The Red Rose Blooms

The Marriage of Margaret of Clarence to René of Châlon, Prince of Orange

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Margaret of Clarence, Princess of Orange

She stood at the alter with a man of harsh features and harsh words. German was not one of the languages she had been taught, and since the closest thing she had to a common language was his butchering of Latin, she knew little of the man she was to marry. Despite her apprehension, however, she refused to look back. Her mother, the honourable Dowager Duchess, had always told her:

“Stand straight and pretend you cannot even see their eyes.”

And so instead, she stared into the face of René of Châlon, almost soft through the veil, and tried to figure out what type of man he might be.

He had grown in the court of the King of Hungary, that she knew. His keeper now watched on through a veiled window, pretending he was not there, as Hungary was currently at war with France, which England was allied to. However, that didn’t stop him from freely travelling through the country in question, attending this wedding and even meeting the Queen Mother at one point, although a visit to his niece, the Queen, was not allowed. Not even a thin screen would hide him then.

René of Chalon did not look at her, despite their linked future. Perhaps he was nervous, but Margaret didn’t think so. Nervous men didn’t breathe so evenly, nor did they sigh while their betrothed said her vows.

He wasn’t nervous. Maybe he just didn’t care.

Despite this, she wasn’t offended. He’d expected one of the Princesses of Hungary, perhaps the beautiful Anna or the playful Margaret, currently watching enraptured as she placed the ring on her husband’s hand. Instead, he got the daughter of the least popular English Duke, the product of a love match between the brash Duke Humphrey and the entirely unsuitable Widow FitzHerbert, who brought no wealth and no standing, just herself.

Margaret of Clarence often wondered why the people hated her mother so much. If the proud Mary FitzHerbert, with her long face and sharp manners, prodded them so, who did they cheer to the Dowager Duchess of Gloucester, who’s manners were even stiffer. The Princess Margaret, with her scandals and ugly dresses, was a favourite.

Maybe because, deep down, the people knew a fake. The Dowager Duchess of Gloucester had blood of the bluest kind, and the Princess Margaret was one of their own, a daughter of the Prince of Wales, may his rest be peaceful. But as the Widow FitzHerbert, Mary FitzHerbert was nothing. The niece of a niece of a cousin to the crown, she married low and had expected little else. Then, when her husband had died, she got a chance to come to London, to be received as a lady to Mary of Exeter, Dowager Duchess of Pembroke, the resident ghost of Westminster Palace. There, she had met the 22 year old Duke of Clarence.

Margaret had heard the story a thousand times in her youth. Mary FitzHerbert had walked into the room, stark in white in a room filled with women dressed like peacocks. She’d seemed lit from within, glowing with humility. Her father had known then, this was his Duchess. Setting aside a betrothed with a foreign princess, in a role so similar to the usurper Edward of York, he’d eloped and married the Widow FitzHerbert, and with that, his fortune had been ruined.

The Duke of Gloucester had married his intended a year later, Mary FitzHerbert was frozen out of the royal family through any means necessary, and the two had taken up in Middleham, under the roof of the ancient Anne Neville, Princess of Wales and Duchess of Pembroke. She’d been born a year later, and Henry two years after. No more had come.

She wondered if René of Chalon had such a story about his parents, but she knew he would not. Good royals married who they were told which was shown by her marrying a cold German man, when all she’d wanted was the Duke of Richmond, her own age, tall and handsome. Granted, she’d known it wasn’t to be, but regardless, she might shed a tear when he eventually got to marry his own betrothed, most likely the beautiful Anne of Gloucester, a duchess in her own right by word of the King.

Her husband turned to the crowd, and that was her cue to step towards him and walk down the isle again, to the wedding feast. Her mother, two steps behind, kept almost stepping on the edge of her dress, and poor Henry, her young brother, tripped over himself not to fall in his new shoes. The young Duke walked in hand with his mother, his betrothed, Joan Stafford, heiress to the Buckingham fortune, although not the title.

‘Those two would be fine’, she thought in the times she watched them interact.

Henry of Clarence might grow up into a handsome man, but all the beauty in the world couldn’t make up for a bad heart, and luckily, if the young Duke had inherited his father’s meek demeanor, he’d also inherited his kind heart. Thus, despite his own preferment of the Scottish Princess Isabel, who sat beside her mother in attendance to the wedding, he would be kind to small Joan, with her petite frame and wild hair.

Margaret drew herself upwards, willing her own small height to seem significant as she stopped to stand in front of Anne of Lancaster, her aunt and the woman she put above all others. If her mother didn’t deserve the people’s hate, the former Queen of Aragon didn’t deserve their pity. Tall, still beautiful despite her age and with wisdom beyond her years, she’d lost everything when her husband died, and had come home as the last remenant of a failed alliance with the Kings of Spain. The Princess Anne might have made a new match, and for a time, she’d been pursued by all the great magnates of England, but now, she stood alone, with her own lands, own money, and own life.

“Widowhood is a pleasure,” she had often repeated, “Loneliness is a symptom of an empty mind.”

Margaret often wondered what filled her thoughts if an empty mind was the enemy. Did she remember her husband, the son she had seen die in another woman’s arms? Or was it something more?

Whatever filled her mind, today she praised Margaret as a bride, although they both knew she’d never match the beauty of some of the Lancastrian offshoots. She had none of the dark prettiness of Anne of Gloucester, nor the golden smiles of the Breton girls, richer than the main line, yet so comfortable as to bow to their King. If Margaret hadn’t had the singular blue eyes of her father, she might have thought herself a changeling. But a Lancaster she was, and as she was about to leave the lot of them.

She was sweating in the heavy gown, with the tight sleeves the Duchess of Brittany had suddenly started wearing and made the mode. Her mother continued to wear her lose widow’s dress, all in white like a Queen of France. Where she had learnt about that custom, Margaret would never know, but if Mary of Exeter was a ghost in England, her mother might be a widow in Clarence House.

Suddenly, food was served, and she drank deeply of the wine placed in front of her, while her husband merely sipped. It was the first sign of delicacy by a man who had, a hour ago, jammed a ring on her finger hard enough to scrap her knuckle. Then she learnt what he was delicate in: his food.

It was a little humorous; he nibbled at everything, eating like a bird.

Her brother laughed, and she heard her mother’s food quietly kick him in the shin, as not to disturb the feast. But when he looked at her she knew, he was going to make a joke of this for months.

She wouldn’t be here.

Suddenly, it dawned on her that she was leaving England. And not just for Brittany or France or Scotland, where she had family, but Prague. Her husband was in attendance to the King of Hungary, and she wouldn’t know a soul save him. Suddenly she wished her mother had accepted an offer by any of the English Nobility. It might have been nice to stay in England, where she might be overshadowed by the other ladies, but at least she knew them.

*

The bedding was private. That, at least, was a relief. René of Châlon had been adamant that this, his first night with his bride, was his alone, and thus, despite some claiming the Prince of Orange had a duty to prove his marriage, they now sat alone in her mother’s former marriage bed, far apart enough that she wondered if she could even touch him without stretching out.

“Nice?”

It was one of few words he knew in common with her, and she tried to reciprocate her attempts at conversation.

“Very nice. Comfortable?”

That lead to confusion. For a moment, she realised he had nice eyes, and moved closer.

“Nice?”

She patted the bed, to ask if he thought the mattress comfortable. It wasn’t, because her mother had had the mattress overstuffed, but she wanted to delay the inevitable.

He didn’t take the hint.

She lay back and let it happen. This was her bride’s duty, and it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Sure, his hands held her too hard, and she wasn’t a fan of all the breathing, but it was quick, and when he looked at her next, she wasn’t sure she didn’t feel her heart jump.

“Nice?”

“Nice.”

He fell asleep rather quickly. That was also nice.

They’d left them a plate of fruit, and it suddenly occurred to her they had expected this event might happen multiple times. Maybe it should, but she wasn’t going to push the sleeping man, snoring and tossing on the lumpy mattress.

She bit into an apple and lit a candle, refusing to sit in the dark.

It was all too much. She’d hoped for more from a marriage, but apparently, this was the deal. Life had dealt her a hand in René of Châlon, and now she had to live with him. It was all she could do not to cry.

She ended up crying.
 
Not exactly an auspicious start to a marriage, but at least Rene was trying to be kind to her, plus if Margaret can bear him at least one living child that means that quite a few butterflies will happen, such as RL's William of Orange never becoming the Prince of Orange.
 
The Storm

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Charles XI of France

Few new faces passed the King of France in the late days of his reign. His marriage to Isabelle of Brittany was long and hard; they rarely bothered with the ruse of love anymore. His sons were all married to suitable women, and since none of them embarrassed him or put France in a bad position, he took little time for them. His daughter Marguerite had made short work of her marriage to the Count of Angouleme, marrying him for only two short years, giving him a daughter and then watching him die at the hands of a lover, although the murderess in question was never brought to justice. Thus, Marguerite and her sweet Charlotte had returned to him, and by his own word, his favourite granddaughter was heiress to Angouleme, and the royal inheritance was hers and her children’s until the end of time.

He passed the time amicably enough. He played with his granddaughter, visited his grandsons. There was always laws to pass, meetings to attend. But at 43, he was really an old hat at running what was left of France. He had often heard people clamour for him to lead the people to war, but he wouldn’t do that. If France had recovered, so had England, and they were still stronger than him. They’d regained some land with the marriage of the Dauphin to Catherine of Lancaster, and it was up the King to decide policy. He’d rather have what they had left then nothing at all.

His youngest son was still unmarried, but he planned to keep it that way. He’d named James Duke of Berri to appease Isabelle during one of her rantings, but that boy should be in the church. The coffers of France did not overflow, and to keep four independent households like they did was strain enough. Marguerite and Charlotte would want their own soon enough, and when they did, he planned to send James back to the monks. He was intelligent enough, and if at 16 he was a little old to begin that journey, he was also childish enough to counteract that. He’d make a fine Bishop, and if he played his cards right, he might even make it to the top of the heap.

Charles knew that part of the reason Isabelle and Louis fought against James’ placement was that they were under the influence of that dreaded Julian Puron. The Dauphin had taken in the former priest years prior, and as his ideas had become more radical, the heir had taken to them easier and easier. The Queen of France was often found in her son’s company, spending weeks with the Reformist priest and hearing those heretical concepts, and it was little the King could do to keep them from spouting that rhetoric to the Papal ambassador.

Isabelle had become harder in her old age, and at 45, wandered the halls in harsh grey downs, habit-like, as if she was a nun in the palace. If not for her jewels, which she wore with no hypocrisy, she’d be easily mistaken for a sister from a richer convent. He heard rumours the Dauphin had banned all dyed fabrics from his family, and only wore silk when visiting himself, the King. Charles fingered his own ornate doublet, and while he admired some of the simplicity his son was going for, he felt worried for the future. His grandchildren ran around with the peasantry too often, and only little Charlotte d’Angouleme would be said to look the part of a royal often enough.

Henri, his second son, had recently acquired his own wife in the form of the Jewel of Brussels, Marguerite of Burgundy. But he doubted his son would find much to cherish in the silly little girl. In her two weeks under Isabelle, she’d recoiled from any of her duties, and Charles found her unlikeable. There was something empty in her eyes, and he was glad to see her go, and even gladder when news came that Henri was, as usual, copying his elder brother and banning all rich fabrics. He might not have agreed for the heir, but if it put the silly Margarethe in her place, he would agree for her sake.

The room was empty and he was glad. He’d sent his people to prepare the palace for a state dinner, and it would be at least an hour before he’d have to dress and parade around to prove he was alive. He was in the quiet for only a short time, but he enjoyed it.

His rooms looked out over Paris, and even from here he smelled the sewers. Men and women alike threw their waste into the streets, and we wondered if something might be done. The gardens were unusable due to the smell. But that was a job for the engineers and men of thought at his court.

He knew he had to plan for a visit from the bastard Duke of Brittany in the coming weeks, and he thought a ban from tossing waste might do the trick, although he hoped he might find someone to pour some fish guts outside the old bastard’s window. He’d been bad enough when Charles had been a boy, but John of Lancaster had forced his daughter on him, taken the woman he’d wanted for a bride for his own, and proceeded to visit the King of France as if Brittany was of a level with France. Even in their lowered state, he was being visited by another King’s vassal, and yet had to treat him like an equal, if not his better.

He didn’t doubt Isabelle would wear silk for her father, and the Dauphin would stay far away and plead sick to prevent his grandfather from rebuffing him for his chosen poverty. Marguerite of Angouleme would give the King of France her sly, knowing smiles and he’d remember the days when he’d declared he wanted only her. Her youngest daughter would be in attendance, and Charles wondered if he planned to marry nephew to aunt as a further humiliation to France. He wouldn’t let that happen, and he knew that, in that, he’d have Isabelle on his side. For her sister to marry her son would be bad enough, but she hated her stepmother more than she hated Charles, and to have her spawn with her precious James would be more to bear than she was willing.

He drifted from window to window and waited for the rain to come. The clouds were dark and the air heavy. Charles wanted them to wash away his enemies and leave him peaceful. It would be nice for the peace he’d get for a change.

The wind made the windows of his room shatter, and he heard the storm come in as suddenly as it had not. The very stones creaked and he suddenly heard thunder. Little beads of fear hit him in the face and he lost her confidence. Down the stairs he ran, and he was not half way down when the tower broke.

He’d built the Palace as a testament to what France had left. His rooms were in the tallest tower, towards the city, and they were strong. But it had been rushed and now, under the winds and rain of a fierce storm, Charles IX, King of France was crushed to death by stone and mortar. His body was found amongst the rubble, and Paris mourned him as his Reformist son rode into the city, clad in grey as if he was the storm that had killed his father. France’s survivor King was gone.

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Louis XIII of France
 
The Mistake

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Jacqueline of Lancaster, Princess of Brittany

Jacqueline sat by the window in her rooms Palace de Paris, the royal Palace that housed the French Royal family. As the youngest daughter of the Duke of Orleans, and his final unmarried daughter, she’d been allocated good rooms, although even here, she could see the fallen tower towards the centre of the Palace’s rooms, where it had been left to rot due to difficulty getting the massive stones through the Palace hallways. Thus, it stood there still, crumbling internally. It made the centre of the Palace unsafe, but since only empty halls and courtyards stood there, there was little to do. She couldn’t help but stare at it, however, and remember that with the rubble, King Charles had been pulled out in pieces to be buried. His blood would still stain some of the stones.

She was expected to go visit the Countess of Angouleme soon enough. Her father had some grand ideas about marrying Charlotte d’Angouleme to the King of Naples, and she had to go make sure she didn’t forget how much she was appreciated by the Breton Royal Family. She doubted it work, but at least with a purpose, she was excused from her daily visits to the Queen Dowager, so moody and judgemental in her severe black gowns and big sad eyes. She tutted and tsked at Jacqueline’s neck ruffs and rich gowns, and since she was always followed behind by the new Queen of France and her grandsons, the Breton Princess would be forced to endure at least an hour of painfully pointed questions. Everyone knew the royal family of France were all but heretics, under the Puronist ideals, and if she and her family hadn’t been visiting, she was sure there wouldn’t even be the quick and sarcastic mass they attended.

The girl knew the Dauphin was interested in her for a bride, and regularly made excuses to be where she was. Young Louis was only a week her elder, and yet he looked so worn down and old to her. His height was higher than you would believe, due to his bent back. It was a firm slouch, never ending in how miserable it made him seem. He thought it made him look older and wiser never to smile, but she knew him to be stupid. For one, the young man thought she’d be his bride one day.

There was another, however, who held her heart.

Henri Gaston, Count of Rabat, was her brother’s right hand man, his favourite confidant and the man of her heart. The Count had been with the family since his father had died years ago, and now, at 26, stood as a testament to manhood and chivalry. He knew her too, and unlike others who might take her hand, knew how to treat a woman. She was young, but she knew what his looks meant, as she’d attended her sisters in their marriages, and knew of the secrets of the marriage bed.

Her mother often called her “the trouble child”, which she thought was unfair. Her sister Anne constantly abandoned her position as Duchess of Nemours to be with other men when she could, and Catherine, in England, still had no son despite years of marriage, and was highly unpopular. But they’d both followed their duty, and Jacqueline, the baby of the family, had little to do but be an ornament.

She wandered the gardens and led merry games with her ladies during the day. They wouldn’t leave until Charlotte d’Angouleme was married, and in the meantime, the French Court either sat stagnate or frolicked, depending on if they were of the Puron followers, or of the true church. She, as a true Catholic, got the joy of frolicking, joined by the New Queen and her elder cousin, Mary of Lancaster, still unmarried at 27.

But now, Jacqueline followed her duties and visited the Countess of Angouleme, a true lady in her apartments, always with her severely beautiful mother and her men at arms.

She knew the stories that followed the mother/daughter duo that was Marguerite de Valois and Charlotte d’Angouleme. Marguerite, despite her high manners and dignity, was subject to vicious rumours of constant promiscuity, which was used to explain away her continual widowhood. From what was said, the men at arms her daughter held were her lovers, and when the mother was done with them, the daughter enjoyed the leftovers.

But Jacqueline couldn’t believe it.

For one, it was hard to imagine the 49 year old Dowager Countess of Angouleme doing anything quite so...vulnerable. Her sister-in-law wore her high necked dresses for religious reasons, but Marguerite de Valois wore rich, black gowns because they suited her personality. Her face was still beautiful, but hard, and Jacqueline found it hard to believe she could even take off her gowns. They were like armoured skin, not dresses. She didn’t ooze sensuality and languid, syrupy beauty like people claimed. She was tightly wound, and perfectly composed. Jacqueline would sooner believe her own mother would do such acts before Marguerite.

The Countess herself was a different story.

If her mother was hard, Charlotte was a soft woman. Forever laying across a couch or back into a chair, she seemed unable to fully draw herself to attention to anyone. Jacqueline was only 3 years her younger, but she couldn’t believe that it was maturity that made a woman turn into such a relaxed creature. She only truly had eyes for the men in the room, and it was then that the Breton Princess was sure she was as bad as they said she was.

Her eyes seemed to follow men across the room, and her touch lingered on their shoulders and hands. Jacqueline watched as she whispered jokes into the ears of James de la Pole and Louis de la Tremoille. Her mother watched approvingly, but she wondered if perhaps Marguerite de Valois was blind to her daughter. Maybe it was for the best.

Jacqueline stayed for cakes and wine, and listened to Marguerite de Valois discuss the growing tensions between France and England. The King of France longed to take back France’s former territories of Anjou, Maine, Aquitaine, Gascony and Normandy, but he had kept the peace, apparently at the bequest of his English wife. But since Catherine of England had died, he’d made new alliances, made new plans, and it did not sound good.

‘Does my father know the King of France has thoughts of war.‘

Charlotte, during this, looked on with more effort than usual, but Jacqueline was more interested in the men’s response. Most looked on with interest, but Louis de la Tremoile seemed to recoil from the very thought of war. His shudders and nervous looks made her very interested in his thoughts, and when it was time to leave, she requested that he escort her to her rooms. It wasn’t an odd enough request to do much with, but Jacqueline was amused to note that Charlotte was actually a little jealous of her, and made sure to remind him to return as soon as possible, as to not forget his duties.

They walked down the hall, and once it was far enough away from where they might hear here, Jacqueline abruptly stopped.

“Your Highness?”

“Sir, is there actually to be war?”

He was a little shocked, and stepped back abruptly.

“I…I should-“

She grabbed onto his wrist.

“Why were you scared?”

“She should not have told you. My lady, I beg of you, the Princess Marguerite was mistaken.”

“So,” she whispered, “the Dowager Countess was wrong? Or just wrong to tell me?”

“Both…neither…wrong. She was wrong. There will be no war.”

He was flustered, and she felt bad, but it wasn’t enough. She pulled him close.

“Tell me now, why you were so worried in that room.”

“The Princess Marguerite is against the war. She’d have you stop it. The King will send her away.”

“So she meant for me to tell my father.”

“Yes.”

“And you want war?”

That seemed to send him into another headspin.

“I don’t want war, but the King does, and I am his servant, and if it gets out, they’ll know it was the Princess’ household, and we’ll be sent home, and I cannot bear to go back to Brittany. Please let it go, my lady! I beg you!”

“You would make be a traitor to my father?”

She let him go and walked away, furious.

“No!”

He flung himself at her, and it took all her strength to dodge his strong hands and begin to climb the steps to her room. Her maids would be there, and she’d be safe.

“Do not tell him, or you’ll be ruined to!”

He stopped and, at the top of the stairs, she turned to him.

“How would I be ruined?”

He made a step forward, and her hand flew to the door

“You’ll be Queen of France.”

“What?”

“Do you think that the war will end and you’ll be left alone? Either the Dauphin Louis will refuse to let you leave and you’ll be forced to marry him and bear him a son before the war even begins, or you’ll be traded in for peace. Once the King is dead, the Dauphin will take you for his wife in exchange for piece. You’ll be with us forever.”

“No I won’t.”

“You will. Unless you’re already married and away from Paris. You won’t get a chance unless you leave. At least wait until you’re back in Brittany. Then, god willing, you’ll be married elsewhere for an alliance, and you’ll be safe from marriage with the Dauphin.”

It all sounded so real. She could see herself, forced to marry Louis, her life as dour as Margaret of Hungary’s. She could hear her father’s speech about the importance of sacrifice in a royal family. She could see Henry Gaston married to some woman she didn’t know. Maybe even Charlotte d’Angouleme.

She was 15 and didn’t know better. But she knew enough to see truth in what he said.

“I’ll wait.”

With that, she stepped inside, and didn’t say a word until they were home. By then, it was too late.

France was at war with the Lancastrian French holdings.
 
The Last of an Independent France

In 1555, the last dregs of French resistance to English rule died, when in battle, The King of France, his eldest son, his brother and another 1200 men died in a single battle. The royal family that was left behind was his eldest son Henri, now King Henri II of France, with his grandmother, Isabelle of Lancaster. His stepmother would shortly leave Paris for Brussels, where she would find herself quietly joining the court of Ferdinand of Austria, reigning Regent of Burgundy and later Duke of Burgundy, who would marry her himself in 1557. His siblings: Jacques, Rene and Anne, were to be taken to the royal court of Aquitaine, as was the Duke of Orleans, and while treated with respect, they were not granted the dignity of their secondary royal titles: Jacques, previously Count of Blois, was to find himself simple Prince Jacques, and Rene, not yet having received his titles, was immediately handed over to the priests to train for the church. Anne was betrothed to the eldest son of the Duke of Aquitaine, John of Lancaster, Count of Maine.

France had decided to attack the weakest point of English holdings in France: Anjou. And initially, it had gone well. Spurred on by an easy victory at some unmanned cities in Northern Anjou, the travelled South, hoping to take the entire county before England was ready. However, the English seemed to have been pre-warned, and by late 1554, the war had turned against the French. But unlike Charles IX of France, Louis XII was unable to admit defeat and he instead pushed on. In early 1555, the Dauphin had fallen in a surprise attack, led by the Count of Rabat, who would be granted massive wealth and the hand of Jacqueline of Brittany for his bravery.

The war had limped on for France once their Prince was dead, and in April of 1555, it had seemed likely that they would treat for peace. But, in July, when the King of France agreed to meet with the Duke of Brittany, he instead attacked, managing to kill Edward I, Duke of York and Brittany in the fight, but losing his life, and that of his youngest brother. That loss effectively ended the war efforts, and in late 1555 Nicholas I, Duke of York and Brittany marched into Paris, flanked by the Duke of Aquitaine, the Duke of Suffolk and the Earl of Wiltshire, to take possession of the royal family. The Queen Dowager of France and the Queen Mother of France were released to do their mourning, as was the Princess Marguerite, but the rest of the royal family were taken into custody.

Henri II, King of France thought he was to be executed. His siblings were taken away without explanation, and when he was put on a ship to England, he was sure that it was to be executed by the King of England himself. But instead, he was treated with the respect and dignity his position as King demanded, and soon he discovered why.

Waiting in London was the King of England, with his wife and only daughter, the Princess of Wales, Joan of Lancaster. It was there the plan was made clear. Henri would marry, as King Consort, Joan, who would be crown Queen of France. His blood would mingle with hers, and the next generation of royals would find themselves rulers of all of England, Ireland, Wales and France. The Lancastrian Empire’s final swallow of France would come not from war, but from marriage. It was been thought of as early as 1553, when it seemed likely the Queen of England would not conceive again, and thus England would have to endure a Queen Regent.

As King Consort, Henri was placed in a subordinate role, and as an added insult to injury, it was Joan’s family name that the children would follow. They would not be ‘de Valois’ to history, but ‘of Lancaster’. But there was no choice, and in the end, he signed the marriage papers, and in early 1557, the two were officially announced to the London Court as King of France and Queen of France, with their immediate heir being named the Princess Anne of France, betrothed to the Count of Maine.

For the outer members of the French royal family, they saw their fates take interesting directions. For example, while the immediate French Princes were stripped of their titles, the Duke of Orleans was allowed to keep his title and many of his lands, and in 1565 he was also granted permission to marry, to Louise de Laval, eldest sister of the Count of Laval, who had lost his father during the War of Anjou. Meanwhile, Charlotte d’Angouleme claimed, successfully, to have married James de la Pole, an English son to the Duke of Suffolk. Since they had a witness in three of her men, they were granted leave of the Breton court and settled with the Princess Marguerite in the French countryside, where she gave birth to a daughter in 1557, before smallpox took the woman and her husband. Their daughter, Renee de la Pole, inherited the title Countess of Angouleme, and would be allowed to continue living with the Princess Marguerite, in an act of kindness by the King of England.

France was now officially and perhaps forever, a part of the English Empire. In just 60 years, the Kings of England had taken it piece by piece, war by war. It’s possible that, had the peaceful route preferred by Charles IX of France been continued on, the country might have recovered sufficiently to retake at least the less stable parts of England’s continental holdings. Maine and parts of Aquitaine were never truly comfortable with their English lords, but unfortunately, it wouldn’t be for anything, as they had won.
 
The Portrait of Jacques de Valois

There remains in the history of art one portrait of a royal figure, done on the eve of what's suggested to be his wedding, that many have found fascinating in it's simplicity and oddly realistic take on the man.
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This painting, simply titled Jacques of France, was painted in 1567, around his 26th birthday, as a gift from the Duke of Aquitaine in preparation for his marriage to Diane de Brézé, cousin to the Comte de Maulévrier, who's own portrait was painted a year later as a second part to the gift. But the fact of the portrait itself isn't the important thing, but what it stands for. Because of his freedom to express himself through his representation, we see a very different Jacques to what history would have you believe.

The younger brother to the King of France, who's subordinate role to Joan I of England has often been translated to bitterness from the French royal family, Jacques is often supposed to have been a sullen, quiet man, who hated his life, his position at the Court of Aquitaine and his overall loss of dignity. But that not only is not seen in the face of the man in the portrait, but also in his actions and upbringing. For Jacques was not brought up to believe himself Lord and King over all, but merely another man in the world. As part of the Puron Cult that sprung up in France in the 1500's, his self worth was not supposed to be tied to his titles, but his relationship to God.

None of the French Royal family fully converted back to true Catholicism after the War for Anjou, which saw them taken into the fold of the Lancastrians entirely. While Rene de Valois would become a cardinal of the church, his reputation had him as a liberal, and in 1582, he harboured Julius Puron, a descendant of the original Puron, in his home during the Breton Inquisition. And for Jacques de Valois, his beliefs ran deeper still.

Taking the painting at face value, Jacques stands in what we assume is casual wear, looking directly at the painter, and he is unshaven. But, the portrait goes further than that. Unlike the stiff, unnatural limb placement of other paintings at the time, including his wife's portrait from the next year, he is slumped a little forward, and lifting his chin ever so slightly. It's a very casual position, and likely that is very purposeful. He doesn't stand as Prince of France, Count of Blois or any other title he had held in his life, he stands as Jacques de Valois, a man of little personal means and little need for ornamentation. He had no money of his own, and by choice, was known to wear peasant clothes for every day wear. He owned no jewelry or ornamental pieces, and only owned the hat he wears in the painting because it was a condition of court wear that men wear hats when in the presence of ladies, and as this was a gift to be seen by women, presumably his wife, he wears one as a sign of respect. However, his hair is not cared for, and his beard neither shaven off, as was a fashion at the time, nor styled in the other big fashion. Indeed, his face seems mocking of the whole ordeal of portrait painting.

For comparison's sake, Diane de Brézé's painting is much more traditional in it's composition and style.

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Painted by a completely different artist, she stands stiffly in her black finery, chains falling against a lace ruffle and an embroidered collar. Her hood sits fashionably back, and her hair, famously curly, is shown to full effect. Her smile is much tighter than her husband's, and if he mocks the painter, she's quietly respectful. At 35, when she married, she probably had never had her portrait painted, and we know that her dress in this picture was a hand-me-down from the Duchess of Aquitaine, redone for her. While her dowry was massive, and paid by the Duke of Aquitaine in conjunction to her own inheritance, she did not have the means for such a rich dress at the time, and it's likely the jewelry seen was actually that of the Princess Anne, Countess of Maine, who is recorded as having had a similar set of chains set with jewels made two years prior. It wouldn't have been impossible that she loaned her new sister-in-law the piece to liven up her portrait.

These would be the only portraits of the couple to survive, although records show another set, in minatures, were painted around 1575 as gifts to the King of France after the birth of his daughter, Mary of England. However, no royal portraits before or after have captured the art world's attention, and in "Jacques of France", we see the truest representation of a man in any portraiture at least until the 1600's. Sketches sometimes captured the essence of a man or woman, but it was often lost in the painting stage. But here, we see a snapshot of a humble man of devout belief and easy humour, laughing at the prospect of being the subject of a portrait.
 
I wonder how long before the tail wags the dog?
And a minor correction: I think you meant Queen Regnant rather than Regent for Joan of England.
 
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