A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
Some interpretations would have Mary going to the Altar as if one doomed- all the black, the unhappiness, her wishing to be with another man; others might have wherein she is the only bright light in a dark court almost skipping down the Nave almost fortune like knowing she going to be in a bright place in x months time; another might portray her as a Francis Uqurhart type, grabbing at power when the opportunity came; a more silly one may have her as marrying so she could get closer to cult of vampires ruling the court so she and her hunters could come and cleanse them with holy fire....
With the Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters level of bizarre historical costuming...
Born a few decades too late to kill Vlad Dracula himself, regrettably.
Considering how many times Dracula has died and come back - not necessarily
You can add Anne of Navarre as a character of this timeline as she is the former fiance of Francis I.
Except she probably won't appear, so there's no point....
Okay, you're definitely putting way more thought into this than I have. That's brilliant!
Poor Mary, though maybe Louis may not even be in the mood to lay with his new wife, given all that he has just lost, or maybe because of his losses, he will make an effort to treat Mary with respect and generosity.
Mary will go at the altar all in white who was the traditional color of mourning for the Queens of France (and she is Queen of France since her proxy-wedding).
Considering who Mary was the most stunning princess of Europe and Louis XII pretty desperate for an heir no way the wedding will not be consummated. If anything, Claude’s death made the need of a male heir of his body much more pressing than it was before
White and silver is what Mary actually goes down the aisle in. White for the French Royal mourning, silver for her virginity. But yes, @Ogrebear historical dramas ITTL will probably get that horribly wrong.
As for Louis and Mary having an heir, I'm sure they'll try...
Without any results as Louis will die of exhaustion for a bedroom activity excessive for his advanced age and health, like OTL...
Section VI - October 1514 - January 1515
I may go quiet for the next couple of months or so - I've just bought a house and am moving in about three weeks, so I won't get online as frequently as usual. But I shall try and write chapters when I can and come back to this more regularly when I'm settled. In the meanwhile, enjoy Mary's first weeks as Queen of France!
A French Queen must have French attendants. Mary has always known that.
Yet, somehow, despite that knowledge, despite being only too aware that Louis has never fully approved of the ladies that Henry and Katherine chose to accompany her to France, particularly not Jane Popincourt, whose former flirtation with the Duc de Longueville is something of an open secret [1], she has always envisioned herself creating something of an English enclave at the heart of her marital court, as Katherine and her ladies have created a miniature Spain in Henry’s London palaces. Most importantly, whenever she has imagined her household abroad, she has assumed that her former governess, Mother Guildford, will be at its head.
As such, the news that her English attendants are to pack their bags and prepare to leave with the envoys that escorted her to her marriage, not even a week after her final, formal wedding, comes as a rude awakening.
Shock coursing through her, Mary flies down the passage connecting her rooms to Louis’s.
“How can you take Mother Guildford from me? How am I supposed to know how to behave if she’s not here to guide me? You promised my brother I could have English ladies about me as your Queen! You promised!”
The words are out of her mouth before the door has even crashed against the wall behind her.
Louis, who is with his ministers, blinks at her forceful entrance, but has enough presence of mind to say nothing until he has dismissed the men around him, steered her to a chair by the fire and had his page pour them both a cup of hot mulled cider. Only then does he turn to her and sigh, “Ah, ma Cherie, how young you are!”
What follows is the most uncomfortable hour of Mary’s life. Having grown up as her father’s youngest and favourite daughter, as the delicate little girl who was orphaned far too young and whom her father dreaded losing, to say nothing of being her brother’s cherished little sister, Mary is used to tears and temper, pouts and pleading getting her whatever she desires, particularly when such tactics are coupled with charming and cajoling.
Louis, however, is all but unmoved by the deployment of these weapons, no matter how hard she tries. The only concession he will make is to allow the two young Boleyn sisters, fourteen-year-old Mary and seven-year-old Anne, to stay. After all, their father is a regular envoy to the French Court. Not allowing them to remain in Mary’s household would raise any number of awkward questions.
Mary considers writing to her brother, pleading with him to intervene for the sake of the others too, but there isn’t time. Louis is determined to dismiss her English ladies as soon as he possibly can, ostensibly so that they can travel before the winter storms get too bad.
Mary is only too aware that Louis really only wants her English ladies gone so that he can mould her into the image of the French Queen he thinks she ought to be, but there is nothing she can do. She’s said her vows. Louis rules her now. All she can do is bid the departing ladies farewell, though she takes a certain spiteful pleasure in doing so lavishly, paying them each a gold angel for each of the nine weeks they have been in her service. She also gives each of them a letter to take back to England, asking Henry and Katherine to either arrange marriages for the girls or to allow them new posts at Court, so they might not suffer for their dismissal. She has every hope her brother and sister will do as she asks. After all, Katherine is heavily pregnant. Surely at least some of her forsaken maids will be able to find places in the newest Prince or Princess’s household.
For Mother Guildford, she pleads for an annuity rather than a new post at Court, knowing the older woman would rather retire than take up a new position at Henry’s young and lively Court.
On the morning of her English ladies’ departure, Mary accompanies them to the courtyard, knowing it is beneath her as a Queen to do so, but not caring a whit. She stands watching them leave, straining her eyes to see, until the last litter has become no more than a speck of dust on the road to Calais.
When she returns to her rooms, Mary and Anne Boleyn trailing behind her, her eyes are burning. All she wants to do is collapse on to her bed and weep herself sick.
Instead, she finds a young woman with hazel eyes and tawny hair curtsying before her. Francis’s sister, Marguerite.
“Madame de Alencon,” she greets, knowing even as she speaks, that her voice is heavy with the effort of being polite.
“Your Grace,” Marguerite says softly, “My brother has sent me to you. He knows how much the loss of your English ladies must grieve you when you are so new to France and how we do things here. He bid me come to you and be to Your Grace the older sister I am to him. The older sister Your Grace lost to a foreign match at far too young an age.”
At the blatant sympathy in Marguerite’s voice, Mary can’t help herself. Heedless of anyone else in the room, she throws herself at Marguerite, and, as the older woman’s arms close round her, bursts into tears.
The two bright young woman glitter at the centre of the French Court, two thirds of a sparkling triumvirate.
The third member of their ‘Petite Bande’, as King Louis affectionately terms it, is Marguerite’s beloved brother, the Duke of Valois. Who else could it be? Who else is of the right age, blood and rank to spend almost every hour of the day with the Queen and the Duchess of Alencon without too many eyebrows being raised?
Even so, there are a few mutterings concerning Mary’s conduct with Francis, considering she is another man’s wife. Fortunately, Louis is generous enough towards his young wife not to pay them any heed. He knows women well enough to know that an old man like him can’t have been Mary’s ideal husband, and, despite her somewhat overindulged behaviour, he’s fond enough of her that he doesn’t want to see her robbed of what pleasure she can find at his staid Court. Besides, Mary needs to know how things work in France, and Marguerite and Francis are eminently suitable to teach her. Marguerite is a canny, beautiful girl, and while Francis is sometimes something of a rascal, even he knows better than to make advances to a woman who is not only his Queen, but also, legally, his mother-in-law. No, Louis knows he has nothing to fear from that quarter.
So he lets their obvious enjoyment of each other’s company slide. He says nothing as Mary, Marguerite and Francis begin to take regular hunting and hawking trips, often disappearing, just the three of them, for hours on end. He says nothing, and the months pass.
The months pass, and slowly – oh, so slowly – Mary accustoms herself to her new life as Queen of France. As she does so, she thinks of England less and less. She thinks of Charles less and less. Indeed, at Christmas, when she is caught up in a whirlwind of solemn Masses and the riotous festivities of Twelfth Night, she actually tumbles into bed without having thought of him at all.
[1] This is pretty much OTL. Louis was allowed to approve Mary's English ladies before they sailed, and he didn't want Jane Popincourt serving her because of Jane's rumoured affair with the Duc de Longueville, although I don't think Jane actually crossed the Channel OTL.
Abbeville, October 1514
A French Queen must have French attendants. Mary has always known that.
Yet, somehow, despite that knowledge, despite being only too aware that Louis has never fully approved of the ladies that Henry and Katherine chose to accompany her to France, particularly not Jane Popincourt, whose former flirtation with the Duc de Longueville is something of an open secret [1], she has always envisioned herself creating something of an English enclave at the heart of her marital court, as Katherine and her ladies have created a miniature Spain in Henry’s London palaces. Most importantly, whenever she has imagined her household abroad, she has assumed that her former governess, Mother Guildford, will be at its head.
As such, the news that her English attendants are to pack their bags and prepare to leave with the envoys that escorted her to her marriage, not even a week after her final, formal wedding, comes as a rude awakening.
Shock coursing through her, Mary flies down the passage connecting her rooms to Louis’s.
“How can you take Mother Guildford from me? How am I supposed to know how to behave if she’s not here to guide me? You promised my brother I could have English ladies about me as your Queen! You promised!”
The words are out of her mouth before the door has even crashed against the wall behind her.
Louis, who is with his ministers, blinks at her forceful entrance, but has enough presence of mind to say nothing until he has dismissed the men around him, steered her to a chair by the fire and had his page pour them both a cup of hot mulled cider. Only then does he turn to her and sigh, “Ah, ma Cherie, how young you are!”
What follows is the most uncomfortable hour of Mary’s life. Having grown up as her father’s youngest and favourite daughter, as the delicate little girl who was orphaned far too young and whom her father dreaded losing, to say nothing of being her brother’s cherished little sister, Mary is used to tears and temper, pouts and pleading getting her whatever she desires, particularly when such tactics are coupled with charming and cajoling.
Louis, however, is all but unmoved by the deployment of these weapons, no matter how hard she tries. The only concession he will make is to allow the two young Boleyn sisters, fourteen-year-old Mary and seven-year-old Anne, to stay. After all, their father is a regular envoy to the French Court. Not allowing them to remain in Mary’s household would raise any number of awkward questions.
Mary considers writing to her brother, pleading with him to intervene for the sake of the others too, but there isn’t time. Louis is determined to dismiss her English ladies as soon as he possibly can, ostensibly so that they can travel before the winter storms get too bad.
Mary is only too aware that Louis really only wants her English ladies gone so that he can mould her into the image of the French Queen he thinks she ought to be, but there is nothing she can do. She’s said her vows. Louis rules her now. All she can do is bid the departing ladies farewell, though she takes a certain spiteful pleasure in doing so lavishly, paying them each a gold angel for each of the nine weeks they have been in her service. She also gives each of them a letter to take back to England, asking Henry and Katherine to either arrange marriages for the girls or to allow them new posts at Court, so they might not suffer for their dismissal. She has every hope her brother and sister will do as she asks. After all, Katherine is heavily pregnant. Surely at least some of her forsaken maids will be able to find places in the newest Prince or Princess’s household.
For Mother Guildford, she pleads for an annuity rather than a new post at Court, knowing the older woman would rather retire than take up a new position at Henry’s young and lively Court.
On the morning of her English ladies’ departure, Mary accompanies them to the courtyard, knowing it is beneath her as a Queen to do so, but not caring a whit. She stands watching them leave, straining her eyes to see, until the last litter has become no more than a speck of dust on the road to Calais.
When she returns to her rooms, Mary and Anne Boleyn trailing behind her, her eyes are burning. All she wants to do is collapse on to her bed and weep herself sick.
Instead, she finds a young woman with hazel eyes and tawny hair curtsying before her. Francis’s sister, Marguerite.
“Madame de Alencon,” she greets, knowing even as she speaks, that her voice is heavy with the effort of being polite.
“Your Grace,” Marguerite says softly, “My brother has sent me to you. He knows how much the loss of your English ladies must grieve you when you are so new to France and how we do things here. He bid me come to you and be to Your Grace the older sister I am to him. The older sister Your Grace lost to a foreign match at far too young an age.”
At the blatant sympathy in Marguerite’s voice, Mary can’t help herself. Heedless of anyone else in the room, she throws herself at Marguerite, and, as the older woman’s arms close round her, bursts into tears.
*** *** ***
From that day forward, the young Queen and the Duchess of Alencon are all but joined at the hip. It is rare to see one without the other, and their households are so intermingled, they may as well be one.The two bright young woman glitter at the centre of the French Court, two thirds of a sparkling triumvirate.
The third member of their ‘Petite Bande’, as King Louis affectionately terms it, is Marguerite’s beloved brother, the Duke of Valois. Who else could it be? Who else is of the right age, blood and rank to spend almost every hour of the day with the Queen and the Duchess of Alencon without too many eyebrows being raised?
Even so, there are a few mutterings concerning Mary’s conduct with Francis, considering she is another man’s wife. Fortunately, Louis is generous enough towards his young wife not to pay them any heed. He knows women well enough to know that an old man like him can’t have been Mary’s ideal husband, and, despite her somewhat overindulged behaviour, he’s fond enough of her that he doesn’t want to see her robbed of what pleasure she can find at his staid Court. Besides, Mary needs to know how things work in France, and Marguerite and Francis are eminently suitable to teach her. Marguerite is a canny, beautiful girl, and while Francis is sometimes something of a rascal, even he knows better than to make advances to a woman who is not only his Queen, but also, legally, his mother-in-law. No, Louis knows he has nothing to fear from that quarter.
So he lets their obvious enjoyment of each other’s company slide. He says nothing as Mary, Marguerite and Francis begin to take regular hunting and hawking trips, often disappearing, just the three of them, for hours on end. He says nothing, and the months pass.
The months pass, and slowly – oh, so slowly – Mary accustoms herself to her new life as Queen of France. As she does so, she thinks of England less and less. She thinks of Charles less and less. Indeed, at Christmas, when she is caught up in a whirlwind of solemn Masses and the riotous festivities of Twelfth Night, she actually tumbles into bed without having thought of him at all.
[1] This is pretty much OTL. Louis was allowed to approve Mary's English ladies before they sailed, and he didn't want Jane Popincourt serving her because of Jane's rumoured affair with the Duc de Longueville, although I don't think Jane actually crossed the Channel OTL.
awww nice to see Mary and Marguerite bonding! And twelfth night...Louis has lived longer than IOTL.
Ever so slightly yes, partly because I wanted Francis out of mourning before Mary was free to marry him...
*Excitedly eats popcorn from a mixing bowl*
I am loving every second of this and can't wait for more!! Much love my good sir ♥
I am loving every second of this and can't wait for more!! Much love my good sir
♥Thank you, very kind! Hope you continue to enjoy it!*Excitedly eats popcorn from a mixing bowl*
I am loving every second of this and can't wait for more!! Much love my good sir
