You wouldn't have the late King's bastards at the coronation. Not unless they were old enough to take part in proceedings, which Gaston and Magdalena wouldn't really have been in 1533. They're at Chambord, in a set of rooms off Marie's. But given how much François resents his father's treatment of Marie, I can assure you 'he's' the one making it very clear that he doesn't want anything to do with them. Don't blame Marie for following her sovereign's wishes and leaving them in the country when she goes to Court.
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
Well, I'd merely assume that FalconHonour hasn't come back to them. Fear not, I'm sure they're well.
Indeed. Magdalena is making a brief appearance in a few chapters' time, but I haven't found a way of writing Gaston in yet...
I'd assume he'll be one of the mourners at Marie's funeral, whenever it comes?
I wasn't going to write the funeral, actually. I will, if people want me to, but I was going to finish this story with Marie's deathbed and then flash forward to an epilogue...
Section CLIII: September 1540
You're all going to hate me for this, so let's just get it over with...
Stirling, September 1540
Isobel snuffles miserably against Louise’s neck, whining uncomfortably as she tugs at her ears, trying to ease the pain in her head.
Louise cups the offending appendage with her hand and shushes her little daughter gently, hoping the warmth of her larger fingers will help. It does, a little, for Isobel quietens slightly, though her legs still flail, inadvertently kicking Louise’s burgeoning belly. Not hard, but solidly enough to make Louise wince and Lady Fleming gulp and leap forward to take her little charge.
“Your Highness! Be careful! You know you have to be careful of Her Grace’s belly. Your little brother’s in there! Madam, let me take the Princess, please. I admire your motherly devotion, but I fear for your health, and for that of the Prince, should you spend much more time with Her Highness.”
Lady Fleming’s hands have no sooner curved round Isobel’s waist, however, then the toddler screams and flinches back from her Lady Governess. She clutches her mother by the neck as though her life depends upon it.
Sighing and clucking softly, Louise shakes her head, “It’s all right, Lady Fleming. Isobel just wants her Maman today, don’t you, darling? And it’s only an ear infection. I’ve had dozens of these, it won’t hurt me. Still, perhaps you’re right to be cautious. I shouldn’t celebrate Michaelmas at Court if I might be ill, not when travelling is already harder than it needs to be, given my condition. No, I’d best stay here. Write to Holyrood, would you, and tell the King I’ll celebrate the feast day here, but I’ll join him at Lochleven as soon as Isobel is well enough to be left and the festivities are over.”
Lady Fleming nods and curtsies, “Very good, Your Grace. I’ll send a boy at once.”
The older woman leaves the room then, leaving Louise alone to fuss over her unhappy daughter in peace.
It is the early hours of the morning after Michaelmas and Holyrood’s Great Hall is all but deserted.
All that stirs is a lithe alaunt bitch, intrigued by the meaty scents emanating from the rushes and fireplace.
The pretty hazel and white animal pads around the room, stopping at intervals to eagerly nose and dig among the rushes, ferreting out various delicacies for herself.
The hearth is the site of her greatest success, for there, one of the pages, careless with exhaustion, has let an entire tray of bones slip into the loosely banked embers.
Heedless of the dangerous warmth, the bitch burrows frantically, spraying embers all over the floor until she has extricated what she wants: a large deer bone with several scraps of meat still clinging to it.
The alaunt yips with pleasure and trots out of the room, ears and tail pricked with pleasure. Within minutes, she is ensconced in a quiet sheltered corner of the palace, enjoying her prize.
She leaves several small, smouldering heaps behind her – heaps that, with access to air and fuel, stop smouldering and burst into full flame.
By dawn, Holyrood Palace is ablaze.
The Steward, the Chamberlain, the Treasurer, The Master of the Wardrobe – all the major officers of James’s household – stand in the courtyard of Holyrood Palace, shouting orders to their subordinates. Lines of servants in sopping wet livery throng the cobbled yard, passing buckets hand to hand. Their faces and arms are black with soot, except where tears or sweat have carved gorges showing the pale skin beneath. With the ghostly light of dawn around them, the men and women battling to save their palace look otherworldly.
And yet, for all their brave efforts, the building is lost. Oh, they manage to save the stables, to stop the conflagration from spreading, but that is all they achieve. The main bulk of Holyrood is too far gone, all but engulfed by the leaping, snarling flames.
“Cardinal Beaton! Cardinal Beaton!”
A young boy tears through the melee, shouting for the Archbishop in a voice hoarse with smoke.
The proud prelate almost doesn’t answer, so stunned is he by the disaster and the utter breakdown in order and protocol, but, a moment later, the urgency in the boy’s voice roots itself in his brain.
“Maitland,” he greets, holding out a beringed hand as the boy all but collapses at his feet.
“The King!” William Maitland cries, between ragged, choking coughs, “I can’t – rouse – The King – David Lindsay was – with – him – but I can’t – can’t rouse – either – either of them!”
Beaton’s heart crashes into his dust-stained slippers. He whirls, orders already on his lips, but in that moment, the great roof of Holyrood gives way in a great, shrieking mass of splintered wood and smoking thatch.
Stirling, September 1540
Isobel snuffles miserably against Louise’s neck, whining uncomfortably as she tugs at her ears, trying to ease the pain in her head.
Louise cups the offending appendage with her hand and shushes her little daughter gently, hoping the warmth of her larger fingers will help. It does, a little, for Isobel quietens slightly, though her legs still flail, inadvertently kicking Louise’s burgeoning belly. Not hard, but solidly enough to make Louise wince and Lady Fleming gulp and leap forward to take her little charge.
“Your Highness! Be careful! You know you have to be careful of Her Grace’s belly. Your little brother’s in there! Madam, let me take the Princess, please. I admire your motherly devotion, but I fear for your health, and for that of the Prince, should you spend much more time with Her Highness.”
Lady Fleming’s hands have no sooner curved round Isobel’s waist, however, then the toddler screams and flinches back from her Lady Governess. She clutches her mother by the neck as though her life depends upon it.
Sighing and clucking softly, Louise shakes her head, “It’s all right, Lady Fleming. Isobel just wants her Maman today, don’t you, darling? And it’s only an ear infection. I’ve had dozens of these, it won’t hurt me. Still, perhaps you’re right to be cautious. I shouldn’t celebrate Michaelmas at Court if I might be ill, not when travelling is already harder than it needs to be, given my condition. No, I’d best stay here. Write to Holyrood, would you, and tell the King I’ll celebrate the feast day here, but I’ll join him at Lochleven as soon as Isobel is well enough to be left and the festivities are over.”
Lady Fleming nods and curtsies, “Very good, Your Grace. I’ll send a boy at once.”
The older woman leaves the room then, leaving Louise alone to fuss over her unhappy daughter in peace.
Holyrood, Michaelmas 1540
It is the early hours of the morning after Michaelmas and Holyrood’s Great Hall is all but deserted.
All that stirs is a lithe alaunt bitch, intrigued by the meaty scents emanating from the rushes and fireplace.
The pretty hazel and white animal pads around the room, stopping at intervals to eagerly nose and dig among the rushes, ferreting out various delicacies for herself.
The hearth is the site of her greatest success, for there, one of the pages, careless with exhaustion, has let an entire tray of bones slip into the loosely banked embers.
Heedless of the dangerous warmth, the bitch burrows frantically, spraying embers all over the floor until she has extricated what she wants: a large deer bone with several scraps of meat still clinging to it.
The alaunt yips with pleasure and trots out of the room, ears and tail pricked with pleasure. Within minutes, she is ensconced in a quiet sheltered corner of the palace, enjoying her prize.
She leaves several small, smouldering heaps behind her – heaps that, with access to air and fuel, stop smouldering and burst into full flame.
By dawn, Holyrood Palace is ablaze.
The Steward, the Chamberlain, the Treasurer, The Master of the Wardrobe – all the major officers of James’s household – stand in the courtyard of Holyrood Palace, shouting orders to their subordinates. Lines of servants in sopping wet livery throng the cobbled yard, passing buckets hand to hand. Their faces and arms are black with soot, except where tears or sweat have carved gorges showing the pale skin beneath. With the ghostly light of dawn around them, the men and women battling to save their palace look otherworldly.
And yet, for all their brave efforts, the building is lost. Oh, they manage to save the stables, to stop the conflagration from spreading, but that is all they achieve. The main bulk of Holyrood is too far gone, all but engulfed by the leaping, snarling flames.
“Cardinal Beaton! Cardinal Beaton!”
A young boy tears through the melee, shouting for the Archbishop in a voice hoarse with smoke.
The proud prelate almost doesn’t answer, so stunned is he by the disaster and the utter breakdown in order and protocol, but, a moment later, the urgency in the boy’s voice roots itself in his brain.
“Maitland,” he greets, holding out a beringed hand as the boy all but collapses at his feet.
“The King!” William Maitland cries, between ragged, choking coughs, “I can’t – rouse – The King – David Lindsay was – with – him – but I can’t – can’t rouse – either – either of them!”
Beaton’s heart crashes into his dust-stained slippers. He whirls, orders already on his lips, but in that moment, the great roof of Holyrood gives way in a great, shrieking mass of splintered wood and smoking thatch.
Yes, that was amusing. You were so far off the mark and I just couldn't say anything...
Not if Louise's current pregnancy turns out to be a healthy boy, he's not. But if she has a girl, or worse, a stillbirth, then yes, he is.
I won’t pray for stillbirth but Scotland can have another princess. Long live King Alexander and Queen Eleanor! A shame that the castle burned down though
It would. And Mary’s son would be king some day. It’s what she deserves <3
I believe it is also the payoff I promised @BlueFlowwer for killing Mary so young.
Mary deserved that crown from the start. But good grief, heaven forbid that that Boleyn woman doesn't get it instead.
If we weren't so close to the end of the story, he might, but I can't start yet another complex arc now...
*Hides under a rock.*
I have, in fact, known of this for a while. This is that chapter that I was talking about.
*Hides as @BlueFlowwer hurls things at him.*
I have, in fact, known of this for a while. This is that chapter that I was talking about.
*Hides as @BlueFlowwer hurls things at him.*