June 1474. Château de Blois, France.
Little Philippe de Valois was sleeping contently in his mother’s arms, chubby cheeks flushed with life and strength just hours after his birth. Margaret chuckled warmly and adjusted the swaddles around him, trying to see his face a little better. He had a large a nose as her husband, with pouty pink lips and fine brown hair atop his head, but he was still quite beautiful.
Her husband, holding tightly to his cane, leaned forward on wobbly knees, trying to take a better look at their new son. “He does not look like Marie,” he complained.
Margaret sighed. “Marie is in Heaven with our Lord,” she replied, not looking at him.
It had been only a few weeks since her youngest stepdaughter died of smallpox and the court of France was still in mourning. The loss was especially felt when news came only days later that Charles the Bold, their great enemy, managed to betroth his daughter Isabella to Ferrandino d’Aragona, who was once considered for little Marie.
Margaret knew her husband hoped for another daughter from her since they had two healthy sons already. Once, she heard her father say that, after the heir to the throne, daughters were more important than subsequent sons, for princesses were the ones who’d gain alliances for their fathers whereas younger boys could only cause trouble and take away lands from the Dauphin, waiting for someone to die so they could be kings.
“If he lives, we will dedicate him to the church,” said Louis. “It will gain us good standing with the church.” Margaret nodded. “He may very well become Archbishop of Reims one day, and see the children of his brother crowned in their turn.”
Margaret smiled and looked at him. Louis had grown tired from standing and sat down, lips twisted. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” she asked. “Like something out of a fairytale."
Louis chuckled, but the smile quickly melted off his face.
“The Pope has accepted Charles’ petition to be recognized as an independent king,” he said, sombre. “He will declare him the King of a reborn Lotharingia once he conquers the Duchy of Lorraine.”
Margaret looked at him, chewing on her lower lips. She looked to the corner of the room, where a maid was awaiting the need for her services and waved the woman closer. She handed Philippe off to her and the woman left, certainly to bring the boy to his wet nurse. When they were finally truly alone, Margaret looked at her husband.
“Then we must prevent that from happening,” she said. “Without Lorraine, Charles le Temeraire can’t unite his lands and claim the title of King. It would be essential to ally ourselves with René II of Lorraine.”
Louis nodded. “I believe we have had the same idea wife,” he said. “Our Margot may marry the Duke when she turns twelve in 1484. It will make the alliance secure, as well as give us a reason beyond our claims in Burgundy to interfere in the war of the traitor.”
Margaret smiled. It was exactly what she had thought. Louis narrowed his eyes when he looked at her, curling a finger under his own chain.
“You are perhaps one of the least foolish women I have ever met, Margaret,” he said. “I suppose I should count myself lucky that you are my wife and not Charles of Burgundy’s, as he once hoped.”
She smiled. That was the highest compliment her husband could ever give her.
Louis stood up, leaning all his weight in his carved cane. “The men are ready to march into Normandy and Calais,” he said. “The Portuguese fleet has stopped the English garrison from sending calls for help to your brother.”
“How did His Grace manage to convince them to break the alliance with London?” she asked. “Portugal and England have been friends since the 1380s.”
Louis smiled. “Anne did,” he responded. “She might be only thirteen, but my daughter is, much like you, a woman with little foolishness in her. I hear she has Prince João wrapped around her finger.” He tilted his head slightly, thinking. “They would never attack English men, but they can ensure some messages are late in reaching their destination.”
Margaret nodded. “And Edward will be none the wiser, I imagine,” she said. “He will be more upset by the loss of Calais and the Norman cities that he will never even stop to think about the lost letters.”
“Precisely,” said Louis. “Are you not upset about the offence that goes to your family?”
“Why should I? I ought to be loyal to my lord and husband, to France, shouldn’t I?” Margaret asked. “The more land you conquer, the more my sons stand to inherit, is that not true?”
“Quite right,” he said. “But some women still carry loyalty for their homelands and their birth families. In your heart, you might still be an Englishwoman and a Lady of the House of York.”
“But I am not, Sire,” said Margaret. “I’m the Queen of France, nothing else.”
thank you