A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France

Damn, Renee is really pushing the limits of what is acceptable for a Catholic in her letters. And I really hope that Katherine can see her grandchildren. It's what she deserves
 
Damn, Renee is really pushing the limits of what is acceptable for a Catholic in her letters. And I really hope that Katherine can see her grandchildren. It's what she deserves
Well, she did have Huguenot sympathies OTL, so I thought it only fair to make a nod to that here...

And we'll see about Katherine and the kids. I haven't got to May 1537 in my draft yet. I've only just hit February...
 
and frankly, Paris would have to melt into the Seine before I denied you, rebellion or not….”
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Me towards Renee.
 
As much as I desire death for Jean...
Banishment for ever and ever under all and any circumstances ever for all known time will do.
 
Renee’s anti-Papal statements have got me wondering - what’s Francois’ religious policy?
Traditional Catholic so far, but Renee's working on his tolerance of Huguenots, at the very least. Another son would help... Although he's always had a bit of a puppy crush on his older wife anyway...
 
Fabulous update as always! I’m very excited to see how Jean’s banished life goes. Also, does Isabella of Poland go with him?
 
Fabulous update as always! I’m very excited to see how Jean’s banished life goes. Also, does Isabella of Poland go with him?
She's going into exile, yes, but I suspect she won't stay married to him for long. I have a feeling she's going to end up taking the veil at some point soon...
 
Would it not be safer for Francois to force his brother to take the wows and keep him under close guard in a monastery instead of exiling him to a foreign court, where he can create troubles? It would also allow Marie more access to him (to his chagrin and Francis’ pleasure)
 
Bella can never escape awful marriages, can she?
No, I'm afraid not. Sorry.
Would it not be safer for Francois to force his brother to take the wows and keep him under close guard in a monastery instead of exiling him to a foreign court, where he can create troubles? It would also allow Marie more access to him (to his chagrin and Francis’ pleasure)
Safer, probably, but I have other plans for him...
 
Section CXXXIX: September 1536
Nantes, September 1536

“I hate to say it, Your Majesty, but Lord Milan and his conspirators had a point. They went about it all the wrong way, rising treasonably against Your Majesty, but their grievances were valid. It isn’t fitting that France should simply roll over and let the English curs rule so much of the northern coast. That we’ve never succeeded in taking back Calais is bad enough, but to allow Henry Tudor control of the County of Boulogne as well… Is it any wonder that a seasoned warrior like Lord Nemours couldn’t stand it?”

François looks across the council table at his godfather, half surprised that a proud Breton lord such as the Archbishop of Rennes should be speaking in favour of a policy that enriches his natal enemies. A moment later, he realises why. This is a widespread feeling among his council and the Archbishop has merely been nominated as spokesperson, because his status as François’s godfather lends him a little more leeway in terms of how outspoken he can be with his King.

François sighs and holds up a hand, “Ah, Yvo, I know. I’ve known since the day I signed the Treaty of Boulogne how unpopular it is. But what would you have me do? The County is Queen Catherine of England’s by right, and the Dauphin is not yet four. Lord Angouleme is hardly past the age of reason. Every man in this room knows his Ecclesiastes: Woe to thee, O land, when thy king is a child. If I were to die in battle like my father, what would become of France?”

“Your Grace need not fight,” Lord Vendome interjects, “Simply give any one of your generals the command and we would all gladly lay down our lives to bring the County of Boulogne back to France.”

“What, and be branded a coward?” François shakes his head, “No, Charles, that won’t do. My God, I’m already a mere whisker away from being a kinslayer. Let’s not add the epithet of coward to the list. Besides, let’s be blunt. We can’t afford to be seen to go along with the conspirators’ demands. Not now, not when my brother has just cost us Milan and near on 3000 of the finest French and Breton soldiers. Not when he’s just sacked Orleans for the sake of a harlot. It would make a mockery of the deaths of Lord Guise’s men, a mockery of the citizens of Orleans. And that’s before we even start looking at the financial cost. No. We recompense Orleans and we send as many of those who rose against us out to the Two Canadas as we can manage, just as soon as we can manage. Once we’ve got a steady stream of income coming in from the New World, once we’ve found that Northwest Passage Monsieur Cartier keeps talking about, then we will have re-established ourselves on the international stage, and we can start thinking about re-taking Boulogne. Who knows, by then my uncles might have started squabbling over their various holdings in the Low Countries and be distracted. We may even be able to push forward into the Empire. But I cannot, and will not, risk another war while the Dauphin is still so young. Any man who disagrees with that will find himself on the next ship to Canada alongside the rebels. Do I make myself clear?”

Silence greets François’s words. He looks round the room, noting that more than a few of his councillors still look mutinous. He growls under his breath, but says no more. He’s made his wishes and his reasoning crystal clear. If they don’t approve of it, well, then, approval be damned. He’s their King, and they’ll do what he wants. He won’t be pushed on this, at least not until he’s got his brother, Lord Nemours and His Eminence of Narbonne dealt with. Narbonne is in the Bastille, where he will stay for the rest of his life, no matter what the Holy Father has to say about it, and Lord Nemours will die this very afternoon, so that just leaves him Jean to deal with.

He turns on his heel and stalks out of the council chamber to his private audience chamber, where, he knows, Renee will already be waiting for him.



Jean doesn’t look the slightest bit sorry.

It is the first thing François notices.

His younger brother might be wearing the traditional brown and dove grey of a penitent, but he isn’t at all abashed by what he’s done. Indeed, as he stands before them, he cocks one leg to the side, leaning casually upon it in an exact mirror of a pose their father adopted a thousand times. Utterly comfortable in his own skin, Jean’s dark insouciance makes him look more like their father than François, with his Tudor red hair and height, ever will.

The knowledge burns François, driving his temper up past breaking point.

“You cost us Milan!” he spits, unable to help himself, “You cost us Milan and near on 4000 men, a significant proportion of them innocent townspeople! Have you no shame?! Have you nothing at all to say for yourself?!”

“I was doing what Papa wanted!”

Jean clearly isn’t quite as calm as he wants François to think. His dark eyes flash dangerously as he answers, “I was doing what Papa wanted. I was coming to Paris to take my rightful place on your Council and force you to send men to reclaim Boulogne! Boulogne! The county Papa died to defend!”

François scoffs, exchanging a scornful look with Renee. As he does so, he notes again just how pregnant she really is. Her belly is ballooning out in front of her in a way that would be grotesque if it wasn’t such a powerful symbol of her fecundity. By rights, she shouldn’t be here. She ought to be in confinement by now, but she has insisted on being here for this one last duty; on being at François’s side as he dispenses justice to the ringleaders of their brother’s rebellion. She says that, as a sovereign Duchess as well as his Queen, it is only right for her to be at his side, no matter what condition she may find herself in.

A surge of warmth fills François at her silent support, and he snorts again, turning back to face Jean.

“Pull the other one, little brother. You weren’t doing what Papa wanted. You were doing what that Navarrese harlot of his wanted. You’ve always danced to her tune, like a monkey dances for a piper. Your little tantrum in Orleans proved that!

“What, and you don’t dance to Maman’s?” It is Jean’s turn to scoff, and the sharp words spring to François’s lips before he can stop them.

“Better that than to scorn her the way you do! Papa never disrespected her, not in public. Christ, if it wasn’t such a slur on Maman’s honour, I’d wonder if you were actually his son at all. You certainly don’t act like it!”

“François!” Renee catches his wrist in a vice, hissing his name in a sharp reprimand, “This isn’t helping. Don’t let him get to you, mon coeur.”

Francois snarls lowly, but, fortunately for him, the nearest guard cuffs Jean across the back of the head, earning François a momentary respite in which to regain control of his emotions. Renee is right. He can’t afford to let his younger brother rile him so. Not here, not now. A King must always be in control when passing a sentence. Papa taught him that.

“You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when addressing His Majesty, traitor!”

Jean rears round, snarling with affront that a mere guard should dare to lay hands on him, the second-in-line to the throne of France, but François cuts across his whining harangue before it can truly get going.

“If it were up to me, you’d die,” he snaps, the lie like ice on his tongue, “If it were up to me, I’d cut you down where you stand like the traitor you are. You deserve no more mercy than that. However, luckily for you, you have two gracious advocates in Maman and Queen Renee. They have both pled for your life, claiming that you were too young to resist Lady Isabella’s feminine wiles when she enticed you into Lord Nemours’ serpentine plot. I would be a most unchristian son and husband if I paid them no heed. “

François deliberately pauses, a savage delight filling him as Jean’s sallow face twists at his words. How it must gall his little brother to know that he owes his life to the mother he has spent most of the last decade spurning and belittling.

Only when the silence has gone on so long as to be almost uncomfortable does François speak again, keeping his voice devoid of any emotion, a feat he can only manage because he can feel Renee’s pulse beating steadily alongside his where their wrists are touching and he can use her heartbeat to steady his own.

“You will have three weeks to set both your French and Italian affairs in order, and then I expect you to leave my lands. As of Michaelmas, you are never to set foot in France again. Indeed, if you are found within twenty leagues of any inch of French soil, I shall reward the gentleman who strikes you down with a purse of 1000 livres.”

François expects his brother to blanch at this news, or at least to look shamefaced. What he is not expecting is for Jean to throw his head back, laughing.”

“You’re a coward, brother! Dress it up as mercy all you want, but you’re nothing more than a coward! You don’t have the nerve to be Papa’s successor. Christ, you say I’m not his son, but I would have made a far better King. At least I’m willing to fight for what was mine by right!”

The words sting, and François finds himself on his feet before he knows quite what is happening.

A moment later, however, cold fury fills him and he knows that this is right. This moment could not have been any better manufactured if they had set out to achieve it deliberately.

He salutes Renee’s fingers sharply and then jerks his head at Jean’s guards, “Bring the Duke. Let him see what France does to traitors.”

He sweeps from the chamber, Jean dragged protestingly in his wake.



In the yard, Philippe, Duc de Nemours, kneels before a mounting block, a black-hooded executioner standing silent and proud behind him.

There is a small amount of consternation when the royal brothers arrive in the yard, and in truth, François can’t blame them. It is not usual for the King to attend an execution, he knows, and, given he gave Guy de Laval permission to get the executioner drunk beforehand, this is going to be a particularly unpleasant one. Nonetheless, he must watch it. This is Lord Nemours, an untrue creature worse than any in France have ever seen. He has to see him dead, for himself, for his family, and to prove to his brother that he is far from a coward. And Jean needs to see it too, needs to know what might have happened to him.

Before François has time to do more than think the thought, it has begun.

The executioner raises his axe and swings. The axe sails through the air, whistling, until it strikes the Duke's left shoulder with a sickening squelch.

François almost wants to be sick himself, but he knows he can’t, so he merely steels himself. He stands stoic and silent, shoulders set against the horror. By contrast, Jean winces at the blow of the axe, choking off a guttural cry of horror. Now that Jean has broken the silence and is clearly transfixed by the nightmare in front of him, François allows himself the luxury of a brief grimace. However, he says nothing, only turns back to the scaffold as the axe rises high into the air again, comes whistling down again and strikes Lord Nemours’ other shoulder. Both begin spewing blood into the air in great spurts, and François is highly relieved Renee is not watching this. His wife is strong, but a spectacle this gruesome would still undoubtedly send her into early labour.

The axe rises for the third time, higher than ever before, and comes whistling down again, striking the Duke's neck. Alas, much to the consternation of the agonised Duke, his neck is not severed and blood begins spurting from both his mouth and the gaping cut on his neck as the executioner, just sober enough to be aware what a hatchet job he is making of this, gives the whole thing up as a bad job and simply hacks at the gristle in the Duke’s neck, sawing the peer’s head off as though it is little more than a plank of wood.

It falls, with little more than a small thud, into the basket below the block, while blood spurts from the huge holes in the Duke’s corpse. Still writhing, the body is dragged across the yard and out of the brothers’ sight.

Forcing himself to remain calm, François turns to face his brother, gratified to see that, for all his teenage bravado, Jean looks sick to his core after that spectacle.

“That’s what I’m capable of doing to traitors, understand? So count your lucky stars that you’re my brother and get the Hell out of France before I change my mind.”

With that, he jerks his head at Jean’s guards in a motion that is half acknowledgement, half dismissal, and Jean is dragged away, suddenly unresisting now that he knows the full depth of his brother’s fury.

François scarcely manages to wait for Jean to be out of sight before he convulses, throwing up every little thing he’s eaten in the past twenty-four hours.
 
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Oh damn, François has taught his brother and all those who thought to doubt his strength quite the lesson. Lovely chapter, I can really get into François's mindset here.
 
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