Section CXL: October 1536
I'm on holiday from Thursday, so wanted to get the rebellion arc squared away before I went: With massive thanks to @Tudorfan for writing the vast majority of this chapter, particularly without me even asking them to!
"You have to get me out of here!"
If it wasn't inappropriate, given the gravity of the situation they find themselves in, Claude, Duke of Guise, would burst out laughing at his younger brother’s words.
"Get you out of here?” He snorts, “Quite the opposite! What Antoine and I have to do, brother, is restore the reputation of our family. If we can. It’s going to take us years, if not decades, to undo the damage you’ve wrought on the Lorraine name.”
He holds up a hand before Jean, who is clutching the bars of the door to his cell, can interrupt, and leans in so close that his words, expelling from his mouth in little more than a furious hiss, can be heard by only the two of them alone, "Your actions, the sheer imbecility of you and Nemours, have caused untoward damage. If it wasn't for Queen Renee and Dowager Queen Marie pleading for clemency, the former Lord Milan’s head would be rotting on a spike round about now. I’m still not sure it won’t be, one of these days. I’ve never seen the King so furious.”
He trails off. The less his idiot brother knows, the better.
"Former Lord Milan?"
This time, Claude does laugh. The sound rings round the stone dungeon, sharp, nasty, and mocking. "You didn't really think that the King would allow his brother to retain any of his titles, did you? Milan, titular though it now is, has gone to Lord Angouleme and Lord Jean has been stripped to only his rank of Prince. The declaration came a few hours ago: Lord Jean - and his descendants - are banished from France - on pain of death. They’re not to so much as sail within twenty leagues of any inch of French soil, or else the man who strikes them down will be 100 livres the richer. Monsieur Jean sailed from Bordeaux at Michaelmas, with nothing but his wife and the clothes on his back, under heavy armed guard, on his way to Portugal. He's Queen Margot's problem now."
"And Nemours?"
"He died a fortnight ago. He was beheaded and died at the hands of a drunken executioner. Even that was too good for the traitor, if you ask me. I wanted him boiled alive. King François intended to hang, draw, and quarter him like a commoner, but Queen Renee pleaded her belly and won the day."
"She's-?"
"With child again?" finishes Claude. "Yes. In fact,” he adds triumphantly, “Her Grace gave birth this very morning to a boy with lungs so powerful I’m surprised you can’t hear him in here. Their Majesties have named His Highness Charles, for the brother who remained loyal to them. He’s to be Duke of Orleans, to try and repair the bonds of loyalty that Monsieur Jean so brutally sundered.”
"And me?"
"You’re never getting out of here," says Claude simply, heartlessly, as if stating a mere fact or reading a list off some parchment, rather than telling his brother he’s been sentenced to life imprisonment, “After consulting with His Holiness, King François has consented to leave you alive as an acknowledgement of your status as a Prince of the Church. Much against Queen Renee’s wishes, I might add. She doesn’t feel that your high rank in Rome should be allowed to save you from being killed as befits the traitor you are. Truthfully, I feel Her Majesty has a point. French Clergy is, after all, under the King's command.”
"Claude, get me out of here..." The words are desperate, pleading. Jean doesn’t seem to have taken in a word Claude has said to him.
"Jean," says Claude, using his brother's name for the first time since his arrival. "Your traitorous rebellion against the King because he chose not to pursue Boulogne and Calais, but rather to expand into the New World instead, means that you will only leave this cell when you die. And if you even think about doing anything stupid, then you have my word that I will be the first to join forces with Queen Renee in ensuring that that is sooner rather than later.”
"Brother!"
"Goodbye, Jean."
Claude does not even shed a tear as he turns to join his brother, who, given the circumstances, has abandoned his duties as Duke of Lorraine to come to France and help shore up the family. As a Sovereign Duke, it would be unfitting for Antoine to involve himself too closely with King François’s prisoners, but he has stood guard to make sure they weren’t disturbed. For all Claude tries to project an air of impassivity, however, deep inside, there is a part of him that is desperately struggling to ignore the screams of his little brother. The stupid little brother he wants to enclose in his arms and protect from the world.
"It's done?" Antoine asks - though his tone indicates that it's more of a statement than a question - as the two turn and walk away.
"It is," says Claude.
“How could he have been so stupid?” Antoine can’t help the question that slips from his lips, “He was always the cleverest of all of us. That’s why Papa put him in the Church, and not François or Louis.”
"He was," says Claude, somewhat sharply. Antoine doesn't scold him for his tone - he's probably grieving. "Now, he's just a rot in our family that needs to be quashed before he does any more harm."
Or, perhaps Claude isn't grieving at all. Antoine stops for a moment, turns back to the jail cells, to the shrieking, thin face of the Cardinal of Lorraine – his youngest surviving brother - staring out from the bars.
For a moment, just a small moment, pity stirs in his breast and he considers pleading with the King to release him, or at the very least commute his sentence to house arrest under the care of his family. Jean is used to luxury. He won’t last long in the bitter confines of the Bastille. Then he remembers what Claude had told him about the terror on the Dauphin’s face as he and King Francois had burst into Nantes at the head of an army, half of France behind them and trumpets blaring in triumph. He remembers Guy de Laval’s tales of the triumphant cheers of the Orleanians as he released them from Lord Milan’s tyranny, and King François’s own stories of how he had found Jean in the royal nursery, a knife to the Dauphin’s head. How he had struck the blade out of Antoine’s brother’s hand, allowing Monsieur Anne to race towards his grandmother, the Dowager Queen, his tiny shoulders shaking with terror.
He remembers all of that and every inch of him hardens. Claude is right. Jean isn’t their brother anymore, he’s just a canker on their family tree. A canker that must be burned out before it can spread.
With a nod, he holds the door for Claude, protocol forgotten, and together, the Lorraine brothers leave the Bastille and leave their former brother to his fate.
“Kate?”
“Yes?” Kate looks up from the smock she is sewing for little Geoffrey as her husband calls her name.
“Do we have plans for Christmas?”
For a moment, irritation surges in Kate. How can George not remember? They talked about this only last week… and the children are so excited to see their cousins!
Then she takes in just how much correspondence her husband is dealing with, over there at his desk in the corner, and softens. No wonder he’s distracted.
“We’re going to Aldenham, to celebrate with Will and Mary. Why?”
“Cancel that. We’re going to Ireland.”
“Ireland?” Now it is Kate’s turn not to understand. Why would they change plans that will bring them all so much pleasure? And come to think of it, why does George sound so shocked and wondering?
“Lord Ross has just written to tell me, that, given the year they’ve had, he feels that he and Nora could both do with a change of scene. He’s made it very clear that he wants us to meet them in Dublin and accompany them to Kilkenny, so that we might all celebrate Christmas there. Oh, and we’re not to say a word to Nora, because apparently it’s to be a surprise.”
Kate’s jaw drops halfway to the floor. The Duke of Ross is bringing Nora to Ireland as a Christmas gift? What on Earth has been going on in Scotland since Princess Mary died?
Stunned though she is, however, Kate wouldn’t have survived twelve years as the Queen of Portugal’s best friend if she hadn’t learnt to take almost anything in her stride where royalty is concerned.
As such, she only needs a moment to collect herself before she can answer George, though her voice is still rather fainter than normal when she does.
“Well. I suppose we’ll be celebrating Christmas at Kilkenny then. But I hope we’ve enough time to acquire a gift suitable for a royal Duke!”
The Bastille, October 1536
"You have to get me out of here!"
If it wasn't inappropriate, given the gravity of the situation they find themselves in, Claude, Duke of Guise, would burst out laughing at his younger brother’s words.
"Get you out of here?” He snorts, “Quite the opposite! What Antoine and I have to do, brother, is restore the reputation of our family. If we can. It’s going to take us years, if not decades, to undo the damage you’ve wrought on the Lorraine name.”
He holds up a hand before Jean, who is clutching the bars of the door to his cell, can interrupt, and leans in so close that his words, expelling from his mouth in little more than a furious hiss, can be heard by only the two of them alone, "Your actions, the sheer imbecility of you and Nemours, have caused untoward damage. If it wasn't for Queen Renee and Dowager Queen Marie pleading for clemency, the former Lord Milan’s head would be rotting on a spike round about now. I’m still not sure it won’t be, one of these days. I’ve never seen the King so furious.”
He trails off. The less his idiot brother knows, the better.
"Former Lord Milan?"
This time, Claude does laugh. The sound rings round the stone dungeon, sharp, nasty, and mocking. "You didn't really think that the King would allow his brother to retain any of his titles, did you? Milan, titular though it now is, has gone to Lord Angouleme and Lord Jean has been stripped to only his rank of Prince. The declaration came a few hours ago: Lord Jean - and his descendants - are banished from France - on pain of death. They’re not to so much as sail within twenty leagues of any inch of French soil, or else the man who strikes them down will be 100 livres the richer. Monsieur Jean sailed from Bordeaux at Michaelmas, with nothing but his wife and the clothes on his back, under heavy armed guard, on his way to Portugal. He's Queen Margot's problem now."
"And Nemours?"
"He died a fortnight ago. He was beheaded and died at the hands of a drunken executioner. Even that was too good for the traitor, if you ask me. I wanted him boiled alive. King François intended to hang, draw, and quarter him like a commoner, but Queen Renee pleaded her belly and won the day."
"She's-?"
"With child again?" finishes Claude. "Yes. In fact,” he adds triumphantly, “Her Grace gave birth this very morning to a boy with lungs so powerful I’m surprised you can’t hear him in here. Their Majesties have named His Highness Charles, for the brother who remained loyal to them. He’s to be Duke of Orleans, to try and repair the bonds of loyalty that Monsieur Jean so brutally sundered.”
"And me?"
"You’re never getting out of here," says Claude simply, heartlessly, as if stating a mere fact or reading a list off some parchment, rather than telling his brother he’s been sentenced to life imprisonment, “After consulting with His Holiness, King François has consented to leave you alive as an acknowledgement of your status as a Prince of the Church. Much against Queen Renee’s wishes, I might add. She doesn’t feel that your high rank in Rome should be allowed to save you from being killed as befits the traitor you are. Truthfully, I feel Her Majesty has a point. French Clergy is, after all, under the King's command.”
"Claude, get me out of here..." The words are desperate, pleading. Jean doesn’t seem to have taken in a word Claude has said to him.
"Jean," says Claude, using his brother's name for the first time since his arrival. "Your traitorous rebellion against the King because he chose not to pursue Boulogne and Calais, but rather to expand into the New World instead, means that you will only leave this cell when you die. And if you even think about doing anything stupid, then you have my word that I will be the first to join forces with Queen Renee in ensuring that that is sooner rather than later.”
"Brother!"
"Goodbye, Jean."
Claude does not even shed a tear as he turns to join his brother, who, given the circumstances, has abandoned his duties as Duke of Lorraine to come to France and help shore up the family. As a Sovereign Duke, it would be unfitting for Antoine to involve himself too closely with King François’s prisoners, but he has stood guard to make sure they weren’t disturbed. For all Claude tries to project an air of impassivity, however, deep inside, there is a part of him that is desperately struggling to ignore the screams of his little brother. The stupid little brother he wants to enclose in his arms and protect from the world.
"It's done?" Antoine asks - though his tone indicates that it's more of a statement than a question - as the two turn and walk away.
"It is," says Claude.
“How could he have been so stupid?” Antoine can’t help the question that slips from his lips, “He was always the cleverest of all of us. That’s why Papa put him in the Church, and not François or Louis.”
"He was," says Claude, somewhat sharply. Antoine doesn't scold him for his tone - he's probably grieving. "Now, he's just a rot in our family that needs to be quashed before he does any more harm."
Or, perhaps Claude isn't grieving at all. Antoine stops for a moment, turns back to the jail cells, to the shrieking, thin face of the Cardinal of Lorraine – his youngest surviving brother - staring out from the bars.
For a moment, just a small moment, pity stirs in his breast and he considers pleading with the King to release him, or at the very least commute his sentence to house arrest under the care of his family. Jean is used to luxury. He won’t last long in the bitter confines of the Bastille. Then he remembers what Claude had told him about the terror on the Dauphin’s face as he and King Francois had burst into Nantes at the head of an army, half of France behind them and trumpets blaring in triumph. He remembers Guy de Laval’s tales of the triumphant cheers of the Orleanians as he released them from Lord Milan’s tyranny, and King François’s own stories of how he had found Jean in the royal nursery, a knife to the Dauphin’s head. How he had struck the blade out of Antoine’s brother’s hand, allowing Monsieur Anne to race towards his grandmother, the Dowager Queen, his tiny shoulders shaking with terror.
He remembers all of that and every inch of him hardens. Claude is right. Jean isn’t their brother anymore, he’s just a canker on their family tree. A canker that must be burned out before it can spread.
With a nod, he holds the door for Claude, protocol forgotten, and together, the Lorraine brothers leave the Bastille and leave their former brother to his fate.
Blickling, October 1536
“Kate?”
“Yes?” Kate looks up from the smock she is sewing for little Geoffrey as her husband calls her name.
“Do we have plans for Christmas?”
For a moment, irritation surges in Kate. How can George not remember? They talked about this only last week… and the children are so excited to see their cousins!
Then she takes in just how much correspondence her husband is dealing with, over there at his desk in the corner, and softens. No wonder he’s distracted.
“We’re going to Aldenham, to celebrate with Will and Mary. Why?”
“Cancel that. We’re going to Ireland.”
“Ireland?” Now it is Kate’s turn not to understand. Why would they change plans that will bring them all so much pleasure? And come to think of it, why does George sound so shocked and wondering?
“Lord Ross has just written to tell me, that, given the year they’ve had, he feels that he and Nora could both do with a change of scene. He’s made it very clear that he wants us to meet them in Dublin and accompany them to Kilkenny, so that we might all celebrate Christmas there. Oh, and we’re not to say a word to Nora, because apparently it’s to be a surprise.”
Kate’s jaw drops halfway to the floor. The Duke of Ross is bringing Nora to Ireland as a Christmas gift? What on Earth has been going on in Scotland since Princess Mary died?
Stunned though she is, however, Kate wouldn’t have survived twelve years as the Queen of Portugal’s best friend if she hadn’t learnt to take almost anything in her stride where royalty is concerned.
As such, she only needs a moment to collect herself before she can answer George, though her voice is still rather fainter than normal when she does.
“Well. I suppose we’ll be celebrating Christmas at Kilkenny then. But I hope we’ve enough time to acquire a gift suitable for a royal Duke!”
