I can NOT see Henry favoring a Scottish match for Mary over her French engagement. Henri is already a second son and Henry‘s greatest fear was a Scottish succession in England so...
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
That DO NOT mattered. Henry in OTL was ABSOLUTELY OBSESSED and FULLY AGAINST such possibility. Plus a match with Alexander would made ZERO sense (James at least would bring Scotland, Alexander would bring only Scotsmen)
I see your point, but it does depend on various circumstances that are liable to change... In the current geopolitical climate, I agree. Henri is a better match for Mary than either James or Alexander. But that doesn't mean it will always be that way.
Not that, in Henry’s mind (OTL, but he is likely arrived at this point also ATL) allowing a Scot to inherit England would be a betrayal of his country ...I see your point, but it does depend on various circumstances that are liable to change... In the current geopolitical climate, I agree. Henri is a better match for Mary than either James or Alexander. But that doesn't mean it will always be that way.
Some of you may be interested to know that I write these stories out longhand before I type them up and post the edited version.
I have just cracked the spine on Volume II of the physical copy of Queen Twice Over. We start in December 1524.
I have just cracked the spine on Volume II of the physical copy of Queen Twice Over.
We start in December 1524.I'm saying nothing. Not a word. Nadda. Zilch. El zippo. You cannot make me blab.I have just cracked the spine on Volume II of the physical copy of Queen Twice Over.
I am saying nothing! STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!
Well, after the discussion we've just had, I'm well versed on spoilers. I am not spoiling our hard work - do you know how hard the task you set me was!?
Section LII - February/March 1524
I usually like to mark the bank holiday with an update, and I shall be busy on Friday, so here is an early chapter. Enjoy!
Charles is visiting his childhood home when the news comes that Marguerite has birthed a son.
“Is the child healthy?” he presses, too eager to hear to give a thought to the messenger’s welfare, even though the man has clearly ridden nonstop from Valladolid and looks ready to drop at any moment.
“Yes, Sire,” the messenger nods, “They say His Highness came out roaring like the bulls on Your Imperial Majesty’s Castilian standard.”
“Good,” Charles says thoughtfully, stroking his chin, “We needn’t fear for the boy’s health then. That’s something. What name has the Empress given him?”
“Phillip, My Lord.”
At that, Charles releases a breath he hasn’t admitted he’s been holding, not even to himself. Oh, he ordered Marguerite to name the child Philip if it was a boy months ago, before she even left Brussels, but until this moment, he hasn’t known if he can trust her to comply, or if she’d defy him and pick Francis or Jean or some other dastardly Valois name. But, thankfully, it seems she’s learning some wifely obedience at last.
“This is wonderful news,” he beams, clapping the messenger on the shoulder and bidding him rise, “We’ll have the bells rung at once. Now, go and find yourself a meal and a bed before you fall over. You must have ridden like the hounds of Hell themselves were after you to bring me this news so quickly.”
“Yes, Sire. Thank you,” The messenger staggers with exhaustion as he makes his way out of the room, but Charles doesn’t notice. His mind is already whirling with all sorts of plans for the future.
His son will be the greatest monarch in Christendom one day, presiding over an empire on which the sun never sets, so he is going to need the finest consort Europe can provide at his side.
In an ideal world, that girl would have been his cousin Maria, but unfortunately, the little girl passed away a few months ago due to febrile convulsions. And Joao shows no signs of wanting to break his French betrothal, which means there’s next to no hope of his ever having a daughter old enough to wed Phillip. It’ll be the middle of the next decade, at least, before he starts having children, unless he comes to his senses and throws over his foolish amity with the pox-ridden Valois.
Charles would rather die than let his son wed a Frenchwoman, even assuming there was one available, so he will have to cast his net rather wider.
King Henry of England has just had another daughter, of course, but Lady Elizabeth's maternal family isn’t noble enough to be allowed to marry into the Imperial Habsburgs. Not by any yardstick.
Bella would be thrilled to have one of her daughters marry their Spanish cousin, naturally, but any fool can see that Denmark is a powder keg waiting to explode. Over Charles’s dead body will his son and heir marry into that mess.
Hungary might become a possibility, if Maria manages to give little Karoly a sister at any point in the next few years. But then again, Ferdinand’s always been the one who is truly invested in the Eastern part of their family’s domains. It might be better if one of his daughters marries little Karoly one day, rather than Philip marrying Karoly’s younger sister.
There’s Lorraine, of course. Leonor is its Duchess now, and he can trust her to defend his interests to the death, but it might be just as well to shore up the alliance with a match in the next generation too, particularly given what a useful partner Lorraine will be in his efforts to regain control of the Low Countries. And Lady Anna is scarcely more than a year older than Phillip…
Charles mulls it over for a few moments, then nods to himself, his mind made up. Next time he writes to Leonor, he’ll broach the idea of a match between Anna and Phillip.
“Henri looks so young.”
Watching her husband buckle a tiny ceremonial sword around their second son’s waist and whisper something to him, Marie can’t stop thinking how small Henri seems for the great responsibility that’s being laid on his shoulders.
Oh, Henri looks splendid to outsiders. A fortnight away from his fifth birthday, he is tall and strong for his age. His doublet, hose and cloak are a deep royal blue, with silver fleur-de-lys and snakes on them. His sword belt is encrusted with sapphires, as is the silver circlet that rests in his coppery hair. To anyone but his mother, he is every inch the Duke of Milan, despite his tender age.
As Francis ruffles Henri’s curls and directs him to take his leave of her, however, all Marie can focus on is how small he still is, how fragile he feels in her arms.
“Je t’aime, mon cher,” she breathes, crouching down to his height and burying her nose in his hair, “Be a good boy and do as Monsieur Lautrec tells you, d’accord? We’ll have you home for Michaelmas.”
“Oui, Maman,” Henri parrots dutifully, though he is bouncing on his toes, eager to be away. Like any boy his age, he loves playing at soldiers. To be allowed to ride with the men as they travel to defend the Duchy he has always been told is his – he is in seventh heaven.
Marie sighs softly at his impatience and contents herself with cupping his cheek in her palm, letting her hand linger there as she memorises the feel of his soft, childish skin under her fingers.
“Good boy,” she says at last, forcing herself to her feet, “Go and kiss your sisters goodbye.”
“Oui, Maman,” Henri trots away obediently and Marie watches him go for a moment before turning to Vicomte Lautrec, who stands a couple of rows below her on the Cathedral steps.
“I am entrusting you with my greatest earthly treasure, Lautrec. Lord Orleans – Lord Milan – is my son before he is your Prince. He is my son, and if harm comes to a hair on his head, I will have you strung up on a gibbet before you can even think to beg for mercy. Is that clear?”
Odet de Foix pales, clearly unused to having the full force of her Tudor steel aimed at him. He recovers swiftly enough, however, sweeping her a grand bow before anyone else notices his hesitation.
“Bien sur, Madame. His Highness will be safe with me. You have my word on that.”
Marie opens her mouth to respond, but before she can do so, there is a muffled thump. A second later, Louise’s high, thin wail pierces the air.
Marie whirls around, sizing up the situation at a glance, even as the children’s nurses exclaim in unison,
“Lord Orleans!”
“Mademoiselle Louise!”
Henri has managed to take his leave of Renee and Margot easily enough, but three-and-a-quarter-year-old Louise, who grows more beautiful and more self-assured by the day, has spurned her brother’s kiss, twisting her head away from him when he tries to salute her. This is unsurprising, as Henri and Louise cannot be in the same room for more than five minutes without squabbling and/or trying to get one another into trouble.
Equally unsurprisingly, Henri has seen red at being ignored and pushed his little sister over savagely.
Shocked to the core that their precious charges would behave so in public, the nurses are twittering uselessly, so Marie strides over and takes Henri into her arms, wishing, not for the first time, that Lady Parr hadn’t stayed behind with her daughters and baby Jean.
“That wasn’t what a true knight would do, Henri,” she chides lightly, knowing she should be harsher with her son, but too aware of their impending separation to actually follow through on the thought, “Knights don’t push ladies, even when they’re angry with them. And Louise, it’s rude for a lady to spurn a gentleman’s honourable kiss.”
Louise flushes red, but Marie doesn’t wait for her daughter to protest. She turns on her heel and carries Henri over to his litter before another squabble can break out.
She lingers by the litter for as long as she can, but eventually, the cavalcade forms up, and she has no choice but to step back and watch as her favourite son is borne towards his Italian lands.
As she waves him off, the fingers of her other hand ghost over her still flat stomach. She wouldn’t be surprised if Henri returned at Michaelmas to find another sibling in the nursery.
Mechelen, February 1524
Charles is visiting his childhood home when the news comes that Marguerite has birthed a son.
“Is the child healthy?” he presses, too eager to hear to give a thought to the messenger’s welfare, even though the man has clearly ridden nonstop from Valladolid and looks ready to drop at any moment.
“Yes, Sire,” the messenger nods, “They say His Highness came out roaring like the bulls on Your Imperial Majesty’s Castilian standard.”
“Good,” Charles says thoughtfully, stroking his chin, “We needn’t fear for the boy’s health then. That’s something. What name has the Empress given him?”
“Phillip, My Lord.”
At that, Charles releases a breath he hasn’t admitted he’s been holding, not even to himself. Oh, he ordered Marguerite to name the child Philip if it was a boy months ago, before she even left Brussels, but until this moment, he hasn’t known if he can trust her to comply, or if she’d defy him and pick Francis or Jean or some other dastardly Valois name. But, thankfully, it seems she’s learning some wifely obedience at last.
“This is wonderful news,” he beams, clapping the messenger on the shoulder and bidding him rise, “We’ll have the bells rung at once. Now, go and find yourself a meal and a bed before you fall over. You must have ridden like the hounds of Hell themselves were after you to bring me this news so quickly.”
“Yes, Sire. Thank you,” The messenger staggers with exhaustion as he makes his way out of the room, but Charles doesn’t notice. His mind is already whirling with all sorts of plans for the future.
His son will be the greatest monarch in Christendom one day, presiding over an empire on which the sun never sets, so he is going to need the finest consort Europe can provide at his side.
In an ideal world, that girl would have been his cousin Maria, but unfortunately, the little girl passed away a few months ago due to febrile convulsions. And Joao shows no signs of wanting to break his French betrothal, which means there’s next to no hope of his ever having a daughter old enough to wed Phillip. It’ll be the middle of the next decade, at least, before he starts having children, unless he comes to his senses and throws over his foolish amity with the pox-ridden Valois.
Charles would rather die than let his son wed a Frenchwoman, even assuming there was one available, so he will have to cast his net rather wider.
King Henry of England has just had another daughter, of course, but Lady Elizabeth's maternal family isn’t noble enough to be allowed to marry into the Imperial Habsburgs. Not by any yardstick.
Bella would be thrilled to have one of her daughters marry their Spanish cousin, naturally, but any fool can see that Denmark is a powder keg waiting to explode. Over Charles’s dead body will his son and heir marry into that mess.
Hungary might become a possibility, if Maria manages to give little Karoly a sister at any point in the next few years. But then again, Ferdinand’s always been the one who is truly invested in the Eastern part of their family’s domains. It might be better if one of his daughters marries little Karoly one day, rather than Philip marrying Karoly’s younger sister.
There’s Lorraine, of course. Leonor is its Duchess now, and he can trust her to defend his interests to the death, but it might be just as well to shore up the alliance with a match in the next generation too, particularly given what a useful partner Lorraine will be in his efforts to regain control of the Low Countries. And Lady Anna is scarcely more than a year older than Phillip…
Charles mulls it over for a few moments, then nods to himself, his mind made up. Next time he writes to Leonor, he’ll broach the idea of a match between Anna and Phillip.
Embrun, March 1524
“Henri looks so young.”
Watching her husband buckle a tiny ceremonial sword around their second son’s waist and whisper something to him, Marie can’t stop thinking how small Henri seems for the great responsibility that’s being laid on his shoulders.
Oh, Henri looks splendid to outsiders. A fortnight away from his fifth birthday, he is tall and strong for his age. His doublet, hose and cloak are a deep royal blue, with silver fleur-de-lys and snakes on them. His sword belt is encrusted with sapphires, as is the silver circlet that rests in his coppery hair. To anyone but his mother, he is every inch the Duke of Milan, despite his tender age.
As Francis ruffles Henri’s curls and directs him to take his leave of her, however, all Marie can focus on is how small he still is, how fragile he feels in her arms.
“Je t’aime, mon cher,” she breathes, crouching down to his height and burying her nose in his hair, “Be a good boy and do as Monsieur Lautrec tells you, d’accord? We’ll have you home for Michaelmas.”
“Oui, Maman,” Henri parrots dutifully, though he is bouncing on his toes, eager to be away. Like any boy his age, he loves playing at soldiers. To be allowed to ride with the men as they travel to defend the Duchy he has always been told is his – he is in seventh heaven.
Marie sighs softly at his impatience and contents herself with cupping his cheek in her palm, letting her hand linger there as she memorises the feel of his soft, childish skin under her fingers.
“Good boy,” she says at last, forcing herself to her feet, “Go and kiss your sisters goodbye.”
“Oui, Maman,” Henri trots away obediently and Marie watches him go for a moment before turning to Vicomte Lautrec, who stands a couple of rows below her on the Cathedral steps.
“I am entrusting you with my greatest earthly treasure, Lautrec. Lord Orleans – Lord Milan – is my son before he is your Prince. He is my son, and if harm comes to a hair on his head, I will have you strung up on a gibbet before you can even think to beg for mercy. Is that clear?”
Odet de Foix pales, clearly unused to having the full force of her Tudor steel aimed at him. He recovers swiftly enough, however, sweeping her a grand bow before anyone else notices his hesitation.
“Bien sur, Madame. His Highness will be safe with me. You have my word on that.”
Marie opens her mouth to respond, but before she can do so, there is a muffled thump. A second later, Louise’s high, thin wail pierces the air.
Marie whirls around, sizing up the situation at a glance, even as the children’s nurses exclaim in unison,
“Lord Orleans!”
“Mademoiselle Louise!”
Henri has managed to take his leave of Renee and Margot easily enough, but three-and-a-quarter-year-old Louise, who grows more beautiful and more self-assured by the day, has spurned her brother’s kiss, twisting her head away from him when he tries to salute her. This is unsurprising, as Henri and Louise cannot be in the same room for more than five minutes without squabbling and/or trying to get one another into trouble.
Equally unsurprisingly, Henri has seen red at being ignored and pushed his little sister over savagely.
Shocked to the core that their precious charges would behave so in public, the nurses are twittering uselessly, so Marie strides over and takes Henri into her arms, wishing, not for the first time, that Lady Parr hadn’t stayed behind with her daughters and baby Jean.
“That wasn’t what a true knight would do, Henri,” she chides lightly, knowing she should be harsher with her son, but too aware of their impending separation to actually follow through on the thought, “Knights don’t push ladies, even when they’re angry with them. And Louise, it’s rude for a lady to spurn a gentleman’s honourable kiss.”
Louise flushes red, but Marie doesn’t wait for her daughter to protest. She turns on her heel and carries Henri over to his litter before another squabble can break out.
She lingers by the litter for as long as she can, but eventually, the cavalcade forms up, and she has no choice but to step back and watch as her favourite son is borne towards his Italian lands.
As she waves him off, the fingers of her other hand ghost over her still flat stomach. She wouldn’t be surprised if Henri returned at Michaelmas to find another sibling in the nursery.
She did, but not too openly. She can't be seen to be smothering him, after all...
Even Marguerite wasn't quite that brave...
Yeah, but damn would that have been hilarious. I think the Pope would grant Charles a divorce simply out of pity for Marguerite!
Henri is such a cutie! And Marie being such a loving mother with him (the "he's my son before a prince" part was good)warms my heart. Charles gets some good news it seems, whether they remain good or not shall be seen.
Really enjoyed this early chapter!
Really enjoyed this early chapter!
Honestly, if Marguerite had named the child Louis, I think it'd be Charles known as the wife-killer.
And, to be honest, I think it's the Plantagenet temper - the Tudors seemed to be relatively calm before that.
And dead little Maria - is that Maria, Duchess of Viseu IOTL?
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