Oh, yes, sorry! I'll get on to it tomorrow!Or, I will, anyway, once you get back to me on that scene.
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
It's fine - I've been sprucing up the Power Rangers story I've been working on for NaNoWriMo and getting the first two chapters of that out, so there's not been any delay! :-D
Sent it to you in a PM. It's short, but I think it gets the point across!Or, I will, anyway, once you get back to me on that scene.
Section XX - June 1517
Rheims, June 1517
Trumpets blare through the Cathedral, calling the great crowd to attention. Every eye flicks to the tiny figure advancing up the nave, the figure swathed in white satin studded with black fleur-de-lys.
White satin and black fleur-de-lys. The Breton colours and the French emblem. Renee’s gown is a triumph of showmanship. It is a creation Louise of Savoy has been crowing over for weeks.
Proud though Louise is, however, and however good she might be at creating a theatrical event, she isn’t the key player in this event. She can’t say the vows for Renee, though she doubtless would if they’d only let her.
But that can’t be done, not with Renee both a sovereign Duchess and present at the occasion herself, and so it is the fair-haired six-year-old who kneels before the Archbishop of Rheims and Bishop of Rennes, her golden curls spread over her shoulders in a lustrous cascade.
The Archbishop waits for the hubbub her entrance has created to die down and then bends to raise her to her feet.
“Lady Renee of Brittany, do you come before all these witnesses of your own free will?”
“I do.” The high, young voice rings through the cathedral, clear as any of the bells in the tower above her head.
The Archbishop nods, satisfied, and releases her hands before stepping back to allow the Bishop of Rennes to take his place by the altar rail.
“Lady Renee of Brittany, do you swear, before all these witnesses, that you are content to wed the Dauphin, Lord François, when you both come of age? To accept him as your lord husband and as Duke of Brittany jure uxoris?”
“If it please my brother Francis, by the Grace of God King of France, and my sister Marie, by the Grace of God Queen of the same, then, by the sanctity of the ground on which I stand, I swear before all these witnesses that I am content. I will take the Dauphin as my husband as soon as His Highness comes of age.”
With those few words, the binding betrothal is complete. The Bishop of Rennes gives Renee the kiss of peace, and then the six-year-old kneels for the Archbishop’s blessing, which the elderly churchman duly gives her, making the sign of the Cross over her bent head.
Renee’s narrow shoulders slump in relief at the ceremony being over, and Marie exchanges an anxious glance with Lady Parr.
Fortunately, although Renee is shy, she has been raised a Princess. She knows the importance of putting on a show for the people. As such, by the time she turns to process down the nave again, there is a blinding smile pinned to her face. Moreover, she doesn’t even jump as the herald blows his sackbut and announces her new title, “Madame la Dauphine, Renee, Duchess of Brittany!”
Shielded by the great roar of cheering that follows his announcement, Marie and Francis share a relieved smile across the aisle. It’s done. François’s future is secure.
François’s future is secure, and France and Brittany will be united forever.
*** *** ***
Of course, the Duke of Brittany must be raised as a Breton, no matter that he is also a French Prince.
No sooner has the ink dried on Renee and François’s marriage contract, therefore, than the seven-week-old boy is sent off to St Malo, to be his father’s and betrothed’s nominal representative in Brittany.
Standing in the courtyard to see him off is the hardest thing Marie has ever done.
It is not that she doesn’t trust Madame Landais. Of course she does. She wouldn’t have accepted her as François’s governess if she didn’t.
But François is so young. He seems far too small to be sent so far from home, no matter how important it is that he go. Marie can’t believe her own mother withstood this maelstrom of pain and fear over and over again, sending first Arthur and then Meg, Henry and herself away every time it was deemed proper that they should part.
“Oh, Mother, how did you ever do it?” she breathes.
In the next moment, however, she has to swallow the anguish that is threatening to choke her, for Madame Landais brings her her son.
François is quiet, blinking sleepily in the bright June sunshine, though he gurgles slightly as Marie takes him into her arms and stares down at him, trying to commit every whorl of his features to memory. It will be weeks, maybe even months, before she sees him again, and he will change so much in that time. She wants to remember him as he is now, as her delicate baby son, because she’ll never see him quite like this again.
Humming lightly, she strokes his cheek with her finger and his eyes drift shut again.
“He’s exhausted, bless him. I doubt you’ll get out of the city before he drops off,” she chuckles and Madame Landais laughs with her, though the older woman is bleary-eyed as she answers.
“His Highness is something of a night owl, there’s no denying that, My Lady. But he eats well and doesn’t scream too much, so I can’t complain. And don’t worry. We’ll have his sense of night and day the right way round by the time we return for Christmas, I’m sure of that.”
“Good,” Marie nods and presses a kiss to François’s brow.
“I love you, my son. I love you with all my heart and I bid you never forget it.”
François snuffles slightly, and she smiles through the brightness of tears. She hands him back to his governess, hand lingering on his head for a moment longer than is strictly necessary.
“Take great care of my treasure, Madame Landais. After all, God Willing, he may rule an Empire one day.”
“Madam,” Madame Landais curtsies deeply and then turns, lifting François carefully into the lavish padded litter.
He wails slightly, unhappy at being jolted by the movement, but subsides again as his governess croons to him gently.
Marie huffs quietly and draws herself up, willing herself not to cry.
“God go with you, my son. May He hold you in the palm of His hand,” she says softly against the bite of tears.
She doesn’t move from her place in the courtyard until the last of François’s cavalcade has vanished from sight.
Well, he'll be called back to Court for big festivities every so often, but no. As is normal for the heir, he'll be brought up apart from his parents mostly.
She is - the perfect future Queen, as far as Louise and Francis are concerned.
As for Marie, she does indeed have little Margot to console her - little Margot and any younger siblings she may soon have...
Well, quite. Hence Francis and Marie's actions as soon as their son is born...
Hopefully this means that Marie will soon produce a little Duke of Orléans, though god knows slowing down on the pregnancies would probably do her health some good.
Well, living in warmer climes will also do her health some good. That and the fact that Francis is off to war soon - forcing her to slow down on the pregnancies for a year or two...
Well, with Marguerite influencing her, as well as Anne and Kate Parr, I could see her being reformist/sympathetic to the Huguenots, at the very least!
Could lead to some interesting religious developments in France for sure. Renee’s children may be able to have Paris without the mass.
With their double blood claims - yes, I know France didn't recognise female claims at this point, but surely that could be overturned if necessary? - probably, if I'm being honest...
Well, I mean, presumably Renee’s children will also be the children of dauphin François, grandchildren of Francis and Mary...they would already have a claim through the Salic law.
Technically, I believe they did. Madeleine of France (b. 1520), wife of James V of Scotland, had to sign away her rights to the throne of France for herself and her descendants on her marriage, so there was some right to the throne that females had, but what kind of right, I have no clue.
That was most likely about Brittany or a simple formality (as Madeleine without doubt had no right to the French crown for herself or her descendants)
Well, yes, that's why I referred to their claim as a double claim - one through François and one through Renee but as others have said, the one through Renee means nothing, and even if they acknowledge it in terms of making Margot/her younger sisters sign both sides of their claims away when they marry, it will just be a formality...
Part II: Section XXI - June 1520
Balinghem, June 1520
It is supposed to be a grand, formal meeting. Francis and Henry are both ambitious young men, after all, and highly aware of their own dignity as sovereigns. Any first meeting between them would have to be carefully choreographed in order to go off smoothly. And so this one is. So it should be.
But when Marie sees Henry trotting towards them on his great bay hunter, emerald jewelled cap set jauntily askew on his bright copper hair, which blazes like fire in the bright June sunshine, she can’t help herself. She squeals and kicks her horse into a flying canter, shooting out of the receiving line and past her husband to meet her brother halfway.
“Henry!” She tumbles from her saddle almost before she has wrenched her mount to a halt.
“Sweet Sister Mary!” Henry vaults from the saddle and sweeps her up into a great bear hug, pulling her feet from the ground. His joyful bellow echoes round the valley until it feels as though it can be heard for miles.
Marie hears Francis laugh behind her as he tactfully changes course to kiss Katherine, but she doesn’t care. Nor does she care that her peacock-blue skirts, embroidered with white roses in honour of the occasion, swing out around her as Henry spins her in the air. For one delicious, all-too-brief moment, she is a little girl again, cocooned in her older brother’s strong embrace.
“Mary. Oh, Mary, it is so good to see you.” She hears Henry’s low murmur as it rumbles against her chest and swats at his shoulder playfully.
“Marie. It’s Marie now. You know that.”
“Nonsense. You’ll always be Mary to me,” Henry demurs, but he is smiling as he sets her on her feet again, so she knows he isn’t upset by her insistence on the French form of her name.
He holds her shoulders for a moment longer, then releases her and strides to engulf Francis in a back-slapping embrace, calling, “Francis! It’s good to see you’re taking good care of my rose, brother!”
With that ringing endorsement, the rest of the greetings can’t help but progress smoothly. Marie and Katherine exchange kisses and smiles, the younger woman lingering in Katherine’s arms a moment longer than is strictly necessary. She inhales, treasuring the familiar blend of exotic spices that was such an integral part of her girlhood.
“Querida?” Katherine whispers questioningly, just as she has done a thousand times before.
Marie shakes herself and springs back, flashing Katherine a reassuring smile, before dashing over to link her arm with Henry’s and lead him to where four-year-old Margot and three-year-old François are waiting to be introduced to their royal uncle.
Margot drops into an unprompted curtsy as they approach.
“Hello, Uncle King,” she chirps, blue eyes sparkling, “I’m Margot. Maman has told me lots of stories of you.”
“Oh, has she now?” Henry asks, glancing at Marie and then unlinking their arms so that he can crouch down in front of Margot, “And were they nice stories, hmm?”
Margot nods frantically, “You were the hero in all of them!”
Her eyes go wide as she says this, willing her uncle to realise how rare an accolade this is. Henry chuckles and lifts Margot into his arms.
“Well, I’m very glad to hear that, Margot. After all, your Maman has always been my Lady.”
“Not any more!” Margot retorts, shaking her head so that her gentle waves cascade in front of her face in a waterfall the colour of fallen conkers.
“No?” Henry parts her hair gently, tucking it behind her ears again, “Why not?”
“Because she’s Papa’s Queen now!” Margot says this as though it should be obvious, “She can’t be both, can she?”
Margot suddenly hesitates, seeming to realise that her words might be seen as rude, and rushes on, “Can I be your Lady instead?”
Henry’s face, which has clouded at the reminder that he is no longer the first man in Marie’s life, clears instantly and he laughs.
“As long as you don’t mind sharing the role with your cousins Mary and Meg, sweetheart. They asked if they could be my Ladies a long time ago.”
Margot puts her head on one side, considering.
“All right,” she says peaceably, “But they have to play Hide-and-Seek with me.”
“I think that can be arranged,” Henry promises, before putting Margot down as François, tired of his older sister claiming all the attention, pokes him in the leg.
“And yes, you must be François,” he greets, kneeling down to take the jewelled dagger his nephew is proudly showing him, “What a fine young gentleman you are. Is this your sword?”
François nods eagerly, beaming with pride as Henry draws the dagger and swishes it through the air, pretending to lunge at the little boy a few times, before putting it carefully back into its leather sheath and presenting it to François with an incline of his head.
“Your sword, Sir,” he says gravely, drawing a giggle from the little boy, before ruffling the toddler’s copper curls and rising to his feet.
“You’ve done well with these two, sister. A pretty Princess and a dashing Knight. What more could you want? But where’s my namesake? I’ve been looking forward to meeting the little Lord of Orleans all the way. You’re not going to be so cruel as to keep him from me, are you?”
“What?” Mary looks up from buckling the dagger around François’s waist again, and then, realising what her brother has said, springs to her feet and shakes her head.
“Of course not!” she exclaims, weaving their arms together again, “Henri’s just sleeping, that’s all. He’s too little to come out at lunchtime, isn’t he, children?”
She glances back at François and Margot, and they nod frantically, falling over themselves to make their uncle understand what a baby Henri is.
“I’ll introduce you to Henri tomorrow when he’s awake, you have my word. But now we must go in to dine. Come on.”
As she speaks, Marie glances behind her to see that Francis and Katherine have paused in their conversation and are watching them with identical indulgent smiles on their faces.
Catching Francis’s eye, she stares at him meaningfully and then flicks her gaze down to where her arm is entwined with Henry’s.
He sees her point immediately. He rolls his eyes at what a devoted sister she’s being, but he does touch Katherine’s sleeve, bow over her hand and offer her his arm. Katherine takes it and the four of them go into dinner in a living tableau of Anglo-French unity.
The great summit of the Field of Cloth of Gold has begun.