Go off, Mary, go off! Put Papa Boleyn in his place!Dingwall, April 1534
Mary hears the shouting from two rooms away.
To begin with, she dismisses it as a simple clash of characters. Her extended confinement has been hard on her usually merry household, and tempers are fraying increasingly easily these days, particularly as it is Easter week. The ladies of her bower are bitterly disappointed that she has not yet recovered her strength enough for them to travel to Falkland and celebrate Easter with King James as he prepares to welcome his young bride. Of course, they all know their places too well to dare to turn their ill-temper on her, so they are taking their ill-temper out on each other.
Sighing, she turns back to her Mallory. Susan or Nora will sort it out.
A moment later, however, a higher voice pierces her attention. She raises her head and cocks it, confused. She’d know the rise and fall of that voice anywhere. It’s Nora’s.
What is going on? Nora never loses her temper. Never.
Perplexed, Mary sets her book aside and pushes herself to her feet, steadying herself against the edge of the fireplace as she wobbles.
Elizabeth Campbell looks at her worriedly and rises to move towards her, but Mary waves her away. She doesn’t want to be mollycoddled. Not now.
The walk from her bedchamber, where she has been reading, to her outer solar is longer than she remembers it being before Christmas, but she manages it, although she is panting with the effort and only too glad to collapse against the door frame to try to take in what she’s seeing when she gets there.
Her solar is surprisingly empty. In fact, there are only two people in it, and for a moment, Mary is worried her pounding heart and struggling breaths will give away her presence. But she soon sees it doesn’t matter. The two figures in the room are so intent upon each other that you could probably release a herd of wild horses into the room without their noticing.
Nora is facing down an older man with iron grey hair, sapphire eyes snapping with defiance.
“I said no! My loyalty is to Mary! I won’t leave Scotland without her say-so!”
“Loyalty!” The older man laughs derisively, “You dare claim loyalty to Lady Ross, when all of Christendom is ablaze with the scandal you and Lord Ross are embroiled in? If that’s what you consider loyalty, then I dread to think what you’d consider betrayal!”
“Mary asked me to take her place at Alexander’s side! She trusts me, Papa! She trusts me not to push myself forward in the way that any other girl would do!”
“Your mother would be turning in her grave.”
The words are low-voiced and silky smooth. They are made of pure, unadulterated venom.
Mary sees the moment Lord Rochford’s - for so the older man must be, if Nora is calling him Papa – arrow finds its mark. She sees it in the sudden freezing of her sister’s shoulders, in the abrupt, fierce tilt of her head, the tell-tale sign that Nora is on the verge of tears and desperately trying to hide it.
Nora has always idolised Lady Elizabeth Howard. Never having known her mother, the older blonde has always considered the woman a paragon of virtue, held her memory up as something to emulate. To suddenly be told that Lady Elizabeth would be turning in her grave at her behaviour…Well, Mary is honestly impressed that Nora manages to keep all but the tiniest tremor from her voice as she replies.
“How would I know, Father? It’s not like you ever cared to tell me of Mama. No. You sent me off to Greenwich at eight months old and washed your hands of me. The only ones who cared, the only ones who ever visited, were George and Mary.”
There is a heartbeat of silence. Nora seems to be waiting for her father to say something, but he doesn’t.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” the young blonde challenges, and Mary knows exactly how fiercely her eyes will be sparking. She’s seen Nora angry at herself or Meg enough times to be able to visualise the look on the older woman’s face, even though Nora has her back to her.
Another heartbeat of silence.
Nora scoffs. “I should have known. You don’t care for me. You never have. I’m just the daughter who killed your beloved Eliza. All you care about is making sure I don’t ruin your precious reputation. Well, do you know what? I don’t give a fig about your reputation. Or mine. You can order me all you like. I’m not coming back to England with you.”
The young blonde whirls on her heel, clearly considering the matter closed, but her father is too quick for her. His hand closes over her wrist in a vice.
“I gave you life, Eleanor Boleyn. Like it or not, I gave you life, and as such, I command your respect and obedience until such time as you should wed. Now, forget this temper tantrum and go and pack your things. We ride for Hever within the hour.”
“No.”
Mary is astonished to hear her own voice, but the cold horror that slid down her spine at the prospect of losing Nora to an English exile must have goaded her into action, for she finds herself in the middle of her solar, facing down an astounded Thomas Boleyn.
“Nora may be your daughter, Lord Rochford, but I am your Lady Princess. And I say my sister is not going anywhere.”
Mary’s legs are trembling. Her heart is pounding. She can’t quite believe she’s actually doing this. And yet, the disbelieving hope that flares in Nora’s eyes as Mary calls her her sister keeps her standing.
It gives her the strength she needs to meet Lord Rochford’s steely gaze without flinching. She cuts across his protest of ‘Madam!” as though he hasn’t even spoken.
“You stand on Scottish soil, Lord Rochford. As an Englishman, you have no authority over my household as Duchess of Ross. Only my husband has that. My husband or His Majesty King James. And neither James, Sawney nor I will countenance Nora leaving Scotland. We simply cannot imagine our lives without her.”
Lord Rochford blinks, gulps like a fish. It is clear he wants to challenge her, but he can’t. He knows he can’t. He knows it’s more than his life is worth to challenge the Duchess of Ross on Scottish soil, particularly when he is a mere Viscount and she has just secured the House of Stewart by birthing a healthy boy. He doesn’t even have the protection of being here on a diplomatic mission, because he’d be at Falkland if he were here on affairs of State. To have come all the way to Dingwall, in such high dudgeon… This is clearly a purely personal visit, and they both know it.
Mary stares the older man down, daring him to push his luck. Despite the gravity of the situation, she finds herself fighting an absurd urge to giggle. She’s never seen the suave courtier so discomforted.
At last, the Viscount settles on a crisp, icy bow, “As you say, Lady Ross.”
Mary nods and waves him away, wanting nothing more than to get this odious man out of her sight.
Thomas Boleyn obeys, but he doesn’t go down without a fight.
Unable to target Mary, he looses the last arrow in his quiver at Nora.
“You’re no daughter of mine,” he snarls, his dark eyes shooting daggers, “I’ll not have you dragging the Boleyn name through the mud any longer. You’re no better than a tavern whore, and I wash my hands of you.”
To Nora’s credit, she matches him barb for barb, refusing to be cowed.
“If you expect that to hurt me, Lord Rochford, then perhaps you should have been more of a father to me in my childhood.”
It is only when her father has stalked out, when the door has slammed behind him, when Mary, suddenly uncomfortably aware of her own cossetted childhood as the eldest daughter of a powerful and indulgent father, has held out her arms to her, that she lets the acid fall from her face, from her shoulders.
She collapses against Mary, choking back tears as bitter as wormwood. The two young women cling to one another, both shaking so hard that it is all they can do to hold one another up.
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
I use Aldenham too. I make him Viscount Aldenham, but I use Aldenham too.
Not well, I imagine.
She is rather spectacular, isn't she? I loved writing this scene.
Also, I am just writing François's coronation. @vandevere you're going to be very happy with all the pretty dresses and jewels, I hope!
Section CXVI - June 1534
Rheims, June 1534
The ancient cathedral city gleams in the Midsummer sun, the great towers of the cathedral sweeping up in stark shadow against the azure sky. The cathedral’s great bell, Charlotte, peals incessantly, deafening those who stand crammed in the square beneath the spires, straining for a glimpse of their young King.
Their young King and his Queen, both of whom are being coronated today.
The coronation has been a long time coming. It is almost a year since François succeeded his father. However, between the need to bring the war over the English Queen’s inheritance to a close and Queen Renee’s second confinement, it was thought prudent to delay, not least because the King was adamant that it would be a joint coronation, not a single one.
The citizens of Rheims were at first annoyed by this, but today, they are delighted by the development, because it has a long time since their city has hosted a joint coronation, and, having watched the preparations, they are convinced that King François and Queen Renee will spare no expense where the ceremony is concerned. Valois pride will demand no less, especially as it is the first major event to happen after the signing of the Treaty of Boulogne in December.
They are not disappointed. Although Margot and Louise are at their respective marital courts in Lisbon and Edinburgh, the Duke of Milan is still in Italy, and the Dowager Queen has thought it prudent to remain at her dower estate in Chambord, so that her unpopularity does not mar the day, the rest of the family is out in force, and they have made every effort to ensure their subjects enjoy the day as well.
The fountains are running with Burgundy wine and the finest Breton cider from cockcrow, and when François, Renee, Anne, Charly and Lisabelle ride into the square at just past seven, they are glittering in regal finery.
François wears a fashionably slashed doublet of royal blue satin, his silk shirt thick with blackwork in the shape of fleur-de-lys. A cloak of pale gold silk flutters over his shoulders, pinned in place with a fleur-de-lys brooch, one cut from a gleaming sapphire. Though he wears no crown yet, he looks every inch the ideal young sovereign as he steers his favourite chestnut palfrey expertly through the crowds.
Renee’s mount is half a step behind François’s, as protocol demands, and she, too, glitters in the sunlight. In a reversal of her young husband’s colours, she is wearing a gown of pale gold damask, patterned with the arrows and circles of Brittany in dark royal blue. Her thick fair hair spills down her back in a waterfall of the palest clover honey, woven through with strings of sapphires a full inch across.
Anne, only nineteen months old, is too young to ride alone, but even he is resplendent, riding through the streets of Rheims in a lavish litter of crimson velvet. His miniature doublet and cap are made of cloth of silver, to echo the Breton white without reminding people of mourning, and patterned with the dolphins of the French heir apparent, marked out in crimson. A sunny child, he is squealing with delight at all he sees, flailing happily in his nurse’s arms. He is driving the poor woman to distraction, but the crowds are roaring their approval of his liveliness, confident that his robust health, and that of his seven-month-old sister, Mademoiselle Marie, mean that the Crown of St-Denis is secure for another generation.
Charly and Lisabelle ride side by side behind their nephew, both guided by mounted guards to help them control their ponies in the raucous throng. Eight-year-old Charly is in pale gold satin, echoing the Queen. His glittering doublet sparkles with tiny chips of topaz, and he wears a pale blue silk cloak, held in place with a topaz brooch, which, like his brother’s sapphire, is carved into a fleur-de-lys.
Lisabelle is the odd one out. She is in neither blue nor gold. Instead, she wears a damask gown of the palest rose, patterned with fleur-de-lys picked out in tiny seed pearls, and she wears her red hair strung with diamonds that sparkle in the summer sun.
At some unseen signal, Charly draws rein and waves at the crowd. His pale blue cloak flutters in the breeze as he dismounts, crosses to his brother’s Queen and kisses her hand. Then he drops to one knee before François.
“Your Grace.”
“Lord Angouleme,” François replies, smiling down at his younger brother and gesturing to him to rise. Charly does so, flashes another impish smile at the gathered crowds and then dashes into the cathedral. After all, as the oldest Prince left in France, he is to act as one of the great lay peers and carry the Crown during the ceremony. They can’t start without him.
Lisabelle waits for her big brother to disappear into the cathedral and then nudges her pony closer to François. She is the picture of innocence, all the more so when she breaks with the prearranged plan and reaches up to kiss François, not on the hand, but on the cheek, stretching up her arms for him to take her.
There are gasps from the procession and the crowd at her daring, but François can’t help but laugh. He’s always had a soft spot for his youngest sister, who’s so much younger than he is that he sometimes feels more like her father than her brother. Indeed, the fact that she’s wearing rose, not blue or gold, is testament to that. Unhappy in the blue her older sister had picked for her, she’d begged him to allow her to wear her favourite dress, and he hadn’t been able to say no, despite the fact that it would ruin the symmetry that Renee had been aiming for in their dress.
“Come here, then, Lisabelle,” he chuckles, lifting the six-year-old on to his own saddle for a moment. She nestles back against him triumphantly, and François twists slightly, arching an eyebrow at Renee.
His wife rolls her eyes for the briefest of instants, but goes along with it, beckoning to the guard leading Anne’s litter. The officer nods, lifting the little boy down and bringing him over to his mother. Renee nudges her horse level with François’s and lets the guard settle Anne on her saddle in front of her.
The crowds go wild at this impromptu display of family unity and future stability.
When François reaches over and takes Renee’s free hand in his, lifting it to his lips, the cheering around them is so raucous that, for a moment, he wonders if it might bring down the very cathedral they stand in front of.
François never remembers his coronation. Not in full. For most of the ceremony, he feels rather as though he’s outside himself, the pomp and circumstance happening to another person entirely.
What he does remember, though, he remembers vividly.
Lisabelle insisting he take her on his saddle outside the cathedral.
The determined set of Charly’s shoulders as he hands the Archbishop of Rheims the crown.
The slick, almost slimy feel of the holy oil as he is anointed on the head, hands, feet and chest, the choristers of Rheims throwing their voices out in a glorious antiphon all around him.
Renee’s brilliant smile as she kneels around before him, her pale gold damask skirts pooling around her as she takes his hands in hers and promises to be a loyal Queen and Duchess, to help him uphold law and order, to maintain the Church’s rights, and to protect their people the way a mother and father should.
He doesn’t come back to himself, not really, until the entire rigamarole is over and he and Renee are riding back to the Palace of Tau.
Surrounded by the masses of cheering people, he steals a moment to catch his breath and glance at his beautiful wife.
Renee is waving to the crowd. Someone has managed to give her a wreath of roses and cornflowers and she wears it, slightly off-centre, on top of her Queen’s circlet, the vibrant pink and blue petals standing out starkly against her fair hair. His heart, as it often does, skips a beat at the sight of her. How did he get so lucky as to marry her?
As though she can feel his eyes on her, Renee turns to face him, beaming. Pure joy shines in her grey eyes.
She calls something to him, but the noise of the crowd whips it away, swallowing it up before it can reach him, even though they are only a handful of paces apart.
However, he sees the words form on her lips, so he manages to decipher her proud exclamation.
“We’ve done it, mon amour! France is ours!”
He doesn’t bother to try and respond, but he nods to let her know he’s understood.
After all, she’s right. The day he has been preparing for since the moment he was born is finally here. France and Brittany are his – theirs – to rule as they wish.
Will be exciting to see how François and Renee do! I wonder if Renee will develop her otl religious inclinations…
Indeed, we needed a happy chapter after the last few we've had set in France, so coronation it was, complete with lots of pretty dresses for the magpies amongst you.
Indeed!
I don't see why she wouldn't, although I suppose Marguerite wasn't around as much, so maybe not quite so fervently....?
Ooh lovely scene, everything seems so hopeful for Francois, but I suppose time will tell how long this period of relative happiness will last...
Yes, but he and Renee totally deserved it, after everything I've put France through in recent chapters!
They're very grateful for your good wishes, and yes, the descriptions were great fun to write!
Oh, absolutely! You thought Marguerite's coronation would be expensive to film? Try this one!!
Marguerite’s is expensive.
This?
This isn’t expensive. It’s not even eye-wateringly expensive.
No, no, they don’t cover it, no. No, it’s obscenely expensive.
Section CXVII - July 1534
With thanks to @The_Most_Happy for reassuring me that I have managed to nail Cecily's mental state, for various reasons 
Cecily hates prayers. There’s nothing worse, except perhaps being sent to bed with no supper, and she can always get around that, because the maids are scaredy-cats. They’re frightened of her screaming, so if she screams that she’s hungry when they’re helping Lillibet and Peggy get ready for bed, then they’ll give her bread and milk and sweets, even if Lady Bryan says they shouldn’t. They’ll do anything to make her go to sleep that late at night.
So yes, prayers are worse. They have to do them every day! Even though the chapel is cold and the floor is horrid and hard. And they’re not even allowed to pray for what they want! They always have to pray for the same boring thing – for their mother Queen Catherine to give them a brother, a Prince to make England safe.
Lillibet, the goody-goody, always kneels and prays obediently, but Cecily thinks the whole thing is silly. God’s supposed to know everything. He knows Papa needs a Prince of Wales, so why should they have to ask Him for one every day? And besides, Queen Catherine isn’t even their mother, not really!
No one thinks Cecily remembers that, because she’s only five, but she can remember a time before Queen Catherine came to England. She can! So why is Lady Bryan lying? Why is everyone lying? It’s not fair! Cecily gets into trouble when she lies, so why isn’t everyone else in trouble too?!
One morning, it’s all too much. Lady Bryan is herding them all – Lillibet, Cecily, Peggy and their companions – into the chapel again and Cecily has just had enough.
Her heart is pounding. She can’t breathe. She just wants to scream.
So that’s what she does. She’s a Lady of England. They might try and make her kneel and pray, saying that that’s what good girls do, but they can’t stop her screaming. And anyway, she doesn’t want to be a good girl. Not now.
Her shriek is long, loud and wordless, full of all the anger and confusion that’s in her head.
Three paces ahead of her with Kitty and Lillibet, Lady Bryan stops and turns.
“Lady Cecily! What’s wrong?”
The woman’s voice is largely shocked, but Cecily knows her nurses. She knows that Lady Bryan is already frustrated because she refused to get dressed this morning, because she had to bribe her with sugar flowers to have her hair brushed. She knows it won’t take much to get Lady Bryan angry. And that’s what she wants. Maybe if she can make Lady Bryan angry, her nurse will understand how Cecily feels when she’s being ordered around. Maybe then Lady Bryan will finally stop trying to make Cecily do things she doesn’t want to do all the time.
Stamping, screaming, wriggling as though she needs to relieve herself, Cecily grinds the whole procession to a halt.
Her companions, Lady Anne Hastings and Lady Frances Manners, sidle away from her. Anne is a year older than Cecily, Frances a year younger. They’ve only been in the household since May, when Cecily turned five and started a full complement of formal lessons, but they both already know that, given half a chance, Cecily will blame them for upsetting her. Neither of them want to be anywhere near her if she tells Lady Bryan or Lady Troy that they’re pushing her or pinching her.
Unlike the little girls, Lady Troy, Cecily’s Lady Mistress now that Lady Salisbury has retired following Mary’s departure for Scotland, braves the storm of temper and crouches down at Cecily’s side.
“What’s wrong, Lady Cecily?” she coaxes, “Do you need the close stool before we go to prayers?”
For a moment, Cecily considers her nurse’s words. Sometimes, if she stalls in the close stool long enough, she can get out of prayers, particularly if Lady Troy orders one of the maids to take her. They’re not as strict as Lady Bryan.
Peeping up at Lady Bryan, however, makes her realise that the hateful woman is watching her, a frown line deep between her brows. She’ll never let her off prayers. Not this morning.
And so Cecily does the only sensible thing. She stamps again and screams, roaring at the top of her lungs, as she did for hours on end as a crotchety, fractious baby, who wanted nothing more than to be walked and bounced by her wet nurse, feeding every time the clock struck.
Lady Troy tries to put an arm around her, and she slaps it away, “No! NO!”
She feels hot satisfaction fill her as Lady Bryan gasps, horrified by her conduct.
“Lady Cecily! That’s no way for a King’s daughter to behave! Apologise to Lady Troy! Now!”
Cecily doesn’t answer, just keeps screaming, plump face as red as her hair. She hates prayers and she’s not going! She’s going to keep screaming until they let her go back to the nursery and play. She’s a Lady of England, they have to do what she wants eventually!
She has some help in the end. Lady Bryan won’t give into temper, but Lillibet, bless her heart, doesn’t know she’s doing anything wrong when she comes back to her little sister and pulls her into her arms, ignoring Cecily’s screams.
“Come on, Cecy. Don’t you want to pray for Mama? For us to have a brother, so that England will be safe and Papa will be happy and spend more time with us?”
Startled out of her tears, Cecily blinks up at her older sister. Is Lillibet really that silly? Does she really believe Lady Bryan’s lies about Queen Catherine being their mother? Lillibet’s nearly eleven – she really should know better.
She turns big, injured eyes on Lillibet, and then pushes out of her big sister’s arms, crumpling against Lady Troy with a wail.
“I haven’t got a Mama! I haven’t got a Mama, and it’s all my fault!”
Lady Bryan groans at her words.
“Not this again! It’s been eighteen months since the King married Queen Catherine! Honestly!”
Lady Troy, however, melts in the face of Cecily’s noisy, hiccupping sobs, scooping her up into her lap.
“Oh, poor lamb! How many times do we need to tell you, it’s not your fault? You couldn’t help it, and anyway, your Mama was happy to give her life for you.”
Cecily nestles against the Welshwoman’s breast, content to be cossetted, even as Lady Bryan shakes her head in exasperation.
“Blanche! For heaven’s sake, can’t you see she’s playing you like a lute? Why do you always fall for that?”
Lady Troy doesn’t answer, only murmurs soothing nonsense to Cecily, who is careful to keep crying until Lady Troy sighs, heaves herself to her feet and carries her away from the chapel back towards the nursery. Only when they are ensconced in her favourite corner of the nursery, with no sign that they are going anywhere else, does she let herself be soothed, offering her nurse a sweet, watery smile as she lifts her head, her big blue eyes like forget-me-nots as they meet Lady Troy’s grey ones.
Her nurse chuckles and taps her nose, “That’s better, My Lady. I can see those beautiful eyes of yours now.”
Cecily giggles as Lady Troy tickles her. She even submits to the horn book being fetched so that they can practice her reading and her French without a fuss, she is so pleased to have avoided prayers.
She likes Lady Troy best, she’s decided. All right, she doesn’t give into stamps and screams as easily as the maids do, but she always falls for the ‘I haven’t any Mama’ ploy, which is just as good, if not better.
Hunsdon, July 1534
Cecily hates prayers. There’s nothing worse, except perhaps being sent to bed with no supper, and she can always get around that, because the maids are scaredy-cats. They’re frightened of her screaming, so if she screams that she’s hungry when they’re helping Lillibet and Peggy get ready for bed, then they’ll give her bread and milk and sweets, even if Lady Bryan says they shouldn’t. They’ll do anything to make her go to sleep that late at night.
So yes, prayers are worse. They have to do them every day! Even though the chapel is cold and the floor is horrid and hard. And they’re not even allowed to pray for what they want! They always have to pray for the same boring thing – for their mother Queen Catherine to give them a brother, a Prince to make England safe.
Lillibet, the goody-goody, always kneels and prays obediently, but Cecily thinks the whole thing is silly. God’s supposed to know everything. He knows Papa needs a Prince of Wales, so why should they have to ask Him for one every day? And besides, Queen Catherine isn’t even their mother, not really!
No one thinks Cecily remembers that, because she’s only five, but she can remember a time before Queen Catherine came to England. She can! So why is Lady Bryan lying? Why is everyone lying? It’s not fair! Cecily gets into trouble when she lies, so why isn’t everyone else in trouble too?!
One morning, it’s all too much. Lady Bryan is herding them all – Lillibet, Cecily, Peggy and their companions – into the chapel again and Cecily has just had enough.
Her heart is pounding. She can’t breathe. She just wants to scream.
So that’s what she does. She’s a Lady of England. They might try and make her kneel and pray, saying that that’s what good girls do, but they can’t stop her screaming. And anyway, she doesn’t want to be a good girl. Not now.
Her shriek is long, loud and wordless, full of all the anger and confusion that’s in her head.
Three paces ahead of her with Kitty and Lillibet, Lady Bryan stops and turns.
“Lady Cecily! What’s wrong?”
The woman’s voice is largely shocked, but Cecily knows her nurses. She knows that Lady Bryan is already frustrated because she refused to get dressed this morning, because she had to bribe her with sugar flowers to have her hair brushed. She knows it won’t take much to get Lady Bryan angry. And that’s what she wants. Maybe if she can make Lady Bryan angry, her nurse will understand how Cecily feels when she’s being ordered around. Maybe then Lady Bryan will finally stop trying to make Cecily do things she doesn’t want to do all the time.
Stamping, screaming, wriggling as though she needs to relieve herself, Cecily grinds the whole procession to a halt.
Her companions, Lady Anne Hastings and Lady Frances Manners, sidle away from her. Anne is a year older than Cecily, Frances a year younger. They’ve only been in the household since May, when Cecily turned five and started a full complement of formal lessons, but they both already know that, given half a chance, Cecily will blame them for upsetting her. Neither of them want to be anywhere near her if she tells Lady Bryan or Lady Troy that they’re pushing her or pinching her.
Unlike the little girls, Lady Troy, Cecily’s Lady Mistress now that Lady Salisbury has retired following Mary’s departure for Scotland, braves the storm of temper and crouches down at Cecily’s side.
“What’s wrong, Lady Cecily?” she coaxes, “Do you need the close stool before we go to prayers?”
For a moment, Cecily considers her nurse’s words. Sometimes, if she stalls in the close stool long enough, she can get out of prayers, particularly if Lady Troy orders one of the maids to take her. They’re not as strict as Lady Bryan.
Peeping up at Lady Bryan, however, makes her realise that the hateful woman is watching her, a frown line deep between her brows. She’ll never let her off prayers. Not this morning.
And so Cecily does the only sensible thing. She stamps again and screams, roaring at the top of her lungs, as she did for hours on end as a crotchety, fractious baby, who wanted nothing more than to be walked and bounced by her wet nurse, feeding every time the clock struck.
Lady Troy tries to put an arm around her, and she slaps it away, “No! NO!”
She feels hot satisfaction fill her as Lady Bryan gasps, horrified by her conduct.
“Lady Cecily! That’s no way for a King’s daughter to behave! Apologise to Lady Troy! Now!”
Cecily doesn’t answer, just keeps screaming, plump face as red as her hair. She hates prayers and she’s not going! She’s going to keep screaming until they let her go back to the nursery and play. She’s a Lady of England, they have to do what she wants eventually!
She has some help in the end. Lady Bryan won’t give into temper, but Lillibet, bless her heart, doesn’t know she’s doing anything wrong when she comes back to her little sister and pulls her into her arms, ignoring Cecily’s screams.
“Come on, Cecy. Don’t you want to pray for Mama? For us to have a brother, so that England will be safe and Papa will be happy and spend more time with us?”
Startled out of her tears, Cecily blinks up at her older sister. Is Lillibet really that silly? Does she really believe Lady Bryan’s lies about Queen Catherine being their mother? Lillibet’s nearly eleven – she really should know better.
She turns big, injured eyes on Lillibet, and then pushes out of her big sister’s arms, crumpling against Lady Troy with a wail.
“I haven’t got a Mama! I haven’t got a Mama, and it’s all my fault!”
Lady Bryan groans at her words.
“Not this again! It’s been eighteen months since the King married Queen Catherine! Honestly!”
Lady Troy, however, melts in the face of Cecily’s noisy, hiccupping sobs, scooping her up into her lap.
“Oh, poor lamb! How many times do we need to tell you, it’s not your fault? You couldn’t help it, and anyway, your Mama was happy to give her life for you.”
Cecily nestles against the Welshwoman’s breast, content to be cossetted, even as Lady Bryan shakes her head in exasperation.
“Blanche! For heaven’s sake, can’t you see she’s playing you like a lute? Why do you always fall for that?”
Lady Troy doesn’t answer, only murmurs soothing nonsense to Cecily, who is careful to keep crying until Lady Troy sighs, heaves herself to her feet and carries her away from the chapel back towards the nursery. Only when they are ensconced in her favourite corner of the nursery, with no sign that they are going anywhere else, does she let herself be soothed, offering her nurse a sweet, watery smile as she lifts her head, her big blue eyes like forget-me-nots as they meet Lady Troy’s grey ones.
Her nurse chuckles and taps her nose, “That’s better, My Lady. I can see those beautiful eyes of yours now.”
Cecily giggles as Lady Troy tickles her. She even submits to the horn book being fetched so that they can practice her reading and her French without a fuss, she is so pleased to have avoided prayers.
She likes Lady Troy best, she’s decided. All right, she doesn’t give into stamps and screams as easily as the maids do, but she always falls for the ‘I haven’t any Mama’ ploy, which is just as good, if not better.
Well! This chapter was certainly a rollercoaster. I went from being annoyed at Cecily to feeling a bit of pity at the motherless girl to thinking "Wow... This kid's a psycho". Lock the girl up in a monastery as far away as possible
I wouldn't necessarily go so far as to say she's a psycho, but let's put it this way. Modern doctors would probably diagnose her with at least one mental disorder, but of course the Tudor nursery has no idea what any of them are, or how to handle them. And unfortunately, at the moment, there are no plans to make her a nun. In fact, she's the future Duchess of Burgundy at this point...