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

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King of Danes

King of Danes

Always love a Danish update, and it certainly seems like things are going well for both Hans and Christina! I can’t remember, where has Dorothea ended up?
 
Tudorfan

Tudorfan

FalconHonour said:
Granada, April 1540​

The graceful columns of the Alhambra Palace gleam in the April sunshine, buffed and dusted to within an inch of their lives, as befits the site of the marriage of the Prince of Asturias and Girona.

The black bulls of Castile snap over Philip’s head, quartered with the blue lions passant of Denmark. The sixteen-year-old sits atop a dapple-grey palfrey, discreetly chewing the inside of his cheek in an effort to fight back the nerves.

It’s no good, however. Phillip can’t help but gulp in horrified anticipation at what he’s got to do this morning. As if the actual ceremony wasn’t bad enough, he’s got to get there first, and preferably without quaking or, God forbid, falling out of the saddle. The fact that he’s never progressed beyond riding a docile palfrey, as women often do, instead of a hunter, or even a charger, is bad enough. How much worse would it be if he actually lost his seat entirely on his way to wed Christina?

Christina!

At the thought of his beautiful older cousin, Phillip’s face breaks into a spontaneous, dopey grin. He’s adored his bride-to-be since she was seven and he was five and they spent the summer together in Aachen, attending his parents’ Imperial Diet. He can’t quite believe he’s actually finally going to be lucky enough to call her his wife.

“Su Alteza! Wipe that silly smirk off your face immediately! And straighten your cap! You’re to be a married man today, not a callow schoolboy!”

His majordomo, Señor de Toledo, hisses at him reprovingly under the guise of helping him shorten his shiny new stirrup leathers. Phillip flushes scarlet and reaches up to pull his cap of duck egg blue velvet straight.

The older man climbs the mounting block and promptly claps abruptly at the lapels of the matching doublet, clearing the courtyard’s dust from his charge’s shoulders.

And not a moment too soon. Señor de Toledo has scarcely deemed Phillip fit to be seen in public when a strident blast of trumpets tells them it is time to form up.

Phillip swallows hard and tightens his hands convulsively, his nerves transmitting themselves to his horse, making the beast sidle several steps.

Señor de Toledo muffles a curse and leaps out of the way, but there is no time to scold his charge. Indeed, it is as much as he can do to race for his own steed and mount up in time to fall into his honoured position in the cavalcade, scarcely a dozen paces behind Phillip.

And then they are off, trotting down the slopes from the Palace to the Chapel Royal, bright and joyful in the hard spring sunshine, as befits the Prince of Asturias and Girona’s wedding procession.


Phillip never remembers the journey. He’s too busy trying not to disgrace himself to take in more than a blur of cheering and the sweet scent of flowers and herbs being crushed beneath his horse’s hooves.

The next thing he remembers with any clarity is Christina’s arrival at the Chapel Royal.

His eighteen-year-old bride is resplendent in a gown of ruby brocade over an underskirt of silver satin. Her long blonde curls tumble to her hips, pinned back out of her face by dint of a net of tiny rubies threaded on to silver wire.

Oh, their detractors will say that Christina is too fair for the clothing the Empress has picked for her, that, in striving to highlight her new daughter’s virtue, Marguerite has drained the girl of all colour, making her look far less vital than she really is.

But to Phillip, who smiles shyly at his older cousin as she joins him by the altar and steals a blushing glance at him from behind her veil, she is perfect.

Unable to restrain himself, he leans across and plants an impulsive kiss on her cheek, tasting the warm metal of her veil against the plump curve of his lip as he does so.

There is a ripple of scandalised whispering behind him, as the dourer members of their wedding congregation realise what has just happened, but Phillip hears his mother laugh lowly, and realises with relief that he has done the right thing, at least according to one woman in the room.

Two women, in fact. Christina beams at him for his show of affection, and squeezes his hand gratefully as they turn to face the Archbishop and their wedding mass begins with the age-old words,

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the joining together in matrimony of this man, Phillip, Prince of Asturias and Girona, and this woman, Christina, Princess of Denmark, Norway and Sweden….”


Copenhagen, May 1540​

“Christina’s marriage seems to have begun well, at the very least,” Hans comments, walking into Anna’s rooms with a letter in his hand.

So absorbed is he in his sister’s missive, in fact, that he completely misses Anna’s curtsy of greeting, collides with her chair and bounces off it without missing a beat.

Reminded of her careless older brother Nicholas, Anna chuckles, jumps to her feet and steers her husband to his chair, before taking the sheaf of parchment from his hand and scanning it for herself.

“I see Prince Phillip is still very much in love with Tina,” she comments lightly, forcing herself not to blush as she speaks, “I’m not surprised, he’s been besotted with her since we were children. Do you remember how he mooned after her when we were all in Amsterdam together four years ago?”

“Indeed I do. Well, if nothing else, at least it bodes well for the safety of Spain’s succession,” Hans smirks, as servers pad forward on silent feet to place a dish of carp in apple sauce before them both.

This time, Anna can’t hide her discomfort at his ribaldry. She colours and slides her eyes away from his. Hans laughs. He loves how shy and sheltered Anna is. It makes her so easy to tease…and if he wants to be adventurous, well, that’s what mistresses are for, to do everything that you wouldn’t ask a wife to demean herself with.

Setting down his knife, he reaches for Anna’s wrist, brushing their skin together to draw her attention to him rather than her plate.

“Tina’s letter has made me think. It’s high time we thought about finding Karl a wife.”

“What?!” Anna’s mouth falls open, “But he’s not even a year old yet! I know we don’t want to delay unduly, but surely there’s no immediate rush?”

Hans shrugs, “Have you forgotten how new my hold on Denmark and Norway really is? We need allies, Anna, and the Princess Isobel of Scotland is only two years older than Karl. Another trading partner in the North Sea can only be a good thing. Why, if we play our cards right, we might even be able to get some of the Islands back by way of the girl’s dowry. What a coup that would be!”

Anna says nothing, only hums in agreement. She knows she won’t be able to sway Hans away from the idea, not now it’s in his head. Her husband has always been determined, particularly when it comes to his plans for the future of Denmark and Norway.

Still, the idea of betrothing her first-born son before he’s even old enough to stand makes her maternal heartstrings judder and ache like a lute that’s out of tune. She can play it, if she must, but doing so hurts her musical sensibilities.

As such, though she doesn’t verbally protest Hans’s scheme, later, when he has kissed her good night and left her to her own devices once more, she lets her hand trail down to her still flat stomach, where she suspects Karl’s younger sibling is already beginning to nestle and grow.

“Oh, little one,” she whispers, slipping into her native dialect, as she often does when she doesn’t want her Danish waiting-women to understand her, “Let’s hope your father will be willing to let you be a child before you have to be a pawn on the altar of his ambition, even if he won’t be quite so generous to your brother.”

​
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This is all coming together swimmingly! And I say that without any trace of irony.
 
FalconHonour

FalconHonour

King of Danes said:
I sense death coming… And I fear he’ll come for Marie’s soul this time
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vandevere said:
I was already prepared for that. Besides, she's loved longer this TL than she lived OTL, and the Butterflies she brought have flapped to great effect. I'm more worried about Catherine DE Medici...
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As the plan stands, whenever we do get to Marie's death, it *should* be the final chapter with a single epilogue and various family trees to follow...
 
Section CLII: July 1540
  • Index
    • FalconHonour

    FalconHonour

    Amboise, July 1540​

    The bells ring out above the young King’s second-favourite palace, announcing the beginning of the joust in honour of France’s newest Mademoiselle, named Renee for her mother.

    The lower-ranked knights and squires do their best, but, while they garner a few gasps and the occasional ripple of light applause, they can’t possibly hope to match up to the afternoon’s greatest entertainment.

    “The King challenges the Count of St Pol!”

    François trots out behind his herald, thick, tousled hair gleaming burnished copper in the sun. At the other end of the lists, Georges de Bourbon does the same, controlling his dappled mount with a consummate ease inherited from his mother as he inclines his bare head to his sovereign and dips his lance in salute.

    An unspoken message passes between the young men during the exchange, and François glances over his shoulder, swallowing hard.

    Lisabelle sits between their mother and Renee’s favoured childhood governess, who is deputising for her former charge as the latter recovers from the rigours of childbed.

    The twelve-year-old’s eyes are sparkling and her green taffeta gown, stitched with tiny emeralds, sets off her russet curls and alabaster skin to perfection. Moreover, it highlights her budding figure, for Renee has finally given in to her little sister’s pleading and allowed her to have a gown with a woman’s stays sewn into it.

    François takes all this in in a moment, silently sighs in acceptance, then nods to Georges almost imperceptibly.

    The two young men turn together, François’s great chestnut charger keeping perfect pace with Georges’ dappled mount as they approach the stands.

    François dips his lance to Madame de Soubise.

    “Madame. Might I have the honour of riding in your colours this afternoon?”

    “With pleasure, My Lord,” The older woman flushes and dimples as she lowers herself into a stiff-kneed curtsy, before tying a royal blue ribbon to François’s bridle.

    François leans from the saddle to brush his fingers against the fluttering fabric, then presses his glove to his lips in a semblance of a chivalric kiss as Madame de Soubise rises, then nudges his mount sideways, ceding the ladies to Georges.

    The seventeen-year-old reins back and dips his lance to Lisabelle.

    “Mademoiselle Elisabeth, would you do me the honour of letting me ride in your colours this afternoon. I would count it among the greatest of pleasures.”

    His father’s chestnut hair, his mother’s dark eyes, lithe grace and skill in the saddle. With all those charming attributes, not to mention the sizeable St Pol fortune behind him, Georges de Bourbon is the object of many young maidens’ dreams. Moreover, it quickly transpires that Lisabelle’s rank is no protection against the delights of being the centre of the young Count’s attention.

    Blushing scarlet as Georges bows to her, she squeaks and almost trips over her own feet as she scrambles to tie a slender green ribbon to the tip of Georges’ lance.

    The young man chuckles lightly, catches her hand, murmurs a few low words to her, and then lowers his lips to her knuckles in a quiet gesture of thanks. It is a small, trifling matter, common enough among the knights and gentlemen at Court, but still, Lisabelle’s utter ecstasy as she skips back to her seat is so palpable, it is almost a physical entity in its own right.

    Anne and Marie exchange a knowing glance over Lisabelle’s head. They both remember the first fancy that struck them for a knight, how sudden and all-consuming it was. Why, it’s practically a rite of passage for all young girls, and honestly, what harm can it do? Lisabelle has passed a most sheltered childhood at Chambord, buried in the country with no one but her mother and brother for company. A summer flirtation will do her maturity the world of good, and that, given the age gap between her and her betrothed, the heir to Lorraine, will be no bad thing.

    Marie leans over to her chattering daughter and squeezes her hand indulgently, “I’m very happy for you, ma petite,” she whispers, “I remember only too well how it felt when I was first allowed to give a gentleman my favour. You’re a proper young lady now.”

    Lisabelle snuggles into her side like a kitten, resting her cheek against Marie’s padded shoulder.

    “Thank you, Maman.”

    The two of them stay nestled into each other for several hours, watching the jousts almost cheek to cheek.
     
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