I think that promise was quite public… Manuel and/or Maria being unattended would be quite strange and unusual, after all (and is not unlikely who also John, Isabella and Beatrice would be present)
Anno Obumbratio: A 16th Century Alternate History
- Thread starter DrakeRlugia
- Start date
If you wanna get real technical, Ferdinand is currently Charles' heir due to his son dying. That being said, promises can always be broken if needed for political expediency. However, the Habsburgs and the Aviz already have a marital alliance in João and Eleanor so technically it also isn't needed. Ferdinand also doesn't need to bolster his Iberian credentials due to him being born and raised in Spain
Ferdinand is only an heir presumptive while the promise to Maria was about an heir apparent. Still the Habsburg and Aviz children are first cousins, already allied with the wedding between John and Eleanor and Ferdinand has zero need to marry an Iberian princess (and if he needed a match in Portugal he would likely get Isabella of Braganza (the one born in 1510) not a daughter of Manuel I).
Well thats one way to get a Isabella, and hey its a Braganza not the Aviz! High improvement
Source? I've never heard of this promise. Even looking through old court annals of the period isn't uncovering anything. All I can find is that Manuel debated abdicating when Maria died, but nothing else. Regardless, there's no real option for Isabella at this point.
I'll be honest: can't say I'm swayed by a promise. People break promises all the time; and the fact Manuel made it to Maria means little when Maria has been in the grave for several years now, and Manuel will soon follow. I don't necessarily think it's an alliance needed for credentials at this point, as he doesn't need those: but a marriage in that area would make the most sense. If Ferdinand is staying in Spain, there's little reason to contract a marriage in say, Germany. His options would either be Castile's typical royal marriage grounds of Portugal, or Aragon: France.
He'd be waiting several years for an heir; given that Charles has lost his son, and the Habsburgs are back down to two heirs, it's likely that Ferdinand will have to marry someone who can have children sooner than in ~8 years. The Braganza in this period are also high nobility... yes, they have a connection to the Aviz through the illegitimate line, but I don't see Ferdinand marrying a Braganza. If he's going to marry into the high nobility, he'd be better off just marrying someone in Spain.
She would stay unmarried then. Better not marrying at all who marrying badly or down…
At this point John also would have to promise to marry well his sisters, to someone of the right rank fior them, or not marry them at all…
The Braganza are full Portuguese royalty at this point: young Isabella’s namesake paternal grandmother was Manuel’s sister and her father had been Manuel’s heir presumptive at the time of his ascension. And if there is a thing for which Portugal was NOT know is wasting its princesses and marrying either of Manuel’s daughters to Ferdinand of Austria, unless he became King of Castile or Aragon is one of the biggest possible waste as such wedding is both not needed and useless. The best match to which Ferdinand (who is completely landless here) can aspire is a junior princess like Isabella of Braganza or an heiress
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I think we have different opinions of what marrying down means.
I'm not disputing the importance of the House of Braganza at this point; they were very wealthy and influential within Portugal. Their position comes precisely from Isabella of Viseu, not because of their own blood. Isabella of Braganza would likely still go to the Infante Duarte.
To be fair, how many princesses did Portugal really have to waste? Manuel had a dearth of sons, not daughters. They didn't exactly have many in the proceeding period. Isabella married Charles V, but Beatrice married the Duke of Savoy, and I wouldn't exactly argue that as a brilliant match considering Savoy was occupied off and on, and permanently from the 1530s. I'd argue that was a huge waste: Savoy isn't necessarily worth have an alliance with, there are no economic benefits to it. The Iberian royal houses are already known for their intermarriage: both of John III's OTL children were remarried back into the Spanish royal family. You could argue one of his children would've been better served in seeking out another alliance abroad, but at the end of the day, Spain is Portugal's only real neighbor.
The marriage took place before Savoy was occupied. I think it was to seal an alliance with Charles V in the aftermath of Pavia.
Beatrice got a not brilliant match for the scarcity of rulers around, but her husband was still a ruler and much well connected (he was Louise of Savoy’s half-brother) and at the time of the marriage Savoy was not occupied by anyone (the passage of armies was a big damage but was not something who put at risk the integrity or the independence of Savoy) and would not be under any occupation until 1536 (and Beatrice married Charles in 1521). While in OTL both the children of John III married in Spain the girl married the heir of Spain NOT a younger, landless son as Ferdinand of Austria is right now while the Spanish princess was married to the heir of John III, not to one of his brothers...
At the time of her marriage Beatrice knew who her husband was a ruler and their elder son would have inherited his father’s lands one day… if Isabella or Beatrice married Regent Ferdinand what would be the expected inheritance of their offspring? NOTHING at all as Ferdinand had no land (or independent power) of his own. If Charles decided to replace his brother as Regent with someone else then Ferdinand‘s power was over…
Beatrice was married in 1521 NOT after Pavia, and she would have likely married Francis I after Claude’s death if she had not already married
Ah. I should have remembered that. I figured it must have been after Pavia because she got Asti as a dowery.
She received Asti as fief from Charles V in 1531 but that was NOT part of her dowry
Savoy had been occupied by France in 1515, too. It was occupied for a longer period in the 1530s, but you still have to agree that a Savoyard marriage in 1521, at the height of the Italian Wars wasn't exactly a brilliant marriage prospect. It's bordering France, likely to get trampled over in any conflict regarding Italy. No one could comprehend what would happen a decade from there. I appreciate your insight Isabella, but most of your points are argued with hindsight in mind. I appreciate the OTL anecdotes nonetheless.
Chapter 11. The Boullan Sisters
Alright, so I have a more narrative chapter. Unsure if I'll do these regularly. I might, but I found it interesting in laying the ground for some things. I will say, there is a small thought in this chapter that might give modern readers pause...and 'ick' but I've pretty clearly explained the narrative reason why. Hope it makes sense.
Chapter 11. The Boullan Sisters
“The English mare, my hackney—a very great whore, the most infamous of them all.”
— King François of France, speaking of his affair with the eldest Boullan sister, Marie.
Music Accompaniment: Bransle de Bourgogne
Portrait of a Young Woman, later 16th century.
“Oh, Simonette—not like that!” The voice of a young woman protested—her eyes starring back carefully into the Venetian looking glass as she carefully examined her appearance. “I will look like a little girl, and that is not at all what I desire!”
“Ma petite chérie—why are you in such a hurry to grow up?” Simonette’s voice was tinged with her French accent, adding a depth of elegance to the woman who was little more than a governess and childminder. “You are young yet, Anne—there is time enough in due course to look like a woman. Who could you possibly seek to impress?”
Anne Boleyn—or rather, Anne de Boullan, as she was known now in France, was thirteen years old[1]—and in a hurry to grow up. Even in her short time, her life had been exciting—she’d spent her youngest years at the court of Margaret of Austria, learning all the skills that were required of a suitable young woman. When Margaret’s niece, Eleanor of Austria, had been wed to the old King Louis XII, Anne had been included in the young queen’s suite as a maid of honor. Alas—the marriage had not lasted long, but Anne, charming Anne, had made the most of her time in the Court of France, and soon was offered a place in the household of Queen Claude. She had spent her last five years there, perfecting her French and her courtly mannerisms. It was a life of fun and gaiety—all the better when her sister, Mary—or Marie, as she was now known, had joined the French court as well. Marie had come from England a year ago—along with dearest Simonette, the Boleyn family governess.
“There are many to impress, Simonette,” Anne answered haughtily—with all the verve that might be expected of a thirteen-year-old. “The king does not like little girls, and so I must not be one.”
“Ah yes, the king—” Simonette repeated with a hearty chuckle. “My darling, I am not sure the king would feign to glance your way—little girl or not. They say he has taken a liking to your sœur.”
Anne let out a little harrumph, glancing about their chamber. Yes, it was true—Marie, vivacious and pleasurable Marie had charmed the king. Despite their age difference—Marie was several years older than Anne, Anne considered her sister a rival of sorts. Yes, she was her sister and she loved her and adored her—but why must the king pay attention to her? Not that she exactly cared; the king was twenty-six: practically an old man by Anne’s youthful estimations. A glance from the king might be nice, very nice—but there were others to consider too; there was Jean, the Duke of Lorraine—that handsome young man who succeeded as Duke of Lorraine following the deaths of his brother Antoine and Claude—a man who had been destined for the church until the fatalities of Marignano had intervened!
As Anne sat upon her gilded chair, Simonette continued her careful toilette to prepare Anne for the entertainments of the court this evening. Anne would be expected to be in attendance, in her pretty little gown—to wait attendance upon Queen Claude, who all the court considered a bore. She was not a woman fit to head the court of France in this pleasure-seeking era—though she was proficient at proving the king with children—three daughters and a son, with the youngest daughter buried scarcely a year before. It was a pity that the queen could not quicken with more sons—but at least she was fecund, and many believed that she was pregnant again, sickly as she was. The court was a viper’s nest, and Simonette could not help but fret over her young charge; she herself knew all too well the dangers posed by listening to a man’s honeyed words and the warmth of your chest—rather than more sensible thoughts within your head. It was too late to assist Anne’s sister—Marie, with that spark of pleasure and need to seek it out regardless of the consequences, would do as she pleased. But Anne was more sensible—at least Simonette hoped.
“Now, darling—take another glance in the looking glass. Does this suit you better?”
Anne peered carefully at the reflection looking back in the mirror. She was pretty—her teeth white as pearls, with enchanting brown eyes and even browner hair. She had a well-proportioned face—her nose slender yet still somewhat Romanesque, with white hands and a slender neck. Simonette had relented somewhat—and apportioned her hair as she had desired it, and it would look more catching with her newest French hood—a belated gift from her father, in velvet with silver trim.
“Oh yes—my dearest Simonette! How wrong I was to doubt you!”
“You always doubt me,” Simonette murmured—correcting her wayward charge. “But I promise, in matters such as these—I know what works best. What effects will best illuminate your charms and hide imperfections.”
At the mention of imperfections, Anne could not help but flit with her left hand; upon there she had a very small deformity—a second nail that existed on the side of one of her fingers. A little defect and nothing more—as dearest Simonette so often told her.
“You draw attention to your hands when you play with them,” The governess cautioned Anne. “Do not do that. Act as if nothing at all is wrong with it—and others will feel the same way. You must simply pretend that it is not there.”
“And how shall I ever possibly do that?” Anne asked with wide amusement, always so unsure of how her Simonette could be so wise and so stupid at the same time—what did a woman of Simonette’s reasoning have for being a governess?
“You will wear longer sleeves than the other ladies—flourishing sleeves! It will be good for you to set a new mode here at court. The Queen does not think of such things, unfortunately,” Simonette said with a haughty sniff. “But again, perhaps that is not what queens are for. They’re meant to be virtuous and quiet, and act with dignity and grace.”
Anne was now clearly intrigued. “Father says that Queen Catherine of England is a paragon; Queen Eleanor was much the same way—so perhaps you are right. But I’ve heard that the Queen of Spain is pretty and bold… and fashionable, too. All queens should be like her, and less like the rest.”
“Hush now,” Simonette muttered—her focus now on combing out Anne’s auburn locks. “Do you listen to all the gossips of court have to say? You must let me finish combing this out, or you will be late to tend to the queen.”
**
Marie de Boullan: The infamous Anne de Boullan's elder sister.
Marie was meant to tend to the queen this evening, as well—but she had made a detour. Before the queen, she must tend to the needs of the king—and tending to the king was much more pleasurable business than tending to his wife. Marie was practically giddy as her bright eyes—prettier than the most expensive bauble, looked over to her royal lover—still tangled within the sheets. Ah, what joy it is to be the love of kings! Marie had always been a sensuous girl—she gave pleasure freely, and took it too—for what reason should she ever hold back? Clearly, she had been right in her thoughts, for cupids bow had lead her straight to the King of France.
Handsome, virulent François! Yes—he was not a faithful lover; Marie knew well that he had a maîtress-en-titre, the beautiful Françoise de Foix, Countess of Châteaubriant. Yet the king also had plenty of petit amours, little loves who flittered here and there—never quite for too long. Perhaps Marie might be one of those—or perhaps she might last longer. She gave a little shrug as she began to adjust her bodice—it mattered not to her, for she would enjoy it for as long as she could.
“My sweet jument anglais,” The king murmured with a sweet smile—offering up a pet name he had given this little sweetling—English mare—for he rode her often and rode her well. “Must you go already?”
“Sire—you know I cannot tarry,” Marie answered solemnly—before offering a little grin. “Besides, you have already played that line tonight, milord. You must give me leave to attend to your lady wife; she will be expecting me—and it will be noticed if I am gone, for my little sister will surely have something to say.”
François was languid as he offered a swish of a hand. “So be it,” He answered. Always a decorous lover, he nevertheless realized that it would be unwise to hold this pretty little thing back from her engagements. It was not so much concern for his wife—sad, tiny Claude—who bore her troubles with a quiet dignity, all while giving the king children each year. François could not help but sigh—now, if only she would give him another son. “It would clearly be most unwise to hold you away from what you must do, sweetling. Remind me again—which one is your sister?”
Sweetling. Jument. The king’s honeyed words were so often given to his petit amours simply because there were so many of them—and so often. The King of France, with his immense troubles and worries, in France, Italy—and even further abroad, that he could not be expected to know each lover’s name. If lovers came with baggage—husbands, children, siblings—that was another matter for grave concern. And yet no one faulted François for it, as it was his way—he could forget who someone was and be as courteous to them as he was to the greatest lord in his kingdom.
“The young one,” Marie answered crisply. “Anne—she is almost always at the queen’s side.”
“Ah—yes,” François answered. “Yes, I remember her well.” He did not remember her well—and it was clear upon his face.
“The little Englishwoman sire—the other one besides me,” Marie replied, offering up another scrap of information. “She came in the coterie of Queen Eleanor.”
François nodded sagely, thinking back to that heady day when he had became king. He remembered a bright little girl—she would’ve been no more than seven or eight; he vaguely remembered his wife saying something or another about taking the young girl into her service. Clearly—service well rendered, as her being at court had brought her lecherous sister into his bed. Yet still, the king pondered this so-called sister. “She must be practically a Frenchwoman now,” François answered happily. “Just as you are becoming one. Good—one can understand why. My ambassador says the English court is nest of Spanish vipers—monks and tutors; he says that the queen-regent intends to make her daughter a nun.”
“I couldn’t say milord—I never attended court,” Marie answered softly. “Not until I came here.”
“And?” François asked. “You prefer it?”
“Oh, sire—of course I prefer it!”
And yet as he gave his mare another pretty kiss—his thoughts could not help but turn towards her sister; would she kiss as well as his sweetling when she was her age?
**
Portrait of Queen Claude.
Louise of Savoy—the king’s mother, and most heavy influence, stalked uneasily through the queen’s chambers. Dank and dark—not at all what the queen required! And certainly not when she was enceinte. Louise’s first act as she reached Claude’s bedchamber was to throw open the heavy curtains—reek with age and dust. Perhaps some old artefact that had belonged to the queen’s awful mother—that witch, Anne of Brittany. Even now, years later, Louise’s thoughts turned to her old rival—part out of giddiness that her son had truly achieved his destiny—and part out of sorrow. What was the point of influence and power if you had no one to spar with? Queen Claude might be Anne’s daughter—but she possessed none of her mother’s steel.
“Claude—it is much too hot in here. And too dark,” Louise murmured with a tsk—moving now to open the large windows of her chamber. A crisp midwinter breeze soon filled the room—setting the queen’s attendants to a careful shiver. Yet none dared disobey—for though Queen Claude was their mistress, it was queen’s mother, Louise of Savoy, who wielded much influence throughout the court. “Do you not recall what the physicians have told you? Plenty of fresh air—and you must steel yourself against these morose surroundings and thoughts.”
Claude was tiny—even when pregnant, she was possibly smaller than any normal woman who might be. With a slight hunched back, the Queen of France was far from beautiful—but she possessed the quiet dignity that made her a most suitable consort—and even more suitable to the boisterous man that had become her husband. While many wives might be driven to madness by their husband’s continuous infidelities, Claude bore it with a quiet reserve—she never spoke back, nor did she raise a word against the king’s lovers—even when they were plucked from amongst her own women. No—most of her energies were exerted against the king’s mother—who felt the right to be incessantly involved in all matters that concerned the king—even matters in concern of his wife, that François would not care about.
“Ma Mère—please. It is far too cold,” Claude murmured helplessly—pulling her light bed-robe loosely around her swelling figure. She knew it was hopeless to protest; Louise would have her reasons.
“It is only for a moment—dearest; a fresh breeze will do you good in your condition.” Louise answered firmly—as if Claude was still her charge.
“Yes, maman.” Claude knew it was hopeless to argue—and truth was, she didn’t truly have the energy to argue. Not that she ever had—but she had noticed a change in her last year, since the birth of her darling François—a pretty but fragile little boy. The answer to her dreams—and the future King of France and Duke of Brittany. Yet Claude had not been well since his birth—and the newest pregnancy did not help her. Her head swirled with every step—she was often assailed by migraines and forced to take to her bed for days at a time. Her bones ached with even the slightest chill—and her cough had grown worse. She had not yet confided to the doctors—but she often coughed up blood, in the late of night or early in the morning. It was only a little—but that told Claude everything that she needed to know.
[1] There’s some dispute about Anne’s birth year; either 1501 or 1507. There’s good evidence for both. I’ve decided to go with 1507 as I felt it added more to the scene.
Chapter 11. The Boullan Sisters
“The English mare, my hackney—a very great whore, the most infamous of them all.”
— King François of France, speaking of his affair with the eldest Boullan sister, Marie.
Music Accompaniment: Bransle de Bourgogne
Portrait of a Young Woman, later 16th century.
“Oh, Simonette—not like that!” The voice of a young woman protested—her eyes starring back carefully into the Venetian looking glass as she carefully examined her appearance. “I will look like a little girl, and that is not at all what I desire!”
“Ma petite chérie—why are you in such a hurry to grow up?” Simonette’s voice was tinged with her French accent, adding a depth of elegance to the woman who was little more than a governess and childminder. “You are young yet, Anne—there is time enough in due course to look like a woman. Who could you possibly seek to impress?”
Anne Boleyn—or rather, Anne de Boullan, as she was known now in France, was thirteen years old[1]—and in a hurry to grow up. Even in her short time, her life had been exciting—she’d spent her youngest years at the court of Margaret of Austria, learning all the skills that were required of a suitable young woman. When Margaret’s niece, Eleanor of Austria, had been wed to the old King Louis XII, Anne had been included in the young queen’s suite as a maid of honor. Alas—the marriage had not lasted long, but Anne, charming Anne, had made the most of her time in the Court of France, and soon was offered a place in the household of Queen Claude. She had spent her last five years there, perfecting her French and her courtly mannerisms. It was a life of fun and gaiety—all the better when her sister, Mary—or Marie, as she was now known, had joined the French court as well. Marie had come from England a year ago—along with dearest Simonette, the Boleyn family governess.
“There are many to impress, Simonette,” Anne answered haughtily—with all the verve that might be expected of a thirteen-year-old. “The king does not like little girls, and so I must not be one.”
“Ah yes, the king—” Simonette repeated with a hearty chuckle. “My darling, I am not sure the king would feign to glance your way—little girl or not. They say he has taken a liking to your sœur.”
Anne let out a little harrumph, glancing about their chamber. Yes, it was true—Marie, vivacious and pleasurable Marie had charmed the king. Despite their age difference—Marie was several years older than Anne, Anne considered her sister a rival of sorts. Yes, she was her sister and she loved her and adored her—but why must the king pay attention to her? Not that she exactly cared; the king was twenty-six: practically an old man by Anne’s youthful estimations. A glance from the king might be nice, very nice—but there were others to consider too; there was Jean, the Duke of Lorraine—that handsome young man who succeeded as Duke of Lorraine following the deaths of his brother Antoine and Claude—a man who had been destined for the church until the fatalities of Marignano had intervened!
As Anne sat upon her gilded chair, Simonette continued her careful toilette to prepare Anne for the entertainments of the court this evening. Anne would be expected to be in attendance, in her pretty little gown—to wait attendance upon Queen Claude, who all the court considered a bore. She was not a woman fit to head the court of France in this pleasure-seeking era—though she was proficient at proving the king with children—three daughters and a son, with the youngest daughter buried scarcely a year before. It was a pity that the queen could not quicken with more sons—but at least she was fecund, and many believed that she was pregnant again, sickly as she was. The court was a viper’s nest, and Simonette could not help but fret over her young charge; she herself knew all too well the dangers posed by listening to a man’s honeyed words and the warmth of your chest—rather than more sensible thoughts within your head. It was too late to assist Anne’s sister—Marie, with that spark of pleasure and need to seek it out regardless of the consequences, would do as she pleased. But Anne was more sensible—at least Simonette hoped.
“Now, darling—take another glance in the looking glass. Does this suit you better?”
Anne peered carefully at the reflection looking back in the mirror. She was pretty—her teeth white as pearls, with enchanting brown eyes and even browner hair. She had a well-proportioned face—her nose slender yet still somewhat Romanesque, with white hands and a slender neck. Simonette had relented somewhat—and apportioned her hair as she had desired it, and it would look more catching with her newest French hood—a belated gift from her father, in velvet with silver trim.
“Oh yes—my dearest Simonette! How wrong I was to doubt you!”
“You always doubt me,” Simonette murmured—correcting her wayward charge. “But I promise, in matters such as these—I know what works best. What effects will best illuminate your charms and hide imperfections.”
At the mention of imperfections, Anne could not help but flit with her left hand; upon there she had a very small deformity—a second nail that existed on the side of one of her fingers. A little defect and nothing more—as dearest Simonette so often told her.
“You draw attention to your hands when you play with them,” The governess cautioned Anne. “Do not do that. Act as if nothing at all is wrong with it—and others will feel the same way. You must simply pretend that it is not there.”
“And how shall I ever possibly do that?” Anne asked with wide amusement, always so unsure of how her Simonette could be so wise and so stupid at the same time—what did a woman of Simonette’s reasoning have for being a governess?
“You will wear longer sleeves than the other ladies—flourishing sleeves! It will be good for you to set a new mode here at court. The Queen does not think of such things, unfortunately,” Simonette said with a haughty sniff. “But again, perhaps that is not what queens are for. They’re meant to be virtuous and quiet, and act with dignity and grace.”
Anne was now clearly intrigued. “Father says that Queen Catherine of England is a paragon; Queen Eleanor was much the same way—so perhaps you are right. But I’ve heard that the Queen of Spain is pretty and bold… and fashionable, too. All queens should be like her, and less like the rest.”
“Hush now,” Simonette muttered—her focus now on combing out Anne’s auburn locks. “Do you listen to all the gossips of court have to say? You must let me finish combing this out, or you will be late to tend to the queen.”
**
Marie de Boullan: The infamous Anne de Boullan's elder sister.
Marie was meant to tend to the queen this evening, as well—but she had made a detour. Before the queen, she must tend to the needs of the king—and tending to the king was much more pleasurable business than tending to his wife. Marie was practically giddy as her bright eyes—prettier than the most expensive bauble, looked over to her royal lover—still tangled within the sheets. Ah, what joy it is to be the love of kings! Marie had always been a sensuous girl—she gave pleasure freely, and took it too—for what reason should she ever hold back? Clearly, she had been right in her thoughts, for cupids bow had lead her straight to the King of France.
Handsome, virulent François! Yes—he was not a faithful lover; Marie knew well that he had a maîtress-en-titre, the beautiful Françoise de Foix, Countess of Châteaubriant. Yet the king also had plenty of petit amours, little loves who flittered here and there—never quite for too long. Perhaps Marie might be one of those—or perhaps she might last longer. She gave a little shrug as she began to adjust her bodice—it mattered not to her, for she would enjoy it for as long as she could.
“My sweet jument anglais,” The king murmured with a sweet smile—offering up a pet name he had given this little sweetling—English mare—for he rode her often and rode her well. “Must you go already?”
“Sire—you know I cannot tarry,” Marie answered solemnly—before offering a little grin. “Besides, you have already played that line tonight, milord. You must give me leave to attend to your lady wife; she will be expecting me—and it will be noticed if I am gone, for my little sister will surely have something to say.”
François was languid as he offered a swish of a hand. “So be it,” He answered. Always a decorous lover, he nevertheless realized that it would be unwise to hold this pretty little thing back from her engagements. It was not so much concern for his wife—sad, tiny Claude—who bore her troubles with a quiet dignity, all while giving the king children each year. François could not help but sigh—now, if only she would give him another son. “It would clearly be most unwise to hold you away from what you must do, sweetling. Remind me again—which one is your sister?”
Sweetling. Jument. The king’s honeyed words were so often given to his petit amours simply because there were so many of them—and so often. The King of France, with his immense troubles and worries, in France, Italy—and even further abroad, that he could not be expected to know each lover’s name. If lovers came with baggage—husbands, children, siblings—that was another matter for grave concern. And yet no one faulted François for it, as it was his way—he could forget who someone was and be as courteous to them as he was to the greatest lord in his kingdom.
“The young one,” Marie answered crisply. “Anne—she is almost always at the queen’s side.”
“Ah—yes,” François answered. “Yes, I remember her well.” He did not remember her well—and it was clear upon his face.
“The little Englishwoman sire—the other one besides me,” Marie replied, offering up another scrap of information. “She came in the coterie of Queen Eleanor.”
François nodded sagely, thinking back to that heady day when he had became king. He remembered a bright little girl—she would’ve been no more than seven or eight; he vaguely remembered his wife saying something or another about taking the young girl into her service. Clearly—service well rendered, as her being at court had brought her lecherous sister into his bed. Yet still, the king pondered this so-called sister. “She must be practically a Frenchwoman now,” François answered happily. “Just as you are becoming one. Good—one can understand why. My ambassador says the English court is nest of Spanish vipers—monks and tutors; he says that the queen-regent intends to make her daughter a nun.”
“I couldn’t say milord—I never attended court,” Marie answered softly. “Not until I came here.”
“And?” François asked. “You prefer it?”
“Oh, sire—of course I prefer it!”
And yet as he gave his mare another pretty kiss—his thoughts could not help but turn towards her sister; would she kiss as well as his sweetling when she was her age?
**
Portrait of Queen Claude.
Louise of Savoy—the king’s mother, and most heavy influence, stalked uneasily through the queen’s chambers. Dank and dark—not at all what the queen required! And certainly not when she was enceinte. Louise’s first act as she reached Claude’s bedchamber was to throw open the heavy curtains—reek with age and dust. Perhaps some old artefact that had belonged to the queen’s awful mother—that witch, Anne of Brittany. Even now, years later, Louise’s thoughts turned to her old rival—part out of giddiness that her son had truly achieved his destiny—and part out of sorrow. What was the point of influence and power if you had no one to spar with? Queen Claude might be Anne’s daughter—but she possessed none of her mother’s steel.
“Claude—it is much too hot in here. And too dark,” Louise murmured with a tsk—moving now to open the large windows of her chamber. A crisp midwinter breeze soon filled the room—setting the queen’s attendants to a careful shiver. Yet none dared disobey—for though Queen Claude was their mistress, it was queen’s mother, Louise of Savoy, who wielded much influence throughout the court. “Do you not recall what the physicians have told you? Plenty of fresh air—and you must steel yourself against these morose surroundings and thoughts.”
Claude was tiny—even when pregnant, she was possibly smaller than any normal woman who might be. With a slight hunched back, the Queen of France was far from beautiful—but she possessed the quiet dignity that made her a most suitable consort—and even more suitable to the boisterous man that had become her husband. While many wives might be driven to madness by their husband’s continuous infidelities, Claude bore it with a quiet reserve—she never spoke back, nor did she raise a word against the king’s lovers—even when they were plucked from amongst her own women. No—most of her energies were exerted against the king’s mother—who felt the right to be incessantly involved in all matters that concerned the king—even matters in concern of his wife, that François would not care about.
“Ma Mère—please. It is far too cold,” Claude murmured helplessly—pulling her light bed-robe loosely around her swelling figure. She knew it was hopeless to protest; Louise would have her reasons.
“It is only for a moment—dearest; a fresh breeze will do you good in your condition.” Louise answered firmly—as if Claude was still her charge.
“Yes, maman.” Claude knew it was hopeless to argue—and truth was, she didn’t truly have the energy to argue. Not that she ever had—but she had noticed a change in her last year, since the birth of her darling François—a pretty but fragile little boy. The answer to her dreams—and the future King of France and Duke of Brittany. Yet Claude had not been well since his birth—and the newest pregnancy did not help her. Her head swirled with every step—she was often assailed by migraines and forced to take to her bed for days at a time. Her bones ached with even the slightest chill—and her cough had grown worse. She had not yet confided to the doctors—but she often coughed up blood, in the late of night or early in the morning. It was only a little—but that told Claude everything that she needed to know.
[1] There’s some dispute about Anne’s birth year; either 1501 or 1507. There’s good evidence for both. I’ve decided to go with 1507 as I felt it added more to the scene.
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Poor Claude doesn't seem long for the world either. And why is it always that Louise of Savoy comes of as a mean bully in so many TLs?
Poor Claude. If there is one person from that era I would like to give a hug it is her.
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Because she was one frankly. Now she has other more redeeming qualities that might need more emphasis I.
She is definitely a sickly thing. She's done her duty to France (and Brittany, too...) two daughters (three if you count the one who lived only a ~year), and a son. She's pregnant again, but it clearly isn't a good thing for her health. More than that, she knows it too... and part of her has given up, which is never a goo thing.
As for Louise... well, she's always struck me as the overly ambitious type, very full of herself. After all, a hermit told her Francis would be King of France (this was shortly after he was born, iirc? So Charles VIII was well and alive, and so was Louis XII) and it actually came true. I won't speculate on her actual relationship with Claude, but this is clearly a woman who is used to getting what she wants, and doing what she wants.
She had a very sad life, in a way. It's funny, that she's seen a proper queen, alongside side others somewhat like her (Catherine in England, Eleanor in her brief tenure) but queens like her aren't usually remembered. As Anne said to Simonette, it's usually the flamboyant characters who are remembered. Not the quiet dignified ones.
She definitely was used to getting her way. Look at the OTL Bourbon inheritance; she stuck her nose in and basically the Constable exiled, because he wouldn't marry her. I don't imagine she's a woman who's slighted; and well... Claude isn't the type to rock the boat. Still, she's in the pinnacle of her influence here, and some might say... she's unsatisfied. Perhaps it was more interesting sparring with Anne of Brittany over would-bes or maybes. With her rival dead, what is she to do? Claude is not like her mother.
I wonder what changed here to make her this bad. Irl Claude held out for a few more years