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

FalconHonour · Jul 16, 2021

I'm going away for the weekend, so have this to tide you over!

Windsor, April 1525

The annual mass, presentation and renewing of homage of the Knights of the Garter is always a grand pageant, the height of pomp and circumstance. This has particularly been the case in recent years, for England’s patron saint has always been among the King’s favourite religious figures.

Today ought to be no exception, particularly since the King’s Uncle, Arthur Plantagenet, who has only recently been created Earl of Southampton in recognition of his royal parentage, is being presented as one of the new Knights, replacing the late Lord Dacre. [1]

Unfortunately for Arthur, and his companion Lord De Ros, who is also taking his vows as a Knight this morning, the minds of the King and all others in the chapel are elsewhere.

The news that the Queen’s pains have begun left Her Grace’s rooms at dawn and spread through the castle like wildfire. As such, everyone in the chapel is praying, not for the health of those taking their places in the Garter stalls for the first time, but for the safe delivery of a Prince of Wales.

Suddenly, just as Lord de Ros rises from swearing fealty to the King, the chapel doors crash open.

A messenger in the Talbot livery stands beneath the lintel, dark as a crow against the bright April sunshine.

But where crows are thought to be evil omens, this messenger, already highly anticipated, soon proves to be bearing glad tidings.

Hurrying to the King, the page whispers softly in his ear. The colossal smile that breaks out on His Grace’s face tells the Knights of the Garter all they need to know.

England has her Prince.

The baby’s wails ring through Mary’s lying-in chambers, high, long and loud. Propped on her copious pillows, Mary beams at the sound. She’s done it! She’s done what she promised and given England a bonny, lusty Prince.

Her critics won’t dare sneer at her now. Not in a month of Sundays. Now she’s given Henry the Prince she’s always promised him, the Prince he’s craved since he was seventeen, no one can ever doubt her place at his side again.

“My son! Give me my son!” she orders, holding out her arms imperiously.

The baby is placed in her hold and her arms curve gently round him in a way they never did around his older sister. For his part, the little Prince, perhaps sensing he is in his mother’s arms, quietens immediately, ceasing his bawling and beginning to survey his surroundings with wide, curious eyes.

Mary chuckles lowly and kisses his forehead.

“Hello, darling,” she murmurs, enraptured by his clear blue gaze. His downy hair is dark, she notes with delight. He’s going to be a Talbot in looks, for all he’s a Tudor Prince.

“George,” she announces, startling the flock of ladies tidying away the last of the soiled linens and gathering armfuls of the crisp white napkins the Prince is soon bound to need, “His name shall be George, since he came into this world on St George’s Day.”

The ladies look at each other, astonished. Has the Queen really just named the Prince without consulting the King? Surely even she wouldn’t be so presumptuous, not when she knows His Grace has been waiting over a decade for an heir.

What truly astonishes them, however, is Mary’s tone. It rings with pure, unbridled joy, something none of them have ever heard from the peevish young Queen.

“Well, I never,” Lady Wingfield mutters to her friend Elizabeth Carew, as they slip from the room in search of more blankets, “Her Grace can smile after all!”

William Carey expects Henry to be furious when he finds out that the Queen has named their son without asking him first, but, to his surprise, Henry only laughs.

“George, eh? Naming him for her father, the vixen, when she knows full well I intended to name him after my grandfather. Aye, well, why not? It’s a good, strong, English name, and she has the right of it. The lad has been born on St George’s Day. Very well, George, Duke of Cornwall it is. Run back to the Queen, Will, and tell her I agree to the name, but I expect my uncle Arthur, my aunt Catherine and King Francis to stand as godparents. Oh, and tell her I’ll come and see the lad shortly, just as soon as I’ve spoken to Norfolk and set things in motion for his Christening.”

“Yes, Sire,” William bows and dashes off again, leaving his monarch bellowing joyfully behind him as he directs the rising wave of merriment in honour of his new-born son.

The golden cradle carved with roses stands proudly in the window embrasure. Lined with lambswool, it is ready to accept its new occupant the moment His Highness is released into the charge of the nursery. Lady Bryan and Lady Salisbury are puffed with pride at being allowed to care for the Prince of Wales. Mary, Meg and Nora, who visited the Queen earlier, can talk of nothing but baby George. Even little Lillibet is picking up on the excitement, periodically squealing and clapping her hands as she toddles about.

Imagine their surprise, then, when the doors open, not to the Prince, but to a pair of burly yeomen, who stride into the room, bow crisply to Mary, Lillibet and Meg and pick up the cradle.

“What is the meaning of this! That cradle is awaiting His Highness the Duke of Cornwall!” Lady Salisbury gasps, colour flaring in her cheeks at the affront.

“Queen’s orders,” one of them says shortly, huffing out his breath as he hefts one end of the cradle on to his shoulders, “His Highness is to remain in her rooms until her confinement is over, and he’s to have a household of his own. She’s named Lady Clifford his governess.” [2]

Lady Bryan gasps, as does Lady Salisbury. They’re not to care for His Highness after all?

Horrified shock reverberates round the room, so thick you could cut it with a knife. What have they done to deserve this?

It is Lady Bryan who recovers first. She nods in acknowledgement and places a quelling hand on Princess Mary’s shoulder when she makes to protest this unfairness. She even nods to one of the other ladies to hold the nursery door for the yeomen as they leave, cradle on their shoulders. Lady Salisbury can do nothing but stand in horrified silence.

Her brother’s title given to the King’s French concubine. With an upgrade in rank, no less. And now she’s been shunted aside as governess to the Prince of Wales in favour of a Talbot.

A cold frisson of fear, unlike any she has felt in years, runs down her spine. Is it really true? Are the days of the Plantagenet supremacy over England truly dead and gone?

[1] Given Charles Brandon is still married to Elizabeth Grey here, Arthur couldn't have the Lisle title, so I decided Earl of Southampton would do for him instead, given he had a lot to do with the various Cinque Ports.

[2] Margaret Talbot, Mary's sister, who OTL seems to have died in 1515. I'm keeping her alive here, because I wanted a Talbot governess for the Prince of Wales, and I couldn't see Mary naming her sister Elizabeth to the position, not with the dynamic I've written between them.

FalconHonour · Jul 24, 2021

Windsor, April 1525

“Honestly, darling, I don’t know why I bothered ordering George a cradle. He’s hardly ever in it,” Henry teases.

Mary, who has just taken George into her arms – taken him milk drunk and sleepy straight from the wet-nurse’s arms – only laughs as the baby nestles into her warmth and dozes off.

“I don’t know why you expected anything different. You’re the one who read me Marco Polo’s Travels during my confinement. You remember the description of the Cathay Prince, don’t you? The one who was thought to be so precious that even his feet weren’t allowed to touch the ground? He was carried everywhere. [1] Why shouldn’t our son be the same? Isn’t he just as precious? Besides, George hardly ever cries when he’s being held. He’s happy in people’s arms. And you want him to be happy, don’t you?”

“Of course!” Henry exclaims, raising a placating hand, “Our son is the greatest treasure in England. Of course he should be given whatever makes him happy. I take it your sister says he’s growing well, then?”

“Margaret’s never seen a healthier child,” Mary boasts proudly, and Henry beams. He’s waited so long for an heir. To hear George is thriving and a joy to be around is balm to his long-borne hidden wounds. Moreover, the boy is clearly a tonic to Mary’s spirits as well. Gone is the fractious, peevish woman who carried both Lillibet and George. George’s birth has helped Mary relax into her role as Queen, and she is a witty ray of sunshine now, much more like the girl whom Henry was entranced by three and a bit years ago. He can’t wait to see her return to Court after her churching. Now that she’s happier in herself, she’ll be a much better wife and Queen, and probably a better mother as well.

Admittedly, she does dote on George rather more than is likely good for the boy – whoever heard of a baby who is never in his cradle, for heaven’s sake? - but then she’s young and likely still riding the wave of delight that comes with birthing a Prince. It’s only just over a week since she gave birth after all. There’s still plenty of time for her to get her humours back in balance and for things to settle down?

Having reassured himself thus, Henry smiles at Mary and rises, “I’ll leave His Highness to sleep then. I’ve a Privy Council meeting to get to. But shall we dine together this afternoon?”

“I’d like that,” Mary smiles and Henry kisses her temple.

“It’s a bargain, my sweet. Order the cooks to make whatever you fancy, and I’ll see you after Nones.”

With that, he strides from the room, shaking his head and laughing to himself as he hears Mary demanding George be wrapped in a lambswool blanket lest he catch cold. Bless her, she only wants the best for their golden boy.

Fontainebleu, May 1525

“My brother has a son! My brother has a son!” Marie bursts into Francis’s chambers, literally singing the words, “My brother has a son!”

Francis cannot help but laugh. He can’t remember the last time he saw Marie this enthused about anything. Definitely not since little Marie passed away last December. Her sudden delight is infectious.

“I know, darling,” he chuckles, standing from his desk to catch her by the waist as she spins gleefully in his direction, “Henry wrote to me as well. He’s asked if I’ll be godfather.”

“Have you said yes? Have you said yes!”

Hope shines in Marie’s eyes, and Francis laughs again and then nods. “I have, yes.”

Marie squeals, snatching the letter Francis proffers so quickly she almost tears it.

Francis watches her, shaking his head indulgently. Most of the time, Marie is the perfect French Queen, but moments like these betray the fact that beneath the meticulous façade lies an impulsive young girl, a girl who is still very much English in her sympathies.

Why, she hasn’t even thought about the fact that George’s birth means Henri will never inherit England alongside his cousin Mary! Or that therefore, there will never be a Valois Empire straddling the Channel in the way there was once a Plantagenet one.

“We should hold a tournament! We should hold a tournament for George!” Marie’s excited exclamation breaks into Francis’s musings, and he blinks at her.

“The French? Hold a tournament for the Duke of Cornwall? I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“Oh, but it’s not just for the Duke of Cornwall. It’s for your godson. For my nephew,” Marie wheedles, winding her arms around Francis and looking pleadingly up at him, “Please, my love? You know how much it would mean to me. Besides, we haven’t held a tournament in months. Your men will be getting rusty.”

Francis chuckles wryly, “You won’t take no for an answer, will you? Oh, all right. I suppose we could all do with something to cheer us up after the last few months.”

Marie squeals in delight and kisses Francis hard.

“Thank you! Thank you!”

[1] I have no idea whether or not this really is in Marco Polo's Travels, but it sounds like the kind of thing that might be - and very much the kind of idea that Mary would latch on to!

FalconHonour · Aug 10, 2021

Fontainebleau, May 1525

The sun beats down on the tiltyard, making Marie mightily grateful for the shade of her canopied royal box. Fanning herself lightly with her hand, she can’t even begin to imagine how hot the riders must be, as they prepare for their tilts in their glittering tournament armour.

Putting the men’s misery from her mind for a moment, she glances around, taking in the women around her. They are not necessarily her usual companions in the royal box, for she has chosen these ladies not for their rank, but for their English connections. As such, twelve and nine-year-old Kate and Annie Parr join Margot, Renee, Henri and Louise in the front row, while their mother sits in a place of honour to Marie’s left. On Marie’s right, naturally, is the young Countess de St Pol. Anne is laughing and waving to her brother George, who brought the news of the Duke of Cornwall’s birth and, alongside his father, has been asked to stay and take part in the joust in the boy’s honour.

George trots over to the side of the stands and the dark-haired siblings share a few words, glancing back to the children once or twice, before George nods and rides away. Anne returns to her seat, and, at that very moment, the trumpets blare, announcing the first joust: King Francis against her father, Lord Rochford.

“Dear Papa,” she chuckles, “He must be hating this. He’s never been a rider. We all took after Maman in how well we can sit a horse.”

Marie grimaces in sympathy, but Thomas Boleyn puts up a credible enough showing to begin with, as he tips his lance to King Francis and the two of them turn to the crowd, seeking ladies to ask for their favour.

As they’ve arranged between themselves, Francis rides straight past Marie and bows his head to Anne.

“Madame de St Pol, might I have the honour of riding in your colours today?”

Anne flushes with pleasure at being singled out so, but retains her composure well enough to rise, curtsy and tie a ribbon in the St Pol colours around the cheekpiece of Francis’s horse’s bridle.

“Bien Sur, Your Grace,” she smiles, “May it bring you as much luck as the Queen’s favour usually does.”

Anne’s poise is not, sadly, matched by her father’s. He’s not been to France for years, so this is the first time he’s really seen his middle daughter as a Princess of the Blood. So proud is he to see her basking comfortably in royal favour that he almost forgets to ask Marie for her favour. He has to rush the question as the next pair of knights trot up behind him.

He flushes scarlet at the lapse, clearly browbeating himself inwardly, and Marie smiles gently at him. She knows what parental pride can be like. She can forgive him, just this once.

Six-year-old Henri, however, attending his first joust and too young to understand the nuances of what’s just been played out, is not nearly so forgiving. He snorts derisively as Marie ties a royal blue ribbon embroidered with ostrich feathers to the pommel of Lord Rochford’s saddle.

“Papa wouldn’t have forgotten. He should be Maman’s champion, not Lord Rochford. Don’t worry, Maman. I’ll be your champion next time, and I won’t forget!”

“Don’t be silly! You can’t even ride!” Louise, twenty-one months younger than Henri and likewise attending her first joust, is eager to show how clever she is. She rounds on her older brother and Henri bristles.

“I can too ride! I ride better than you! You’re just a baby – you’re not even off the leading rein yet!”

Predictably, Louise shrieks at the insult, and Marie rolls her eyes as her younger children descend into squabbles. She tunes them out just in time to see George and Fran approach the royal box. Fran glances to her quickly, and when she nods imperceptibly, draws rein before Margot.

“May I beg the honour of your favour, My Lady Princess?”

Margot’s eyes light up. She leaps to her feet and bounds towards the edge of the stands. Hand already at her wrist to untie her favour, she freezes and glances towards Marie. She’s never been asked for her favour before.

Marie nods encouragingly at her eldest. Margot’s nine now. She’ll be Queen of Portugal before too much longer. She deserves this rite of passage. Being the sweet-tempered girl she is, she’d never have asked for it of her own accord, but she deserves the acknowledgement that she’s growing older, especially since Francis has deemed her younger siblings old enough to watch these jousts as well.

Besides, no girl forgets the first knight who asked for her favour, no matter how high her rank. Marie herself can still remember the delight she felt when Nicholas Carew asked for her favour at her brother’s coronation joust. And he wasn’t even half as good looking or heroic as Fran, the famous captor of the Emperor. Margot will be over the moon at this.

Margot doesn’t need telling twice. She stretches up on tiptoe and ties a cream ribbon to the throatlash of Fran’s grey mount with a beaming smile, her dark curly hair cascading down her back and gleaming in the sun as she does so. Her ribbon, like Marie’s, is embroidered with ostrich feathers. All the favours are, ostrich feathers being the traditional badge of the Prince of Wales.

Fran thanks Margot and salutes her carefully and then she skips back to her seat. Marie can’t help but chuckle to herself at the sight. Margot’s not quite a grown woman yet, for all she likes to pretend she is.

George Boleyn is next to ask one of their number for a favour. Marie is surprised to see him offer his lance to young Kate Parr. Renee is still unaccounted for, and she would have thought that George, an ambitious rising star at her brother’s Court, would have chosen to seek the blessing of the sovereign Duchess of Brittany rather than a relative nobody like Kate.

Seeing the confusion on her Queen’s face, Anne leans over.

“I asked him to. I knew Papa would ask for yours and that you’d arranged for His Grace to ask for mine, while Fran honoured Mademoiselle Margot, so that left George unattached. I like Kate, I wanted to make her smile. And I also thought that Mademoiselle Margot might like to see her best friend honoured alongside her.”

Marie’s face clears and she smiles at Anne.

“That was very thoughtful of you, Annabelle. I’m sure the girls will appreciate it. Now, are you all set for your trip to England?”

“Yes, Madam,” Anne leans back in her seat, settling herself more comfortably, “Papa is to go on to Savoy from here, to discuss a match between Lady Elizabeth and Prince Ludovico, so George is taking myself and Georges back with him sometime next week. We’ll pick Nora up from Hunsdon and then go to Aldenham to spend some time with our older sister and her family. George’s wife will join us there with Bess and Jamie.”

“You’ll go to Court first, I presume?”

“Bien sur. George will need to report to King Henry and I’ll need to pay my respects to Queen Mary and Prince George.”

“Would you do myself and the King a favour?”

Marie is careful to phrase the words as a request, for all they both know that Anne isn’t going to refuse, “Take a Landais foal with you for Prince George. Francis and I want to give our nephew a gift that will last, and Henri is most pleased with his Landais pony, aren’t you, Henri?”

“You’re not giving them Baucent! He’s mine!” Henri cries, whirling around from his argument with Louise to fix his mother with a fierce glare.

Were any of her other children to speak to her like that, Marie would scold them roundly, but not Henri. She merely chuckles fondly at her favourite son, and ruffles his hair.

“No, of course we won’t send George Baucent, mon coeur. But I thought you might want to help pick out a foal to send your cousin. I’m sure Mary would be most pleased to know her knight has had a hand in choosing her baby brother’s present.”

Henry mulls this over, chewing the inside of his bottom lip. He doesn’t usually care for much that involves children younger than himself. But he is at that age where he is keen to prove himself as a knight. And there are horses involved. That helps.

“All right,” he nods at last. Marie beams at him.

“Good. Thank you, darling. We’ll go to the stud in a day or two, once the tournament is over. Just you and me. Papa will be very pleased to know you’re helping."

Matters settled to everyone’s satisfaction, they settle in to watch the tilts.

Francis watches Marie from afar as his squires finish fastening his armour.

He can’t hear what she’s saying, not from this distance with the hubbub of the crowd between them, but he can see the way she throws her head back as she laughs at something little Annabelle has said.

Her blue eyes sparkle in the May sunlight and her cheeks are awash with merry colour.

His heart sings to see it. He wasn’t entirely sure about holding this joust, but watching her now, he knows it was the right decision. He hasn’t seen his darling this alive for months.

Desire stirs in his loins and he beckons to a passing page.

“Go and tell the Queen I’ll come to her bed tonight.”

“Yes, Sire.” The boy scampers off and Francis follows his progress to the royal box with avid eyes. Oh, he’s been to Marie’s chambers plenty in recent weeks, but somehow, he already knows tonight will be different. Marie is different.

The joyous news from England has freed her from the shackles of grief and returned her to a woman closer to her old self, to the woman Francis fell in love with.

Watching her, he is more certain than he has ever been that the two of them are leading France into a golden future.

FalconHonour · Aug 13, 2021

Blois, August 1525

“What are we going to do about Louis de Breze?”

Francis exhales in muted frustration as he finishes the latest missive from Milan and sets it aside. Marie, who has been sitting in the window embrasure sewing as he deals with his correspondence, looks up in slight surprise.

“Do we need to do anything about him? He’s serving us perfectly well in Milan, isn’t he?”

“He is. But he’s far from best pleased about the news from London.”

“What? The new Lady Warwick and the rumours that she’s pregnant again?” Marie has had one eyebrow raised since they started this conversation. Now the other rises to join it, “I can see why he’s not pleased. It can’t be easy watching your younger wife fall for another man and make herself the talk of Christendom. But why do we have to do anything about him? Diane is my brother’s mistress. He’s the one who has honoured her so. Let him be the one to deal with the fallout.”

“Louis de Breze is our servant. Besides, who was it who sent Diane to England in the first place?”

Francis arches a sardonic eyebrow back at Marie and she flushes.

“You wanted her to go too! You wanted Henry influenced. I just chose the instrument.”

“Yes, I wanted our brother influenced,” Francis agrees, impatience creeping into his tone, “Towards a French match. Not to take the wife of one of my most trusted courtiers into his bed! He’s made her his maitresse-en-titre and given her a quasi-royal title, for God’s sake! De Breze is spitting feathers and I don’t blame him. You know how sensitive he is about his family history. This is like a red rag to a bull as far as he’s concerned. He’s already threatening to denounce Lady Warwick for abandonment and annul their marriage as soon as he possibly can. And once’s he’s done that, he’ll come for us, for letting it happen in the first place.”

“He wouldn’t dare!” Marie gasps, “After everything you’ve done for him!”

“Oh, he would,” Francis says, confident in his assessment of the situation, and the other man’s character, “And again, I wouldn’t blame him. I’d do the same if old Louis had tried to use my wife as one of his chess pieces. But we do need to limit the damage if we can. Louis is powerful enough as it is. If he gets too many of the other nobles on his side, we’re done for. And you know how touchy our courtiers can get about their families.”

Marie purses her lips. Little as she likes it. Francis is right. They – she – may have overstepped the mark a little in sending Diane to England. Yes, she had the right to send someone to help raise her niece as a French Duchess, but it didn’t have to be Diane de Breze. With all the noblewomen in France to choose from, it could have been someone a little less to her brother’s taste.

“I could put Francoise and Louise De Breze in the nursery at Amboise?” she offers, “Francoise isn’t that much younger than Margot, and Louise is only a few months younger than our own. It would be an honoured position for them both, particularly if they follow our girls to Scotland and Portugal.”

“And we’d know where they were if we ever needed to turn a screw,” Francis muses, turning the suggestion over in his head, examining it from all angles.

Eventually, he nods, “Do it. Louis is clever enough to get the message. We’ll take the girls into the nursery, and I’ll recall Louis from Milan temporarily. Recall him and give him a title in thanks. Chartres, I think. Comte de Chartres ought to do the trick.”

“Chartres?” Marie whistles through her teeth, “That’s a very big carrot, my love.”

“It is,” Francis agrees, “But we need to keep Louis in line, at least until Henri is old enough to rule Milan for himself. Let’s just hope it’s enough.”

With that, he pecks Marie on the cheek and strides out of the room to set things in motion. He’s never been one for putting off unpleasant tasks.

Amboise, August 1525

Francoise de Breze reminds her of a sparrow, Margot thinks. Small, plump, rather plain and unassuming.

Oh, she doesn’t mind having her in her household. Not really. But she doesn’t really understand why she needs her. Maman says it’s because she’s getting older, that she needs more ladies in preparation for when she goes to Portugal, but Francoise and Louise are littler than her. Louise is even littler than Louise. She’s scarcely bigger than Jean! So the De Breze girls can’t be her ladies! Not yet, anyway! And though Maman thinks it might be nice for them to be friends, she’s got Kate and Nanette for that. Why would she need more friends, when she already has the two best friends in all the world?

All coherent thought flies out of Margot’s head the moment Francoise de Breze rises from her curtsy. The younger girl fixes her with a gimlet stare, and Margot realises she’s not a sparrow at all. She’s a hawk.

“Your mother sent my mother to England,” Francoise says. Her voice is high, but it is also calm and assured, far more so than that of most seven-year-olds, “Your mother sent my mother to England and now she’s dead.”

Margot shifts uncomfortably. Francoise clearly believes what she’s saying, but Margot knows it isn’t true. She’s not quite sure what Madame de Breze is doing in England, but she’s heard enough rumours to be reasonably certain she isn’t dead.

She glances over Francoise’s head to Lady Parr, silently pleading with her to tell her what to do.

“Play along,” her governess mouths, “Play along, Your Highness. I’ll explain later.”

Now Margot is even more confused. Isn’t playing along with what Francoise has said lying? Lying is a sin. Lady Parr always says so. She gets very cross whenever Henri and Louise lie to get each other into trouble.

But if she leaves it any longer to answer Francoise, she’ll look rude, and she knows she can’t be seen to be rude to her new lady, even if her new lady is a little girl two years younger than she is.

“I know,” she says at last, “I’m very sorry.”

Francoise nods stiffly and then Lady Parr is ushering her away to join her little sister and Louise. Margot watches them go, relieved to have the awkward moment over.

Ampthill, August 1525

George snuffles in his sleep and begins to squirm. He whimpers lightly and Lady Clifford glances up worriedly. Her charge only drifted off half an hour ago. And everyone knows how miserable the little Prince can be when he’s tired. But, on the other hand, if she doesn’t teach him how to sleep in his cradle now, when he’s still young and malleable, how is he ever going to learn?

The whimpering rises a little in pitch and volume and Lady Clifford rises to her feet. Perhaps if she just slips her hand into the cradle and rubs George’s stomach a little, he might go back to –

“Maggie! What have I told you? I don’t want George left on his own in the cradle. If he wants to sleep in someone’s arms, let him!”

Lady Clifford has to bite back a curse. Her older sister, radiant with the confidence that comes with giving the King his heart’s desire, has swept into the nursery.

“Madam,” She curtsies, but Mary pays her no heed, only sweeping the grizzling George up out of his lambswool cradle and into her arms. She rocks him gently, rubbing his back and he rolls his head to the side and goes back to sleep.

Mary looks at her sister triumphantly, “See! All he wants is to be held! I don’t know why you keep making it so hard on yourself. You know how he cries when he’s on his own.”

“Madam… With all due respect… I don’t want the Prince growing up spoiled. It won’t do England any good to have a spoiled King. I know it’s hard to hear him cry, but remember what Rose used to say when we were little? Babies need to learn to sleep alone. Otherwise, how is His Highness going to cope when the Duke of York or a Lady Cecily arrives to take his place as the baby of the nursery?”

“Rose was a witch,” Mary scowls, “She never liked me and you know it, so I don’t know why you’d bring her up. I don’t want any memories of her near my son. Besides, what she said about us doesn’t apply to George. We weren’t Princes. Not even Francis. George is the most precious child in England and you will treat him as such. You will give him whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. I don’t care if that means holding him every minute of every day, or feeding him every hour of the night. I’d rather that than hear him shed a single tear more than necessary. Is that clear?”

“Madam… Sister…”

“Is that clear?” Mary snarls, jolting her son awake as she does so, “You’re going to Greenwich with George next week, to set up his household. If you can’t promise me that you’ll bend over backwards to keep my son happy, then I’ll find someone else to be his governess. Someone who will treat him with the true reverence he deserves.”

Lady Clifford winces. She can hear her old nurse glowering even as she considers her sister’s words. But she doesn’t want to lose her position as George’s governess. It’s an honour for a younger daughter such as herself, even if she is the Queen’s sister. And George’s lusty screams are making it hard to think. He’s certainly got a pair of lungs on him.

Eventually, she sucks in her breath and nods reluctantly.

“As you say, Madam. I’ll ensure His Highness’s every whim is met. I promise.”

“Good. Now, for goodness’ sake, calm him down!”

Mary almost thrusts George back at Margaret, and then plumps herself down in the nearest padded chair, watching coolly as her sister is forced to circle the room, rocking and patting the writhing, wailing baby.

It doesn’t take long for George to settle, now that he is being held again, but Lady Clifford grimaces inwardly regardless. Every time she gives in to George’s cries to be held is another day he hasn’t learnt to sleep in his cradle.

FalconHonour · Aug 21, 2021

Henry VII (1457-1509) m. 1486 Elizabeth of York (1466-1503)

Arthur, Prince of Wales (1486-1502) m.1501 Katherine of Aragon (b.1485)
No Issue
Margaret, Queen of Scotland (b.1489) m 1503 James IV of Scotland (1473-1513)
- James V of Scotland (b.1512) bet. Louise of France (b.1520)
- Alexander, Duke of Ross (b.1514) bet. Anne of Cleves (b.1515)
Henry VIII (b.1491) m 1509 Katherine of Aragon (b.1485) (a) m.1522 Lady Mary Talbot exm. Bessie Blount and Diane de Poitiers, Marchioness of Warwick
- Princess Mary (b.1516) bet. Henri, Duke of Milan and Orleans (b.1519)
- Henry Fitzroy, Earl of Somerset (b.1519) bet. Katherine Willoughby (b.1519)
- Lady Elizabeth (b.1523) bet. Ludovico, Prince of Piedmont (b. 1523)
- Edmund Fitzroy, Earl of Kendal (b.1524)
- George, Prince of Wales (b.1525)
- Lady Margaret Fitzroy (b.1526)
Marie, Queen of France (b.1496) m. 1514 Louis XII of France (1462 -1515) m 1515 Francis I of France (b.1494)
With Louis:
No Issue
With Francis:
- Marguerite (b.1516) bet. Joao III of Portugal (b.1502)
- Francis, Dauphin of France (b.1517) bet. Renee, Duchess of Brittany (b.1510)
- Henri, Duke of Milan and Orleans (b.1519) bet. Princess Mary (b.1516
- Louise (b.1520) bet. James V of Scotland (b.1512)
- Miscarriage (1521)
- Jean, Count of Angouleme (b.1522)
- Marie (b. and d. 1524)
- Charles (b.1526)

FalconHonour · Sep 3, 2021

As promised, here is my cast list for a period drama about Marie's life as this week's update. I imagine this being aired in 2015, to mark the 500th anniversary of Marie's marriage to Francis, and it's title comes from both the fleur-de-lys and the fact that lillies are often linked to Marie's namesake, the Virgin Mary. (NB: I have only cast the children with the first person who plays them - I'm sure their actors/actresses change as they grow up! I have also left out anyone who hasn't been introduced yet.)

Marie, Queen of France - Sophie Skelton

Francis I of France - Tyler Hoechlin

Marguerite, Holy Roman Empress - Michelle Dockery

Louise of Savoy - Ruth Gemell

Renee, Duchess of Brittany - Alexa Gerasmovich

Mademoiselle Margot - Natasha Raphael

Dauphin Francois - Ryan Turner

Henri of Orleans - Kyle Breitkopf

Francoise de Foix - Lily James

Kate Parr - Hannah Saxby

FalconHonour · Sep 3, 2021

Fran de St Pol - Richard Coyle

Anne, Countess de St Pol - Natalie Dormer

Henry VIII - Sam Heughan

Katherine of Aragon - Tilda Swinton

Princess Mary/Nora Boleyn - Florence Hunt

Meg Douglas - Brooklyn Proulx

Mary Talbot - Claudia Jessie

Lady Elizabeth - Blaithnaid Mckeown

Diane de Poitiers - Holland Roden

Charles V - Sebastian Arnesto

FalconHonour · Sep 12, 2021

It would only let me upload ten pictures to my previous post, so here are the discussed additions to the Queen of Lillies Cast.

Anne is now both Ballie Madison and Natalie:

Katherine of Aragon meanwhile is Rose Leslie rather than Tilda Swinton:

FalconHonour · Sep 12, 2021

Now, I had hoped to have a full chapter out today, but I haven't done much writing recently, so I am pushing off the start of part III a bit so I can work on a backlog of chapters in the meanwhile.

So: Have a Habsburg tree instead!

Juana of Castile (b.1479) m.1496 Phillip IV of Burgundy

1) Eleanor of Austria (b.1498) m. 1518 Manuel I of Portugal (1469-1521) (a) m. 1523 Antoine, Duke of Lorraine (b)
- Charles of Portugal (1520-1521)
- Maria of Portugal (1521-1523)

2) Charles V (b.1500) m.1522 Marguerite de Angouleme (b.1492)
- Philip, Prince of Asturias (b.1524) bet. Anna of Lorraine (b.1522)
- unborn child, due August 1527

3) Isabella, Queen of Denmark (b.1501) m. 1515 Christian II of Denmark (b.1481)
- John, Crown Prince of Denmark (b.1518)
- Dorothea (b,1520)
- Christina (b.1521)

4) Ferdinand (b,1503) m.1521 Anna of Bohemia and Hungary (b.1503)
- Elizabeth (b.1526)
- unborn child, due July 1527

5) Mary, Queen of Hungary (b.1505) m.1521 Louis II of Hungary and Bohemia (1506-1526)
- Karoly III of Hungary and Bohemia (b.1522)
- Alojzia, Crown Princess of Hungary and Bohemia (b.1526)

6) Catherine, Duchess of Ferrara (b.1507) m.1523 Ercole II of Ferrara (b.1508)
- Giovanna (b.1525)

FalconHonour · Sep 21, 2021

Tickhill, August 1527

“Charles,” Henry beckons to his oldest friend, separating him from a knot of courtiers, “Walk with me.”

“Of course,” Charles dips his head and falls into step beside Henry, so used to Henry’s commanding joviality that he doesn’t even flinch as Henry throws a heavy arm around his shoulders.

The two of them stroll down the long gallery to the window embrasure at the end. Henry gazes down into the gardens absently, watching the courtiers scurrying below without actually seeing them.

“Mary of Hungary has agreed to betroth little Lujza to George,” he says abruptly. “I’d hoped for an Imperial match for him, but the heiress to Bohemia and Hungary isn’t to be sniffed at, particularly since there’s no guarantees Empress Marguerite will birth a girl this time around, and Archduke Ferdinand seems determined to betroth his little Elizabeth to the Polish heir. The children are both still young, after all. A lot can change in the next ten years.”

“Indeed,” Charles reassures, “And the Queen will be pleased to have the Prince’s future secured, even if she, like yourself, would have preferred an Iberian match, had one been available.”

“Yes,” Henry exhales slowly, “Hopefully it will make her smile again. Precious little has since she lost the Duke of York.”

Charles murmurs in sympathy, suppressing a wince. Queen Mary has never been an easy woman, but the confidence boost having a Prince in the cradle had given her had softened her, made her that little bit more amenable to compromise, at least towards the great magnates. The loss of the unborn Duke of York in May, however, has brought an abrupt end to the golden peace that has permeated the Court for the past two years.

“But enough about George,” Henry breaks into Charles’s musings, startling the older man. Normally Henry can’t gush about his darling golden boy enough, “Getting his future sorted has made me realise that it’s past time I start making plans for the others too. Mary is settled with Henri, of course, and Lillibet will go to Savoy when she’s older, but that still leaves the Fitzroys to make plans for.”

Henry gives Charles a meaningful look. Charles suspects he knows what’s coming, but he doesn’t want to presume. He hasn’t managed to stay Henry’s friend this long by being presumptuous.

“Sire?” he queries lightly, and Henry snorts.

“Don’t play the fool, Charles. It doesn’t suit you. You have a son, I have a daughter. It would please me mightily if we were to join our families. Your Harry to my Peggy. What do you say?”

Charles’s heart leaps. His fortunes at Court might be assured, given Henry’s love for him, but the same can’t necessarily be said for his children. Oh, Harry is the future Duke of Suffolk, so there’s that, but Eliza… well, being sister to the King’s natural children can only do her prospects the world of good. Of course, it would be even better if Eliza were to marry Lord Edmund, but he doesn’t want to seem overreaching by pushing for a double match. As such, he simply smiles at Henry.

“I think it’s a grand idea, Sire. I’ll have to consult with the Duchess, of course, but I can’t see why she shouldn’t be delighted.”

“Splendid!” Henry claps him on the back, “With Hal promised to little Kathy Willoughby, that only leaves me Edmund to settle. Do write to the Duchess as soon as you can, won’t you?”

“Yes, Sire,” Charles nods and then bows and turns to leave as Henry flicks his fingers in dismissal. A couple of paintings away, however, he stops as a thought occurs to him.

“My Lord?”

“Yes, Charles?”

“I wondered if you’d given any more thought to Prince George’s household when he goes to Ludlow? Whether or not Harry will be going with him?”

“Oh, Harry will definitely be joining the nursery next summer,” Henry assures his friend, “I’ll make sure of that. But I’m not sure we’ll be moving George from Greenwich just yet. The Queen has been complaining that Ludlow is too far away while he’s still so young. And I have to admit, I do like having my son close.”

“I see. And His Highness’s governor?”

Henry sighs, his mouth pinching for a moment, “I’d like to see Nick Carew raise him. He’d make a fine soldier of him. But Mary wants her brother Francis to raise him, as my great-uncle Anthony raised my Uncle Edward, and who am I to say no to a doting mother? So the jury’s still out of that one.”

Charles nods, and backs away again. He waits until he’s out of Henry’s sight to roll his eyes.

Queen Mary is going to turn her son into a Talbot puppet, not a Tudor Prince.

Coudenberg, Brussels, August 1527

Charles pauses outside Marguerite’s lying-in chambers, steeling himself.

He has to go in and visit Marguerite and their new daughter, he knows. It will be the talk of Brussels if he doesn’t.

But he’s struggling to muster the enthusiasm. He only brought Marguerite back from Spain when his nobles started to make worried noises about a single son’s life being a slender thread to hang the fate of the Spanish Empire upon, and when the Flemish made it very clear that they would rather be ruled by a Burgundian than a Spaniard. He never planned to co-habit with her for long. Just long enough to have a Duke of Burgundy and soothe his nobles a bit. Then he was going to pack her off to Segovia and get on with courting Anne de Cröy. Phillippe wouldn’t have minded. Not if he got an Order of the Golden Fleece out of it.

But now Marguerite has had a daughter, he’ll have to put aside any thoughts of romancing his old tutor’s niece and try again for a son with Marguerite. Damn and blast her! Why couldn’t she just have given him another son like she was supposed to?!

Sucking in a sharp, irritated breath, Charles pushes open the heavy oaken doors.

Marguerite doesn’t look up when he enters. She is too busy crooning – in French, damn her eyes – to the infant girl in her arms. She is running tender fingers through the dark downy hair covering the baby’s scalp.

Charles pauses mid-stride, taking in the scene, and then crosses to the bed.

“Is she healthy?” he manages, involuntarily half-holding out his arms. Marguerite starts at his voice, but nods.

“The wet nurse says she has quite a strong suck.”

“Good. That’s good. And the birth wasn’t too hard on you?”

“No harder than Phillip’s, My Lord.”

The words are cool and stilted, but at least they haven’t descended into a shouting match. Not yet. That’s already an improvement on the last time Charles came to visit.

“Would you like to hold your daughter, Sire?” Marguerite proffers the baby and Charles takes her, feeling the warm strength beneath the layers of swaddling.

He lets himself daydream for a moment. This little girl will make a fine Queen one day. Of Hungary, perhaps. Or Denmark, if he can only get Christian back on his throne. As such, they should name her for a Queen, a rightful Queen.

“Catalina,” he says firmly, “We shall name her Catalina, for my aunt.”

Marguerite nods, uncharacteristically silent. Charles cuts her a sidelong glance, “I hope the birth hasn’t sapped you of your strength unduly, Madam. After all, Phillip still needs a brother. Especially now that he’s old enough to go to Zaragoza.”

“Zaragoza?” The colour, what little there is of it, drains from Marguerite’s cheeks. She knows only too well what this means.

Charles nods, “He’s old enough. I’ve asked Pedro de Toledo to take charge of him. He’ll make a proper Spanish soldier of him, the way the Cortes want.”

“Charles…” Marguerite starts, reaching for him impulsively, “Please. No. Think what you do. Phillip has only just turned three. He’s too young!”

“A Prince is never too young to learn to rule,” Charles glares down at Marguerite. Suddenly, however, a touch of sympathy warms him. He’s not quite sure why. Perhaps it’s because he’s never seen Marguerite look so vulnerable.

“You may raise Catalina,” he says gently, “You may raise Catalina and any younger siblings we may manage to give her. I’ll order my grandmother’s palace at Mechelen to be made ready for you. And you may send for Bucher and the other moderate Reformers if you wish. This craze for heresy isn’t blowing over in the way I hoped it might. We’re going to have to face it, and the heretics are claiming they’ll talk to you when they won’t talk to me. I only hope you’ll do your duty as Empress and make them see sense.”

Marguerite’s eyes light up. Charles has never offered her such as big olive branch before.

“Thank you,” she breathes, kissing his hand where it rests on Catalina’s back, “Thank you!”

Charles watches her with something close to tenderness in his eyes, but it only lasts a moment. Catalina whimpers and his walls snap back up again.

“But Phillip goes to Zaragoza on Monday,” he snarls, setting his jaw against further protest, “I can’t have the Prince of Asturias tainted with the brush of heresy. Pedro will take charge of him from now on.”

Then, without giving Marguerite a chance to respond, he places Catalina in the cradle and strides from the room, muttering furiously under his breath.

He’s going to have to order new birth announcements, he thinks blackly. The prewritten ones all say Duke of Burgundy rather than Archduchess.

Damn and Blast it all! Why couldn’t Catalina have been a boy? Then all his problems would have been solved.

FalconHonour · Sep 28, 2021

You can all thank @VVD0D95 for this week's chapter. I had no idea how to write this scene until I read his chapter where Mary and Elizabeth Stewart talk about how things are changing in Albion Rising. So, thanks for the inspiration, V!

Rambouillet, September 1527

“That’s it, darling. Do a little twirl for me, so we can see how it hangs when you move,” Marie calls, beaming at her eldest daughter. Giggling, Margot spins around obediently, the pale blue damask rustling against the rush matting she stands on. In an unusual flash of the dramatics, the dark-haired girl even sweeps an exaggerated curtsy in Mademoiselle Durand’s direction when the seamstress claps in appreciation.

“Magnifique, votre Altesse!”

Marie laughs with her daughter, but her merriment is tinged with melancholy. Margot is eleven now, and more a woman with every passing day. Her dark curls ripple down her back, brushing her tiny waist, which is only further highlighted by the corset she wears.

The corset itself is a sign of Margot’s growing maturity. Her wedding dress is the first dress that’s been designed for her with a full corset rather than a simple set of stays, and as she wears it, Marie can see the Queen her daughter will become, even as Margot’s eyes shine with childish delight.

“King Joao is a very lucky man, my darling,” she whispers, smoothing flyaway strands back from Margot’s brow, “You’re going to look beautiful on your wedding day.”

“I hope so, Maman.” Margot says softly, before her pert nose wrinkles, “But how do you know the dress will still fit me then? I’m not leaving until April, and Lady Parr says I’m growing like a weed at the moment.”

Taken aback by her daughter’s earnestness, Marie almost laughs, before she shakes her head and taps Margot’s nose with a finger.

“Don’t be silly! Mademoiselle Durand would never make a mistake like that! She’ll put panels into the bodice and the waist, won’t you, Mademoiselle?”

Marie turns to the portly seamstress, who nods, “Bien sur! I’m horrified that you should ever think anything less of me, Madame! I’d never do Mademoiselle Margot the disservice of forgetting how she’s growing!”

“Exactly! So, you see, darling, it’ll be fine. The seamstresses in Lisbon will have lots of extra fabric to work with. They’ll make the final adjustments before you wear it to the church door. Don’t fret, we wouldn’t have you representing France in anything less than the finest dress we can make you.”

“Good,” Margot smiles then, her curved lips a blaze of sunshine just like her father’s. A moment later, however, she turns affectionate, nestling against Marie’s shoulder like a kitten, “I only want to make you and Papa proud, Maman.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Marie knows the words are an intimate confession for her eldest, who feels her position as the eldest keenly, and who always strives to be the ‘easy’ child, the one no one has to worry about, “You already do. I promise you, you already do.”

A thought strikes her then, and she sends Mademoiselle Durand and her assistants from the room, waiting for them to leave before she cups Margot’s cheek in her hand.

“But, darling, listen.”

“Yes, Maman?”

“When you get to Lisbon…” Marie hesitates, wondering quite how to phrase this next bit, particularly with Margot peeping up at her eagerly, hanging on her every word, “When you get to Lisbon, your father will want you to influence King Joao, to keep him on our side in the matters of Italy, Flanders and the New World. And by all means, do that if you can, but don’t let Papa browbeat you into anything. You’ll be a Portuguese Queen, not a French Princess. You have to put Portugal first, understand?”

She pauses and Margot looks up at her, wide-eyed. She’s clearly never heard Marie speak so seriously before. Perhaps unsure what to say, the little girl nods frantically, but Marie shakes her head, gripping her daughter’s shoulder.

“No, Margot. I need to hear you say it. This is important. Your Aunt Katherine never learnt to put England first, and it was one of the reasons Uncle Henry set her aside. I don’t want that to happen to you. So, promise me you’ll put Portugal first.”

“I promise, Maman. I’ll put Portugal first.”

“Good girl.” Marie lets out a breath she didn’t even realise she’d been holding and leans in to kiss Margot’s brow, but Margot ducks away, face clouding.

“I wish Kate was coming with me.”

Marie’s heart clenches. She should have known this would rear its head sooner or later. Lady Parr refused Kate permission to travel with Margot last month, claiming that, while Kate’s younger sister Nanette could go, Kate had a potential marriage in the offing, and so would have to stay behind. Personally, Marie isn’t sure there really is a match. She hasn’t heard of one being mooted. She suspects that Lady Parr simply wants to keep her favourite daughter with her for as long as she can. And to be honest, given Lady Parr has only seen young Baron Parr once since she left him in England all those years ago, Marie can’t blame her. But, not yet a mother herself, Margot doesn’t understand. She is simply disconsolate at losing her best friend just when everything else around her is changing.

“I know, darling, I know,” she whispers, holding her oldest daughter close, “And if I could make Lady Parr let you take Kate, I would, but you know why I can’t. Lady Parr has every right to decide her daughter’s future. Don’t be too down-hearted. You’re taking Nanette and Francoise, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but they’re not Kate! Kate’s the best, she always knows what to do!”

Tears well in Margot’s eyes and Marie says nothing to stop them, simply lets Margot cry into her shoulder. She still remembers how horrified she was to lose Mother Guildford just weeks after her marriage…and she was far older than Margot.

“You’ll have to write,” she breathes into Margot’s hair, “You’ll have to write and ask Kate’s advice when you need it. And you can make her godmother to your eldest daughter, if you like. I’ll wager Kate would make an excellent godmother.”

“I can?” Margot lifts her head at Marie’s words, jaw dropping. Clearly, she hasn’t considered the fact that she and Kate might be able to remain in each other’s lives once they are no longer spending nearly every day together.

Marie laughs and ruffles Margot’s hair, “Of course you can. You can even name your daughter for her. Catarina is a beautiful name for a Princess.”

“Oh,” Margot thinks for a few moments, chewing her lower lip discreetly, before she musters a watery smile and rises, “Thank you, Maman. I’m better now.”

“Good, because this trousseau won’t make itself!” Marie teases. She sends Margot running in search of Mademoiselle Durand, but has to take a moment before she can rise to join her, her heart too full to move.

Margot is so gentle and poised most of the time that it’s sometimes easy to forget just how young she still is. Eleven. Barely more than a child. The Portuguese alliance is important, yes, but is it really more important than Margot? Are they really sending her away in April, just a month after her twelfth birthday?

FalconHonour · Oct 16, 2021

Buda, September 1527

The Dowager Queen of Hungary sits at her writing desk, gazing pensively into the distance. The shouts of Karoly and his companions drift up to her through the open window from where they are taking their daily riding lesson and she smiles to hear them.

Nearing his fifth birthday, Karoly is a delightful child, with his father’s chestnut hair and an impish smile that melts Maria’s heart. He can be a menace to his tutors, she knows, always climbing and jumping into things he isn’t supposed to, but she finds it hard to scold him, even when she probably should. She is just so relieved he is strong and healthy, with no sign of his father’s early frailty, which she heard more than a bit about during the long, hot, months of her pregnancy and confinement.

Of course, the King of Hungary needs a Queen to sit at his side, particularly with the Jagellion line still so fragile and resting only on his round young shoulders. It is this weighty matter which Maria has withdrawn to her solar to ponder.

The Council was pushing a French alliance to help counter the Ottoman threat in the east, but Mademoiselle Marie’s death at three months old put paid to that, especially when she was then followed in the cradle by a brother, Charles, rather than a sister. As things stand, therefore, the only realistic choices for Karoly’s bride are his four cousins: Elizabeth, Dorothea, Christina and Catalina.

At first glance, Dorothea seems the ideal choice, given she is two years older than Karoly and would therefore be ready and able to have children as soon as Karoly is old enough to wed.

There is, however, the unfortunate matter of her father having lost his crown four years ago and not yet having succeeded in regaining it. Hungary is still weak and divided, on the verge of losing yet more territory to the Ottomans. They can’t afford to get embroiled in a Danish succession war. Not now, and probably not for a while yet. So, given that the defence of Dorothea’s father and brother’s right to the Danish throne would almost certainly form part of any marriage alliance between their countries, Maria is going to have to refuse Dorothea, no matter how much Bella might beg her to reconsider. The same goes for Dorothea’s younger sister Christina.

Which leaves her just Elizabeth or Catalina.

She knows the Council would want her to choose Elizabeth. Some of them argue that Ferdinand is Karoly’s heir, not Lujza, as per the terms of the 1515 Congress of Vienna, which vested the Hungarian succession in the Imperial line should the Jagellion line die out. Her brother’s supporters argue that Lujza can’t inherit, being a girl, and that Ferdinand, as Karoly’s uncle twice over, is his nearest male relative. The same councillors also argue that if Ferdinand himself isn’t to take the Hungarian throne, then the least they can do is make his daughter Elizabeth Queen of her mother’s natal country.

Maria does see the logic in what they’re saying, but she’s having none of it. Her grandmother was a Queen Regnant, as was her mother before she lost her senses. Their blood runs in Lujza’s veins. Why shouldn’t she rule Bohemia and Hungary, if that’s what she’s called to do? If her daughter’s strong-willed behaviour in the nursery is anything to go by, she’ll be as strong a warrior Queen as her great-grandmother, and repel the Ottomans from Hungary’s borders, just as Isabella pushed the Moors out of Granada.

Thankfully, she has the perfect excuse to refuse any potential betrothal between Karoly and Elizabeth. Elizabeth is four years younger than Karoly and his double first cousin. The age gap alone would be bad enough, given how crucial it is that Karoly sire a son sooner rather than later, but they’ll never get the Papal dispensation for the match, not when the children are so closely related on both sides.

Catalina, on the other hand, has a French mother to balance out her Hapsburg blood, even if she is nearly five years younger than Karoly. And Charles will be delighted if she’s chosen as Karoly’s bride over her cousins. The promise of a crown for Catalina will no doubt galvanise him to help support Lujza’s right to be Karoly’s heiress, at least so long as Catalina and Karoly have no children. Maria knows her favourite brother well enough to be sure of that, if nothing else.

Mind made up, Maria pulls a fresh sheet of parchment towards her and dips her quill.

“Dearest brother,
I trust Margarita and little Catalina are well and that Margarita’s churching went off without a hitch…”

Greenwich, November 1527

“NO!” George screws up his face in fury and throws himself down on to his plump bottom, refusing to walk a step further, “WATER! WATER!”

George’s sudden stop drags Lady Clifford to an abrupt halt, his leading strings being attached to her jewelled belt. She groans inwardly and schools her face calm as she crouches down in front of him.

“Now, Your Highness. I told you before we came outside that you wouldn’t be able to play in the water today. It’s too cold. You don’t want to get sick, do you?”

Even as she says the words, however, she knows they are fruitless. George is too young for reason. All he can see is that she is stopping him from indulging his fascination with the various lakes, fountains and rivers that surround the gardens in which they take their daily walk.

“WATER! WATER!” He jumps to his feet, straining against his leading strings, little face red with anger.

“No, Your Highness!” Seeing no other choice, Lady Clifford sweeps George into her arms and begins to walk back to the palace, struggling to hold him as he kicks and screams to be put down, to be allowed to play in the water.

They are beginning to draw attention, guards and servants drawn by the commotion. Scandalised glances are thrown their way and whispers break out by the score, though no one dares intervene, for fear of overstepping the mark. Lady Clifford flushes scarlet. Why does everything she tries to do with George end in a battle of wills? Why can’t he ever just behave?

She longs to shake him, to slap some sense into him, but she can’t. Mary has made it more than clear that to raise a hand to George will mean the end of her tenure as his governess, and she can’t bear that humiliation, particularly not given she’s Mary’s sister, and should therefore enjoy the Queen’s unshakeable trust.

In the end, therefore, she does what she always does. She falls back on the only trick that ever works with George. Bribery.

Loosening her hold on George, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a sugared plum, making sure George can see it.

She pretends to put it in her mouth and he roars in fury.

“MINE! PLUM MINE!”

He reaches to snatch it from her and she rears back to keep it out of his grasp.

“You can have it if you walk back to the nursery without any more fuss. Can you do that, Your Highness?

“Plum! Plum!” he squawks, and Lady Clifford nods.

“Yes, that’s right. It’s a sugared plum. Do you want it?”

“Plum! PLUM!” he bellows, and she takes that as a yes.

“Back to the nursery then, please.”

She sets him on the ground and holds her breath. He pouts and looks longingly back towards the fountains, but he does start toddling towards the palace gate.

At the edge of the gardens, however, he promptly sits down again, refusing to budge.

“Plum,” he says imperiously, holding out a round little hand.

“No, Your Highness. That wasn’t what we agreed, remember? Up you get and let’s keep going,”

“Can’t say no. I Pwince. Can’t say no to Pwince,” George retaliates, “PLUM!”

Lady Clifford grimaces. She hates it when George pulls rank on her, because he’s right. She can’t say no to the most important child in England. Only his parents can do that and neither of them are here. Besides, his mother never does. Even his father only does it on occasion.

Sighing, she places a sugared plum in his palm, “Very well, then. One. But you have to walk inside if you want another.”

Even as she says them, though, she knows the words are hollow. In the end, it takes three sugared plums and two cubes of marchpane to get George back to the nursery…where he promptly refuses to eat his supper or to get changed for bed.

Lady Clifford is heartily glad to hand him over to the rockers and night nurses once he is finally wearing his night shirt. She leaves him throwing a tantrum as young Dorothy Hastings pleads with him to say his prayers, breathing a huge sigh of relief as the door shuts behind her. Another day over.

The sad thing is, Lady Clifford realises as she goes to her room to call for supper, is that George hasn’t even been particularly wilful today. Not by his standards. Tomorrow could quite easily be worse.

FalconHonour · Nov 22, 2021

Richmond, December 1527

“Will! Bring me my skates! I can’t wait a moment longer to be out on the ice!” Mary tosses her head as she calls to the fair-haired knight, beaming at him as he bows, sets his goblet of hippocras aside and kneels to strap her skates on her feet.

“Your wish is my command, Your Grace,” Will Carey smiles up at the younger woman, pausing in his work to brush his lips briefly across her knuckles, “How can it not be? Your Grace holds all of England ransom with your beauty.”

“Careful!” Mary chuckles, colour tinting her cheeks for a few moments, “If the King should hear you, he might think you aspire to steal away that which cannot be yours. Noli me tangere, Sir William. Noli me tangere!”

“I would never dare do more than dream, My Lady. I know Caesar’s wife must be above suspicion. But, if I may be so bold, every man likes to know his wife is admired. It reminds him how lucky he is to have her on his arm.”

Will crooks a smile at the Queen and she swats at him playfully, “You’ve a clever tongue, Sir William, I’ll give you that. But I’ll catch you out one day, you just see if I don’t.”

It is rare to see Mary Talbot in such a joyous mood. But then, she has reason to be joyous this Yuletide. The season itself is a merry one, and on top of that, with the eyes of all of England upon them, her husband is making a conscious effort to portray them as a loving couple. He has brought the children to Court and is doting upon all three of them. Moreover, he hasn’t so much as danced with his maitresse-en-titre all week.

Mary turns to look behind her as Will Carey helps her to her feet and steadies her with a hand on her arm. George is chasing Lillibet and Mary along the snow-covered riverbank, his dark hair gleaming in the winter sunshine. She smiles to see him keeping pace with his father’s godson, Viscount Lisle. Hal Brandon is over three years older than George. To see George keeping up with him is visible proof to anyone in the vicinity just how lusty he is, how secure the succession is in resting upon his shoulders.

So content is Mary with the current state of affairs that she doesn’t even scowl to see Lord Somerset and Lord Kendal playing with their half-siblings, shouting and hallooing with the best of them.

She does, however, scowl to see her sister, Lady Clifford, approach her out of the corner of her eye. Maggie is always such a spoilsport.

“What is it, Maggie?” she asks irritably, keeping half an eye on Henry, who is skating round the river with Lady Suffolk. She’ll get this conversation out of the way, and then go and cut in on them. Henry won’t mind. He doesn’t really like Lady Suffolk, though he honours her for the sake of his friendship with the Duke.

“Let me take His Highness inside for his nap, Madam. He’ll never make it through the gift-giving and the banquet tonight if he doesn’t sleep now.”

Mary throws a glance over her shoulder at George. He is sitting atop the Earl of Kent’s son, flushed with glee at having tackled the older boy to the ground. He squeals delightedly as Harry Grey shows him how to shape a snowball and helps him throw it at Meg Douglas. Take him out of this merriment, when he’s having such fun? Never! If he’s tired, he can sleep on her lap later. Henry loves to see her with their little boy in her arms.

“He’s fine, Maggie,” she says dismissively, “Leave him.”

“But - ”

“Leave him! That’s an order!”

She throws the words over her shoulder and then whirls out on to the ice to find her husband, taking care to stay close to the edge where the ice is thickest. She’s heard whispers that it is creaking dangerously in the middle, and she doesn’t want anything to spoil this glorious day.

George is tired of chasing his sisters. They always make him chase them. They say they’ll chase him after he’s caught them, but he never catches them! They’re too fast! It’s not fair! They’re too fast!”

“Not playing!” he shouts, stamping his foot, “You too fast! Not playing!”

His only answer is a laugh from Eliza Brandon as she shoots past, determinedly pursuing her older brother.

Flushing with fury, George turns away, pouting.

The skaters on the ice catch his attention and he watches them, scowling. How dare everyone else have fun without him?

Just then, he hears his mother laugh.

Mama! Mama will make Mary and Lillibet let him win!

The thought flashes into George’s head like a torch flaring up as it is lit from a brazier. He sprints out on to the ice, shouting for her.

“Oh, Mary, I wish every day could be like this!” Henry exclaims, sweeping his wife into his hold and whirling her around in a wild dance. He can’t remember the last time they were so happy.

She laughs, her dark hair streaming out behind her in a silken ribbon. Her cheeks sparkle like pink diamonds in the frosty light.

“You’re the King, my husband. Only command that it be so, and the Court shall obey,” she teases. Henry throws his head back, roaring with laughter.

“Oh, darling. You have far too high an opinion of my powers!”

He bends his head to kiss her.

“Mama! Mama!”

Before their lips can meet, George’s high, piping voice cuts between them, and Mary whirls on her heel to crouch down to meet their precious boy, her arms open wide.

Mary beams as George runs towards her. His little legs are pumping fiercely and his dark hair is whipping back in the breeze. His cheeks, like her own, are pink with cold and excitement.

Suddenly, Henry freezes beside her.

“The ice! The ice won’t hold him!”

Cold horror fills Mary as she realises what her husband means. She opens her mouth to shout a warning.

“Geo -”

Her words are drowned out by a deafening crack. George is flung forwards, hitting the ice face first.

Lunging forward, Mary makes a desperate grab for him.

Her fingers brush the hem of his sable-trimmed cloak for one long tantalising moment.

He sinks. Flailing and screaming, he sinks out of reach. Out of her reach, out of Henry’s, out of Lord Suffolk’s. Doomed by his swathes of long fur wraps, he is dragged down into the water’s murky depths and not one of them can help him.

The silent ripple of the water as it closes over his smooth dark head is the sound of the end of the world.

FalconHonour · Nov 24, 2021

The lovely @Ogrebear wrote this dramatic retelling of George's fate this morning, and I loved it so much I thought you might all like to see it too! Thank you very much! PS: If anyone else has any outtakes etc, they'd like to share, I'd love to see them!

GEORGE: Runs forward across the ice, reaches the centre “Mama! Mama!”

HENRY turns (in shock): “The ice! The ice won’t hold him!”

ICE cracks and splinters as MARY turns, GEORGE falls forward, face first and then slips downward

MARY (panicked): lunges forward “Geo -”

GEORGE vanishes from view

HENRY: “No!” he throws off his massive fur cloak, and jumps ice skate first into the hole, which cracks open as he plunges in.

MARY is pulled from the expanding hole by SIR WILLIAM

GUARDS stand in shock. FAMILY start to react with shock and STAFF are frozen.

A whole minute passes semi-tableau

A hand appears at the hole as HENRY pulls himself up one handed like a giant wet Bear. SIR WILLIAM rushes forward to help the King.

HENRY (frozen): “here!” He passes a small bundle to SIR WILLIAM, but MARY takes GEORGE from him

GEORGE: (coughs, water splatters from mouth): “Mam…” says no more.

HENRY has climbed from hole- dripping wet and frozen. SIR WILLIAM has put his cloak on him. HENRY moves to MARY and takes his son. MARY slightly resists but is in too much shock. Henry cradles his dead boy. “He is with the angels” he says to a now weeping MARY, then furiously looks to GUARDS, FAMILY and STAFF “but there will be a reckoning here on Earth.”

FalconHonour · Dec 13, 2021

Richmond, December 1527

“He shouldn’t even have been there. He should have been in the nursery.”

The thought keeps rolling around Henry’s head as he sits vigil over his son’s tiny bier in the Chapel Royal.

He sits alone, a costly wax taper in his clasped hands. Its flame throws uncanny shadows over his face and melted wax drips down on to his hands, searing his naked skin.

He pays these minor discomforts no heed, only fixes his eyes on his son’s head, trying to commit every inch of George’s face to memory.

It is glassy, waxy and stiff, nothing like the bubbly, rambunctious little boy Henry has played with a thousand times, but it is George. The corpse before him is all Henry has left of his son, and he doesn’t want to tear himself away from it.

Shifting the candle in his grasp, he reaches out to brush a finger down George’s cheek.

“What are you doing to me, my boy?” he chokes, “Whatever made you decide to leave us so soon?”

He can feel the wetness on his cheeks and knows he must be crying silently. He makes no move to wipe them away. He’s alone in the Chapel, after all. No one dares disturb the King while he sits vigil for his son.

Henry has no sense of how long he sits there, but eventually his candle gutters out, leaving him blinking in the sudden gloom.

Stumbling to his feet, he finds a new taper from the box behind the choir stalls and lights it with a trembling hand.

He should go. Norfolk is probably champing at the bit to get in here and start putting things in order for George’s funeral.

Henry knows all this, but still he lingers. Crossing back to the head of George’s bier, he looks down at the little boy one last time.

“Goodbye, little one,” he whispers, bending over to kiss George’s brow. A tear splashes off the bridge of his nose before he can stop it, staining the white robe George wears. “Be good for your grandmother.”

His voice breaks on the last word, and he straightens abruptly, turning and stalking out of the chapel before he can lose his nerve.

“Sire! Sire!” Francis Talbot calls out to him before he is even halfway down the passage, and he half-turns, his face like stone.

The younger man falters briefly at his burning gaze, but then soldiers on gamely, “My sister was wondering if Your Grace might go to her so that Your Graces may mourn the Prince together.”

The words echo in Henry’s head, taking several seconds to make sense. When they do, he laughs shortly, humourlessly.

“Your sister wants me to go to her? To comfort her? When she’s the very reason George wasn’t safely in the nursery where no harm could come to him? I think not!”

He shoulders past Francis, jaw clenched in fury.

He has almost left the younger man behind before Mary’s brother finds his voice again.

“But, Sire! What shall I tell the Queen?”

Henry doesn’t plan his answer. The words just spring to his lips fully-formed. The moment they do, however, he knows they are the perfect revenge, for nothing will infuriate Mary as much as this.

“Tell her…Tell her I’m going to Coldharbour.”

Langeais, December 1527

“Annabelle.”

Anne turns at the King’s voice and dips a curtsy.

“Sire.”

“Come in here,” King Francis jerks his head behind him, into the small chapel off his Privy Chamber, where he and the Queen sometimes receive distinguished guests.

Curiosity aroused, Anne follows his direction, alarm rising in her as she takes in his pallor.

“My Lord? Are you quite well?”

“What? Oh, yes, thank you, Annabelle. Quite well. It’s just…We’ve received grievous news from England.”

King Francis holds up a thin sheet of parchment. Its seal is broken, but the pieces still cling to the edges of the letter. They are black, black as night. Black as night, or…

“Who’s died?” Anne chokes, straining her eyes, desperate to make out the details etched into the wax. It doesn’t look like her father’s falcon, but is it the Carey rose? Or the arms of the Princess Mary?

“Is Mary all right?! Is Eleanor?!”

“The Prince of Wales,” King Francis’s grave voice cuts through Anne’s wild thoughts. For a moment, all she feels is sheer relief that His Grace hasn’t pulled her aside to inform her of a family bereavement, as Empress Marguerite did when her brother Henry died.

But then she shakes herself. How can she be thinking like this? The Prince of Wales is an innocent child. He doesn’t deserve to die.

“How?” The word is barely a breath, but King Francis hears it anyway.

“He drowned. They were all skating on the river and the ice broke under His Highness. He drowned before anyone could get to him.”

“Mon Dieu!” Anne’s hand flies to her mouth, “King Henry must be devastated! Isn’t Prince George the first son he’s had who’s survived a year? The first Prince, that is?”

“Not just King Henry,” King Francis cuts her off, and Anne understands at once.

“You want me to tell the Queen.”

“If you would, Annabelle, please. I’d do it myself, but you know how deeply Marie feels her brother’s losses. In her condition…. I think this is better coming from another mother.”

“I’ll be careful how I phrase it, My Lord. I promise, “Anne assures him. A thought strikes her and she pauses, “All the same, perhaps Your Grace could send for the physicians? Just in case we need to give Her Grace something to calm her?”

“An excellent idea, Annabelle. I’ll see to it.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

“No, Annabelle. Thank you.”

Anne almost flinches back in shock from the fervency in King Francis’s voice. His obvious distress at how the Queen might take this terrible news is not helping her steel herself for what is sure to be a difficult conversation.

She decides it is best to end the conversation before either of them can work themselves up into a state of even greater dread.

She drops into a curtsy, “With Your Grace’s permission?”

“Of course, of course,” King Francis waves her away distractedly and she takes a deep breath, then slips out of the room in search of the Queen.

As she goes, she can’t help offering up a silent prayer.

“Please God, don’t let the death of the Prince of Wales cost us the new Prince of France as well.”

FalconHonour · Dec 19, 2021

A brief glimpse of some royal cousins as an early Christmas present for you all! Enjoy!

Hundson, December 1527

The seamstresses are busy as bees, bustling and clucking around them with swathes and swathes of black brocade and velvet, when Meg dares broach the subject.

“Was that Lillibet I heard screaming again last night?”

“Meg!” Mary hisses, colour rushing to her cheeks. She sends the seamstresses running from the room with a look learnt straight from her father and slams the door behind them before whirling on her cousin, “You know Papa doesn’t like Lillibet’s nightmares to be bandied about in front of the servants. God forbid we might appear anything less than perfect, especially after last week.”

Meg has the grace to look abashed. She ducks her coppery head for a moment, and bites the inside of her cheek, before she pushes her younger cousin, “Was it, though?”

Mary nods and Meg winces.

“I didn’t think she’d seen. I thought I’d managed to shield her from it.”

“I don’t think she did,” Mary reassures, shaking her fair head, just slightly, “But think what we were like at four. We always put pieces together, even if we didn’t always make the right pictures. Lillibet knows something’s happened to George, even if she doesn’t quite know what because you managed to shield her eyes. She knows we’re all in mourning and that we’re not spending Christmas with Papa and the Queen the way we were supposed to, that we’ve been banished back to Hunsdon. She might not know the details, but she can jolly well put enough together to scare her.”

“Did Nora end up looking after her?”

“Of course she did. In fact, she’s with her now. You know Lillibet won’t accept anyone else when she’s really upset.”

Meg nods, then sucks her lower lip thoughtfully, “It’s odd, really, her preference for Nora. Why not want you or Lady Bury? Why Nora?”

Mary sighs, then shrugs, “Honestly, Meg? I think it’s because Nora’s never really had a mother either.”

Meg flushes abruptly. She opens her mouth to protest, but Mary raises a placating hand, “I know you haven’t either, but let’s be honest. Of the two of you, Nora’s definitely the gentle one!”

Mary laughs wryly, and while Meg pretends to look offended at the younger girl’s jibe, she soon can’t help but join in the merriment, though she does pause a few seconds later and cock her head to the side.

“But Lillibet’s got a mother.”

“The Queen?” Mary scoffs, “When has Her Grace ever treated Lillibet with anything resembling maternal affection? Or any of us, come to that? George was always her favourite, Meg, you know that.”

Mary’s cerulean eyes cloud for a moment and she gazes absently out of the nearest window.

“I’ll never do that,” she murmurs, “When Henri and I have children, I’ll never favour one over the other. Not now that I’ve seen what it does to Lillibet.”

“You’re planning ahead. You won’t even be marrying Henri for another six years!”

Meg knows her teasing is weak at best, and winces as the words leave her mouth, but to her relief, they are enough to pull Mary from her reverie. The younger girl turns back to face her and manages a watery smile.

“You’re right. It is a while off yet. And in the meantime, I have a brother to be Chief Mourner for. So let’s get these seamstresses back in, or we’ll never have our gowns finished in time for us to move to Windsor. Mistress Hilton!”

Before Meg can say a word, Mary has raised her voice, summoning their seamstress.

Then she sets her shoulders and nods to Meg, who has no choice but to follow her cousin’s example. Biting her tongue, she lets Mary pull her into a less consequential conversation as the seamstresses bustle back in, muttering darkly amongst themselves about the wasted time.

FalconHonour · Dec 30, 2021

Chelsea House, January 1528

“Gentlemen, thank you for coming,” The Earl of Oxford glances around at the cluster of Privy Councillors, noting with satisfaction that they all look as grave as he feels. This discussion is one of great import, after all. He takes a breath and then nods cordially to Sir Thomas More, who, knowing the need to keep things quiet as far as His Grace is concerned, at least for the moment, has agreed to host this meeting at his riverside mansion. The older man returns the nod, and gestures for him to continue, which, after taking a moment to steel himself, he does, “I know that it is unusual for the Privy Council to meet anywhere other than at Court, and especially without His Grace the King, but I don’t want to disturb His Grace’s grief, yet this matter cannot wait much longer. Her Highness Princess Mary comes of age to marry next month, and following the Prince’s untimely death, she currently stands as heiress to England. The King is currently prostrate with grief, blind to anything but the comforts of Lady Warwick’s home at Coldharbour, and while I would not begrudge him the peace he finds in Her Ladyship’s arms, I believe it might well be prudent for us to draft a device for the Succession in case the King should die without a male heir, if only so that the respective rights of Princess Mary and Lady Elizabeth, and thus their future husbands, will be clear before the law.”

Surprised though those in the room are to see Lord Oxford taking the lead above their host, there is a general murmur of assent. Lord Oxford is right. Something must be done. After all, the Crown cannot be divided or allowed to fall into abeyance between various branches of heirs the way any normal estate might be.

However, there is one glaring issue with Lord Oxford’s plan and the Earl Marshal is only too quick to point it out.

“Lord Oxford, I appreciate your having brought this matter to our attention, and I agree something must be drawn up, especially now that the Princess Mary is nearing marriageable age, but Her Highness is betrothed to the Duke of Milan and Orleans. If we make His Highness Prince Henri England’s future King by virtue of his marriage to Princess Mary, then we leapfrog not only His Highness’s older brother the Dauphin, but also King James of Scotland and the Duke of Ross, both of whom are also King Henry’s nephews. Do you really think the Scots, not least their Dowager Queen, will take that lying down? I fear your plan would be asking for war, Lord Oxford.”

“We can beat the backward Scots!” Lord Westmorland exclaims proudly, and the Duke of Norfolk turns to him.

“I have no doubt of that, Lord Westmorland. But you know how the King abhors the thought of restarting the Cousins War. Do we really want to rub salt into the wound of the Prince’s death by presenting His Grace with a device for the Succession that is almost certain to start another civil war?”

“And there’s the King’s pride to be thought of, “Lord Hastings points out, “This device of yours is already skirting treason by suggesting the King and Queen won’t have another son. Do we really want to make it sound as though the King hasn’t a choice in the matter into the bargain?”

Sensing the truth in those words, the councillors fall into a puzzled silence, each of them thinking furiously. There must be a way around this conundrum, surely?

“You’re awfully quiet, Lord Suffolk,” Lord Paulet ventures at last, “What do you think we should do? No one knows the King better than you. What do you think the King will accept, failing the birth of another Prince of Wales?”

Brandon starts as every eye in the room flicks to him, but he recovers quickly enough.

“I think, My Lords,” he says slowly, “That we should give the King a choice.”

Silence fills the room at his words. A choice? How can the matter of the future heir to England be a choice?

Brandon sees the protests form on his companions’ lips and moves to forestall them, holding up a hand as he continues, “Draft up a device that states that, in the absence of a lawful son, His Grace is able to choose an heir from any of the male descendants of the late King Henry the Seventh.”

“Lawful male descendants,” Lord Westmorland adds quickly, “I’m not bowing and scraping to a Fitzroy. It’s bad enough the boys are both Earls as it is.”

“Very well, but you get to be the one to tell the King we’re cutting his sons out of the Succession,” Brandon retorts, having to hide a smirk when Lord Westmorland promptly pales dramatically.

Lord Oxford jumps in to settle the matter before they can devolve into a sniping match.

“Letting the King choose his heirs from among the legitimate male descendants of King Henry the Seventh seems reasonable to me. It allows for any son of either Princess Mary or Lady Elizabeth to be chosen, should they have one before their father dies, and allows the Queen of Scots and the Queen of France to transmit their claims to their sons. All of this without risking a repeat of the Anarchy. We should be able to get that through Parliament. Lord Suffolk, can I prevail upon you to put our device before the King when we have written it up?”

Brandon hesitates. In truth, he doesn’t really want to be the one who tells Henry that his Privy Council are refusing to even consider the possibility of making Lord Somerset or Lord Kendal their King, should there not be a Prince of Wales in the nursery when he dies. It will be a blow to his friend’s pride, one Henry will see as a betrayal and one Charles isn’t honestly sure their relationship will recover from.

On the other hand, however, it is nice to be recognised as the King’s closest confidant and someone who is capable of tackling ticklish subjects with His Grace.

“I think we should do it together, Lord Oxford,” he says at last, “After all, Your Lordship was the one who wished to do something to regulate the Succession in the first place.”

Lord Oxford purses his lips, but cannot dispute Brandon’s words. In the end, he nods tightly, “Very well. Let’s write this up and then discuss how and when we’re going to approach the King.”

The matter settled, the lords gather round the large table in the solar, parchment strewn before them, and begin calling out suggestions for Lord Oxford’s draft.

Coldharbour, January 1528

“And then they had the gall – the gall - to present me with a device for the Succession, as if it were already cut-and-dried! How dare they! Do they already believe me to have one foot in the grave, unable to father another son?!” Henry snarls at Diane, face contorted with rage. He is pacing her solar, too furious to stay still.

Diane watches him calmly, the blackwork collar she is sewing him forgotten in her lap. As he pauses to draw breath, she sets the work aside and crosses the room to face him.

“Of course they do,” she soothes, laying a gentle hand on his arm, “Didn’t you say Lord Suffolk presented it to you himself? He’s your oldest and most loyal friend. He’s not going to give up hope of a Prince of Wales, not as long as you’re young enough to father one. But the Lords are right. Mary will be twelve in less than a month. Something must be put in place regarding her rights once she marries. Just until the Queen gives you another son.”

“If she ever does. Mary hasn’t been pregnant since she lost the Duke of York.”

Henry knows he sounds petulant, but he can’t help it. Two wives over almost twenty years and all he has to show for it are two daughters. Oh, Mary and Lilibet are beautiful and clever and he’s proud of them, as any man worth his salt would be, but even so. What has he done to be cursed so? His sister Marie started her family five years later than he did and yet she has four healthy sons already, with another on the way. Margaret was only married for a decade and yet she was blessed with both a King of Scots and a Duke of Ross. Christ, even Charles of Spain has managed to sire a son on Empress Marguerite and everyone knows they can barely stand each other. It is only his nursery that stands empty. And for the life of him, he can’t figure out why.

“You have time, my love.”

Diane, bless her, guesses his dark thoughts and kisses him lightly to draw him out of them, “You have time. The Queen has yet to turn twenty-four. Her courses are in no danger of stopping any time soon.”

“Hmm. But who says I want to share her bed? I’d rather be in yours.”

Suddenly playful, Henry nips at Diane’s ear, pushing her riotous red curls out of the way with his teeth.

The action never fails. She quivers against him in anticipation, then giggles like a girl and blushes happily.

A moment later, however, she pushes back out of his arms, “And I would love nothing more than to have you in my bed,” she says softly, “But you have a duty to England, Henry. And you know it.”

Henry groans, but he says nothing to refute her words. In that moment, Diane knows she has won.

“Come on,” she whispers, weaving her fingers through his, “We’ll go up to the nursery and spend some time with Ned and Hal and Peggy and then you can go home and make it up with Her Grace.”

“For England, then. But only for England.”

Henry is grumbling, Diane knows, but he is doing it quietly enough that she can placidly ignore it as she pulls him up the stairs to the nursery wing, where three very excited children are waiting to greet their father.

FalconHonour · Jan 2, 2022

Amboise, March 1528

“My Lords and Ladies,” Francis calls above the merry clamour, tapping the rim of his cut-glass goblet with his spoon so that the high ringing resonates through the Great Hall.

The crowd freezes at the sound, words dying on lips as every eye flicks to the dais where he stands, the heavily-pregnant Marie on a large carved throne to his right, and Margot, resplendent in cloth of silver, on a smaller throne to his left.

Knowing what is coming, Margot immediately straightens in her seat, a blinding smile on her lips. She is visibly proud of being the only one of her siblings present at this banquet, and so she should be. It is her birthday feast, after all.

Francis sees her move out of the corner of his eye and spares a moment to offer her a tender smile, before clearing his throat and continuing with the toast, “Those of you who have been lucky enough to have been blessed with children will understand when I say that it is with both disbelief and great pride that I present to you the birthday girl, my beloved eldest daughter, Mademoiselle Marguerite!”

Applause breaks out around the room and Margot rises to acknowledge it with a curtsy, but before she can, Francis waves her back into her seat and turns to face her, eyes soft.

“Margot, twelve years ago today, your mother laid you in my arms for the first time. I knew even then that you were precious, that you would grow into a beautiful woman, one who deserved a great future. And I was right. You have blossomed into a beautiful young lady, and while it pains me greatly to part with you when you sail for Lisbon next month, I know you’re ready. You have grown and learned so much throughout your childhood, and you are ready to be a Queen. We’ll miss you dearly – heaven knows you’re the only one who can keep Henri and Louise from each other’s throats – but our loss is Portugal’s gain. King Joao is a very lucky man.”

Francis pauses as he hears the words catch in his throat. He can see the tears welling in Margot’s eyes and knows she needs him to hold it together or else she is going to break down into floods of tears.

He glances behind her, catching Marie’s eye, and his wife leans over to put a maternal hand on Margot’s arm as he continues, “I know I speak for your mother, ma cherie, and for all of France, when I say we love you. We love you and we are so, so very proud of you. Our own Rainha Margarida!”

Laying a subtle emphasis on his last two words, Francis raises his goblet of Breton cider to Margot, honouring her in a way he normally saves for his wife alone.

“Rainha Margarida!” The courtiers bellow Margot’s Portuguese title until it shakes the rafters. Despite the clamour, however, Francis swears to his dying day that he hears Margot’s gasp as she realises he has toasted her as he would a Queen.

The next instant, she is on her feet, flying towards him as her normally excellent self-control shatters into a million tiny pieces. He barely catches her before she is sobbing into his shoulder.

“Papa! Papa!”

The word might be muffled by his velvet doublet, but it is still clearly anguished. Her slender shoulders shake violently, betraying the force of her distress.

Francis feels his own throat tightening at the sight of Margot’s copious tears. He gathers her into him, shielding her from the crowd, and lets her weep until she has cried herself out and is only hiccoughing quietly. Only then does he lift her chin and cup her cheek in the palm of his hand.

“Come now, ma belle,” he whispers, “This is no way for the Queen of Portugal to behave, is it? Particularly not on your birthday. Maman’s about to go into confinement and you know how ill your new brother is already making her. I need you to help me lead the Court now that you’re a grown woman, just like you’ll help King Joao lead Portugal. Can you do that for me?”

Margot inhales shakily and then nods, almost imperceptibly at first and then more confidently, “Oui, Papa.”

“Good girl,” Francis taps Margot’s nose with a finger and takes her hand, signing to the musicians to strike up as he does so, “Then blow your mother a kiss and come and dance with me.”

Margot loves dancing. Even fresh from a fierce bout of tears, she can’t help but smile as her father whirls her into a fast, intricate country dance. By the time Francis has danced two numbers with her and handed her off to the Duc de Guise for a galliard, she is laughing, her blue eyes sparkling with delight. The way they should be on her birthday.

“And then Cerise threw the nut straight down Madame de Vendome’s bodice!” Margot giggles, swaying slightly. Not for the first time that night, Marie curses whoever gave her daughter her first taste of undiluted aqua vitae…and Nanette Parr for thinking it would be a good idea to bring Cerise and Amande, her daughter’s new pet monkeys, to the birthday feast. She grimaces behind her daughter’s back and tightens her arm around Margot’s waist as she steers her past the nursery.

“I know, my darling. I agree, it was very funny. But shh now. We’re right by the nursery and you don’t want to wake your siblings, do you? You know how Charles screams when he’s woken.”

Margot claps a hand over her mouth, abashed.

“Sorry, Maman,” she belches, though she does at least do it rather more quietly than before.

It makes no odds, though. As they draw level with the nursery doors, the heavy oak swings open and Robert de la Marck, Henri and Jean’s tutor, steps out.

“I beg your pardon, Madame, but Lord Orleans insists on seeing you. He says it’s urgent and won’t sleep until he’s seen you.”

Marie hesitates, torn. Henri, now nearing his ninth birthday, has always been the proudest of her children, the one most likely to feel a slight. He protested vociferously against not being allowed to attend Margot’s birthday feast, especially when Francoise de Breze was allowed to go, despite only being a year older than him. No amount of reasoning that she is one of Margot’s companions would make him see sense. He’ll have sulked like an angry bear tonight, no doubt, and with his birthday in a fortnight, Marie doesn’t want this to spoil anything. On the other hand, she promised Margot weeks ago that she’d see her into bed tonight. Just one more time.

But then, Margot is already more than half drunk. Won’t it be better to save the precious night for one they’ll both remember?”

Marie chews the inside of her mouth, ruminating. Robert watches her, waiting for an answer.

In the end, Margot solves her dilemma for her.

“Go, Maman,” she whispers. When Marie turns to her, her eyes are cool and lucid, “Go. I’ve had you and Papa to myself all evening and there will be other nights. Go and see what Henri wants.”

Marie’s heart clenches. How many times has Margot done this? Set her own wants aside for the sake of her stronger-willed younger siblings? Marie lost count a long time ago. And yet she’s doing it again without a second thought. On her own birthday too.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Marie breathes, pressing Margot to her bosom for a brief moment, “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow night. I promise. Robert, see Mademoiselle Marguerite to her rooms, will you?”

“Naturellement, Madame,” Robert replies, bowing and stepping up to take Margot’s arm as Marie slips past him into the darkened nursery.

She feels her way across the room, her bulging belly making it unusually difficult to navigate the familiar space. Eventually, she makes it to the night nursery, where Henri, Louise, Jean and Charles all sleep in one big room.

Henri sits up the moment she enters. He’s clearly been on high alert waiting for her.

“Maman?”

“Oui, mon coeur. What are you still doing up? It must be the early hours of the morning!”

She crosses the room and tries to lay a soothing hand on his shoulder, the way she did when he was small and resisting Lady Parr’s attempts to make him go to bed. He flops down out of her reach before she can, however, pouting angrily.

“Margot got to stay up.”

“It’s her birthday. Staying up was a special treat. You’ll get the same when you come of age, I promise.”

“In five years! That’s ages away!”

“It’ll go quicker than you think,” Marie knows better than to argue with her stubbornest child over such trivial matters and deftly changes the subject, “Now what did you want to ask me?”

“Will you come and see me ride tomorrow? La Marck says I’m good enough to try big jumps now. I want you to see me do them? Please? Please?!”

Marie has to fight to keep from rolling her eyes. This is what Henri has stayed up to ask her? Was it really so important that it couldn’t wait for the morning, or be passed on by La Marck?

When she stops to think, however, she knows the answer. Henri has always been dramatic. He’ll never do something simply when another way will garner him more attention.

She sighs and runs her fingers through his thick coppery hair, “Of course I will, mon coeur. But only if you lie down nicely and get some sleep. Otherwise, you’ll be too tired to ride tomorrow, and we can’t have that, can we?”

“No, Maman,” Henri murmurs, rolling over obediently. Marie has to bite back a laugh when she sees how quickly he falls asleep. Her son is his own worst enemy at times. She kisses him, breathing a goodnight over his head, and then kisses his younger siblings too before retreating from the nursery before any of them ever know she’s been there.

“Maman! Are you watching, Maman!”

“I’m watching, mon coeur,” Marie assures Henri, stifling a groan as the baby moves inside her yet again. Good God, does this child never sleep? Nonetheless, she plasters a smile on her face for her son’s sake as he looks over at her.

“Someone’s eager,” the young Countess of St Pol chuckles, looking up from where she is dandling her new daughter, Francoise in her arms, Margot and her companions all clustering close, desperate to spend time with the baby.

“Oh, you know Henri. He always has to be the centre of attention. He’s like his uncle that way,”

Marie chuckles lightly, then tears her attention back to the tiltyard as Henri backs his sorrel mount up several paces and looks impatiently for his riding master’s signal.

Robert de La Marck arranges the last of the bales holding up Henri’s obstacle and steps back, nodding to his charge.

Henri whoops with delight, and kicks his pony into a flying canter, shooting down towards the jump.

Marie watches him intently, heart suddenly in her mouth. All of a sudden, that jump is looming very large in her line of sight.

“He’ll be fine,” she tells herself determinedly, “He’s a good rider. He’ll be fine.”

“KRRK! KRRK!”

A flock of starlings suddenly bursts out of the trees behind the tiltyard, chattering indignantly.

Startled by the noise, Henri’s pony veers sharply to the right, away from the raucous birds.

Already leaning forward to take the jump, Henri has no chance to save himself. He sails out of the saddle. His bright copper head strikes the wall of the course with a sickening crunch.

“Henri!” Marie is on her feet, shouting for a physician, before the dust has even settled around her son’s body.

Even as her words hang in the air, however, she knows they are futile. Henri’s head is split to the bone and lying almost at a right angle to his shoulders. No one can sustain such injuries and live.

“Henri. Mon coeur, Henri!”

The words come out as a croak. Marie feels her stomach drop violently into her boots and then darkness rushes up to meet her.

FalconHonour · Jan 5, 2022

Stuck at home self-isolating, so have another chapter!

Amboise, March 1528

“Lay her on the bed!”

“Get those towels between her legs! We’re going to need something to staunch the bleeding if the worst happens and Her Grace goes into premature labour!”

“Give me some poppy tears! I need to keep Her Grace sedated! If she stays sedated, we might just save the Prince!”

“Someone fetch the King!”

The words come to Marie in dim, disjointed phrases. She hears them, faintly, but they mean nothing to her. All she is aware of is the cold seeping into her very marrow as she curls into the shock and the pain of her loss and begins to shake with it.

“Henri! Mon Coeur, Henri!”

Tears burn in her eyes and she screws them shut, willing the darkness to come, to take the anguish of having lost her favourite son away. When Dr. Baudin cups her chin and massages her throat, forcing her to swallow wine laced with poppy tears, she welcomes the bitterness on her tongue. Oblivion comes as a relief. How can it not?

“Margot, cherie, go to the nursery. Tell Lady Parr what’s happened and have her dress Louise, Jean and Charles in mourning. Change your own dress and then find your grandmother. Tell her to go to the chapel and supervise the women laying your brother out. After you’ve done that, come back here. We’ll need to appear before the Court together tonight. You’re my chatelaine until your mother recovers, understand?”

“Oui, Papa.”

Francis. That’s Francis’s voice, issuing orders. He’s come. He’ll make everything better.

“Francis.” The word comes out as a strangled croak.

“Ma lionne,” he breathes, sitting on the edge of her four-poster bed. He takes her hand tentatively, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.

“I’ve sent for the Dowager Duchess of Longueville,” he whispers, “Henri’s godmother ought to be here to help us bid him farewell. And I’ll write to Portugal and to England. They’ll declare Court mourning and no one will expect Margot to go anywhere. Not for a long while yet. She can be Chief Mourner for Henri, if you like. I know Mary was Chief Mourner for George. All you need to do is tell me where you want Henri to be buried. Shall we send him to St Denis, to lie with his ancestors? Shall we keep him here, where he grew up? Or shall we send him to Blois, to be with Marie?”

For several long moments, Marie doesn’t respond. Francis’s words echo round her head, making no sense. How can he already be talking of practicalities such as Henri’s resting place? Is his heart not breaking alongside hers?

Eventually, she rolls over, staring up at him with unseeing eyes.

“I need to see him,” she chokes, “Please, mon amour. I need to see him. I need to -”

Her voice breaks and she lets the sentence hang unfinished. She hasn’t the energy to finish it.

Francis bends his head and kisses her temple.

“You will,” he promises hoarsely, “You will. Just as soon as my mother has tidied him up a bit. When he’s ready, I’ll take you myself. We’ll say goodbye to him together.”

Marie never makes it to her son’s bier.

Oh, Francis is as good as his word. He half-carries her to the chapel where Henri lies in state, both of them glittering in white brocade, but the sight of her son, laid out before the altar, is too much for Marie.

She reaches out a hand, then staggers and collapses to the floor, sobbing.

“Henri! Henri!”

She is almost insensible with grief. It takes four burly guardsmen to lift her from the floor and get her back to her rooms.

Witnesses to the harrowing scene swear before all the Saints that, in that moment, it seems as though the Queen’s anguished sobs will echo round Amboise forever.

FalconHonour · Jan 8, 2022

Lisbon, April 1528

Joao exhales slowly, setting down King Francis’s letter. Exasperation wells in him and he stamps it down. It’s no one’s fault. No one could have known this would happen. And of course Margarida must help her father mourn her brother in a seemly manner, if her mother is indisposed.

Luis and Isabella, who are playing chess by the fire, sit up at his exhalation.

“Bad news, brother?” Luis asks amiably and Joao nods heavily.

“The Duke of Orleans has died in a riding accident. The French have gone into mourning and Margarida is delaying her departure for Lisbon. Quite apart from the rigours of mourning, it appears Queen Marie has taken her son’s death very badly. King Francis wants Margarida to remain in France to take her mother’s place at the head of the Court for the next few months.”

“Poor child,” Luis crosses himself and Isabella follows suit, though she glowers blackly at the mention of the French. She always does. She has done since the Emperor married Duchess Marguerite instead of her.

“Perfidious weasels. First they force my darling Charles to repudiate me, and now they refuse to honour their promises to you into the bargain. Is there no end to their treachery?!”

“Isabella!” Joao snaps. “That’s unfair and unchristian of you and you know it. No one could ever have envisaged that the Duke of Orleans would die a month before Margarida was due to sail. The French aren’t refusing to honour the treaty we signed. They’re just setting their obligations aside for a while, and with good reason. Or would you rather I didn’t mourn you, were our positions reversed?”

Joao knows his words are harsh, but he doesn’t apologise for them, not even when Isabella goes white. She’s never been reasonable where the French are concerned.

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to speak more calmly, “In some ways, this delay is a good thing. While I feel for King Francis and Queen Marie in losing their son, it means Margarida will be a bit older when she comes, more ready to be a mother. That can only be to our advantage, surely? But, Luis…” Joao pauses and waits for his younger brother to look him in the eye, “If my marriage is to be delayed for another year or so, then we ought to look more seriously at finding a match for you. You are my heir, after all.”

Luis grimaces at the thought of losing his bachelorhood, but he sees the sense in Joao’s words. He digs his fingers into his thick red hair – a sure sign of his frustration – but then cedes the point.

“As you wish, brother. For Portugal’s sake.”

Hunsdon, April 1528

“Black really doesn’t suit you, Mary,” Meg Douglas remarks, as she helps her royal cousin settle her black swansdown cape on her shoulders, “It drains you of all colour. Nora’s the same, it just makes her look ill.”

“I don’t think black suits anyone, Meg,” Mary replies archly, “But our brother and cousin are both dead, so needs must.”

“Well…it sets my hair off rather nicely,” Meg smirks, tossing her bright head in illustration, before she sobers, “Do you mind?”

Mary turns to her older cousin, peering searchingly at her. “Do I mind? What do you mean, Meg?”

“Henri’s death. Do you mind? I mean, not because he’s our cousin, but because…” Meg pauses, trying to get her thoughts in order before she continues, “You’ve known since we were four that you were going to be Henri’s Duchess when we all came of age, and now it’s suddenly been ripped away from you. And George only died in December. Your future’s changed so much in the last four months. I don’t know how you’re coping. I couldn’t imagine not marrying Henry, not after it’s been arranged for so long.”

Meg bites the inside of her cheek as she finishes and Mary shrugs, spreading her hands.

“Of course I regret Henri’s death. He was our cousin and I was engaged to marry him. He and I would most likely have ruled England together, if Papa didn’t have another heir, and Milan would definitely have been ours. I was looking forward to having a Court of my own. But, on the other hand, there was clearly nothing anyone could have done. All the eyewitnesses seem to agree that Henri’s death was nothing more than a terrible accident caused by his pony spooking. So why lose sleep over it? It’s not like it was a conspiracy or anything. Besides, I doubt Papa will leave me unattached for long. I’m too valuable a chess piece on his diplomatic board for that now that I’m of age. In fact, I’ll bet you half an angel that he’ll have found me a new husband and be in talks to affiance us before the year’s out, if you like.”

“Will it be Jean, do you think? After all, it’s been done before, a girl marrying two brothers,” Meg looks meaningfully at Mary, but before Mary can answer, Nora enters the room behind her, carrying an armful of embroidery silks.

“I doubt it,” she interrupts, “Mary’s six years older than little Lord Angouleme, and we all know how much trouble King Henry’s marriage to a bride six years older than him caused.”

Mary’s jaw drops open at Nora’s words and the older girl whirls round to face her, apology clear in her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mary, but you know it’s true. As much as I love you, your cousin Eleanor would have made a much better bride for your father than the Dowager Princess. At least that’s what my father always says. But don’t worry. I’m sure your father loves you too much to put you in the position of being a much older bride, especially given you have other cousins.”

“Like my brothers!” Meg perks up at this, “Oh Mary! Say you’ll ask your father to let you marry Jamie or Sawney. I’d love to have you as a sister!”

She clasps her hands and looks at Mary pleadingly, her big blue eyes wide.

“You already are my sister, you ninny,” Mary chuckles fondly, pushing Meg lightly, “You know I’ve always considered both of you my sisters. Besides, Papa could always choose Luis or Duarte or Ferdinand of Portugal. He might well want to strengthen John of Gaunt’s old alliance, particularly now that Cousin Margot is going to be Queen of Portugal.”

Mary trails off, but the tension that had risen in the room at Nora’s mild denunciation of Mary’s parents marriage is gone, dissolved in the wake of Meg’s dramatics. The three girls are the best of friends once more.

They button their black cloaks firmly around their throats against the unseasonable April chill and clatter down to the mews to fly their hawks in the gardens, laughing and joking as they go.

“Has your father said anything about a match for you, Nora?”

“How should I know? You know he never tells me anything. George was hinting that there might be a Somerset match in the offing, to make me a Countess like Anne. Or otherwise perhaps a Fitzgerald match, to secure lands and position for us in Ireland, so that it will be easier for Jamie to succeed his grandfather as Earl of Ormonde when the time comes, but I’ve no real idea.”

“Well you can’t marry William Somerset! He’s scarcely more than a baby! Thomas Fitzgerald wouldn’t be too bad, I suppose, but I won’t have you going to Ireland. If I have to leave Meg here to be Lady Surrey, then you’re coming with me, wherever I end up!”

Their high voices drift back to Lady Salisbury and she smiles wistfully. Nora will marry wherever it suits her father, as will Her Highness. Who knows what that will mean for their bond? Still, there’s no harm in letting them make their plans, not if it makes them happy. Heaven knows there’s been little enough happiness at Hunsdon over the past few months.

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

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