And Nora is George's. That could definitely work, if Katherine doesn't mind seeing another woman in Mary's place...
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
Well, for that better Nora than anyone else. Nora had been always close and loyal to Mary and is not her fault or Alexander‘s if they fell in love.
Exactly, yes, true. All right, I'll see if I can finagle a Katherine meeting her grandchildren moment somewhere in the Butler lands at some point...
I only did that at Christmas 1534! I don't think we need it yet, surely?!
Section CXXXIV: June 1536
I'm not happy about having this chapter so soon after Mary's death, but Mary's death was slated for May 1536 long before I was talked into this story arc, so we'll have to live with it...
Orleans, June 1536
“We’ve won! We’ve won!”
The thought courses through Jean’s head; nay, his very blood, pounding triumphantly in his veins in time to the clopping of his horse’s hooves.
Oh, he’s not so simple as to think it’s all over. He’s not a child, after all. It’s not over. They’re not in Paris yet. He’s not at his brother’s council table yet.
But still. They’ve taken Orleans. Orleans, the second city of France. Oh, it didn’t come easily. It took Lord Nemours a full three weeks to deliver it into their hands, and the populace are far from happy about it, as evidenced by their sullen, silent watching of Jean’s arrival, but it’s theirs. Orleans is theirs, and as such, they hold the symbolic heart of the nation in their grasp. François will have to treat with them now. If he wants to keep his throne, wants to keep France from being torn apart, then he’ll have to.
“And the first thing I’ll make him do is beg Mama Isabelle’s pardon for taking our siblings from her and giving them to our Lady Mother. Not to mention for banishing her from Court, when all she ever sought to do was make Papa happy. It’s the least she deserves.”
Mind made up, Jean twists in the saddle to look back at Isabella. She is riding half a dozen paces behind him and Bella, radiant in a riding habit of pale green fustian, her chestnut hair spilling down to her waist from the confines of her feathered riding hat. He smiles at her, his dark eyes shining affectionately, and her own grey orbs light up as she returns the warm gaze he is bestowing upon her.
“Jezebel!”
The venomous shout cleaves the sullen silence in two.
A rock the size of both Jean’s fists put together flies in his general direction and he ducks instinctively. His piebald palfrey skitters and half-rears, startled by the sudden commotion, and for a moment, it is all Jean can do to stay in the saddle. He clings on desperately, fighting to get his horse back under control, even as his two dozen Italian guards, riding ahead of him in the procession, curse and wheel back to shield him and Bella from whatever trouble is brewing.
It doesn’t take long for order to be restored around him, but even so, Jean’s heart is racing as he looks back, to see where that stone eventually landed. What he sees nearly makes his heart stop altogether.
Isabella’s bay palfrey is plunging and squealing, fighting the iron grip that two burly guards have on its bridle. The poor beast is clearly crazed with pain and fear. But that isn’t what terrifies Jean so. What truly lances his heart is the fact that the bay’s ornate leather side-saddle is empty. Isabella herself lies crumpled on the ground, her emerald feathered hat several feet away from her. Even from twenty feet away, Jean can see the livid mark on her scalp where the rock struck her…and the gout of blood pouring from the hole in her skull, darkening and matting her beautiful chestnut hair.
“Mama Isabelle!”
Jean flings himself from the saddle without a second thought. He rushes over and drops to his knees beside Isabella, heedless of her blood, the way it stains his royal blue tunic, of the way he is endangering himself, kneeling so close to a frenzied, plunging horse.
“Mama Isabelle!”
He cradles her limp body in his arms, clinging to her like a drowning man clings to any scrap of driftwood. As he does so, a dozen memories flash through his head, all of them moments when it was the other way, when Isabella held him and comforted him, cradling him like an older sister would. Like a mother would.
He feels the tears rising, but before they can reach his eyes, they are overtaken by anger, an overwhelming tidal wave of rage that builds and builds in his chest until it is all he can feel.
Someone threw that stone.
Someone in this pox-ridden, mangy crowd of peasants threw that stone. Some stinking serf not fit to tie her shoes called his beloved Mama Isabelle a Jezebel and threw the stone that killed her.
And, as any good son would, he’s going to make them regret it. He’s going to make them wish they’d never been born.
“Find him!”
Jean leaps to his feet, screaming the order in a voice that cracks, hoarse with rage, “Find him! I don’t care if you have to tear the whole city apart to do it, find the whoreson who threw this stone!”
Perhaps if Jean were surrounded by Frenchmen, his escort would hesitate, reluctant to ride down their own countrymen. But, as befits the Duke of Milan, his guards are Italian condottieri. The paid mercenaries have no such qualms, not as long as Jean can afford to pay their wages. One glance at his face, contorted and set like stone, is enough to spur them into action.
As one, they wheel their horses and canter into the crowd, causing screams and panic everywhere they turn.
Orleans, June 1536
“We’ve won! We’ve won!”
The thought courses through Jean’s head; nay, his very blood, pounding triumphantly in his veins in time to the clopping of his horse’s hooves.
Oh, he’s not so simple as to think it’s all over. He’s not a child, after all. It’s not over. They’re not in Paris yet. He’s not at his brother’s council table yet.
But still. They’ve taken Orleans. Orleans, the second city of France. Oh, it didn’t come easily. It took Lord Nemours a full three weeks to deliver it into their hands, and the populace are far from happy about it, as evidenced by their sullen, silent watching of Jean’s arrival, but it’s theirs. Orleans is theirs, and as such, they hold the symbolic heart of the nation in their grasp. François will have to treat with them now. If he wants to keep his throne, wants to keep France from being torn apart, then he’ll have to.
“And the first thing I’ll make him do is beg Mama Isabelle’s pardon for taking our siblings from her and giving them to our Lady Mother. Not to mention for banishing her from Court, when all she ever sought to do was make Papa happy. It’s the least she deserves.”
Mind made up, Jean twists in the saddle to look back at Isabella. She is riding half a dozen paces behind him and Bella, radiant in a riding habit of pale green fustian, her chestnut hair spilling down to her waist from the confines of her feathered riding hat. He smiles at her, his dark eyes shining affectionately, and her own grey orbs light up as she returns the warm gaze he is bestowing upon her.
“Jezebel!”
The venomous shout cleaves the sullen silence in two.
A rock the size of both Jean’s fists put together flies in his general direction and he ducks instinctively. His piebald palfrey skitters and half-rears, startled by the sudden commotion, and for a moment, it is all Jean can do to stay in the saddle. He clings on desperately, fighting to get his horse back under control, even as his two dozen Italian guards, riding ahead of him in the procession, curse and wheel back to shield him and Bella from whatever trouble is brewing.
It doesn’t take long for order to be restored around him, but even so, Jean’s heart is racing as he looks back, to see where that stone eventually landed. What he sees nearly makes his heart stop altogether.
Isabella’s bay palfrey is plunging and squealing, fighting the iron grip that two burly guards have on its bridle. The poor beast is clearly crazed with pain and fear. But that isn’t what terrifies Jean so. What truly lances his heart is the fact that the bay’s ornate leather side-saddle is empty. Isabella herself lies crumpled on the ground, her emerald feathered hat several feet away from her. Even from twenty feet away, Jean can see the livid mark on her scalp where the rock struck her…and the gout of blood pouring from the hole in her skull, darkening and matting her beautiful chestnut hair.
“Mama Isabelle!”
Jean flings himself from the saddle without a second thought. He rushes over and drops to his knees beside Isabella, heedless of her blood, the way it stains his royal blue tunic, of the way he is endangering himself, kneeling so close to a frenzied, plunging horse.
“Mama Isabelle!”
He cradles her limp body in his arms, clinging to her like a drowning man clings to any scrap of driftwood. As he does so, a dozen memories flash through his head, all of them moments when it was the other way, when Isabella held him and comforted him, cradling him like an older sister would. Like a mother would.
He feels the tears rising, but before they can reach his eyes, they are overtaken by anger, an overwhelming tidal wave of rage that builds and builds in his chest until it is all he can feel.
Someone threw that stone.
Someone in this pox-ridden, mangy crowd of peasants threw that stone. Some stinking serf not fit to tie her shoes called his beloved Mama Isabelle a Jezebel and threw the stone that killed her.
And, as any good son would, he’s going to make them regret it. He’s going to make them wish they’d never been born.
“Find him!”
Jean leaps to his feet, screaming the order in a voice that cracks, hoarse with rage, “Find him! I don’t care if you have to tear the whole city apart to do it, find the whoreson who threw this stone!”
Perhaps if Jean were surrounded by Frenchmen, his escort would hesitate, reluctant to ride down their own countrymen. But, as befits the Duke of Milan, his guards are Italian condottieri. The paid mercenaries have no such qualms, not as long as Jean can afford to pay their wages. One glance at his face, contorted and set like stone, is enough to spur them into action.
As one, they wheel their horses and canter into the crowd, causing screams and panic everywhere they turn.
Well! Can't say that I'll miss Isabelle, but oh boy is this gonna end badly for the citizens of Orleans... I wouldn't be surprised if they rebelled and Jean was killed by them
I believe that Jean is a walking dead man now. He is blinded by his rage. A person blinded by their rage never makes good decisions.
No, no it is not. If anyone is interested, I was inspired by the Peterloo Massacre for that particular gambit...
No, no, it was not.
Yeah, but then were his days ever anything less than numbered the moment he became Francois's George of Clarence?
I'm not entirely sure carriages were a thing in 1536. Litters were, but carriages? Anyway, Isabella was a Lady of Navarre by birth, so if she wanted to ride in the procession, no one was going to stop her.
And yes, Jean is going to go to pieces. You're absolutely right on that.
This chapter was a balm to my soul. Now the only thing I need is for Milan to be lost to the Hapsburgs as well.
Oh damn, there goes Isabelle, I do wonder if Jean will suspect that Francois had something to do with her murder?
Do you really think it won't be... and I don't mind the chapter in and of itself. I just remember what a fuss people made when I killed George and Henri off within a couple of chapters of each other, so I wasn't thrilled about doing the same again with Mary and Isabella... but I'd decided Mary was dying on the 19th of May 1536 long before @Reyne talked me into having Francois's delay over trying to regain Boulogne cause a rebellion, thus sparking this entire story arc. I didn't fancy trying to rewrite the whole Mary/Eleanor/Sawney triangle for a storyline I'd never planned on, so we ended up with the recent chapters...
That is the one thing I didn't write. But he's not doing well, as I'm sure you can imagine...
I feel extremely sorry.. for poor Bella.
All her mother's scheming, all her open patience to wait out the Navarrese's presumption in order to consummate her marriage... and now Milan is truly lost, because there's no way that any of France's grandees will accept the expenditure of such a war in favour of such a traitor as Jean.
All her mother's scheming, all her open patience to wait out the Navarrese's presumption in order to consummate her marriage... and now Milan is truly lost, because there's no way that any of France's grandees will accept the expenditure of such a war in favour of such a traitor as Jean.