Not right now, obviously, but is there a chance of it happening in the future ?
A Queen Twice Over: Mary Tudor the Elder Marries Francis I of France
- Thread starter FalconHonour
- Start date
I think they'll settle into some sort of equilibrium again, yes, but I doubt they'll ever return to being the besotted sweethearts they were when they were young.
Depends how strict you want to go, if you used the French version of some names, Anne can have a Guillaume while either George or Mary have a William, Anne a Pierre, George or Mary a Peter, Anne an Alix since I think I remember that Mary has an Alice, Isabelle for Anne, Elizabeth for Mary or George, etc.
Chico is not pronounced as Shit, or Sheet. It's pronounced Xi-Co. Doesn't really remind me of saying shit at all but I don't know. Kiko can also be used, as it is also fairly common as a diminutive for people named Francisco.
I'm saying about the Chi part. Sorry if that wasn't clear. I'm well aware of how to speak Portuguese.
I also wish to name a daughter Cecily. Though I also like the names Elizabeth and Marie.
Please tell me Marie is going to take back her place as wife and queen and that there is definitely going to be a big fight with the mistress 🙂 (of course this is just casual hopes being expressed)
I think @HortenseMancini has solved this particular problem by suggesting Geoffrey, but that's not a bad shout. I shall bear it in mind in future.
Technically, as a younger daughter, she's Lady Cecily, but yes, she's strong and healthy.
And you're right, Marie has a long road ahead of her.. And Francis doesn't mind reminding her of it either. Not after the last nine months.
Well, on ceremonial occasions, certainly.
Well, the Talbot Queen is dead. I can’t say that I’ll miss her, but it’s always a shame when a person dies so young. Hopefully Cecily will stay healthy and perhaps Henry’s third wife will give him the son he so desires.
Can’t wait to see Marie’s return and the drama she’ll bring!
Can’t wait to see Marie’s return and the drama she’ll bring!
Good. Glad you're enjoying the ride. I shall reply to your message soon - thanks for the advice (and for not considering the idea completely ridiculous!)
Take all the time you needDoes Francis really have a reason to take Marie back, really? She's emasculated his position as King and humiliated his status as her husband by leaving without his permission, abandoned her duties to her eldest daughter and ran back to England. She's probably not the most popular person in France right now, and with Francis having positioned this new Maitresse-en-Titre of his as essentially his new wifey and the fact that she is really the mother of his youngest kids, as she's the one doing the raising, educating and loving. If Francis was politically smart he'd lock Marie of England in a castle in the Loire and hopefully forget the key.
And Francis' biggest problem is ironically probably going to be his own eldest. Even if he takes Marie back with open arms, I doubt he or Marie will ever look at each other the same way. I fear for poor Francis of Brittany as he is probably going to be the biggest tool in the political and familial fight that is inevitably coming when Marie regains her position (if she does so, of course).
Excellent chapter. This story continues to be a little tinderbox full of TNT.
And Francis' biggest problem is ironically probably going to be his own eldest. Even if he takes Marie back with open arms, I doubt he or Marie will ever look at each other the same way. I fear for poor Francis of Brittany as he is probably going to be the biggest tool in the political and familial fight that is inevitably coming when Marie regains her position (if she does so, of course).
Excellent chapter. This story continues to be a little tinderbox full of TNT.
From a stately stance, he can’t treat Marie like crap since it will risk the fury of her brother. From a personal stance, he did love her once, and hopefully a part of him remembers that
Well, I think that's rather the point, isn't it? Much like Charles and Marguerite, Francis and Marie are going to have to find a way to live together, if only because she's an English Lady as much as a French Queen and Henry has made it very clear that she still has his love and support. France has already been laid under Interdict once because its King mistreated his Queen. Francis isn't going to want to risk the same happening to him.
And of course, whatever punishment he does come up with will only last as long as he lives, because François adores his mother. He's been sheltered from the whole fiasco, being in Brittany, so he is still very much on her side. The minute he's King, Marie will be back at Court, honoured as Dowager Queen and Isabella will be sent back to the country so fast her head is spinning six ways to Sunday.
Section LXXXV - May 1529
Porto, May 1529
“Senhora? The Duchess of Beja is here to see you.”
Margot jumps at the unfamiliar address. Oh, it’s not that she hasn’t been addressed as Queen of Portugal for years, but there’s something different about the title, now that it is Portuguese officials honouring her so, and not her father’s men. She glances at Nannette, who shrugs.
“You’re going to have to meet your new sister some day soon. Why not do it now, away from all the ceremony of the double wedding?”
Margot considers this for a moment, then nods. Nannette’s right. She and her new sister, who sailed in from the Low Countries a day or so ago, are waiting in Porto for the arrival of their respective grooms, King Joao and Luis, Duke of Beja. The plan is for the four of them to wed in the city’s Cathedral in a grand double ceremony on Whit Sunday, before proceeding to Lisbon for Margot’s coronation as Queen of Portugal.
But Whit Sunday is still a fortnight away. There’s no reason for all four of them to be strangers on the wedding day, not when the new Duchess of Beja clearly wishes it to be otherwise.
“Very well, Manuel,” she commands, waving a hand, “Let her in.”
Manuel nods and turns back to the door, bowing to an invisible personage and stepping aside.
Margot holds her breath. She knows absolutely nothing about her new sister, save that she comes from one of the little German princedoms and is marrying Luis at the same time as she’s marrying King Joao. What if they have absolutely nothing in common? Margot would hate to struggle to get along with her new siblings. She’s always been so fond of her own, after all.
She sees Manuel approach again out of the corner of her eye and promptly sits up straight. It won’t do to be slouching the first time she meets a member of her new family.
To her relief, the visitor who curtsies before her is a girl not much older than her. She is plump and buxom, with a cloud of golden hair that has clearly been washed in rosewater especially for the occasion. Margot can smell the flowers in an overpowering wave every time the older girl moves.
“Madame Beja,” Margot manages to hold out a hand for the blonde to kiss without choking on the smell of roses, “It is a pleasure to meet you. I hope we shall be great friends and soon learn to work together for the good of our new country.”
She smiles in what she hopes is an encouraging manner and waits for the fairer girl to respond.
There is an awful silence.
Margot’s smile falters after several moments, as even her thorough royal training begins to fail her.
Just then, a stocky page in the young Duchess’s entourage pushes forward. Bowing to Margot, he bends and whispers a few sentences into the other girl’s ear.
The blonde’s face clears and she bobs another curtsy.
“Thank you, Your Grace. I too hope we shall be friends. I am Anna. Anna von Kleve.”
Margot exchanges a horrified look with Francoise over Anna’s bent head. As a general and diplomat’s daughter, her old friend is clearly just as scandalised as she is at the broken sentences coming from Anna’s mouth. The older girl’s Latin is barely passable, even accounting for her strong Germanic accent, which in itself is execrable. Louise would be horrified to sound as French during her Latin lessons and she’s only eight.
And if Anna is responding in Latin, when Margot deliberately addressed her in Portuguese…if she needed an interpreter to manage even a greeting… She must have no words of Portuguese at all!
Good God! Did no one think to prepare her for her new life at all?!
Margot doesn’t voice the thought. She doesn’t need to. She can tell Francoise is thinking the same thing.
Without a word passing between them, they sign for a stool to be brought and invite Anna to join them, switching into a mixture of French and Latin as they do so.
They’d better find out what Anna does know before they try to help her prepare to meet Luis. Because, heavens above, if they don’t help her, Lisbon is going to eat the older girl alive.
Aachen, May 1529
Every bell in the city is pealing. The resulting polyphony is so loud that it feels as though the very heavens are shouting themselves hoarse with joy.
“Say what you like about Charles, he knows how to put on a show,” Marguerite thinks to herself as Phillippe de Cröy hands her into a sumptuous litter of golden velvet embroidered with the Hapsburg eagle in silken black thread, one drawn by four beautiful grey palfreys.
Marguerite settles herself back against the cushions and stops Anne de Cröy from drawing the curtains when the younger woman seeks to shield them both from the glare of the spring sun.
This is her day, her coronation as Empress. People have walked for miles to watch her process through Aachen today. She’ll be damned if she’ll hide from them, today of all days.
Besides, as she rides the mile from their lodgings to the Cathedral in slow, stately honour, Marguerite knows she looks stunning.
Her kirtle is of sarcenet, dyed an imposing shade of Imperial purple. The rich fabric is studded with seed pearls, seed pearls sewn into the shapes of phoenixes and oak leaves.
The underskirts, meanwhile, are of cloth of gold and the metal within them glints in the sun every time she shifts in her seat. Strings of pearls, diamonds and amethysts are woven into her dark hair. They spark in the sun every time she turns her head.
And turn her head she does. The streets are thronged with well-wishers, crowds thrilled to see their Empress, who has done her duty thrice over, finally honoured as she should be.
Marguerite waves and smiles and accepts token after token, until her litter is practically groaning under the heaps of trinkets, pastries and sweet nosegays.
Charles is waiting on the steps of Aachen Cathedral to help her alight for her coronation.
He won’t stay, of course, not when it’s her ceremony, but they have agreed on this as a show of unity. His doublet of purple velvet is neatly pressed and his dark hair gleams eerily in the bright sunshine. The many golden collars of knighthood resting on his broad shoulders leave no doubt as to his status, and, as if that wasn’t enough, the sapphire ring he was given at his election as King of the Romans flashes on his hand as he half bows to her and helps her down.
“My Lady Empress,” he murmurs, stopping only slightly short when he realises which symbols she has chosen to embroider her gown with.
The phoenixes, symbols of rebirth, he has no problem with. The oak leaves of strength, however…
He purses his lips, just for a moment at the not-so-subtle reference to Marguerite’s French heritage, before exhaling silently and letting it go. He can’t argue with it without looking churlish. Not here, not now. Especially not when everyone knows that a phoenix crowned with a wreath of oak leaves is Margot’s personal emblem as Queen of Spain and the Romans.
He smiles wanly and steps back, handing her over to Henry of Nassau-Breda to be escorted into the Cathedral.
Unable to help herself, Marguerite flicks him a half-mocking curtsy and smirks up at him, just for a moment, before turning, fully composed, to meet the Archbishop of Cologne, who is acting as Papal legate and will be crowning her Empress.
Empress she might be, but she’s still a Frenchwoman born and bred. It would behove Charles to remember that from time to time.