Rosa Sine Spina: Kitty Howard Is Pregnant in 1541
- Thread starter FalconHonour
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I'm happy that Jeanne of Navarre has come into the picture. I like her.
Run away Jeanne! That man is bad news!
Plus you are married, even if to a sob.
Get well soon @FalconHonour
Plus you are married, even if to a sob.
Get well soon @FalconHonour
Thomas Seymour and heiresses is always the worst combination.
Also, did Jeanne ever meet William IOTL? I thought she didn’t.
Also, did Jeanne ever meet William IOTL? I thought she didn’t.
Given that they were married OTL, I think that it is safe to assume that they met at least one time, though they obviously didn't share the bed.
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XIII: Dublin, Christmas 1542
Music and gaiety fill the air, surrounding Henry as he sits on the dais, though he pays it little heed, focused as he is on his conversation with Lord St Leger.
A particularly loud squeal of delight does wrest his attention away from his Lord Deputy, however, and he glances up to see Eliza whirling round the dance floor like a thing possessed.
She has gathered quite a following of children about her, but the one she seems to be favouring most, the one spinning her fiercely and whispering something that makes her throw back her fire-kissed head and laugh, is a broad-shouldered boy of about her own age, one with close-cropped dark hair.
“After Dublin, I thought we might go to…” Lord St Leger trails off as he realises he has lost Henry’s attention, and follows his sovereign’s gaze, “Ah, that’s young Tom Butler, Sire. He’s heir to the Ormonde Earldom.”
“Ormonde…” Henry murmurs the title, unable to prevent himself from being assailed by a host of memories.
He granted Ormonde to Eliza’s grandfather, back in the days when he was run mad with lust for her mother. In fact, he’d refused to let the Butlers and Boleyns finalise a match between their families, for fear it would take his beloved away from him. That was all decades ago now. How strange that a Butler lad should now be playing so happily with his Eliza, when, in another world, they might have been siblings.
“If I might be so bold, Sire…” Lord St Leger ventures, “If Your Majesty is truly seeking to consolidate your control of Ireland, you could do worse than to wed the Lady Wiltshire to Lord Butler. Loath though I am to admit it, we couldn’t run this godforsaken isle without the Butlers.”
Eliza? Wed to a Butler? Henry has never considered such an idea before, but as soon as Lord St Leger voices the suggestion, he can see the merit in it. An Irish Earl is a fine match for his natural daughter, even if it would be too low for a Princess like Jane. And then, there’s the poetry of tying the two bloodlines, Boleyn and Butler, together at last.
Moreover, if Henry doesn’t live to see his son by Kitty grow to adulthood, then it might be just as well to have a Tudor on the ground here in Ireland, to help uphold the new settlement, until his son grows to manhood.
He watches the children for another moment or two, turning the idea over in his head, and then nods.
“Find Lord Ormonde. Tell him we’ll travel to visit him at Kilkenny as soon as the Christmas festivities are over.”
“As you wish, Sire.”
Lord St Leger bows, pushes back his chair, and vanishes into the merry, heaving crowd.
The nursery is dark when Elizabeth and Mary get back from the Christmas revels. It is often dark when they retire, for with Jane four and six years younger than them respectively, she goes to bed long before they do.
What is not so usual, however, is the quiet sobbing coming from Jane’s trestle bed. Oh, Elizabeth might tease Jane for being a cry-baby, but in actual fact, the youngest of their trio has been remarkably brave, given all the change she’s gone through in recent months, and both Elizabeth and Mary know it.
They exchange glances, and Elizabeth flicks her hand behind her in dismissal.
“Mary and I will see each other to bed, Blanche,” she whispers, shutting the door in her tiring-woman’s face before the other has a chance to protest.
Adults thus taken out of the equation, the two girls creep across the room to Jane, dropping down on either side of her.
“Jane? What’s wrong?” Mary murmurs, putting an arm across the younger girl’s shoulders. Jane jumps, her entire torso leaving the bed for a moment, before she recognises Mary and sinks back down again, burying her face in a tear-stained pillow,
“It’s Mama!” She chokes, more to the pillow than to Mary, but loudly enough for them both to hear it regardless, “Mama’s gone!”
“Gone?!” Mary looks up at Elizabeth, nonplussed, but the eagle-eyed redhead is already one step ahead.
Gently, more gently than is her usual wont, she reaches out and eases a thin sheaf of crackling parchment out from beneath her younger cousin.
“May I?” she asks, and Jane sniffs, moving her head in what might be supposed to be a nod. Elizabeth certainly decides to take it as one, anyway. She unfolds the crumpled letter and scans it before Jane can change her mind.
The close-written lines hit her like a punch in the solar plexus. Cousin Frances is dead, having succumbed to seizures brought on by childbed. Her third child lives, thanks be to God, though it isn’t the boy Lord Dorset was hoping for. Rather, it is a daughter, one Lord Dorset has named Frances, for the mother she will never know.
Elizabeth elbows Mary sharply, and the brunette glances up from rubbing Jane’s back. Elizabeth thrusts the letter under her nose without a word.
Moments later, the two of them are exchanging a meaningful glance. No wonder Jane is crying.
Not knowing exactly what to do, but knowing she must do something, Elizabeth puts a tentative hand on her younger cousin’s shoulder. For a moment, she wishes her older sister were here. Mary always knew what to say when Elizabeth herself was upset.
But Mary isn’t here, and so it’s down to her. Taking a deep breath, she squares her shoulders, and says the first thing that comes to her.
“You know, Jane, I haven’t got a Mama either.”
No sooner are the words out of her mouth than Elizabeth hopes Mama Katherine will forgive her for stretching the truth, but it is clearly the right thing to say, for Jane stops crying.
Stiffening under Elizabeth’s hand, the four-year-old lifts her head cautiously. Her pale eyes fix themselves on Elizabeth’s face, gleaming huge and wet in the light of the candles the older girls hold in their free hands.
“You don’t?” she breathes, “But, Eliza, you’re so brave! I’ve never seen you cry! Don’t you miss her?”
“Not really,” Elizabeth shrugs, never knowing quite how like her Gallic-raised mother she is in that moment, with her shoulders in the air and her eyes dark pools of shadows in the candlelight, “I don’t remember her, so I can’t really miss her. But I liked to pretend I had a Mama sometimes, when I was little. My big sister Mary would help. She’d let me play that she was my Mama, and I was her little girl. We could play that game too, if you wanted. I mean, I probably wouldn’t be as good at playing your Mama as my sister Mary was, but…”
“You’d do that for me? Eliza, you’d do that for me?”
Jane’s narrow face lights with such hope that Elizabeth just can’t say no.
She nods, “If you want.”
A second later, she finds herself with an armful of grateful younger cousin.
“Thank you, Eliza, thank you!”
A particularly loud squeal of delight does wrest his attention away from his Lord Deputy, however, and he glances up to see Eliza whirling round the dance floor like a thing possessed.
She has gathered quite a following of children about her, but the one she seems to be favouring most, the one spinning her fiercely and whispering something that makes her throw back her fire-kissed head and laugh, is a broad-shouldered boy of about her own age, one with close-cropped dark hair.
“After Dublin, I thought we might go to…” Lord St Leger trails off as he realises he has lost Henry’s attention, and follows his sovereign’s gaze, “Ah, that’s young Tom Butler, Sire. He’s heir to the Ormonde Earldom.”
“Ormonde…” Henry murmurs the title, unable to prevent himself from being assailed by a host of memories.
He granted Ormonde to Eliza’s grandfather, back in the days when he was run mad with lust for her mother. In fact, he’d refused to let the Butlers and Boleyns finalise a match between their families, for fear it would take his beloved away from him. That was all decades ago now. How strange that a Butler lad should now be playing so happily with his Eliza, when, in another world, they might have been siblings.
“If I might be so bold, Sire…” Lord St Leger ventures, “If Your Majesty is truly seeking to consolidate your control of Ireland, you could do worse than to wed the Lady Wiltshire to Lord Butler. Loath though I am to admit it, we couldn’t run this godforsaken isle without the Butlers.”
Eliza? Wed to a Butler? Henry has never considered such an idea before, but as soon as Lord St Leger voices the suggestion, he can see the merit in it. An Irish Earl is a fine match for his natural daughter, even if it would be too low for a Princess like Jane. And then, there’s the poetry of tying the two bloodlines, Boleyn and Butler, together at last.
Moreover, if Henry doesn’t live to see his son by Kitty grow to adulthood, then it might be just as well to have a Tudor on the ground here in Ireland, to help uphold the new settlement, until his son grows to manhood.
He watches the children for another moment or two, turning the idea over in his head, and then nods.
“Find Lord Ormonde. Tell him we’ll travel to visit him at Kilkenny as soon as the Christmas festivities are over.”
“As you wish, Sire.”
Lord St Leger bows, pushes back his chair, and vanishes into the merry, heaving crowd.
The nursery is dark when Elizabeth and Mary get back from the Christmas revels. It is often dark when they retire, for with Jane four and six years younger than them respectively, she goes to bed long before they do.
What is not so usual, however, is the quiet sobbing coming from Jane’s trestle bed. Oh, Elizabeth might tease Jane for being a cry-baby, but in actual fact, the youngest of their trio has been remarkably brave, given all the change she’s gone through in recent months, and both Elizabeth and Mary know it.
They exchange glances, and Elizabeth flicks her hand behind her in dismissal.
“Mary and I will see each other to bed, Blanche,” she whispers, shutting the door in her tiring-woman’s face before the other has a chance to protest.
Adults thus taken out of the equation, the two girls creep across the room to Jane, dropping down on either side of her.
“Jane? What’s wrong?” Mary murmurs, putting an arm across the younger girl’s shoulders. Jane jumps, her entire torso leaving the bed for a moment, before she recognises Mary and sinks back down again, burying her face in a tear-stained pillow,
“It’s Mama!” She chokes, more to the pillow than to Mary, but loudly enough for them both to hear it regardless, “Mama’s gone!”
“Gone?!” Mary looks up at Elizabeth, nonplussed, but the eagle-eyed redhead is already one step ahead.
Gently, more gently than is her usual wont, she reaches out and eases a thin sheaf of crackling parchment out from beneath her younger cousin.
“May I?” she asks, and Jane sniffs, moving her head in what might be supposed to be a nod. Elizabeth certainly decides to take it as one, anyway. She unfolds the crumpled letter and scans it before Jane can change her mind.
The close-written lines hit her like a punch in the solar plexus. Cousin Frances is dead, having succumbed to seizures brought on by childbed. Her third child lives, thanks be to God, though it isn’t the boy Lord Dorset was hoping for. Rather, it is a daughter, one Lord Dorset has named Frances, for the mother she will never know.
Elizabeth elbows Mary sharply, and the brunette glances up from rubbing Jane’s back. Elizabeth thrusts the letter under her nose without a word.
Moments later, the two of them are exchanging a meaningful glance. No wonder Jane is crying.
Not knowing exactly what to do, but knowing she must do something, Elizabeth puts a tentative hand on her younger cousin’s shoulder. For a moment, she wishes her older sister were here. Mary always knew what to say when Elizabeth herself was upset.
But Mary isn’t here, and so it’s down to her. Taking a deep breath, she squares her shoulders, and says the first thing that comes to her.
“You know, Jane, I haven’t got a Mama either.”
No sooner are the words out of her mouth than Elizabeth hopes Mama Katherine will forgive her for stretching the truth, but it is clearly the right thing to say, for Jane stops crying.
Stiffening under Elizabeth’s hand, the four-year-old lifts her head cautiously. Her pale eyes fix themselves on Elizabeth’s face, gleaming huge and wet in the light of the candles the older girls hold in their free hands.
“You don’t?” she breathes, “But, Eliza, you’re so brave! I’ve never seen you cry! Don’t you miss her?”
“Not really,” Elizabeth shrugs, never knowing quite how like her Gallic-raised mother she is in that moment, with her shoulders in the air and her eyes dark pools of shadows in the candlelight, “I don’t remember her, so I can’t really miss her. But I liked to pretend I had a Mama sometimes, when I was little. My big sister Mary would help. She’d let me play that she was my Mama, and I was her little girl. We could play that game too, if you wanted. I mean, I probably wouldn’t be as good at playing your Mama as my sister Mary was, but…”
“You’d do that for me? Eliza, you’d do that for me?”
Jane’s narrow face lights with such hope that Elizabeth just can’t say no.
She nods, “If you want.”
A second later, she finds herself with an armful of grateful younger cousin.
“Thank you, Eliza, thank you!”
Jeanne had to be bodily carried to the altar, IIRC, so I think it's safe to say she and William didn't have a happy marriage, one way or the other. I decided that they would have met, but detested each other on sight for this...
So do I, so here she is.
I know that, you know that, but I'm not sure Jeanne will...
Thank you!
Thank you, and you're welcome!
Hmmm, I feel that you are preparing things with Frances Grey’s death. Though I’m not sure what
Also, Liz wedding a Butler is interesting! It will finally solve that inheritance dispute. And the Butlers will become a premier English dynasty with that match
Also, Liz wedding a Butler is interesting! It will finally solve that inheritance dispute. And the Butlers will become a premier English dynasty with that match
Won't they just? It was @Cate13 's idea, I'm just running with it. But yes, Tom and Eliza's son would be both Marquess of Wiltshire and Earl of Ormonde if their match went through, which is not to be sniffed at.
And yes, I am setting something up with Frances's death, but I can't exactly tell you what now, can I? Spoilers, sweetie!
The girls are so much fun to write! Glad you enjoyed it!
Hmmm, not sure why, but my mind is thinking that Mary might be the next Marchioness of Dorset (that might just be wishful thinking though)
Awwww, it's so good that Jane has Elizabeth, she's better off living with her, rather than her father, that is for sure...
Well, the Tudor Cousins have to stick together, right?
Glad you enjoyed it.Well, Henry will need a new wife, and that's all I'm saying...