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

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aoifeloveskhoward

aoifeloveskhoward

FalconHonour said:
A nice fluffy domestic scene to get me back into the swing of things. Enjoy!

Coldharbour, April 1530​

“But I don’t want Mary and Nora to go!” Lillibet pouts and stamps her foot, a dark scowl marring her usually gentle features, “Why can’t Alexander come and live here?”

Henry’s face blackens at the sound of his younger daughter’s whine, and Mary and Diane exchange a worried glance. Mary sweeps her younger sister into her arms, settling her on her lap.

“Come on, Lillibet. We’ve talked about this. You know we’ll write, and you’ll still have Meg in England with you. It’s not all bad news, is it?”

“But why can’t Alexander come and live with us? He’s not King of Scotland, that’s Cousin Jamie. So, he doesn’t have to be in Scotland. And you’re going to be Queen someday. So surely Alexander should come to live with you?”

“I’m not going to be Queen, though, am I?” Mary reminds the younger girl, cutting off their father’s angry snort before he can build up a head of steam, “Papa’s going to marry again one day soon and we’ll have a brother who can be King after him. And that will be a good thing, won’t it? You want a brother, don’t you?”

Lillibet considers, chewing the inside of her cheek.

“As long as he’s quieter than Cissy,” she says at last, “Cissy’s always noisy and I don’t like it. It makes me scared!”

The innocent declaration eases the unspoken tension and Diane laughs, ruffling the little girl’s dark hair, “Duly noted, darling. I’ll see what I can do!”

Four-year-old Peggy, who is playing with a doll at her mother’s feet, looks up at Diane’s words, little mouth open.

“Am I going to have a baby sister, Mama? Am I? Really?”

Diane looks down at Peggy’s eager blue eyes and smiles softly.

“God willing, yes. I’m due at Michaelmas.”

Peggy leaps to her feet, doll forgotten. Her red ringlets bob around her heart-shaped face as she squeals, “I can’t wait! I won’t be the baby anymore!”

“You’re not the baby now,” Lillibet points out, with all the lofty wisdom of an almost-seven-year-old, “Cissy is.”

Peggy shrugs at Lilibet’s words, suddenly, momentarily, frighteningly adult for her age, “I know that. But I never see her. I’ll get to see this baby all the time.”

She pushes her red hair out of her face impatiently as it falls in front of her eyes and Mary beckons her over, chuckling. She reaches round Lillibet to secure the cream ribbon restraining Peggy’s wild hair more firmly.

“You will. And I’m sure the new baby, boy or girl, will love hearing you sing. Both of you. So off you go. It’s time for your lessons with Master Bauer.”

She kisses them both and then shoos them out of the room, clicking the door shut behind them.

“You’re good with them, Sister. Practising for Scotland?”

The teasing remark comes from the stools by the fire, where her ten-year-old half-brother, Hal, Earl of Somerset, is setting up a chessboard, and Mary laughs in his direction.

“You laugh, Hal. It’ll be your turn before long.”

“Three and a half years! That’s ages away,” Hal retorts comfortably, then shrugs, “I’m looking forward to having my own home, though. The nursery here can get a bit crowded sometimes. Papa has promised Cat and I Sudeley and then Durham House for when we’re in London, now that the Dowager Princess has Baynard’s Castle.”

“Sudeley?” Mary raises an eyebrow, “I hear the hunting’s excellent round there. You’ll never keep Meg away!”

“Good. I want to get to know her better. It’s a shame we’ve hardly seen each other over the years, you and your household and me and mine.”

Hal can’t keep the wistful note out of his voice and Mary smiles at him fondly.

“You know why it had to be that way, Hal. Mama would never have approved of us being brought up together. But now that I’m of age, things can be different, if you want them to be. Scotland’s not that far. You’ll be more than welcome to visit, if you like?”

“I’d like that,” Hal smiles at Mary, but a thought strikes her and she turns to their father rather than respond.

“Papa, while I think of it, I’ve decided what I’d like you to give me as a boon for my wedding.”

“Oh, have you now?” Henry glances up from the lute he is tuning and raises his eyebrows. “It’s taken you long enough that I think I’m worried about how much it’s going to cost me. Come on, out with it.”

“I want you to let me choose some companions for Lillibet before I go.”

Mary sees her father’s jaw tighten at her words and rushes on before he can interrupt her, “I know she’s not an only child the way I was, but, lovely though Cissy is, she’s six years younger than Lillibet. The age gap’s too big for them to really play and learn together. I remember how much having Meg and Nora around helped me when I was younger. I want Lillibet to have the same.”

“Peggy’s only two years younger than her. And now that Mary’s dead, there’s nothing to stop them being raised together.”

“No, but they’ll both need friends. Please, Papa,” Mary pleads, crossing the room to her father and winding her arms around his neck as she has always done when she desperately wants something from him, “I’ve given this a lot of thought and I really do think it’s a good idea. I’ve even picked out one or two of the girls I want to choose already.”

“Oh, you have, have you?”

Henry’s voice is cool, treading a thin line between disinterest in the daughter who reminds him most of the woman he often wishes he’d never married, and indulgence for his eldest, whom he adores and whom he is to lose to Scotland so very soon.

Mary hears the tension in her father’s voice and sucks in a breath, before pressing on regardless. Lillibet is such a darling. She doesn’t deserve to suffer because of who she looks like.

“Yes, Papa. Meg has taken to writing to the Howards, now that she and Henry are so close to marriage. She told me the other day that Lord Edmund has died, leaving a houseful of young children to make provision for. One of the girls is only a couple of years older than Lillibet. I’m sure they’ll get along, and surely it’s the Christian thing to do, providing a place for an orphan whose father died in our service?”

To Mary’s surprise, Hal chimes in then, lending her his support.

“I know Charles Howard, Papa, and he’s a good, stout-hearted fellow. Any sister of his is bound to be a good friend to both Peggy and Lillibet. I think Mary’s right, it’s a good idea.”

Henry struggles visibly with himself, and Mary holds her breath. Has she asked too much of him, presumed too much upon his affection? But then, her father sighs and she knows it will be all right.

“How can I refuse you both at once? All right, Mary. Write and offer this young Howard a place in Lillibet’s household, if that’s really what you want. But you’ll offer Eliza Brandon one at the same time. I’ll not have the entire nursery overrun by Howards. Heaven knows there’s enough of them to do it.”

“Of course, Papa. Thank you!” Mary kisses her father’s cheek and he harrumphs gruffly, before extricating himself from her hold and turning pointedly to Hal.

“Now then, what about it, lad? Are you going to show me what you’ve learned about chess recently or not?”

Hal’s eyes light up and Mary hums happily to herself, picking up her sewing and joining Diane in the window embrasure, where Ned is playing with a gaily painted wooden horse.

She ruffles her youngest brother’s red hair and settles on a stool next to her old governess. It’s so much easier for them to have family days like this, now that she’s of age and the late Queen Mary isn’t around to protest. Given how little time she has left in England, Mary treasures each and every one of them.
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Yesssssssssssss
Kitty howard and lilibet will be besties
 
aoifeloveskhoward

aoifeloveskhoward

FalconHonour said:
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.

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.
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what hapenned
 
aoifeloveskhoward

aoifeloveskhoward

FalconHonour said:
Dingwall, October 1540​

Nora knows the moment Sawney returns to their bedchamber that something is wrong. Deeply, truly wrong.

How can she not? Her husband’s face is as white as the chalk cliffs of Dover, and he plucks Jemmy from her arms, holds him for a long moment and then hands him to Mistress Lumsden without so much as a word.

Their little son is most put out at having been torn from his warm cocoon and his frustrated roars echo down the passage for at least a full minute after Mistress Lumsden leaves, making Nora’s ears ring, yet Sawney scarcely seems to hear them. He sinks back into their marital bed and opens his arms to her, clutching her tightly to his chest.

Even safe in her embrace, however, it takes several moments for Sawney to marshal his thoughts enough to be able to speak.

“There’s – There’s been a fire.”

The words catch in his throat, and Nora tightens her hold on him, scarcely daring to breathe for fear of shattering his fragile composure. Still, she has to know. Fire is the scourge of everyone’s lives, rich or poor. She has to know the extent of what they’re dealing with.

“Where?” she asks, voice little more than a thready reed.

“Holy – Holyrood.”

Sawney’s lips can scarcely form the word. Nora gasps, unable to stop herself.

“Holyrood! But isn’t that where -”

“Louise didn’t go. Isobel – Isobel was ill and she – she didn’t want to leave her. So she was at – at Stirling. But – but my brother – my brother….

Sawney’s courage fails him. He tries three times to finish the dreadful sentence, before simply giving up and laying his head on Nora’s shoulder, weeping his heart out.

Fortunately, he doesn’t have to actually tell Nora. She has known him more than half their lives and loved him every single day. She knows that there is only one piece of news so dreadful that it would unman Sawney this completely.

“He’s gone, isn’t he?” she whispers gently, stroking her husband’s bright, chestnut hair.

As her words die away, she feels the tension fall from Sawney’s shoulders and knows she has guessed correctly.

Her heart aches for him. Having lost Mary only four years ago, she knows only too well how lost her husband will be feeling right now…and he lost Mary just as much as she did, too. His scarcely-healed wounds will have been ripped open all over again.

Still, she doesn’t try to say anything more than soothing babble. Experience has taught her that condolences just ring hollow in these early days, that they just force the bereaved to exchange pleasantries that they really don’t feel.

-Instead, she pulls Sawney into her, holding him tight, trying to remind him that, however bereft he feels right now, he’s not alone. He has her, he has his mother, he has Bobby and Maggie and little Mary Katherine, to say nothing of their own Jemmy.

A stronger family unit she cannot imagine. She only prays her husband will, one day soon, feel the same way.


“Sawney, darling? Can you sit up and drink this for me?”

Nora’s voice sounds in his ears, faint and muffled. He feels himself be half-lifted, and then a cool cup of watered mead is set to his lips.

Reluctantly, he swallows, coughing and spluttering as the herby liquid makes its way down his throat. Still, the fierce reflex, painful though it is, clears his head, and he blinks, struggling into a sitting position as his vision is restored.

Nora is sitting on the bed, her hand clenched around his so tightly it is as though she is trying to anchor him in the world of the living.

A frisson of fear goes down Sawney’s spine at that. How long has he been like this? How long has his wife had to shoulder the burdens of Dingwall alone, while he lay catatonic with grief?

Still, now is not the time to have that conversation. There is an even more pressing question that needs to be asked first.

“Have you heard from Louise?”

His voice comes out raw, dry and croaky from lack of use. Still, Nora understands him – and understands his unspoken question too.

“Not personally, no, but Lady Fleming has written from Stirling. Apparently, the physicians have ordered Louise into an early confinement there. They’re worried that travelling, so soon after James’s death, would unnecessarily endanger her unborn child. Besides, being close to Princess Isobel will doubtless be of great comfort to our royal sister. So, unless things change drastically, expect Louise to be spending the next four months at Stirling."

Expect Louise to be spending the next four months at Stirling.

The words ring like bells in Sawney’s ears and he exchanges a loaded look with his fair-haired wife.

They both know that the future of Scotland hangs on the outcome of the now Dowager Queen’s confinement. If Louise is delivered of a boy, then he will be King James VI from the moment he draws breath. But, if Louise has a girl, or God forbid, suffers a stillbirth, then, per Scottish Succession Law, Sawney will leapfrog little Isobel and become King by virtue of his male sex.

He will become Alexander IV. Nora will become Queen Eleanor.

Neither of them say anything, but, in that moment, as their eyes meet, they both know, just by looking at one another, that the words, the glittering, portentous words, are hanging in the air between them.
Click to expand...
Ok Nora needs a kid now as i got a great idea
i have an idea
Name: Sophie
Hair: Red
Eyes: brown
Spouse: An english prince or noble to try and maintain the english allience
Or
Name: Rose
Hair: Brownish blonde
Eyes: Greyish blue
Spouse: If Louise has a son maybye him
thanks for reading
 
FalconHonour

FalconHonour

aoifeloveskhoward said:
Ok Nora needs a kid now as i got a great idea
i have an idea
Name: Sophie
Hair: Red
Eyes: brown
Spouse: An english prince or noble to try and maintain the english allience
Or
Name: Rose
Hair: Brownish blonde
Eyes: Greyish blue
Spouse: If Louise has a son maybye him
thanks for reading
Click to expand...
Nora does have a child, her son James (or Jemmy). A daughter probably will follow at some point soon.
aoifeloveskhoward said:
what hapenned
Click to expand...
Holyrood burned down and James died in the fire.
aoifeloveskhoward said:
Adorable
Click to expand...
Isobel can be adorable, yes.
aoifeloveskhoward said:
Annes villan origin line
Click to expand...
😂
 
Section CLIX: April 1541
  • Index
    • FalconHonour

    FalconHonour


    Copenhagen, April 1541​

    “We, the Lords Temporal and Spiritual of Scotland, do hereby proclaim His Highness Alexander, Duke of Ross, as our gracious sovereign lord, His Grace, King Alexander IV…”

    Hans sets the proclamation down and sighs, steepling his fingers. This changes everything.

    If Dowager Queen Louise had given birth to a boy, then he’d be King James VI now. His sister would still be Princess Isobel, the King’s closest female relative.

    She’d still be a worthy match for Karl.

    As it is, however, with Alexander, Duke of Ross, now King of Scotland, she’s been leapfrogged in the Scottish Succession, not just by her male cousins, Prince Robert and Lord James, but also the new King’s daughters, Princess Margaret and Lady Mary Katherine. And that’s assuming she doesn’t acquire any further cousins.

    As heir to Denmark-Norway, Karl can definitely do better than a girl who is, at best, fifth in line to the Scottish throne.

    Now, that’s not to say the Scottish match isn’t important. On the contrary. Hans still wants to secure them as a trading partner in the North Sea. But there are better ways of going about it than marrying Karl to King Alexander’s niece. Offering little Dorothea for Prince Robert, for example, or letting Alexander switch Karl’s bride from Isobel to one of his own daughters. True, it will mean that the age gaps are rather larger than ideal, but the leap in prestige will more than make up for that.

    Hans hums for a moment, then claps his hands and leaps to his feet. He pokes his head out of his solar and calls to a passing page.

    “Tell the Count of Oldenburg to make himself ready for a trip to Scotland. I have some diplomatic matters I want him to deal with for me.”


    Beaulieu, April 1541​

    “Mary. We shall name her Mary, after her dearest oldest sister,” Henry rocks their new daughter, a fond sparkle in his eye. Indeed, his gaze is suspiciously moist, although he will never admit to being so weak as to weep at the birth of a healthy child.

    Behind his back, Catherine rolls her eyes at Meg. She’s never understood the English obsession with naming children after dead siblings, and, sentimental value or not, there’s no way on earth she’s going to let Henry name their little girl – who is very likely to be their last child, given Henry’s age and increasing girth – for his late oldest daughter. The poor girl is going to have enough of a legacy to live up without the added pressure of sharing a name with two of the women Henry adores most in the world. Particularly if the rumours are true and the Dowager Queen of France’s heart is weakening so much that she’s unlikely to see out the year.

    Meg, bless her, knows her uncle well enough to know how to intercede on Catherine’s behalf without making him angry.

    She lays a hand on his arm, silently offering to take her new goddaughter. When he places the as yet nameless child in her arms, she strokes the peachy cheek peeping out from beneath the mob cap and smiles softly.

    “Mary would be so honoured to be your namesake, but you’re not a Mary, are you, little one?”

    “Do you not think so?” Henry pauses, head half-cocked to one side, to regard Meg in some puzzlement.

    Meg shakes her head, her bright copper curls glinting in the spring sunshine flooding through the single window Catherine has been permitted in her lying-in chambers.

    “No, Uncle Henry. She doesn’t look like one. Besides, didn’t you once promise Aunt Catherine that she’d be allowed to name your daughters, once you had them?”

    “Did I?” Henry arches an eyebrow, but Catherine sees her chance and seizes it with both hands.

    “You did, husband. It was to be my reward for providing you with an heir and a spare, remember? I was supposed to be able to name Katy, but you insisted on naming her for me.”

    Catherine sees her husband about to interrupt and hurries on, deliberately thinning and weakening her voice, playing up her exhaustion and devotion to her family.

    “I was honoured to be Katy’s namesake, of course, but I’ve always dreamed of naming one of my daughters Madeleine for my mother. After all, she loved me so much that she gave her life for me in the birthing bed.”

    “The mother you never knew,” Henry’s tone is wistful, and Catherine knows he is tempted to concede the point, but he can’t quite let go of his desire to honour his beloved eldest daughter.

    She opens her mouth again, but, this time, Meg beats her to it.

    “Mary would want you to honour your promise to Aunt Catherine. You know how much importance she placed on keeping her word,” she whispers, brushing her fingers lightly against the white enamel brooch she wears prominently on her shoulder.

    It is a careful, calculated gesture, and it has the desired effect. Allowed to save face, Henry throws his hands up in surrender.

    “Very well. As you say, Meg, and as you wish, my darling Cat. Our precious jewel shall be the Lady Madeleine of England.”
     
  • Index
    • HortenseMancini

    HortenseMancini

    I think her name in English would be Magdalen or Magdalena rather than Madeleine but thank god catherine is done having babies, and i look forward to seeing one of mary's daughters as queen of denmark
     
    King of Danes

    King of Danes

    Louise won't be liking Hans' idea of a match swap one bit... But I say go for it!

    Also, wouldn't Cat's and Henry's daughter be Magdalena given that it's the English version of Madeleine? :)
     
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