only then does she trust herself to speak. She lifts her head and answers not only Mary’s spoken question, but also her unspoken one, “My darling, no man on Earth would be able to take his eyes off you.”
Mary doesn’t respond, only looks at her mother with all the words she cannot give voice to shining in her eyes.
And then, all of a sudden, the moment is broken. Young Susan Brooke crashes into the room.
“He’s here,” she gasps, “He’s here! My brother George saw him being escorted to the gardens and left there to gather himself after having spoken to the King not ten minutes ago.”
Mary flushes. Meg and Nora giggle, their own cheeks tinting.
Katherine hesitates, wondering whether to let them have their fun or whether to recall them to themselves, to remind them that, arrival of Mary’s handsome young betrothed or not, they are still three of the highest-ranking girls in England and ought to act accordingly. Before she can make her mind up, the girls spring into what is clearly a prearranged plan.
Nora snatches up the seamstress’s discarded basket and leans forward, planting a highly presumptuous kiss to Mary’s cheek.
“I’ll be back,” she promises, and then, calling to Meg and Susan White to join her, rushes from the room before Katherine can reprimand her or ask her what she’s up to.
All Katherine can do is listen to the young woman’s receding footsteps. Her heart beats slightly faster in trepidation. What mischief are Mary and her companions getting themselves into now?
Alexander is sitting under a tree gazing out over the river and trying to calm his racing heart after his audience with his uncle when he sees her. The most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.
Tall and slender, she is clothed in pale blue satin layered over dark blue underskirts trimmed with gold ribbon, the same gold ribbon that edges her matching hood.
Transfixed, Alexander watches as she murmurs something to her red-headed companion and bends to pluck a pair of creamy lilies from the river bank.
She pushes her hood back as she does so, in order to see better, and Alexander’s breath catches in his throat. Her hair is a wonderful shade of pale, ashy blonde.
He stands up and peers a little more closely. If he’s not mistaken, that glorious mane that curls down the young woman’s back and brushes the tops of her hips is exactly the same shade as the hair in the miniature that he was sent for his last birthday.
Holding his breath, he draws the tiny portrait from his doublet, just to double-check. Yes, exactly the same. Yes, exactly the same. Well, perhaps a shade or two lighter, if he’s being honest, but then Mary’s portrait would have been painted in the winter in order to be ready for his birthday in April, so it’s not surprising that the sun should have lightened her hair since.
A bright peal of laughter breaks into Alexander’s musing and his heart skips a beat. That’s a beautiful sound. Instinctively, he knows he’ll do anything in his power to hear it again. To be the one to cause it.
“Meg!”
The exclamation is teasing, warm with fond exasperation, and it draws Alexander like a lure.
He pads through the grass on noiseless feet, as though he is stalking a deer in the hills around Falkland or Dunfermline, until he is close enough to see the girls clearly and maybe even, at full stretch, reach out and touch one of them.
There are three of them, he realises. The beautiful blonde, the redhead and a brunette, with thick, sleek dark brown hair that pours down past her shoulders in a kind of conker-brown waterfall.
The redhead must be his sister Margaret. He doesn’t need to be introduced to her to garner that, not when she’s the spitting image of Mama’s coronation portrait.
Which only confirms that the blonde must be his betrothed. It’s common knowledge that she and Margaret are near-inseparable, after all.
He’s not sure who the brunette is, but assumes she must be Mistress Boleyn, the third member of his betrothed’s closest circle.
“I can’t keep standing here like a doltish mute. How on Earth would I explain it if one of them looked up and saw me?”
The thought crashes over him like thunder. He gulps, then screws his courage to the sticking place and coughs to alert the young women to his presence. They start, and he sweeps them a flamboyant bow.
“Princess Mary, Sister Margaret, Mistress Boleyn. What an honour it is to meet you here.”
The girls exchange a glance. To his surprise, it is Margaret who responds, even though, by virtue of her higher rank, Mary ought to be the one to answer him.
“Lord Alexander. Brother. Welcome to England.”
“Thank you, sister,” He kisses Margaret’s hand and smiles at her, “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, having heard so much of you. You must call me Sawney. All of you must. I’ll not have us stand on ceremony. We are cousins and friends, are we not?”
He steps back as he speaks, including the others in his warm, eager gaze and they nod, curtsying shallowly.
He beams. “Capital! Then I know I’ll be able to trust you all not to betray the fact that we have met before the banquet tonight. I know we weren’t supposed to, but when I realised you were all out here, I couldn’t keep away. I just had to come and introduce myself away from prying eyes.”
The girls smile back at him and his fiancée finally finds her voice.
“I’m glad you did – Sawney. I’m glad we’ve met away from prying eyes too. But you’d better go before we’re discovered. If we are, it’ll be all round Court in minutes and we don’t want that. It would spoil everything.”
“You’re right. It would. Very well, until tonight, then, my love.”
Alexander lifts Mary’s hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles, looking her lingeringly in the eyes. To his delight, she blushes under his gaze and her slender fingers tremble slightly in his. Moreover, he takes her equal reluctance to look away as a sign that, perhaps, she won’t take his next bold declaration completely amiss.
“Your voice is the most musical sound I have ever heard,” he breathes as he releases her hand, and he knows he sees her Adam’s apple flush rosy with desire as she swallows and turns away.
She’s clearly shy and sheltered, though, so he doesn’t push her any further, merely holds his hand out to his younger sister.
“Sister Margaret? Might I prevail upon you to show me the way to the mews. I brought my Leonette with me and I’d like to make sure she’s settled. She’s the finest bird I’ve got. “
“With pleasure, Sawney. But only if you call me Meg. You said it yourself, we’re siblings, and I never use my full name.”
Margaret – Meg – takes his arm and then glances back at their cousin, “If Her Highness doesn’t mind?”
She places a mischievous emphasis on Mary’s title that Alexander can’t understand, but the other girl simply waves them away, so he decides not to question it, only braces his arm and lets Meg lead him in the direction of the mews.
Baynard’s Castle, June 1530
There is a collective gasp when Mary finally dismisses the dressmakers and steps out from behind the screen to let them all see her chosen wedding finery.
She has picked a flowing gown of rose-pink alexander layered over cloth-of-silver underskirts. Her lustrous blonde hair is caught up in a finely-woven net of diamonds and silver wire, just waiting for Alexander to pull it free, and her creamy skin gleams with health.
For once, she ignores Meg and Nora, and turns to face her mother.
“What do you think, Mama? Will I do?”
Katherine, usually so poised, finds she has a lump in her throat. When did her precious daughter grow up so fast?
“Maria, mi bonita,” she breathes, impulsively sweeping forward to embrace the fourteen-year-old. She holds Mary tight, breathing in the girl’s delicate adolescent scent, committing it to memory. She kisses Mary’s brow and gently settles the rose pearl and diamond necklace more squarely in the hollow of Mary’s throat.
Only then does she trust herself to speak. She lifts her head and answers not only Mary’s spoken question, but also her unspoken one, “My darling, no man on Earth would be able to take his eyes off you.”
Mary doesn’t respond, only looks at her mother with all the words she cannot give voice to shining in her eyes.
And then, all of a sudden, the moment is broken. Young Susan Brooke crashes into the room.
“He’s here,” she gasps, “He’s here! My brother George saw him being escorted to the gardens and left there to gather himself after having spoken to the King not ten minutes ago.”
Mary flushes. Meg and Nora giggle, their own cheeks tinting.
Katherine hesitates, wondering whether to let them have their fun or whether to recall them to themselves, to remind them that, arrival of Mary’s handsome young betrothed or not, they are still three of the highest-ranking girls in England and ought to act accordingly. Before she can make her mind up, the girls spring into what is clearly a prearranged plan.
Nora snatches up the seamstress’s discarded basket and leans forward, planting a highly presumptuous kiss to Mary’s cheek.
“I’ll be back,” she promises, and then, calling to Meg and Susan White to join her, rushes from the room before Katherine can reprimand her or ask her what she’s up to.
All Katherine can do is listen to the young woman’s receding footsteps. Her heart beats slightly faster in trepidation. What mischief are Mary and her companions getting themselves into now?
Alexander is sitting under a tree gazing out over the river and trying to calm his racing heart after his audience with his uncle when he sees her. The most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.
Tall and slender, she is clothed in pale blue satin layered over dark blue underskirts trimmed with gold ribbon, the same gold ribbon that edges her matching hood.
Transfixed, Alexander watches as she murmurs something to her red-headed companion and bends to pluck a pair of creamy lilies from the river bank.
She pushes her hood back as she does so, in order to see better, and Alexander’s breath catches in his throat. Her hair is a wonderful shade of pale, ashy blonde.
He stands up and peers a little more closely. If he’s not mistaken, that glorious mane that curls down the young woman’s back and brushes the tops of her hips is exactly the same shade as the hair in the miniature that he was sent for his last birthday.
Holding his breath, he draws the tiny portrait from his doublet, just to double-check. Yes, exactly the same. Yes, exactly the same. Well, perhaps a shade or two lighter, if he’s being honest, but then Mary’s portrait would have been painted in the winter in order to be ready for his birthday in April, so it’s not surprising that the sun should have lightened her hair since.
A bright peal of laughter breaks into Alexander’s musing and his heart skips a beat. That’s a beautiful sound. Instinctively, he knows he’ll do anything in his power to hear it again. To be the one to cause it.
“Meg!”
The exclamation is teasing, warm with fond exasperation, and it draws Alexander like a lure.
He pads through the grass on noiseless feet, as though he is stalking a deer in the hills around Falkland or Dunfermline, until he is close enough to see the girls clearly and maybe even, at full stretch, reach out and touch one of them.
There are three of them, he realises. The beautiful blonde, the redhead and a brunette, with thick, sleek dark brown hair that pours down past her shoulders in a kind of conker-brown waterfall.
The redhead must be his sister Margaret. He doesn’t need to be introduced to her to garner that, not when she’s the spitting image of Mama’s coronation portrait.
Which only confirms that the blonde must be his betrothed. It’s common knowledge that she and Margaret are near-inseparable, after all.
He’s not sure who the brunette is, but assumes she must be Mistress Boleyn, the third member of his betrothed’s closest circle.
“I can’t keep standing here like a doltish mute. How on Earth would I explain it if one of them looked up and saw me?”
The thought crashes over him like thunder. He gulps, then screws his courage to the sticking place and coughs to alert the young women to his presence. They start, and he sweeps them a flamboyant bow.
“Princess Mary, Sister Margaret, Mistress Boleyn. What an honour it is to meet you here.”
The girls exchange a glance. To his surprise, it is Margaret who responds, even though, by virtue of her higher rank, Mary ought to be the one to answer him.
“Lord Alexander. Brother. Welcome to England.”
“Thank you, sister,” He kisses Margaret’s hand and smiles at her, “It is a pleasure to meet you at last, having heard so much of you. You must call me Sawney. All of you must. I’ll not have us stand on ceremony. We are cousins and friends, are we not?”
He steps back as he speaks, including the others in his warm, eager gaze and they nod, curtsying shallowly.
He beams. “Capital! Then I know I’ll be able to trust you all not to betray the fact that we have met before the banquet tonight. I know we weren’t supposed to, but when I realised you were all out here, I couldn’t keep away. I just had to come and introduce myself away from prying eyes.”
The girls smile back at him and his fiancée finally finds her voice.
“I’m glad you did – Sawney. I’m glad we’ve met away from prying eyes too. But you’d better go before we’re discovered. If we are, it’ll be all round Court in minutes and we don’t want that. It would spoil everything.”
“You’re right. It would. Very well, until tonight, then, my love.”
Alexander lifts Mary’s hand to his lips and kisses her knuckles, looking her lingeringly in the eyes. To his delight, she blushes under his gaze and her slender fingers tremble slightly in his. Moreover, he takes her equal reluctance to look away as a sign that, perhaps, she won’t take his next bold declaration completely amiss.
“Your voice is the most musical sound I have ever heard,” he breathes as he releases her hand, and he knows he sees her Adam’s apple flush rosy with desire as she swallows and turns away.
She’s clearly shy and sheltered, though, so he doesn’t push her any further, merely holds his hand out to his younger sister.
“Sister Margaret? Might I prevail upon you to show me the way to the mews. I brought my Leonette with me and I’d like to make sure she’s settled. She’s the finest bird I’ve got. “
“With pleasure, Sawney. But only if you call me Meg. You said it yourself, we’re siblings, and I never use my full name.”
Margaret – Meg – takes his arm and then glances back at their cousin, “If Her Highness doesn’t mind?”
She places a mischievous emphasis on Mary’s title that Alexander can’t understand, but the other girl simply waves them away, so he decides not to question it, only braces his arm and lets Meg lead him in the direction of the mews.
This was when I realized that Mary and Eleanor are playing an awfully mean trick on poor Sawney.
Indeed! I've had so much fun plotting this out for months! I've had it planned since Nora and Mary first swapped identities at five years old...
They didn't actually intend to trick him into thinking Nora was Mary. Mary really only sent her down to get a sneaky look at her betrothed so she could report back on what he looked like, etc. Like any young girl would want to see the boy she knows her parents expect her to marry without everyone around them.
But then Sawney spotted them and matched things to the miniature and assumed Susan was Nora (I mean, Anne and George are brunettes, it's not an unreasonable assumption that their younger sister would be the same, right?) and now it's all gone horribly wrong - not least because Nora has also been struck by Cupid's dart!
I'm glad you did realise, because I was wondering how to break it to you without spoiling it for anyone else who hadn't already realised!