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

I'm sorry but as a seventh semester nursing student, I just wanna say: brain damage is not a joke. Millions of families suffer every year.
Oh, I'm well aware of that, and yes, they probably will end up with massive concussions, but how many footballers head the ball a million times in their careers without too much of a problem? How many rugby players get concussions every year and yet keep playing the game they love? I think Jean and Nemours will survive one blow to the head with the pommel of a sword. And in Nemours' case, that's just a prelude to his execution for treason, so without making light of it, I really wouldn't worry about his health.
And that the end of that rebellion.

Off to a monastery for Jean?
Not quite the end, François still has to decide what to do with the various conspirators, but yeah, we're almost there.
 
I'm sorry but as a seventh semester nursing student, I just wanna say: brain damage is not a joke. Millions of families suffer every year.
It was never my intention to joke about it. I wrote my comment under the assumption that both would be soon executed, though it seems that won’t be the case for Jean.
 
It was never my intention to joke about it. I wrote my comment under the assumption that both would be soon executed, though it seems that won’t be the case for Jean.
Not for the King's brother. Not at the first offence. George of Clarence was forgiven his first treason, after all.
 
I feel bad for Jean! To me he is just a love struck, grief stricken teenager! I don’t know why so many readers want a teenager who see his bride killed in front of him killed!!!
That's not his bride, that's his (essentially) stepmother...
That’s not his wife, that’s his stepmother… *sweet home Alabama intensifies*
Thank you, yes. Jean's wife is also an Isabella, but I refer to her as Bella rather than Isabella or, as Jean called Isabella of Navarre, 'Mama Isabelle'.

Also, Jean might only be fourteen, but you have to remember that fourteen is a man in the eyes of the time. He's more than old enough to know what he was doing when he rose against his brother and to face the consequences.
Well, his father’s mistress, but she was more of a mother than his actual mother. I’m still lowkey angry at Marie.
Oh, I don't deny Marie handled the disaster of 1528 badly, but that's still no excuse for Jean's recent actions. François had nothing to do with that. He was only eleven himself, for heaven's sake!
 
Thank you, yes. Jean's wife is also an Isabella, but I refer to her as Bella rather than Isabella or, as Jean called Isabella of Navarre, 'Mama Isabelle'.

Also, Jean might only be fourteen, but you have to remember that fourteen is a man in the eyes of the time. He's more than old enough to know what he was doing when he rose against his brother and to face the consequences.

Oh, I don't deny Marie handled the disaster of 1528 badly, but that's still no excuse for Jean's recent actions. François had nothing to do with that. He was only eleven himself, for heaven's sake!
Yeah I’m not excusing Jean, nor am I blaming Francois (the one who’s actually in the right here), but I am blaming Marie.
 
Section CXXXVIII: August 1536
Nantes, August 1536

François is just coming out of Mass when it happens.

His mother, returned to Court now that Jean’s rebellion has been stamped out, throws herself at his feet, hair unbound.

Mon roi¸ I beg you, spare my son! He’s just a boy, led astray by the wiles of a scheming Jezebel. Run mad with lust, he knew not what he did. I beg you, clemency!”

There are audible gasps from the knots of courtiers all around them at Marie’s impassioned plea, and François groans inwardly. Why couldn’t his mother have come to him privately, rather than approaching him as he left Mass like this? By petitioning him publicly for his brother’s life, she’s almost guarantees that, whatever he says to her, their encounter will be all over Court within hours. Hell, it’ll be all over France in a matter of days. She’s forcing his hand. Whatever he decides, she’s forcing his hand, and after she promised she’d never dare do that to him.

Still, he can hardly refuse to hear her out, not before all these witnesses, so instead, he does what he can in terms of damage limitation, brusquely ordering his bodyguards to clear the passageway and then stand in pairs at either end to deter any would-be eavesdroppers.

Only then does he turn back to his mother.

Marie hasn’t moved from where she threw herself to her knees before him, and he pauses, simply watching her, absently tracing the sunbeams spilling through the high windows above them with his eyes as they dance in her fading red hair, playing in its natural curls.

“Why are you here for him?”

He hardly recognises his own voice, so dry and hoarse is the question, “He’s cost us Milan, torn France apart. He’s killed hundreds of my people. Our people. Why does he deserve your pity?”

“He’s still my son!” His mother’s head flies up, and her sapphire eyes meet François’s brown ones with an intensity that burns into his very soul, “Milan, the massacre at Orleans…all of that pales in comparison to the fact he’s my son. He’s your brother.”

“He hasn’t exactly behaved as though he is,” Francois scoffs, “He refuses to acknowledge you as his mother. He hasn’t honoured you as he should for nearly a decade.”

“And so you want to sink to his level, do you?” Marie counters, “You want to be known as a kinslayer, the King who killed his brother, as though he were no better than a heathen Turk or Musselman?”

A heartbeat of silence passes. Two. François opens his mouth, then closes it again, finding he doesn’t really know what to say.

At last, his mother speaks again, voice shaking with suppressed emotion, “François, please. He’s only fourteen.”

François’s heart twists at his mother’s broken whisper, but he knows he can’t be seen to be weak to her tears. Not now, not after everything that has happened.

Reaching down, he pulls her, none too gently, to her feet.

“Young or not, he’s still a man, Maman. Fourteen is more than old enough to know what he was doing.”

With that, he turns on his heel, leaving the blunt words hanging in the air behind him.


Nantes, 11th August 1536

“…I don’t know what to do, Renee. Maman is pleading for Jean’s life. Despite all the rancour that’s sprung up between them, she’s pleading for his life, and I must admit, I’m loth to become a kinslayer. But I must be seen to do something. I can’t let Jean get off scot free, at liberty to challenge me with impunity. I can’t have him free to become my George of Clarence…”


Chambord, 20th August 1536

“François, mon cher,

What’s the old joke? That women never agree with their mothers by marriage?

Well, on this occasion, forget about that. I know you might not want to hear this, but I think your mother is right. Branding yourself a kinslayer will hurt your standing on the international stage even more than Jean’s rebellion already has. Honestly, my love, I’m not sure if we’d ever recover, especially given how young our brother still is.

But, then again, his youth is actually an advantage, if you want to show him clemency. He might be fourteen now, but he was underage when Lord Nemours, the Archbishop of Narbonne and Madame de Valentinois entangled him in their nefarious schemes. Remind people of that, and I think people will understand if you choose to simply strip him of his Duchy and exile him. But it will have to be for life. Make it all too clear, that, come Michaelmas, Jean will be in peril of his life if he so much as sails into French waters.

Now, as for the other ringleaders, Lord Nemours must die. Indeed, since he raised his sword against his King, let a sword be the manner of his execution. Let a swordsman take his life before a crowd, so that all may know he is dead, as befits a traitor.

I admit, however, that Lord Narbonne is more difficult. He may be an adult and of sound mind, unlike our little brother, but he is also a Prince of the Church. You won’t be able to slay him like the traitor he is, not without needlessly antagonising His Holiness. I think it’s ridiculous, that Holy Orders should protect a man so, but there we are. May I suggest that you extend the Archbishop the courtesy of choosing his own manner of death, as your great-grandfather once did to his own brother? Then at least no one can say you haven’t respected His Eminence’s high rank. And perhaps a discreet letter to His Holiness, explaining the details of the case, wouldn’t go amiss either.

But in all honesty, if His Holiness can’t see that we have no choice but to execute the Cardinal, given what he’s done, then perhaps France would be better off without having to answer to Rome? After all, with at least a fortnight’s journey between us, how can Rome ever be expected to understand the complexities of what goes on in our realm?

But whatever you choose to do, mon Coeur, know that I am with you. We need to stand united, now more than ever, and frankly, Paris would have to melt into the Seine before I denied you, rebellion or not….”



Kenninghall, 23rd August 1536

“My dearest brother,

Two chantry chapels? One in Birgham and one in Carham? With Mary buried in one and her heart in the other? I think it’s a beautiful idea, and I’m honoured you should ask me for help, especially over and above our Aunt Katherine and/or Uncle Henry. Of course I’ll sponsor the chantry chapel at Carham. Our darling Mary, my darling sister-cousin, deserves no less.

And I agree, Aunt Katherine will absolutely want to be there when we inter Mary’s heart at Carham. Indeed, I think she’ll want to preside over Mary’s reinterment at Birgham, if you can only arrange it. I know she’s not popular in the Borders, but she is Mary’s mother. Get her a safe-conduct, just this once. Please. I’ll bring her to Birgham for the reinterment, and then the three of us can accompany Mary’s heart to Carham, so that it can rest in English soil, as befits our beautiful English Rose.

Now, we’re going to need a few months, at least, to arrange all this and consecrate the ground we’ll need, so may I suggest we aim for next May, so we can tie everything into Mary’s year mind? And if I might presume even further upon your goodwill… If we do delay things until May, then your children will be more than old enough to withstand the rigours of travels, even little Mary Katherine. Might they be able to come to Birgham with you?

Oh, I’d never dream of asking you to allow them out of Scotland, not when Jamie and Cousin Louise are still childless, but Aunt Katherine would so cherish it if she could meet them. Let them be at Birgham with us for their mother’s formal reburial, and then we can leave them in the care of their nurses while we go south to Carham. What do you say?

Do write and tell me. And kiss the children for me.

I remain, Sawney, your devoted sister,

Meg Surrey
 
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