Wonderful writing!!! Though the Habsburg in me wants Henry to get shot, stabbed and trampled for betraying Charles, I do hope that Francis makes it home safe...
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
He hasn't betrayed him at all. He's kept exactly to his alliances - he said he'd go to war against the first to break the treaty of Universal Peace of 1518, which is exactly what he's done...
Glad you're looking forward to more!
Hopefully for Francis and Mary, the Italian wars will go more in favor of France now that England is allied with them.
Ah, well, you'll just have to wait and see, won't you?
Yes, he's still fond of her, but he's desperate for a son, so that's rather overshadowing his feelings for her right now. ..
Odd thought, its there any male Prince in Europe Henry would hand England to *if* had absolutely had to do so?
Or would Henry rather leave a Queen on the throne instead of an outsider?
ITTL? Probably his nephew Henri. At least he's half-Tudor and betrothed to his cousin Mary.
Section XXXII - July 1521
Chinon, July 1521
They hear from Navarre first. It is not, perhaps, surprising that this should be the case, given that the battlefields in Navarre are the closest to their current location, but it is still unsettling when a flood of exhausted, hungry men descend on the castle like vultures.
“They routed us, Your Grace. Enriquez brought his cavalry round behind us and caught us in a pincer. It was all I could do to escape. I wouldn’t have done had Montmorency not given his life to see me clear,” Henri of Navarre explains to Marie as the two of them sit together late the evening after his arrival. [1] It is blazing hot outside, yet a fire burns in the grate. Henri huddles beside it, clutching a goblet of mulled cider in both hands as though his life depends upon it. It is almost, Marie cannot help but think, looking across at him, as though he fears he’ll never be warm again, that even that simple pleasure will be taken from him. The young man is gaunt, even skeletal, and a freshly-healed scar splits one side of his face from cheekbone to jawline. He has changed so much from the ebullient young man who left Amboise just three months ago, that had it not been for his striking combination of piercing dark eyes and unruly fair hair, Marie wouldn’t have recognised him.
Her heart goes out to him. He’s only eighteen, for pity’s sake. Far too young to have his dreams of regaining his ancestral lands so rudely shattered. She has to swallow hard several times before she can think what to say.
“Go to Chenonceau,” she says at last, laying a hand on his arm. Startled out his own grim thoughts, he blinks at her stupidly and she huffs lightly in a mixture of pity and amusement.
“Go to Chenonceau,” she repeats, “Take Anne and go to Chenonceau. The Bohiers will look after you. Heaven knows Catherine will be more than eager to show off all the building work they’ve just finished. {2] Enjoy their hospitality. Spend a summer in the country getting to know your new bride. Give yourself a few months to recover from this bitter blow. And when Francis gets back, we shall put our heads together and see what we can do about dislodging the Spanish from your Kingdom. All right?”
Henri is too drawn and shocked to argue. Recounting the horrors of the battle has taken it out of him and all he can do is nod dully.
He rises and kisses her hand, “Thank you, sister.”
With that, he retreats from the room and Marie watches him go. She knows she will have to speak to Andre de Foix soon. She must see if anything needs to be done for the men who have returned and/or if any of them are in a fit state to be sent north to bolster Francis’s position in the Low Countries, but that can wait until the morrow. For now, she is only relieved that Francis didn’t give in to her pleading to have Margot betrothed to Henri of Navarre instead of Anne de Laval. At least she doesn’t now have to explain to her clever, sweet little daughter why she’s no longer to be a Queen when she comes of age.
[1] The battle Henri is describing is the OTL Battle of Noain. I decided not to mess around with something that worked only too well for my purposes.
[2] For anyone wondering, this is where - and who - Marie is referring to.
Amazing update, I guess Francis learned that he shouldn't overstretch himself, and come so close to Charles's maternal inheritance, the hard way...
Navarre was never going to be easy... Particularly as the central prong of a three-front war. But there's still always the hope of seizing some of Charles's paternal inheritance...
I suppose, still would’ve hoped it would’ve been somewhat successful. Fingers crossed Francis can steal the lowlands form Charles and the war goes well. Until then you have me at the edge of me seat!
A small chapter, but important nonetheless and shows that even with english support this war is going to be hard, hope the next chapter will be about Francis and how the war is progressing in the other battlefields.
There are quite a few shorter chapters coming up, as we deal with each theatre in turn (and the resulting aftermath...) So we will hear from Francis soon, I promise.
Section XXXIII - August 1521
Chinon, August 1521
“Your Grace, I have heard from my brother. We have held Milan.”
A palpable relief ripples through the room at Andre de Foix’s words. [1] Marie closes her eyes on the strength of it. Milan is safe. Thank God, Milan is safe. She’s had nagging doubts for weeks that Alençon’s 3000 men wouldn’t be enough, that the Ferranese would melt in the face of battle-hardened Imperial soldiers. She’s feared almost daily that she made the wrong call sending the survivors of the Navarrese campaign to bolster her husband and brother, rather than her brother-in-law. To know, therefore, that Lautrec and Alençon have succeeded in fending off the Emperor’s men even without the extra help is a weight off her shoulders.
She is so lost in her own thoughts that it takes a moment for her to realise that Andre de Foix is not looking at her with any joy or triumph in his eyes, the way you might expect from the bearer of such joyous news. Indeed, his face is grey, alarm written all over his features.
She rises, colour draining from her own cheeks, to reach out a hand to him.
“Andre? What is it?”
“We have held Milan, but not without cost, My Lady. His Grace of Alençon was struck down while supervising the defence of the city.”
Marie hears Marguerite gasp behind her and knows she should turn to sympathise with the older woman, but she can’t seem to make her body obey her. Her heart has plummeted into her slippers and her mouth has gone dry. Alençon is gone. Charles is gone.
Many found the Duke stiff and aloof, far too conscious of his status as the First Prince of the Blood and the King’s brother-in-law, but that has never been Marie’s experience of him. Perhaps because of the warm relationship she enjoys with Marguerite, she’s been allowed past Charles’s walls. He has always treated her with warm, generous, almost teasing courtesy. In return, she has come, over the seven years she’s been in France, to view him as an older brother, in much the same way she views Marguerite as her older sister. Oh, he’ll never be in the same league as Henry, but she certainly holds Charles in higher esteem than Arthur, whom, after all, she barely knew. And now he is gone. Gone.
She hears Andre de Foix’s continuing speech as though her ears are stuffed with cotton wool, muffled and indistinct. She can’t focus on a single word of it.
“Charles.”
The name comes out as a croak. She feels herself go weak at the knees and then the world goes black around her.
**** **** ****
She comes to a few hours later, murmuring and blinking groggily as she tries to work out where she is.She’s not in the great hall any more, that much is certain. She appears to be in a tester bed, with a pile of black linen sheets beneath her. Black. Why would she need…
“Marie?” Marguerite sits down on the edge of the bed, her eyes soft.
At the sight of her, pain lances Marie’s heart. Pain entangled with shame. She should have taken the news of Charles’s death better. He was Marguerite’s husband, not hers. And yet her sister-in-law took the news of his having fallen in battle with all the grace of a Queen, while her legs gave way underneath her.
“Marguerite – Charles – I -”
“Never mind that now,” Marguerite soothes, taking her hand and clasping it between both of hers, “Did you know you were with child, sister?”
Marie blinks and splutters, almost recoiling from Marguerite’s tender question, “Well, I’ve been nauseous, yes, but I put it down to strain. You know how - ”
She chokes her sentence off abruptly as her mind slots the pieces together. The black sheets on the tester bed. The physician hovering in the doorway with a funereal cast to his features. The tenderness in Marguerite’s voice; the way she addressed her as ‘sister’, even though they are very clearly not alone. The fact that she is blatantly focused on something other than Alençon’s death.
“I lost the child, didn’t I?”
Marguerite swallows hard, visibly fighting tears. She nods.
“Dr Varonne believes it was a little girl. He says you were about four months along.”
“Francis’s leaving present,” Marie breathes.
Marguerite hums in confusion at her words, but she shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter. Will you write to Francis?”
This time, it is Marguerite’s turn to shake her head, “He doesn’t need to know. Not yet. This is hardly the sort of thing one can put in a letter. We’ll cross that bridge when he returns.”
The older woman rises as she speaks and Marie instinctively nestles deeper under her covers, wincing as what was a dull ache suddenly sharpens to a stabbing needle.
Marguerite sees the pain on her face and grimaces in sympathy before kissing her on the brow, “I’d better go, or I’ll get into trouble with Dr Varonne for tiring you. Rest, ma soeur.”
“But the Court…”
“Leave the Court to me. I’ve been leading the sheep since I was seventeen. I know how to handle them. Rest, ma cherie.”
Marie doesn’t have the strength to argue as Marguerite kisses her again, this time letting her lips linger against Marie’s skin a moment longer than necessary. She nods gratefully, and, a moment later, does as she’s told.
[1] Andre de Foix was brother to both Odet de Foix, Vicomte Lautrec, the French governor of Milan from 1516, and Francoise de Foix. They also had another brother Thomas, Lord of Lescun, who I've mentioned in the past...
Absolutely! You wouldn't want to be one of their ladies right now, would you?