Section 18. Alencon died in a hunting accident 5 years ahead of schedule... It's only ever mentioned in passing, but I promise you, it is there!!
The Queen is Dead!: Katherine of Aragon dies in 1518
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Section 18. Alencon died in a hunting accident 5 years ahead of schedule... It's only ever mentioned in passing, but I promise you, it is there!!
Do not count on Henry and Francis is you search someone able to think logically...
Absence of any request for Marguerite from Henry’s hand and the fact who the ambassador involved in the negotiations is the father of Henry’s new bride (and had worked hard for concluding the deal not tried to disrupt it) would make pretty clear who something is wrong here...
This is true. But if that had happened, I never would have been able to write some of my favourite scenes I have ever written, so...
You are talking about Henry VIII and Francis I, both well know for their ability to think rationally, so...This is true. But if that had happened, I never would have been able to write some of my favourite scenes I have ever written, so...
I hope you're being sarcastic, at least where matters of the heart and/or honour are concerned...
Charles? What's he got to do with this? As for the treaty, I wouldn't take it too seriously. It's dead in the water anyway, but as far as my thought process went - it was something along the lines of 'Calais is something the English and French have fought over for centuries, it would make sense for English Claims to that to be upheld in perpetuity in a proposed treaty. Hmm, I need another county that the English have had a traditional claim to that isn't the Pale of Calais, oh, Anjou will do.' Seriously, that's as far as I took the thinking, because I was never planning on this treaty holding water anyway...
Oh good. I never can quite tell with you
And that's not meant in any bad way, it's just harder to notice sarcasm when writing... I always find it best to check if in any doubt.A potential conflict between France and England won't keep Charles indifferent.
True, but I focus on the personal, so don't expect me to suddenly leap to the Imperial Court for a chapter or two. It wouldn't make sense for the way I write. Feel free to imagine it happening off-screen, mind.
I know, and sure the fact who English is not my mother tongue also make it harder, but this time really was so evident...Oh good. I never can quite tell with you
Charles? Likely he will laugh over it, relax and thank God for it (as he had likely heard something about the treaty) and then wait to see what will happen after...
Plus I think who either Charles or Isabella will ask to their ambassador in England to discover what is the relationship between the new Queen and their cousin
Oh, no one needs to worry about that. Anyone with half a brain can tell Marie dotes on little Mary - who won't want to stay Mary much longer
Section XL - August 1520
Anne soon found out that she wasn’t the only one Francis had lashed out at. Even though her father had tried to shield her from it, The news that the Earls of Derby and Ormonde had been thrown out of King Francis’s Audience Chamber like a pair of mangy strays spread through the Palace of Fontainebleu like wildfire. Before long, Anne was discussing it in hushed, worried whispers, with her new confidant, Lord Percy, the most junior member of the embassy and heir to the Earldom of Northumberland.
“Where does this leave me, Harry?” she sighed, taking off her hood and running her fingers through her hair distractedly, “Everyone knows I look upon Duchess Marguerite as the mother I’ve never known, but now I’m sister to England’s new Queen; to the woman she’s been jilted for. Can I still be her bold little Boleynette, or am I her enemy now?”
“Why are you asking me?” Harry Percy leaned back against the fountain they were standing by, fanned his hands and gave a light half-shrug, “You’re the one who knows Marguerite best. You tell me. Do you think it’ll matter to her?”
“Maybe not to her, but to King Francis…”
“Look, did you actually know anything, anything at all, of King Henry’s plans to marry your sister?”
“Apart from the fact that my father had been made Earl of Ormonde? No, I knew he’d been created an Earl and Marie did hint that it wasn’t for his diplomatic services, but I never dreamed it would be for this; never dreamed that my sister…”
“Then you go to Marguerite and assure her of your undying loyalty, both to her and to King Francis. You tell her that you didn’t know anything about how far King Henry’s intentions went with regards to your sister and that, while you owe your sister a debt of love, as long as you’re in France, she, Marguerite, is your mistress and your Queen, not Marie. See what she says.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
“A slightly edited version of the truth is the best chance you’ve got. If you can persuade Marguerite that, despite your blood, your first loyalty is to her, then you might get out of this unscathed.” As he spoke, Harry took Anne’s hood from between her white fingers and set it back on her head, “Go and find her,” he murmured.
“I will,” Anne nodded, before impulsively stretching up on tiptoe to brush her rounded, rosebud lips against his cheek, “Thank you,” she breathed.
Before Harry could respond, she had turned and run inside to find Duchess Marguerite, who was, as it happened, playing cards in her salon with her brother King Francis.
“Madame, Votre Majeste,” Anne approached their window table and curtsied. “Might I speak with you?”
Her pretty French was soft, soft enough for only their ears to hear. Marguerite glanced up.
“Of course, ma petite Boleynette,” she replied, “Tell us what is troubling you.”
“How do you know -” Anne blurted, before she could stop herself. Marguerite raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve barely spoken to me in days, Cherie. Naturellement, something had to be wrong. What is it?”
“I – I – I just wanted to say – my sister might be Queen of England now, but I care for Your Grace as a daughter cares for her mother. And for you, Your Majesty, I care as though I were your niece as well as your loyal subject. I swear on the Holy Bible that I had not the slightest inkling of King Henry’s intentions to marry my sister. Had I done so, I would have told you, for as long as I am a member of your Court, I consider my first loyalty to be to you and yours, no matter who my parents may be or what blood runs in my veins.”
Anne had stumbled over her words at first, but gradually, they came faster and faster, until at last, they were tumbling over one another in a great, desperate rush. Flushing scarlet, she fell to the ground in another curtsy, mumbling, “I beg Your Graces, forgive me. Forgive me and believe me when I say, had I had any power over my family’s actions, I would not have seen Duchess Marguerite humiliated for the world.”
Brother and sister exchanged amused glances over her subservient dark head. Francis took his sister’s hand and caressed it briefly, before peering down at little Anne.
“Do you love me, Annabelle?”
“Oh, yes, Your Majesty! With all my heart.”
“And my sister?”
“As fiercely as though she were my own mother.”
“Then, my little Boleynette, that is enough for me. Rise. Since you cannot help your sister’s actions, there is nothing to forgive.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty!” Anne gabbled, seizing the King’s hand and covering it in kisses.
Marguerite laughed at the young girl’s effusiveness and helped her up from her knees, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
“Run and fetch your lute, ma petite. Sing us that Welsh ballad you sing so well.”
“Yes, Madame,” Anne nodded obediently, then hurried off to fetch her lute, relieved that the Valois siblings, at least, did not hold her English heritage against her.
(In case anyone is wondering why half the dialogue is in italics, I thought it only wise to highlight the fact that Anne's discussion with Marguerite and Francis is supposed to be in French, but I can't write French...)
“Where does this leave me, Harry?” she sighed, taking off her hood and running her fingers through her hair distractedly, “Everyone knows I look upon Duchess Marguerite as the mother I’ve never known, but now I’m sister to England’s new Queen; to the woman she’s been jilted for. Can I still be her bold little Boleynette, or am I her enemy now?”
“Why are you asking me?” Harry Percy leaned back against the fountain they were standing by, fanned his hands and gave a light half-shrug, “You’re the one who knows Marguerite best. You tell me. Do you think it’ll matter to her?”
“Maybe not to her, but to King Francis…”
“Look, did you actually know anything, anything at all, of King Henry’s plans to marry your sister?”
“Apart from the fact that my father had been made Earl of Ormonde? No, I knew he’d been created an Earl and Marie did hint that it wasn’t for his diplomatic services, but I never dreamed it would be for this; never dreamed that my sister…”
“Then you go to Marguerite and assure her of your undying loyalty, both to her and to King Francis. You tell her that you didn’t know anything about how far King Henry’s intentions went with regards to your sister and that, while you owe your sister a debt of love, as long as you’re in France, she, Marguerite, is your mistress and your Queen, not Marie. See what she says.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
“A slightly edited version of the truth is the best chance you’ve got. If you can persuade Marguerite that, despite your blood, your first loyalty is to her, then you might get out of this unscathed.” As he spoke, Harry took Anne’s hood from between her white fingers and set it back on her head, “Go and find her,” he murmured.
“I will,” Anne nodded, before impulsively stretching up on tiptoe to brush her rounded, rosebud lips against his cheek, “Thank you,” she breathed.
Before Harry could respond, she had turned and run inside to find Duchess Marguerite, who was, as it happened, playing cards in her salon with her brother King Francis.
“Madame, Votre Majeste,” Anne approached their window table and curtsied. “Might I speak with you?”
Her pretty French was soft, soft enough for only their ears to hear. Marguerite glanced up.
“Of course, ma petite Boleynette,” she replied, “Tell us what is troubling you.”
“How do you know -” Anne blurted, before she could stop herself. Marguerite raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve barely spoken to me in days, Cherie. Naturellement, something had to be wrong. What is it?”
“I – I – I just wanted to say – my sister might be Queen of England now, but I care for Your Grace as a daughter cares for her mother. And for you, Your Majesty, I care as though I were your niece as well as your loyal subject. I swear on the Holy Bible that I had not the slightest inkling of King Henry’s intentions to marry my sister. Had I done so, I would have told you, for as long as I am a member of your Court, I consider my first loyalty to be to you and yours, no matter who my parents may be or what blood runs in my veins.”
Anne had stumbled over her words at first, but gradually, they came faster and faster, until at last, they were tumbling over one another in a great, desperate rush. Flushing scarlet, she fell to the ground in another curtsy, mumbling, “I beg Your Graces, forgive me. Forgive me and believe me when I say, had I had any power over my family’s actions, I would not have seen Duchess Marguerite humiliated for the world.”
Brother and sister exchanged amused glances over her subservient dark head. Francis took his sister’s hand and caressed it briefly, before peering down at little Anne.
“Do you love me, Annabelle?”
“Oh, yes, Your Majesty! With all my heart.”
“And my sister?”
“As fiercely as though she were my own mother.”
“Then, my little Boleynette, that is enough for me. Rise. Since you cannot help your sister’s actions, there is nothing to forgive.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty!” Anne gabbled, seizing the King’s hand and covering it in kisses.
Marguerite laughed at the young girl’s effusiveness and helped her up from her knees, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
“Run and fetch your lute, ma petite. Sing us that Welsh ballad you sing so well.”
“Yes, Madame,” Anne nodded obediently, then hurried off to fetch her lute, relieved that the Valois siblings, at least, did not hold her English heritage against her.
(In case anyone is wondering why half the dialogue is in italics, I thought it only wise to highlight the fact that Anne's discussion with Marguerite and Francis is supposed to be in French, but I can't write French...)