A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
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I imagine that his weight is about same as when he married Katherine of Aragon. He didn't really gain his OTL weight until after his injury in 1536 as he was not able to move much like he did before the accident. Without that accident, there is a good chance he would live beyond his OTL death date.
I mean, the last chapter stated that Henry had become increasingly fat and old so little Maddie was their last child. So’ I’m guessing that he’s become fairly rotund but not the same level as otl and he doesn’t have the nasty leg injury and mental issues after his ‘36 coma accident. I’d say that he probably dies in the mid 1550s here? Although for irony’s sake you could give him 1559 as a death year to match Cat Medici’s otl husband. Cat of Aragon would also be dead/dying by now I imagine? Will she be buried by her daughter?
I was thinking Henry might have her buried with Arthur in Worcester, to highlight the fact that she was Dowager Princess of Wales by right. But I suppose, if the Scots are willing to have their worst enemy buried on Scottish soil, then perhaps burying her with Mary wouldn't be out of the realms of possiblity.
"Let her be buried next to her daughter. At least we can always check that she is still dead" -Some Scot, 1540s (possibly apocryphal)
Please let Catherine rest besides Mary. She was her only child.
Her last surviving child, actually. She had other children that didn't live past the babyhood after all.
Yes, I meant only living child. I think Catherine would prefer to be next to Mary. Otl Mary wanted to be buried next to her mother.
Section CLX: May-June 1541
I have done lots of writing this afternoon and finished the draft of this story, so here's another chapter. Don't worry, you all know there's more to come from me, TL-wise. I still have several chapters' buffer of 'Titulus Princeps' and I have already written five or six chapters of my 'Kitty Howard has a Daughter' TL as well 
“Kate! Kate, where are you?”
Kate hears George’s shout before he is even halfway along the nursery corridor.
Unfortunately, so does their youngest, eleven-week-old Maud, who jolts out of her light doze and starts wailing in Kate’s arms. Kate rolls her eyes. Will George never learn not to disturb her when she is trying to put the children down to sleep?
She holds out the writhing child to the nearest nursemaid.
“Here, Siobhan. Take her. I’ll go and see what Sir George wants.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Siobhan bobs, sympathetic weariness clear in her eyes. Of all the inhabitants of the Kilkenny nursery, little Maud is by far the most difficult, and that includes her late brother Tommy, who was ailing and fretful for most of his fifteen months of life.
The moment Kate steps out of the nursery, however, her frustration vanishes at the bright grin on her husband’s face. George might be eight years her senior, but his mood is still boyishly infectious when he’s delighted. She smiles back at him, eyes sparkling indulgently.
“I take it the messenger I heard earlier brought good news?”
“We’ve been summoned to Scotland for Alexander’s coronation. Apparently, Nora is most insistent that we be there, and you know what they say about expectant mothers having to be humoured.”
Kate’s eyebrows shoot up, “Nora’s expecting again? Already? But Jemmy’s scarcely a year old. They really haven’t wasted any time, have they?”
“I think that’s why Alexander has scheduled the coronation for as soon as he has," George replies, voice faraway as his quicksilver mind continues taking in the letter from Edinburgh even as he talks to Kate. He wants to get it over and done with before Nora’s too far along.”
“Why? When do we have to be in Scotland by?”
“He wants us at Craigmillar for Midsummer, then we’ll go north to Scone. The coronation is set for the first of July.”
“Midsummer!” Kate doesn’t quite shriek, but it is a near thing. She clenches her fist in her chestnut hair, only just succeeding in suppressing the urge to tear it out in renewed frustration. Why do men never understand that travel isn’t something that can be undertaken at the drop of a hat, especially not when there are children and servants to be thought about?
True, Jamie is old enough to act as the man of the house while they’re away now, especially since Piers’s death last autumn rendered him Earl of Ormonde, but still. George is Nora’s only brother. They can’t just turn up to the coronation. They’ll have to be there in their absolute best!
Exhaling before she shakes her husband, Kate turns on her heel and whirls down the passageway before George can spring any more surprises on her. She shouts orders as she goes, only hoping against hope that her best will be good enough to meet the demands of the circumstances.
Anyone unfamiliar with Scottish tradition could be forgiven for thinking that the ceremony Alexander designs for Midsummer’s Eve is his and Nora’s coronation. They process into the Great Hall at Craigmillar Castle, both resplendent in capes of deep royal blue. Their wide trains are stitched with tiny diamonds that sparkle in the sunlight streaming through the high windows, and high, arcing crowns of finely beaten silver gleam atop their heads.
Meg carries Nora’s train, glittering in a rich gown of cloth of silver that sets her russet curls off to perfection. Her Scottish blood trumps her English rank as Countess of Surrey, just for today.
Alexander is followed down the aisle by Matthew, Earl of Lennox, one of his boyhood friends. The blonde man, just past his twenty-fifth birthday, is tall, lithe, strong and handsome in his cloth-of-silver doublet.
Seven-year-old Bobby walks between Alexander and Nora, his sleek blonde head high with pride. The little boy is wearing a doublet of amber silk, and over the puffed, slashed shoulders lies a tabard emblazoned with the arms of Rothesay. A silver circlet gleams on his brow and a half-size ceremonial sword hangs at his hip. It is the first time the little boy has ever been permitted anything other than a wooden practice sword and he can’t help but check on it constantly, brushing his fingers against the jewelled hilt every minute or so, beaming every time he does so.
As the three of them reach the dais, Alexander motions to Bobby to kneel on the velvet cushion that has been laid out for him. He crouches down to the boy’s level and murmurs to him, voice too low for anyone but his heir to hear.
A moment later, however, Alexander’s meaning is only too clear, for Bobby’s face splits from ear to ear and he nods frantically, handing his father his precious sword.
Alexander allows himself the luxury of a chuckle, exchanging an indulgent look with Nora. He taps Bobby on the head and shoulders with the boy’s own sword and then smiles down at him, “Congratulations, Sir Robert.”
“Thank you, Papa!” Bobby makes to jump to his feet, but Alexander shakes his head and reminds his son to remain kneeling as he nods to his herald.
“Prince Robert, it is His Grace’s sovereign pleasure on this, the Midsummer Eve of 1541, to proclaim thee Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick and Great Steward of Scotland.”
Applause fills the room as Alexander wraps a Duke’s mantle around his son’s shoulders and helps him to his feet, and he smiles to hear it. This ceremony wasn’t strictly necessary. Bobby would have been Duke of Rothesay with or without it. The title is his by right as heir to the throne of Scotland. But there is still something about hearing the words ring out through Craigmillar’s Great Hall that fills him with pride.
Besides, having this formal investiture allows him to please Nora by granting another title at the same time without it being blatantly obvious that that is what he is doing.
Ruffling Bobby’s hair, Alexander waves his son away and shares another conspiratorial glance with Nora.
Time to really set the cat among the pigeons.
Thomas Boleyn watches eagerly as Prince Robert is ushered back into the crowd to stand with his sisters, Princess Margaret and Lady Mary Katherine. His heart skips for joy, for the cushion has yet to be removed from the space before the dais. King Alexander clearly has it in mind to grant at least one more title before they go into dine. And who better to ennoble, if one wanted to underline Anglo-Scottish unity, than Thomas himself? After all, he might only be a Viscount in England, but he’s the new Queen of Scots’s father. Surely that makes him a shoo-in for a title? All right, perhaps Mar, with its ancient royal connections, was overreaching himself. Thomas will concede that particular point, especially as Eleanor was no more than Duchess of Ross when he asked for it.
But that fire at Holyrood changed everything. Now, with Eleanor Queen, an Earldom must be well within his grasp. After all, Eleanor revoked his banishment from Scotland especially for the coronation, and why would she do that unless she’s come to her senses and decided to do her filial duty and help Thomas advance himself and the family the way they deserve?
Besides, everyone knows the Glamis title has been forfeit for years.
“My Lord Glamis…” The words echo clear as a bell in Thomas’s head, filling him with such anticipation that it almost drowns out the herald’s next words.
“Sir George Boleyn, please step forward.”
Thomas’s jaw drops. George? George is to be honoured ahead of him? No! No! This can’t be happening. It’s unnatural for a son to be elevated above his father, everyone knows that. There must be some mistake.
There is no mistake. Delighted surprise written all over his face, George steps forward and slowly lowers himself on to the cushion, which is still warm from Prince Robert’s knees a few moments earlier. He clearly can’t quite believe this is happening either, for he keeps glancing to King Alexander, checking for continued permission every other heartbeat
The younger man smiles encouragingly and steps forward, placing a reassuring hand on George’s shoulder as the herald unrolls his second scroll and intones, “Sir George Boleyn, it is His Grace’s sovereign pleasure on this, the Midsummer Eve of 1541, to create thee Earl of Glamis and Baron Deloraine, the titles to be passed down to your lawfully begotten male heirs in perpetuity.”
“The patent of your nobility, Lord Glamis,” Alexander smiles, helping his brother-in-law to his feet and exchanging the kiss of peace with him.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” George whispers, voice shaking with disbelief. He looks past Alexander to Nora, who beams back at him and gets to her feet, leaning back to support the slight swell of her belly.
“Will you take me into dinner, Lord Glamis?” she asks, holding out her hand. She lays an almost defiant emphasis on George’s new title, daring anyone to challenge her beloved older brother’s elevation to the Scottish nobility.
Despite how many glowering faces there are in the room, no one does. No one quite has the gall to challenge the new King to his face, not the week before his coronation. Especially not given the reputation both Stewart brothers cultivated for utterly adoring their chosen brides.
George bows deeply and offers Nora his arm, “With pleasure, sister,” he smirks, brushing her outstretched knuckles with his lips.
Alexander nods permission for them to precede him from the top of the room and turns to Meg.
“It would be my pleasure if we were to make it a matched pair, Meg. Will you walk into dinner with me?”
“Of course, Sawney,” Meg beams back, resting her slender fingers lightly on his jewelled sleeve. He presses her hand down more firmly, affection in his every move, and they follow George and Nora to the edge of the crowd.
There, the Boleyn siblings step aside to allow Alexander to take his rightful place at the head of the line.
It is only when Alexander draws level with Nora that he realises precisely where his wife has chosen to halt. Amusement courses through him at the sight. His wife might be the sweetest of the Boleyns, but she’s still a Boleyn. As such, she’s far from above enacting petty revenges if the mood takes her.
Nora stands in front of her father, staring him down, her sapphire gaze icy. Alexander passes them just in time to see Lord Rochford duck his head in a graceless bow and mutter, “My Lady Queen. Lord Glamis.”
The older man looks like he is sucking a lemon. His tone is far from as respectful as it ought to be. But that doesn’t matter. The words are out. The words are out, and Thomas Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, the very same man who once disowned his youngest daughter for being no better than a whore, has acknowledged both his son and his daughter as being above him in status.
Riding high on the thrill of her triumph, Nora decides to kill two birds with one stone. She flicks her eyes to Louise, who has been told in no uncertain terms that she is expected to be present today.
“Lord Rochford. Perhaps you can make yourself useful and escort Queen Louise into dine?”
Louise’s shoulders go rigid. For her, a former Queen and Princess born, to be escorted into dinner by a mere Viscount, when there are at least a dozen Earls in the room? It is a pointed slight dressed up as courtesy, and she knows it.
But she can’t protest. Not with Alexander himself following the power play keenly.
The young woman lowers herself into a stiff half-curtsy, face pinched with hatred. She says nothing, but she doesn’t need to. Abasing herself is enough. In one brief movement, Louise cedes the final vestiges of her regal authority to Nora.
Allowing herself a soft smile, the blonde tugs at her brother’s arm and sweeps from the room in her husband’s wake, highly satisfied with her afternoon’s work. In a matter of moments, both her greatest detractors have been forced to acknowledge her as the most powerful woman in Scotland.
Kilkenny, May 1541
“Kate! Kate, where are you?”
Kate hears George’s shout before he is even halfway along the nursery corridor.
Unfortunately, so does their youngest, eleven-week-old Maud, who jolts out of her light doze and starts wailing in Kate’s arms. Kate rolls her eyes. Will George never learn not to disturb her when she is trying to put the children down to sleep?
She holds out the writhing child to the nearest nursemaid.
“Here, Siobhan. Take her. I’ll go and see what Sir George wants.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Siobhan bobs, sympathetic weariness clear in her eyes. Of all the inhabitants of the Kilkenny nursery, little Maud is by far the most difficult, and that includes her late brother Tommy, who was ailing and fretful for most of his fifteen months of life.
The moment Kate steps out of the nursery, however, her frustration vanishes at the bright grin on her husband’s face. George might be eight years her senior, but his mood is still boyishly infectious when he’s delighted. She smiles back at him, eyes sparkling indulgently.
“I take it the messenger I heard earlier brought good news?”
“We’ve been summoned to Scotland for Alexander’s coronation. Apparently, Nora is most insistent that we be there, and you know what they say about expectant mothers having to be humoured.”
Kate’s eyebrows shoot up, “Nora’s expecting again? Already? But Jemmy’s scarcely a year old. They really haven’t wasted any time, have they?”
“I think that’s why Alexander has scheduled the coronation for as soon as he has," George replies, voice faraway as his quicksilver mind continues taking in the letter from Edinburgh even as he talks to Kate. He wants to get it over and done with before Nora’s too far along.”
“Why? When do we have to be in Scotland by?”
“He wants us at Craigmillar for Midsummer, then we’ll go north to Scone. The coronation is set for the first of July.”
“Midsummer!” Kate doesn’t quite shriek, but it is a near thing. She clenches her fist in her chestnut hair, only just succeeding in suppressing the urge to tear it out in renewed frustration. Why do men never understand that travel isn’t something that can be undertaken at the drop of a hat, especially not when there are children and servants to be thought about?
True, Jamie is old enough to act as the man of the house while they’re away now, especially since Piers’s death last autumn rendered him Earl of Ormonde, but still. George is Nora’s only brother. They can’t just turn up to the coronation. They’ll have to be there in their absolute best!
Exhaling before she shakes her husband, Kate turns on her heel and whirls down the passageway before George can spring any more surprises on her. She shouts orders as she goes, only hoping against hope that her best will be good enough to meet the demands of the circumstances.
Craigmillar, Midsummer 1541
Anyone unfamiliar with Scottish tradition could be forgiven for thinking that the ceremony Alexander designs for Midsummer’s Eve is his and Nora’s coronation. They process into the Great Hall at Craigmillar Castle, both resplendent in capes of deep royal blue. Their wide trains are stitched with tiny diamonds that sparkle in the sunlight streaming through the high windows, and high, arcing crowns of finely beaten silver gleam atop their heads.
Meg carries Nora’s train, glittering in a rich gown of cloth of silver that sets her russet curls off to perfection. Her Scottish blood trumps her English rank as Countess of Surrey, just for today.
Alexander is followed down the aisle by Matthew, Earl of Lennox, one of his boyhood friends. The blonde man, just past his twenty-fifth birthday, is tall, lithe, strong and handsome in his cloth-of-silver doublet.
Seven-year-old Bobby walks between Alexander and Nora, his sleek blonde head high with pride. The little boy is wearing a doublet of amber silk, and over the puffed, slashed shoulders lies a tabard emblazoned with the arms of Rothesay. A silver circlet gleams on his brow and a half-size ceremonial sword hangs at his hip. It is the first time the little boy has ever been permitted anything other than a wooden practice sword and he can’t help but check on it constantly, brushing his fingers against the jewelled hilt every minute or so, beaming every time he does so.
As the three of them reach the dais, Alexander motions to Bobby to kneel on the velvet cushion that has been laid out for him. He crouches down to the boy’s level and murmurs to him, voice too low for anyone but his heir to hear.
A moment later, however, Alexander’s meaning is only too clear, for Bobby’s face splits from ear to ear and he nods frantically, handing his father his precious sword.
Alexander allows himself the luxury of a chuckle, exchanging an indulgent look with Nora. He taps Bobby on the head and shoulders with the boy’s own sword and then smiles down at him, “Congratulations, Sir Robert.”
“Thank you, Papa!” Bobby makes to jump to his feet, but Alexander shakes his head and reminds his son to remain kneeling as he nods to his herald.
“Prince Robert, it is His Grace’s sovereign pleasure on this, the Midsummer Eve of 1541, to proclaim thee Duke of Rothesay, Earl of Carrick and Great Steward of Scotland.”
Applause fills the room as Alexander wraps a Duke’s mantle around his son’s shoulders and helps him to his feet, and he smiles to hear it. This ceremony wasn’t strictly necessary. Bobby would have been Duke of Rothesay with or without it. The title is his by right as heir to the throne of Scotland. But there is still something about hearing the words ring out through Craigmillar’s Great Hall that fills him with pride.
Besides, having this formal investiture allows him to please Nora by granting another title at the same time without it being blatantly obvious that that is what he is doing.
Ruffling Bobby’s hair, Alexander waves his son away and shares another conspiratorial glance with Nora.
Time to really set the cat among the pigeons.
Thomas Boleyn watches eagerly as Prince Robert is ushered back into the crowd to stand with his sisters, Princess Margaret and Lady Mary Katherine. His heart skips for joy, for the cushion has yet to be removed from the space before the dais. King Alexander clearly has it in mind to grant at least one more title before they go into dine. And who better to ennoble, if one wanted to underline Anglo-Scottish unity, than Thomas himself? After all, he might only be a Viscount in England, but he’s the new Queen of Scots’s father. Surely that makes him a shoo-in for a title? All right, perhaps Mar, with its ancient royal connections, was overreaching himself. Thomas will concede that particular point, especially as Eleanor was no more than Duchess of Ross when he asked for it.
But that fire at Holyrood changed everything. Now, with Eleanor Queen, an Earldom must be well within his grasp. After all, Eleanor revoked his banishment from Scotland especially for the coronation, and why would she do that unless she’s come to her senses and decided to do her filial duty and help Thomas advance himself and the family the way they deserve?
Besides, everyone knows the Glamis title has been forfeit for years.
“My Lord Glamis…” The words echo clear as a bell in Thomas’s head, filling him with such anticipation that it almost drowns out the herald’s next words.
“Sir George Boleyn, please step forward.”
Thomas’s jaw drops. George? George is to be honoured ahead of him? No! No! This can’t be happening. It’s unnatural for a son to be elevated above his father, everyone knows that. There must be some mistake.
There is no mistake. Delighted surprise written all over his face, George steps forward and slowly lowers himself on to the cushion, which is still warm from Prince Robert’s knees a few moments earlier. He clearly can’t quite believe this is happening either, for he keeps glancing to King Alexander, checking for continued permission every other heartbeat
The younger man smiles encouragingly and steps forward, placing a reassuring hand on George’s shoulder as the herald unrolls his second scroll and intones, “Sir George Boleyn, it is His Grace’s sovereign pleasure on this, the Midsummer Eve of 1541, to create thee Earl of Glamis and Baron Deloraine, the titles to be passed down to your lawfully begotten male heirs in perpetuity.”
“The patent of your nobility, Lord Glamis,” Alexander smiles, helping his brother-in-law to his feet and exchanging the kiss of peace with him.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” George whispers, voice shaking with disbelief. He looks past Alexander to Nora, who beams back at him and gets to her feet, leaning back to support the slight swell of her belly.
“Will you take me into dinner, Lord Glamis?” she asks, holding out her hand. She lays an almost defiant emphasis on George’s new title, daring anyone to challenge her beloved older brother’s elevation to the Scottish nobility.
Despite how many glowering faces there are in the room, no one does. No one quite has the gall to challenge the new King to his face, not the week before his coronation. Especially not given the reputation both Stewart brothers cultivated for utterly adoring their chosen brides.
George bows deeply and offers Nora his arm, “With pleasure, sister,” he smirks, brushing her outstretched knuckles with his lips.
Alexander nods permission for them to precede him from the top of the room and turns to Meg.
“It would be my pleasure if we were to make it a matched pair, Meg. Will you walk into dinner with me?”
“Of course, Sawney,” Meg beams back, resting her slender fingers lightly on his jewelled sleeve. He presses her hand down more firmly, affection in his every move, and they follow George and Nora to the edge of the crowd.
There, the Boleyn siblings step aside to allow Alexander to take his rightful place at the head of the line.
It is only when Alexander draws level with Nora that he realises precisely where his wife has chosen to halt. Amusement courses through him at the sight. His wife might be the sweetest of the Boleyns, but she’s still a Boleyn. As such, she’s far from above enacting petty revenges if the mood takes her.
Nora stands in front of her father, staring him down, her sapphire gaze icy. Alexander passes them just in time to see Lord Rochford duck his head in a graceless bow and mutter, “My Lady Queen. Lord Glamis.”
The older man looks like he is sucking a lemon. His tone is far from as respectful as it ought to be. But that doesn’t matter. The words are out. The words are out, and Thomas Boleyn, Viscount Rochford, the very same man who once disowned his youngest daughter for being no better than a whore, has acknowledged both his son and his daughter as being above him in status.
Riding high on the thrill of her triumph, Nora decides to kill two birds with one stone. She flicks her eyes to Louise, who has been told in no uncertain terms that she is expected to be present today.
“Lord Rochford. Perhaps you can make yourself useful and escort Queen Louise into dine?”
Louise’s shoulders go rigid. For her, a former Queen and Princess born, to be escorted into dinner by a mere Viscount, when there are at least a dozen Earls in the room? It is a pointed slight dressed up as courtesy, and she knows it.
But she can’t protest. Not with Alexander himself following the power play keenly.
The young woman lowers herself into a stiff half-curtsy, face pinched with hatred. She says nothing, but she doesn’t need to. Abasing herself is enough. In one brief movement, Louise cedes the final vestiges of her regal authority to Nora.
Allowing herself a soft smile, the blonde tugs at her brother’s arm and sweeps from the room in her husband’s wake, highly satisfied with her afternoon’s work. In a matter of moments, both her greatest detractors have been forced to acknowledge her as the most powerful woman in Scotland.
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Nora put them both in place quite nicely there. Thomas Boleyn can go eat a cactus.
Both Tom B and Louise got an even worse burn than the late king here. I wonder what that’ll do to Louise’s already fragile state? Tom B absolutely got what he deserved though
Losing her husband, her royal status, failing to bear a son and Isobel loosing her danish match to her cousins and now being humiliated before the whole court? I can't imagine that it will help.