A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
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Thank you! Ooh, and I think you will be very happy with the next chapter. It involves some Hans/Dorothea sibling bonding.Merry christmas!
A great way to end/start the year! 😄Thank you! Ooh, and I think you will be very happy with the next chapter. It involves some Hans/Dorothea sibling bonding.
Section CXXI - November 1534
Lisbon, November 1534
“No, Fonsi. You have to be gentle with Francisca. She’s only little, remember?”
Joao hears Margot’s patient, if slightly exasperated, tones from halfway down the passageway and chuckles to himself. His young bride has blossomed into such a good mother since Afonso arrived just over three years ago. It’s just as well, really, given they have another child on the way already. Margot has clearly inherited her mother’s fertility.
Which, again, is only to the good, given the struggles Luis and Anna are having, trying to fill the Beja nursery. It isn’t for want of trying, he knows, but, despite their efforts, after five years of marriage, Joao Nicolau remains their only child. Please God he remains healthy, if he's the only son they’re ever granted.
There is a yelp from Margot’s rooms and, drawn from his musings, Joao quickens his pace slightly. Margot’s definition of ‘gentle’ isn’t quite the same as either Afonso’s or Francisca’s, it would appear. Perhaps he’d better go and rescue his wife.
He waves away the guard who would announce him and opens his wife’s solar door himself. Afonso, curious as ever, turns to see who is coming in, clearly pleased as punch to have an excuse to avoid his mother’s scolding for hurting his baby sister.
“Papa!” he chirps, running over as fast as his little legs can turn.
With his brother’s predicament fresh in his mind, Joao feels relief swelling in him at the sight of Afonso’s clearly robust health. Joy makes him playful, and he surprises his dark little son by catching him and tossing him in the air, eliciting a squeal of delight.
“Am I Papa? Or am I…a pony?” he asks, drawing the question out and tossing his head in the manner of a restive mount.
Afonso, who has hardly known his serious father play with him like this, and who has also just started learning to ride, emits an ear-splitting squeal for the second time in as many minutes, his blue eyes alight with joy.
“Pony! Pony!”
Joao obligingly swings the three-year-old on his shoulders and capers around the room, running wherever Afonso demands, while Margot rocks six-month-old Francisca back into contentment. Part of Joao cringes away from what a ridiculous sight he must be, but he forces himself to ignore the thought. They are alone in Margot’s rooms, just the four of them. He can afford to be more of a father than a King, at least this once.
Before long, though, Francisca starts whining for fresh small-clothes, and, drawn out of his playful mood by the sound, Joao seizes the opportunity to send the children back to the nursery before Afonso can drag him into another embarrassing game. His piety and dignity can only be repressed for so long, after all.
Once they are alone, he smiles wryly at Margot and kisses her cheek.
“I see why the nursemaids call him a handful.”
“Really, Joao?” Margot cocks an eyebrow, “You only played with him for ten minutes, if that. The poor waiting-women are slaves to his whims every minute of the day.”
For the briefest of moments, faced with his wife’s cool scorn, Joao wonders when his teenage wife became so confident. The thirteen-year-old he met in Porto five years ago would never have been able to make him feel so sheepish.
He chuckles self-deprecatingly, then changes the subject by handing her the missive he received from London a few days ago.
“Here. Your Uncle Henry has a son at last.”
Margot obligingly takes the thin roll of parchment and skims it, her blue eyes flicking across the close-written lines.
“Named for the Confessor, I see, since he was born on his feast day.”
“And for your great-grandfather,” Joao reminds her, taking the letter back, before deciding to test the waters.
“I was thinking about offering Francisca for young Edward,” he says, his voice determinedly off-hand.
Margot is, predictably, horrified.
“You can’t! Joao, he’s been promised to my niece since before he was born!”
“Is your brother really planning to keep to the terms of the Treaty of Boulogne?”
Joao arches an eyebrow of his own and Margot bites her lip, “Probably not. Even he wanted to, I can’t see the nobles being happy with there being such a gaping hole in France’s northern defences. They’re going to push him into trying to retake Boulogne eventually, at the very least, if not Calais.”
“Exactly, and, well, I’m sorry, querida, but I don’t see that war going well for your brother. Not as long as your uncles are allied with one another. The Emperor is making no secret of the fact that he wants Milan back. If your brother pushes for Boulogne, he’ll use Lord Burgundy’s betrothal to Lady Cecily as an excuse to invade Italy again, and no King can fight a war on two fronts. Not alone, anyway. And your brother is further hampered by the fact that he can’t lead his troops himself. Not unless he wants to risk a very lengthy Regency for your nephew.”
“So, we have to put Portugal on the winning side.”
Margot’s voice is heavy. Part of her wants to protest. François has always been her favourite sibling, for all she spent more time with Henri and Louise, and part of her is screaming to be allowed to seduce Joao into a different decision, into standing with her beloved younger brother. But that wouldn’t be in Portugal’s best interests, not when Afonso’s future security depends on their being on amiable terms with her Uncle Charles, who, loss of Milan, Hainault, Artois, Ostend and Bruges notwithstanding, still remains the most powerful man in Christendom.
And she promised Maman when she was eleven years old that she’d always put Portugal first, that she’d put her marital loyalties above her natal ones, no matter what. She promised, and she never goes back on a promise if she can help it.
“Who’s to say King Henry will be receptive to your offer?” she points out, unable to let things lie completely, despite her best intentions, “He may not want to break the treaty either.”
“Windsor is a much older treaty than Boulogne, querida,” Joao returns quietly, “Clearly the Anglo-Portuguese alliance is considered important enough to be long-standing. Besides, not to put too fine a point on the matter, we can afford to dower Francisca much, much, better than your brother can afford to dower Marie. Show me a King in Christendom who can resist the lure of a pile of Portuguese gold.”
Margot bites the inside of her cheek. Little though she likes it, Joao is making some very salient points.
“Very well,” she concedes, “Make the offer. But offer this next child to my brother. Whether it be a boy or a girl. You say yourself you’re intending to name our second son Duke of Viseu when Isabella dies. Marie would make an excellent Duchess of Viseu, and any daughter of ours would be a wonderful Queen. And no one will begrudge us using our younger children to gain a foothold in both camps, surely?”
Joao pauses and Margot shrugs, Gallic to her fingertips, “It’s only logical, isn’t it?”
Joao’s lips twist wryly, “Could your mother wrangle your father this easily? Is that where you learnt to do it to me?”
“When I was little, yes,” Margot returns promptly, and Joao can’t help but laugh. In that moment, Margot knows she has won. Joao only laughs disbelievingly like that when he is about to cede the point to her.
“She’s taught you well, clearly. As you wish. Isabella of Spain for Afonso, Edward of England for Francisca, if we can get him, and either Anne or Marie for this one.”
He cups her slightly rounded stomach with his arm as he speaks and she offers him a soft smile.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He dips his head, seeking her lips with his and Margot lets him find them, reflecting that, while she and Joao might not share the passion she remembers her parents having, back when she was very little, that may not actually be such a bad thing. After all, the collapse of Maman and Papa’s marriage was the scandal of Christendom.
Unbeknownst to Margot, Joao is having very similar thoughts, considering that, given everything, he much prefers the deep, affectionate respect they have for one another over any kind of burning desire. Burning passion, bright as it flares, can burn itself out, after all.
Copenhagen, November 1534
“Her Highness the Princess Dorothea!”
Hans turns at the sound of his herald’s voice, a thrill going through him at the announcement. Even fifteen months after he won Denmark back from his traitorous uncle, it still delights him to hear his family addressed by their rightful titles, to know that the rank they have always claimed as theirs now actually means something.
The sight of his younger sister’s rich brocade gown pooling around her feet as she curtsies also delights him.
Oh, they were never exactly badly dressed while they lived in exile. They couldn’t be. Mama’s pride and their status as the Emperor’s nieces and nephew saw to that. It would have been a slight to the Emperor if his family hadn’t been dressed as befitted their blood. So, they’d done their best. Mama had done her best. Especially on special occasions like the opening of the Diet in Aachen, or Papa’s funeral. But still. Their circumstances had been…straitened. They’d never have been able to afford a gown as lavish as the yards of green brocade and cloth of silver Dorothea is now proudly sporting. Dresses might not be Hans’s forte, but even he can tell that as soon as look at her. To see his beautiful, chestnut-haired younger sister finally attired as she should be, therefore, makes him beam with pride, especially as she looks dazzlingly beautiful in the colours she is wearing, bright and rosy with the first flush of womanhood.
He pulls her eagerly from her curtsy and kisses her cheek.
“Dorothea. Come, sit with me. I have some wonderful news for you.”
Ever his favourite sister with her eager vivacity, Dorothea returns his smile, “You do?”
“Indeed,” Hans pours his sister a cup of mulled wine and hands it to her, gesturing to her to seat herself beside him on the divan, placing a hand over her free one as he sits down again.
“I’ve just had word from Düsseldorf. Duke John has agreed that you should marry his son and heir William. You’ll marry by proxy as soon as we can arrange the ceremony and then set sail for Düsseldorf next spring, once the winter storms are over.”
Hans looks into his younger sister’s eyes eagerly, expecting her to be as thrilled as he is. After all, at newly fourteen, the lively, energetic Dorothea has spent weeks moaning that she’s too old to live on their mother’s tight rein, that she wants more independence. Being a married woman will give her that freedom, as their mother will be forced to treat her as more of an equal. All right, Cleves is only a Duchy, but it’s an important one, with trading links all over the North Sea. In fact, its impressive wealth, relative to its size, is no small part of the reason Hans is so happy to let Dorothea marry Lord William. His younger sister has always wanted the best of everything, and, after the privations of their childhood, Hans is keen to give her what she wants. That means finding her a husband who has the money to keep up with her.
To his surprise, however, Dorothea isn’t quite so delighted. In fact, even given how well Hans knows his little sister, it is horrifyingly easy for him to read the apprehension in her eyes. Apprehension and resentment.
“Cleves?! Aren’t they heretics? You want me to marry a heretic?! Really, Hans?”
Hans raises his eyebrows, fixing Dorothea with a singularly unimpressed look.
“Don’t tell me you weren’t just as fascinated by the teachings of the reformers as Empress Marguerite, back in Flanders. Mama made sure I knew all about that the minute you arrived in Copenhagen. She’s suitably horrified, don’t worry.”
As Hans hopes, Dorothea can’t suppress a chuckle at that. He squeezes her hand and smiles at her encouragingly.
“I think you’ll be happy in Cleves, zusje. Lord William is only a couple of years older than me, and from what I can gather, he seems a good, solid fellow. He’s a keen rider. He’s got all sorts of plans for his territories once he inherits. And of course, his state will be twice the size of his father’s natal one, because he’ll get Jülich and Berg from his mother's line, as well as Cleves from his father. So, with any luck, he’ll have the money to keep up with you and your expensive tastes!”
Hans pushes Dorothea teasingly, and she shoves him back, colouring.
A moment later, however, she glances down at the lap, the spark dying in her eyes.
“I thought you’d make me a Queen,” she whispers sadly, “We’ve always been closer than you and Tina, because we remember the chaos of when Uncle Frederick seized the throne. We remember having to flee, whereas she doesn’t. I thought you’d make me Cousin Phillip’s bride instead of her, or wed me to King Henry or King Sigismund. Maybe even to Cousin Karoly. But you haven’t. Tina’s in Brussels, being raised as a future Empress, and I’m to be a mere Duchess. It just doesn’t seem fair. I’m older, I’m your favourite sister. I should have the better match. Shouldn’t I?”
Hans stifles a groan at his sister’s words. He should have known this was coming. With a week shy of a year between them, Dorothea and Christina have always been too close in age to get along well. Moreover, the matter has only been exacerbated by their vastly different temperaments. They’ve always thought of each other more as rivals than as confidantes. Of course Dorothea was going to take Christina’s Imperial match badly, particularly given hers is nowhere near as glittering.
On the other hand…
“I need Cleves, Dottje,” he interjects softly, pressing his younger sister’s hand. Dorothea looks up, startled, at his use of a long-abandoned childhood nickname, and Hans meets her gaze steadily, determined to prove his sincerity, “I need their support against the Hanseatic towns. I need them to put pressure on the other German Principalities to respect our position in the North Sea and not to invade Copenhagen the way they’ve been threatening to do. I don’t need the Emperor, not in the same way. Tina’s match is glittering, yes, but if I had to choose between your matches, I’d pick yours in a heartbeat. It’s better for Denmark. I promise.”
“Really?!” Dorothea’s eyes are wide, and Hans nods solemnly.
“Really. So, will you do it? Will you marry William of Cleves for me?”
“Of course!” Dorothea cries, earlier reservations forgotten, “If you need me to, Hans, of course I will!”
More relieved than he cares to admit, Hans pulls Dorothea close and kisses her forehead, nuzzling her bright, chestnut hair.
“Thank you, Dottje,” he whispers huskily, “Thank you.”
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duke john already ruled julich and berg on his own. it was not his wife, even though the lands belonged to her. when he died, william inherited everything, even though his mother was still alived.
Wikipedia told me William inherited from his mother as soon as he came of age, even though she was still alive, which is what I used to write Hans's speech to Dorothea. The exact quote was "William took over rule of his father's estates (the Duchy of Cleves and the County of Mark) upon his death in 1539. Despite his mother having lived until 1543, William also became the Duke of Berg and Jülich and the Count of Ravensberg."
'John was born on 10 November 1490, as the son of John II, Duke of Cleves, and Mathilde of Hesse.[1] In 1510, at the age of 19, John married Duchess Maria of Jülich-Berg,[2] daughter of Duke William IV of Jülich-Berg and Sibylle of Brandenburg, who became heiress to her father's estates Jülich, Berg and Ravensberg.[3]
John became ruler of the United Duchies of Jülich-Cleves-Berg in 1521,[4] and Lord of Ravensberg in 1528. John represented a compensatory attitude, which strove for a via media between the two confessions during the Protestant Reformation.[5] In fact, the real influence at the court of Cleves was Erasmus.[6] Many of his men were friends and followers of the Dutch scholar and theologian. In 1532 John wrote up a list of church regulations(Kirchenordnung), which expressed numerous ideas of Erasmus.[' wikipedia seems to imply john was the true ruler of julich and berg
Fair enough, but in terms of Hans's speech, I don't think it matters. John would have had the power in Berg and Julich even if he was only Duke jure uxoris. The inheritance would still have been through Maria as far as William was concerned (I suspect if he'd had a brother rather than two sisters, William would have got Cleves and the younger son Julich-Berg.) But he's an only son, so it doesn't matter.
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Ooh it seems that Joao and Hans certainly have some plans cooked up, definitely smart that Joao wants Portugal on the winning side, considering that he borders Spain.
It’s nice to see Hans being close with his sister <3 And Dorthea as Duchess of Cleves is a good match! It’ll be interesting to see how the Guelders dispute works out if one sister is Duchess of Cleves while another is Empress and sister-in-law to the Duke of Burgundy - Who does Hans marry? I cannot recall
Nah, the eldest daughter of the king of France is far too grand a match for a second son. Would never happen.
Well, quite!
Anna of Lorraine, although they won't be marrying in truth for another year or two, as Anna has only just turned 12. Although she is actually in Denmark, being raised at Hans's Court, a la Margaret of Austria in France.
Hey, Margot's got to have her share of Tudor/Valois pride! I agree, but opening negotiations, even if they go nowhere, is a little enough sop for Joao to throw her at this point, and it's definitely no worse than Edward IV offering ANTHONY WOODVILLE, of all people, for Mary of Burgundy.