I mean, if the trend continues, he will probably be known as Richard the Widower or something
The Grand Duchy of the West - A Valois-Burgundian TL
- Thread starter BlueFlowwer
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Richard the Somber has a nice ring to it.THAT'S SUCH A BETTER EPITHET WE SHOULD
Okay this wins the Internet. Congratulations.Depressive Dick
So the Turtledove voting is a go now! It would really mean a lot to me if I could get some votes for this story.
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I did not plan to have two tls in the list! But I would like for this one to win, if I'm being completely honest. But everyone is to vote as they see fit. I'm just happy to be nominated.WE ALMOST ARE FIRST FELLAS ONLY THREE MORE VOTES (ALSO LIKE TO POINT OUT BASED ON AUTHOR BLUEFLOWWER IS DOMINATING
When ur triple tied for second place with someone else and yourself. You know you're winning
Lmao. That works too.When ur triple tied for second place with someone else and yourself. You know you're winning
Chapter 48 - Brabant, France and England from 1525 to 1527
Chapter 48 – Brabant, France and England from 1525 to 1527
The summer of 1525 was one of mourning for the Grand Duchy of Brabant. On the 4th of June, the dowager duchess passed away in Wissekerke Castle in Bazel at the age of fifty-eight. After the death of her husband, Philippa of Guelders decided to retire from court almost completely, mostly focusing on overseeing the education of her grandchildren. The death of Isabella of Burgundy and Antoine of Brabant had been two harsh blows against her however, and as Marguerite and Philippa had left for their marriages in a few years ago, their grandmother had retired completely from the court. Aged from loss and pain, Philippa spent the last three years suffering from ailments and worries. The news from Danmark was not good either, as Christian II was fighting against both his uncle, Sweden and the weakened hansa cities, amongst another Lubeck. Her eldest daughter, Margareta had her hands full keeping her husband from loosing the throne, and her son had just married Princess Beatrice of England to gain support from the international community. The dowry of ships, men and weapons had helped to turn the tide, but the struggle was far from over and Philippe had sent many resources to aid his young cousin as well. But the troubles far up north were not the only things occupying Philippe either.
Philippa’s place in court had been taken by the current Grand Duchess, Beatrice of York, while Marie d’Albret, the countess of Rethel besides her. The Count of Rethel had spent many years in the duchy and Palatinate of Burgundy as his brother’s governor, alongside Jean of Brabant, the ducal heir, whom was currently back from Burgundy where he had spent the past two years. His long stays in the heartland of the duchy were to make sure they would not begin to drift towards France again, but given the distance between the Northen parts and the south down in Burgundy, another buffer against turmoil was much needed and so Brabant and France had agreed upon a marriage between the kingdoms. The count of Rethel, the Prince-Bishop of Liége and the ducal advisor Charles de Lannoy had been the strongest proponent of a marriage with France to prevent further discord with the Valois dynasty regarding the duchy and Palatinate of Burgundy. While certain parties had preferred a match with England instead, the alliance with Denmark had taken Beatrice of the marital board. While a match with Spain had been entertained, that was not as high a priority for the duchy. Thus, the Estates Generals had approved of a marriage between the Count of Namur and Princess Jeanne that winter. As Charles IX was quite keen for peace between the neighbours, he had sweetened the marriage proposal with the promise to give the County of Champagne as part of her dowry to the Brabantians and Philippe was ecstatic over the offer. This region covered the Duchy of Valois, the County of Guise, the County of Vertus, and the cities of Laon, Soissions, Reims, Grandpré, Troyers, Brienne, Langres, and Chalons. For the Burgundians, Jeanne would bring an incredibly rich dowry to them, one that outshone both Margaret, Philippa and Beatrice. The marriage contract was signed by both parties and peace was signed by the respective envoys.
Philippa of Guelders’s funeral had taken place in the cathedral in Bruges where her husband had been laid to rest. Father and son laid near each other, with Charles behind the high altar and Philip in the newly constructed chapel close by. Margaret of York had been laid next to her duke, while Philippa’s coffin was lowered into the double marble sarcophagus that had been commissioned by her and Philip long ago. Two years after Philippa’s death, Jeanne of France crossed into Hainault with her bridal entourage for the wedding that would take place in the city of Mons. The celebrations for the peace between the kingdoms was enormous and the splendid entrance of the new bride in Ypres rivaled that of her the late Margaret and Philippa. Unlike the latter, no one could say that Jeanne was not of splendid lineage and that she brought a the most splendid dowry to Brabant.
However, the peace between Brabant and France would not last long. Despite the heavy symbolism of the union between Jean and Jeanne, tensions would soon arise once more. From 1530 and onward, turmoil between France and the neighboring duchies erupted into actual warfare as France came under the reign of Louis XII, one of the most significant and terrifying rulers the kingdom has ever known. For Philippe, this undertaking would be the grandest the sharp and charming Grand Duke had yet to encounter. For Jeanne, it would be a true test of loyalty between her natal kingdom and the duchy she had married into just years earlier.
The tension began to rise already in 1525 and in the year afterwards, the death of Charlotte of Valois occurred. The princess of Wales passed in childbirth with her daughter, Katherine of England. As this was the second wife of Prince Richard that had died in six years, rumors started that he had been cursed. Things began to add up; the disaster with the Boulogne betrothal, the horrific death of the imperial Elizabeth of Austria in the burning castle of Ludlow and now his French bride perishing in the birthing bed. Was England cursed? Had this house of York, themselves supplanters of the Lancastrians, whom also had overthrown the rightful ruler, been struck down with the same curse that had caused the fall of Edward IV’s line?
The situation of course was very different from 1483 when all of Edward’s children except Mary had died in childhood or struck down by the sweating sickness. The king had brothers left, even if only the Duke of York had children so far. His own sons were thriving. The Prince, the Duke of Gloucester, The Duke of Richmond, and the Duke of Somerset had all survived the cradle and the knocks of early childhood. Of his daughters, only Katherine remained in England, as her elder sisters had left for Spain and Denmark by 1526. Should the Prince of Wales have no children the Duke of Gloucester would become the king. By 1526 George and his Elizabeth been blessed with one toddling daughter and an infant boy, still in the cradle. The duke of York had left two children behind, Helena and Thomas, while Richmond still remained unmarried at the age of nineteen. Despite his parent’s pressure, John had refused to marry, and while his status as a royal prince was very attractive to the ladies, his sourly and grouchy disposition did not endear him to many. Lord Somerset was merely eight years old and thus spared much of the court intrigue.
The search for a new bride for Prince Richard began once more months after the death of Charlotte. This time, the king decided to not search all over the world for a suitable bride and decided to focus the attention on one of England’s long-standing allies: The Duchy of Brittany. Before he became king of England, Richard III had two surviving children from his first marriage to Anne Neville, as duke of Gloucester. Joan and Eleanor had married the King of Scotland and the Duke of Brittany respectively, while Richard IV and his younger siblings had been borne by the late Beatrice of Viseu, his second wife and queen. From her marriage to Jean VI, Eleanor had given birth to seven children, of which only two sons lived to adulthood. Richard, Count of Montfort and Francis, Count of Etámpes. Richard of Brittany had in turn wed Katherine of Brabant, the second daughter of Philip and Philippa in 1507. Their eldest daughter, Anne had just turned seventeen in 1526 and quickly became the focal point of the English search. Jean VI wished to reinforce the Anglo-Breton alliance against France and was eager to wed Anne into the House of York, and the negotiations was a lot shorter than the ones with the Hapsburgs and the Valois had been for marriages.
The change of alliances of England with the anti-french Brittany did sting in the eyes of king Charles IX, but his decision to let it be caused a division with the more forceful dauphin. Louis of France had come to increasingly odds with his placid father, but as he was still constrained by the king’s authority. The Dukes of Brittany and Anjou had both allied with England, as Rene of Anjou had married Anne of York, the youngest daughter of the late Richard III in 1515, and their alliance against France had been a growing point of contention for the dauphin. Their allegiance should be with France, and the invasion of Alecon and Perche in 1509 had not helped either. At the age of twenty, Louis had become the focal point of the hopes and dreams of many in France, as the dauphin was seen as the hope for France. He had persuaded his father to allow him to go on a tour of France in 1524, after the birth of Anne of France, his firstborn daughter. Isabel of Castile, would accompany him, as his ever-faithful wife. His intention was to let the people of all walks of life in France see their future king and to get away from the somber and depressing court in Blois.
In 1526 the dominating families in France was the Bourbons, the Angouleme’s and the Albrets, all whom had close ties to Louis and Isabel. Their friendships would prove vital for the future of France for the next years that would come. Isabel had given birth to yet another daughter in 1525, Isabelle of France and her and Anne’s nursery companions was the children and grandchildren of their friends, along with other toddling aristocratic daughters of France’s nobility.
His daughters were not on the dauphin’s mind in 1526 however.
“Champagne! He gave Champagne away to the damn Burgundians!” The roar of Louis of Valois could be heard throughout Château d'Amboise, sending servants scurrying away in fear. Isabel of Castile watched her husband furiously pace before the fireplace in their apartments, as the embroidery laid idle in her lap. His fury knew no bounds at this point and he was not the only one in France sharing the same sentiment. “Treacherous Judas! How dare he! He gives Burgundy back to the Flemish, Nevers to that bastard in Lorraine and now he gives Champagne away as well! Shall France have nothing left of her own or shall we hand over Paris to the English as well?! THE CORONATION CITY ITSELF!! The Maid of Orléans crowned Charles the Victorious in the city to the glory of all of France! And now it shall be lost to the greedy Burgundians!?”
He finally stopped pacing and rested his head on the mantle of the fireplace. Isabel watched him clench and unclench his hand several times and his knuckles was bone white against the skin. “This is madness, Isabel. Sheer madness.”
“Yes, it is.” Isabel said softly, picking up her embroidery once more. “I fear your father have gone mad. His love for peace with our neighbours has blinded him to the fact that they have no scruples as to take what rightfully belongs to you, my love.”
The empathise on the word “you” had it’s intended effect on Louis. A quick upwards glance told her that he had stilled his movement and turned towards her, with a look of surprise on his face. “Isabel, surely you mean the king. Champagne belongs to the crown and my lord father is the king, not me.”
Isabel snorted. “And who is the king? A failure of a man who gives away his own realm to placate his greedy neighbors. My lord grandfather would never sink so low as to yield an inch of Spanish soil. Since Madam la Grande died, your father has been a failure in all things. Rouges and thieves run rampant, heresy is spreading like the plague, our neighbors are laughing at us and the holy crown itself is tarnished. This turmoil can not be allowed to continue.”
Louis looked at her for a long while without saying a word, and then stepped over to the window that had been opened to let the fresh spring air in. The greenery was spreading in the gardens and parks and the broad ribbon of the Loire River glittered in the sunlight. Chimney smoke rose from the town nearby as life went on its usual bustling pace. Isabel remained quiet and keep her eyes in the embroidery that she continued doing. Her husband was clearly thinking and she knew to let him do it on his own. Her needle cut easily through the cloth and the golden fleur-de-lis grew came to life before her very eyes on the ivory silk.
After several minutes Louis sighed and turned away from the window. “I know what you are saying. Isabel, I want nothing more than to set things right again. France deserves a strong king and my father cannot be that anymore. But to overthrow the king is no easy feat and it goes against all manners of tradition, laws and customs. Whether I like it or not, my lord father is the king of France until he dies. If I take the throne now, it will invite chaos. I will be declared a treacherous son and it will spread like a vicious curse from all corners of France. I need more than just this to take the throne. If I am to right these wrongs, I need the kingdom behind me and the Estates as well. They will need more than just an ambitious son that wants the throne. Those are dime a dozen in history. I will not be a traitor to this realm.”
Isabel put the needlework down in her lap again. “A traitor to the realm? Hardly.” She met his eyes firmly. “You are the crown itself, its future and its salvation. Everybody knows that. From the most highborn amongst the princes du sang to the lowliest of peasant. All of France cries out for you, I know it well and anyone will tell you the same as me, husband.”
Louis shook his head. “Do you know it, Isabel? I am touched by your faith in me and your omniscience. You are truly the most faithful of wives.”
“Do not mistake my faith in you as mere romantic infatuation. If I speak it, I mean it. I know my words are true, because it is. Do you think I do mere gossiping in my wide circles of ladies and poets? They are the same as the troubadours of Provence in the days of old, they bring both news and secrets as they did back then. The priests are praying for the darkness to be chases away and for a defender of the holy mother church to arrive. Peasants are whispering in the taverns about the lost prosperity. Soldiers and knights need a king that will lead them to glory. The courtiers and nobles are despairing of the king and queen who refuse to reign or to defend Christendom against the Ottomans. Wars are being fought over the future of Europe in Castile and in Hungary and on the sea around the Italian lands. My lord grandfather and my royal father is protecting Christ and all the saints against the Turks and the Emperor rides to the defense of Belgrade! What does France do in these times? Its king sits in his chambers.”
The snarl in her voice is vicious. To be honest, the righteous wrath of his Castilian wife is no surprise to him at this time. After all, Isabel has inherited more than her name from her mighty great-grandmother that drove the moors into the sea in 1492, and her family’s wars against the Ottomans had woken a fire inside her that he found immensely attractive. Perhaps their daughter Isabelle had been the result of that passion. But her sentiment was the same as his own. France needed to change.
“The king is mad.” He said, more to himself, as to test how they weighed on his tongue. Isabel rose from her seat and came over to him with a crinkle of her silk skirts. “The king is mad. That is all you need for get started.” She clasped his hands with hers. “I have whispered, schemed and plotted for you for years now. I have no intention of leaving my future son a broken kingdom that he needs to be ashamed of. I will not see my husband reduced to a laughing stock in Christendom either. The lords will follow you and so will the knights and men at arms, if you merely speak the word. Give your word to the clergy that you will cleanse the realm of heretics and the sins committed by lying priests and whorish nuns. Tell the peasants that you shall bring their pride and good future back and they will follow you. Be the king you are meant to be and all of France will follow you, to the very gates of hell itself if that is the case. The king is mad. And we know how to deal with mad kings. My glorious grandparents fought for their claim against that Beltraneja bastard and did not the Lord bless their reigns like no other in living memory? Have no fear, if you trust in this, your reign shall be as bright as theirs was and your name will live forever in the memories of your kingdom. Trust in that, my love. Trust in me as well, for Paris shall drown in the Seine before I fail you.”
“The king is mad.” Louis whispered against her lips, before kissing her deeply. Only two thoughts swirled in his head. “The king is mad, the king is mad, the king is mad.” The words repeated themselves, until they seemed as natural at the sun that rose every morning. The other was a simpler one; of Isabel and her staunch faith. In him, in the voices of the kingdoms, in her utter assurance that they could weather any storm together. “Lord, I do not know what I have done so deserve this splendor of a woman in my arms. And let all of France know that their king is coming for them and that these dark days are numbered at least.”
The new Princess of Wales arrived in 1527 in Falmouth after two days of travels from the port of Morlaix in Brittany. Anne of Brittany had a short, but intense voyage over the waters of the English Channel and her original destination had been Plymouth, but the wind blew her ships off the course and the Bretons anchored in Falmouth to seek shelter from the harsh weather. Her grandmother had decided to accompany her back to her english home, and to meet her brother once more. Eleanor of Gloucester had not set foot in England since her marriage and as Anne was her favourite grandchild, the dowager duchess had organised her travel, sorted out her entourage and collected her trousseau. The fort of Pendennis Castle provided the entourage with rooms as the castellan had been prepared for her travels just in case. The fortified building had been built by Richard III to protect against French aggression in 1500 and now it served its purpose well. Richard was notified as of their arrival as well and the King and Prince would meet with Anne and Eleanor of Gloucester in the city of Exeter two weeks later. Richard IV was relieved that the new princess to be had arrived at last, Prince Richard was not. He had absolutely no wish to be hauled before yet another altar for the third time. Or the fourth, as his first planned bride had eloped with the Count of Saint Pol. Twice his brides had perished in six years and being put to bed next to another wife was depressing prospect. He had never had any reservation about laying with a woman, an activity extremely pleasing to indulge in. Bessie had been his first love, despite his marriage to Elizabeth in the same time, whom he had given his virginity to. Elizabeth had been a good wife, and his great shame was that he had not cherished her more. If he had then he could have saved her from the fire that night. If he had not been fooling around with Bessie, then he could have fled with her in his arms from her chamber. The emperor’s daughter had not needed to die suffocating on the thick black smoke the way she did. His nightmares for several years would not have been haunted by a half-charred corpse of his wife, dark hair torn and her bone hands clawing at his throat, the wrists and fingers covered in melted gold and fractured bohemian garnets embedded in the skeleton.
He had nothing left of Elizabeth. Bessie had given him his Fitzroy daughter, and Charlotte had left behind a royal daughter, but Elizabeth had left nothing behind. He would have loved to hold her daughter in his lap, to feel her dark curls growing on a little head. Nothing left. He did not want to wed another woman. Not to be exposed to this grief again. Not to have another wife he would loose to some other nightmare again. And a mere duke’s daughter to boot! Elizabeth had been of imperial blood; Charlotte had been the daughter of the king of France. And his new bride was from Brittany. Not even a king’s daughter. A Duke’s daughter. He would not lay with Anne of Brittany, would father no children with Anne of Brittany. Let Katherine wed little Dickon of Gloucester instead and let his own lineage die out. Anne could go back to Brittany and wed someone else.
The City of Exeter in 1563
His black mood persisted all the way to Exeter, where the royal entourage stopped to wait for the Breton entourage that was mere days away. The duke and duchess of Bedford had gone to greet them, as well as the Bishop of Exeter, John Vesey. The king and prince settled into Rougemont Castle; the old castle that Richard III had restored near two decades earlier. The hall and rooms were scurrying with servants and courtiers at their arrival. The floors had been swept and fresh rushes had been laid, the glassy windows polished to a shine and the facade scourged clean for the new bride’s arrival.
Prince Richard had opted to take a ride just outside of the city on the morning as the Breton company was due to arrive later that day. Despite the bright sunshine at that day and the pleasant breeze, his dark mood persisted. Soon he would be married again. Sold to another foreign interest of his father and kingdom. His mother had attempted to console him, but it didn’t help. He would not fall in love again, would not loose his heart again, not ever again.
Anne of Brittany arrived to the city of Exeter just after noon. Her escort led her to the city gate where the aldermen would greet her, bearing gifts as gold coins and silver rings to their princess to be. Little girls wearing their best clothes held flowers and sweet-smelling herbs for the Bretons to receive and Anne charmed them in turn with her brightest smile. Exeter had decorated for her arrival, as the white rose of York was clustered all over the buildings.
Richard and Anne would meet before the mighty Cathedral Church of Saint Peter, as her carriage drew up before the steps where the king and the prince awaited her.
Whatever notions Richard had of not loosing his heart to his new bride, fell quickly apart the second he laid his eyes on Anne herself. As she stepped out of her carriage, dressed in pale blue gown lined with cloth of silver and her French hood of white and black silk in the Breton colors, Richard immediately lost his heart anyway. Anne might not be the daughter of a reigning emperor or even a king’s child, but what the ducal daughter had, in spades, was an immense magnetic beauty capable of captivating all whom gazed at her. The tall and slim princess, with a heart shaped face, large eyes, set in ivory completion with faint blushing cheeks, outshone both Elizabeth and Charlotte with ease. To Richard her appearance was no less than a thunderbolt crashing across the clear skies in the sudden surging power it invoked and like a man struck by lightning, he remained dumbstruck for several moments.
“Your royal highness, may I present to you, my granddaughter, the lady Anne of Brittany.”
Richard heard the words being spoken to by his half-aunt Eleanor as if it came to him in the waking moments of a dream. Nothing else seemed to be present than the loveliest vision of a woman standing before him at the moment, meeting his eyes with her own. For several heartbeats, the red of her delicate lips was the sole thing in the world, followed by the brightness of her grey eyes, the pale curve of her neck or the tantalizing glimpse of her decolletage under the gown’s embroidered neckline.
Somehow, he finds his voice. To his relief it comes out normally and not as a embarrassed squeak before his father and Eleanor and especially Anne.
“My lady Anne, I bid you welcome to England. I have prayed for your arrival, and it is a delight to finally meet such an honored and graceful lady.”
Those are not the words he wants to say.
“I want to taste the sweetness of your lips.”
“I want kiss your lovely breasts.”
“I want to peel that gown off your body to see the light of the sun glistering of your soft skin.”
All those sentences whirled around the Prince's head like dust being stirred into the air.
And so, Prince Richard lost his heart and soul to the woman whom would become his third wife moments after their meeting. In the days to follow the prince would make up excuses to spend time in her company and Anne coyly indulged his reasons; a walk around the castle, a tour of the cathedral, a boat ride on the river Exe followed in the next days. The black mood that would be a reoccurring theme for the rest of his life seemed to have vanquished as soon as he saw Anne and even the king seemed completely surprised for the changing temperament of his eldest son. Eleanor was not even remotely shocked; this was the precisely the outcome she had predicted. She knew instantly that her granddaughter had taken her fiance's heart the way a hawk stuck in the hunt.
The actual wedding would not take place in Exeter, the place for that would be the city of Winchester and the great cathedral. The third marriage would not be quite as splendid and expensive as his first and second had been, but the bride and groom lit up the whole place by themselves. Anne wore a costly gown of cloth of silver, white silk and black embroidery in the Montford house colours for the wedding, while Richard shone in the blue and Murray of the Yorks. Catherine of Aragon and Richard IV stood to the side while their son recited his wows to Anne. The queen’s gown had been made with cloth of gold and had a shiny silver lamé petticoat lined with violet velvet and raised York roses wrought in gold. The joy was plainly written on her face, and the adoration of her son had clearly soothed her frayed nerves. King Richard seemed pleased with Anne as well, and for the beautiful day he had been able to set aside his other worries as turmoil raged in the rest of Europe.
Anne of Brittany, Princess of Wales
Author's Note: I was meant to post a chapter about Spain/HRE - Ottomans clash, but I'm having troubles finishing it, so here is a chapter about other things. Things are looking very calm and not at all like they are about to explode pretty soon, right? Credit to this chapter goes to @Parma and @Liminia1 for setting the plotbunnies about Champagne in my brain. Don't forget to vote for this story for the Turtledoves awards if you like it!
The summer of 1525 was one of mourning for the Grand Duchy of Brabant. On the 4th of June, the dowager duchess passed away in Wissekerke Castle in Bazel at the age of fifty-eight. After the death of her husband, Philippa of Guelders decided to retire from court almost completely, mostly focusing on overseeing the education of her grandchildren. The death of Isabella of Burgundy and Antoine of Brabant had been two harsh blows against her however, and as Marguerite and Philippa had left for their marriages in a few years ago, their grandmother had retired completely from the court. Aged from loss and pain, Philippa spent the last three years suffering from ailments and worries. The news from Danmark was not good either, as Christian II was fighting against both his uncle, Sweden and the weakened hansa cities, amongst another Lubeck. Her eldest daughter, Margareta had her hands full keeping her husband from loosing the throne, and her son had just married Princess Beatrice of England to gain support from the international community. The dowry of ships, men and weapons had helped to turn the tide, but the struggle was far from over and Philippe had sent many resources to aid his young cousin as well. But the troubles far up north were not the only things occupying Philippe either.
Philippa’s place in court had been taken by the current Grand Duchess, Beatrice of York, while Marie d’Albret, the countess of Rethel besides her. The Count of Rethel had spent many years in the duchy and Palatinate of Burgundy as his brother’s governor, alongside Jean of Brabant, the ducal heir, whom was currently back from Burgundy where he had spent the past two years. His long stays in the heartland of the duchy were to make sure they would not begin to drift towards France again, but given the distance between the Northen parts and the south down in Burgundy, another buffer against turmoil was much needed and so Brabant and France had agreed upon a marriage between the kingdoms. The count of Rethel, the Prince-Bishop of Liége and the ducal advisor Charles de Lannoy had been the strongest proponent of a marriage with France to prevent further discord with the Valois dynasty regarding the duchy and Palatinate of Burgundy. While certain parties had preferred a match with England instead, the alliance with Denmark had taken Beatrice of the marital board. While a match with Spain had been entertained, that was not as high a priority for the duchy. Thus, the Estates Generals had approved of a marriage between the Count of Namur and Princess Jeanne that winter. As Charles IX was quite keen for peace between the neighbours, he had sweetened the marriage proposal with the promise to give the County of Champagne as part of her dowry to the Brabantians and Philippe was ecstatic over the offer. This region covered the Duchy of Valois, the County of Guise, the County of Vertus, and the cities of Laon, Soissions, Reims, Grandpré, Troyers, Brienne, Langres, and Chalons. For the Burgundians, Jeanne would bring an incredibly rich dowry to them, one that outshone both Margaret, Philippa and Beatrice. The marriage contract was signed by both parties and peace was signed by the respective envoys.
Philippa of Guelders’s funeral had taken place in the cathedral in Bruges where her husband had been laid to rest. Father and son laid near each other, with Charles behind the high altar and Philip in the newly constructed chapel close by. Margaret of York had been laid next to her duke, while Philippa’s coffin was lowered into the double marble sarcophagus that had been commissioned by her and Philip long ago. Two years after Philippa’s death, Jeanne of France crossed into Hainault with her bridal entourage for the wedding that would take place in the city of Mons. The celebrations for the peace between the kingdoms was enormous and the splendid entrance of the new bride in Ypres rivaled that of her the late Margaret and Philippa. Unlike the latter, no one could say that Jeanne was not of splendid lineage and that she brought a the most splendid dowry to Brabant.
However, the peace between Brabant and France would not last long. Despite the heavy symbolism of the union between Jean and Jeanne, tensions would soon arise once more. From 1530 and onward, turmoil between France and the neighboring duchies erupted into actual warfare as France came under the reign of Louis XII, one of the most significant and terrifying rulers the kingdom has ever known. For Philippe, this undertaking would be the grandest the sharp and charming Grand Duke had yet to encounter. For Jeanne, it would be a true test of loyalty between her natal kingdom and the duchy she had married into just years earlier.
The tension began to rise already in 1525 and in the year afterwards, the death of Charlotte of Valois occurred. The princess of Wales passed in childbirth with her daughter, Katherine of England. As this was the second wife of Prince Richard that had died in six years, rumors started that he had been cursed. Things began to add up; the disaster with the Boulogne betrothal, the horrific death of the imperial Elizabeth of Austria in the burning castle of Ludlow and now his French bride perishing in the birthing bed. Was England cursed? Had this house of York, themselves supplanters of the Lancastrians, whom also had overthrown the rightful ruler, been struck down with the same curse that had caused the fall of Edward IV’s line?
The situation of course was very different from 1483 when all of Edward’s children except Mary had died in childhood or struck down by the sweating sickness. The king had brothers left, even if only the Duke of York had children so far. His own sons were thriving. The Prince, the Duke of Gloucester, The Duke of Richmond, and the Duke of Somerset had all survived the cradle and the knocks of early childhood. Of his daughters, only Katherine remained in England, as her elder sisters had left for Spain and Denmark by 1526. Should the Prince of Wales have no children the Duke of Gloucester would become the king. By 1526 George and his Elizabeth been blessed with one toddling daughter and an infant boy, still in the cradle. The duke of York had left two children behind, Helena and Thomas, while Richmond still remained unmarried at the age of nineteen. Despite his parent’s pressure, John had refused to marry, and while his status as a royal prince was very attractive to the ladies, his sourly and grouchy disposition did not endear him to many. Lord Somerset was merely eight years old and thus spared much of the court intrigue.
The search for a new bride for Prince Richard began once more months after the death of Charlotte. This time, the king decided to not search all over the world for a suitable bride and decided to focus the attention on one of England’s long-standing allies: The Duchy of Brittany. Before he became king of England, Richard III had two surviving children from his first marriage to Anne Neville, as duke of Gloucester. Joan and Eleanor had married the King of Scotland and the Duke of Brittany respectively, while Richard IV and his younger siblings had been borne by the late Beatrice of Viseu, his second wife and queen. From her marriage to Jean VI, Eleanor had given birth to seven children, of which only two sons lived to adulthood. Richard, Count of Montfort and Francis, Count of Etámpes. Richard of Brittany had in turn wed Katherine of Brabant, the second daughter of Philip and Philippa in 1507. Their eldest daughter, Anne had just turned seventeen in 1526 and quickly became the focal point of the English search. Jean VI wished to reinforce the Anglo-Breton alliance against France and was eager to wed Anne into the House of York, and the negotiations was a lot shorter than the ones with the Hapsburgs and the Valois had been for marriages.
The change of alliances of England with the anti-french Brittany did sting in the eyes of king Charles IX, but his decision to let it be caused a division with the more forceful dauphin. Louis of France had come to increasingly odds with his placid father, but as he was still constrained by the king’s authority. The Dukes of Brittany and Anjou had both allied with England, as Rene of Anjou had married Anne of York, the youngest daughter of the late Richard III in 1515, and their alliance against France had been a growing point of contention for the dauphin. Their allegiance should be with France, and the invasion of Alecon and Perche in 1509 had not helped either. At the age of twenty, Louis had become the focal point of the hopes and dreams of many in France, as the dauphin was seen as the hope for France. He had persuaded his father to allow him to go on a tour of France in 1524, after the birth of Anne of France, his firstborn daughter. Isabel of Castile, would accompany him, as his ever-faithful wife. His intention was to let the people of all walks of life in France see their future king and to get away from the somber and depressing court in Blois.
In 1526 the dominating families in France was the Bourbons, the Angouleme’s and the Albrets, all whom had close ties to Louis and Isabel. Their friendships would prove vital for the future of France for the next years that would come. Isabel had given birth to yet another daughter in 1525, Isabelle of France and her and Anne’s nursery companions was the children and grandchildren of their friends, along with other toddling aristocratic daughters of France’s nobility.
His daughters were not on the dauphin’s mind in 1526 however.
“Champagne! He gave Champagne away to the damn Burgundians!” The roar of Louis of Valois could be heard throughout Château d'Amboise, sending servants scurrying away in fear. Isabel of Castile watched her husband furiously pace before the fireplace in their apartments, as the embroidery laid idle in her lap. His fury knew no bounds at this point and he was not the only one in France sharing the same sentiment. “Treacherous Judas! How dare he! He gives Burgundy back to the Flemish, Nevers to that bastard in Lorraine and now he gives Champagne away as well! Shall France have nothing left of her own or shall we hand over Paris to the English as well?! THE CORONATION CITY ITSELF!! The Maid of Orléans crowned Charles the Victorious in the city to the glory of all of France! And now it shall be lost to the greedy Burgundians!?”
He finally stopped pacing and rested his head on the mantle of the fireplace. Isabel watched him clench and unclench his hand several times and his knuckles was bone white against the skin. “This is madness, Isabel. Sheer madness.”
“Yes, it is.” Isabel said softly, picking up her embroidery once more. “I fear your father have gone mad. His love for peace with our neighbours has blinded him to the fact that they have no scruples as to take what rightfully belongs to you, my love.”
The empathise on the word “you” had it’s intended effect on Louis. A quick upwards glance told her that he had stilled his movement and turned towards her, with a look of surprise on his face. “Isabel, surely you mean the king. Champagne belongs to the crown and my lord father is the king, not me.”
Isabel snorted. “And who is the king? A failure of a man who gives away his own realm to placate his greedy neighbors. My lord grandfather would never sink so low as to yield an inch of Spanish soil. Since Madam la Grande died, your father has been a failure in all things. Rouges and thieves run rampant, heresy is spreading like the plague, our neighbors are laughing at us and the holy crown itself is tarnished. This turmoil can not be allowed to continue.”
Louis looked at her for a long while without saying a word, and then stepped over to the window that had been opened to let the fresh spring air in. The greenery was spreading in the gardens and parks and the broad ribbon of the Loire River glittered in the sunlight. Chimney smoke rose from the town nearby as life went on its usual bustling pace. Isabel remained quiet and keep her eyes in the embroidery that she continued doing. Her husband was clearly thinking and she knew to let him do it on his own. Her needle cut easily through the cloth and the golden fleur-de-lis grew came to life before her very eyes on the ivory silk.
After several minutes Louis sighed and turned away from the window. “I know what you are saying. Isabel, I want nothing more than to set things right again. France deserves a strong king and my father cannot be that anymore. But to overthrow the king is no easy feat and it goes against all manners of tradition, laws and customs. Whether I like it or not, my lord father is the king of France until he dies. If I take the throne now, it will invite chaos. I will be declared a treacherous son and it will spread like a vicious curse from all corners of France. I need more than just this to take the throne. If I am to right these wrongs, I need the kingdom behind me and the Estates as well. They will need more than just an ambitious son that wants the throne. Those are dime a dozen in history. I will not be a traitor to this realm.”
Isabel put the needlework down in her lap again. “A traitor to the realm? Hardly.” She met his eyes firmly. “You are the crown itself, its future and its salvation. Everybody knows that. From the most highborn amongst the princes du sang to the lowliest of peasant. All of France cries out for you, I know it well and anyone will tell you the same as me, husband.”
Louis shook his head. “Do you know it, Isabel? I am touched by your faith in me and your omniscience. You are truly the most faithful of wives.”
“Do not mistake my faith in you as mere romantic infatuation. If I speak it, I mean it. I know my words are true, because it is. Do you think I do mere gossiping in my wide circles of ladies and poets? They are the same as the troubadours of Provence in the days of old, they bring both news and secrets as they did back then. The priests are praying for the darkness to be chases away and for a defender of the holy mother church to arrive. Peasants are whispering in the taverns about the lost prosperity. Soldiers and knights need a king that will lead them to glory. The courtiers and nobles are despairing of the king and queen who refuse to reign or to defend Christendom against the Ottomans. Wars are being fought over the future of Europe in Castile and in Hungary and on the sea around the Italian lands. My lord grandfather and my royal father is protecting Christ and all the saints against the Turks and the Emperor rides to the defense of Belgrade! What does France do in these times? Its king sits in his chambers.”
The snarl in her voice is vicious. To be honest, the righteous wrath of his Castilian wife is no surprise to him at this time. After all, Isabel has inherited more than her name from her mighty great-grandmother that drove the moors into the sea in 1492, and her family’s wars against the Ottomans had woken a fire inside her that he found immensely attractive. Perhaps their daughter Isabelle had been the result of that passion. But her sentiment was the same as his own. France needed to change.
“The king is mad.” He said, more to himself, as to test how they weighed on his tongue. Isabel rose from her seat and came over to him with a crinkle of her silk skirts. “The king is mad. That is all you need for get started.” She clasped his hands with hers. “I have whispered, schemed and plotted for you for years now. I have no intention of leaving my future son a broken kingdom that he needs to be ashamed of. I will not see my husband reduced to a laughing stock in Christendom either. The lords will follow you and so will the knights and men at arms, if you merely speak the word. Give your word to the clergy that you will cleanse the realm of heretics and the sins committed by lying priests and whorish nuns. Tell the peasants that you shall bring their pride and good future back and they will follow you. Be the king you are meant to be and all of France will follow you, to the very gates of hell itself if that is the case. The king is mad. And we know how to deal with mad kings. My glorious grandparents fought for their claim against that Beltraneja bastard and did not the Lord bless their reigns like no other in living memory? Have no fear, if you trust in this, your reign shall be as bright as theirs was and your name will live forever in the memories of your kingdom. Trust in that, my love. Trust in me as well, for Paris shall drown in the Seine before I fail you.”
“The king is mad.” Louis whispered against her lips, before kissing her deeply. Only two thoughts swirled in his head. “The king is mad, the king is mad, the king is mad.” The words repeated themselves, until they seemed as natural at the sun that rose every morning. The other was a simpler one; of Isabel and her staunch faith. In him, in the voices of the kingdoms, in her utter assurance that they could weather any storm together. “Lord, I do not know what I have done so deserve this splendor of a woman in my arms. And let all of France know that their king is coming for them and that these dark days are numbered at least.”
The new Princess of Wales arrived in 1527 in Falmouth after two days of travels from the port of Morlaix in Brittany. Anne of Brittany had a short, but intense voyage over the waters of the English Channel and her original destination had been Plymouth, but the wind blew her ships off the course and the Bretons anchored in Falmouth to seek shelter from the harsh weather. Her grandmother had decided to accompany her back to her english home, and to meet her brother once more. Eleanor of Gloucester had not set foot in England since her marriage and as Anne was her favourite grandchild, the dowager duchess had organised her travel, sorted out her entourage and collected her trousseau. The fort of Pendennis Castle provided the entourage with rooms as the castellan had been prepared for her travels just in case. The fortified building had been built by Richard III to protect against French aggression in 1500 and now it served its purpose well. Richard was notified as of their arrival as well and the King and Prince would meet with Anne and Eleanor of Gloucester in the city of Exeter two weeks later. Richard IV was relieved that the new princess to be had arrived at last, Prince Richard was not. He had absolutely no wish to be hauled before yet another altar for the third time. Or the fourth, as his first planned bride had eloped with the Count of Saint Pol. Twice his brides had perished in six years and being put to bed next to another wife was depressing prospect. He had never had any reservation about laying with a woman, an activity extremely pleasing to indulge in. Bessie had been his first love, despite his marriage to Elizabeth in the same time, whom he had given his virginity to. Elizabeth had been a good wife, and his great shame was that he had not cherished her more. If he had then he could have saved her from the fire that night. If he had not been fooling around with Bessie, then he could have fled with her in his arms from her chamber. The emperor’s daughter had not needed to die suffocating on the thick black smoke the way she did. His nightmares for several years would not have been haunted by a half-charred corpse of his wife, dark hair torn and her bone hands clawing at his throat, the wrists and fingers covered in melted gold and fractured bohemian garnets embedded in the skeleton.
He had nothing left of Elizabeth. Bessie had given him his Fitzroy daughter, and Charlotte had left behind a royal daughter, but Elizabeth had left nothing behind. He would have loved to hold her daughter in his lap, to feel her dark curls growing on a little head. Nothing left. He did not want to wed another woman. Not to be exposed to this grief again. Not to have another wife he would loose to some other nightmare again. And a mere duke’s daughter to boot! Elizabeth had been of imperial blood; Charlotte had been the daughter of the king of France. And his new bride was from Brittany. Not even a king’s daughter. A Duke’s daughter. He would not lay with Anne of Brittany, would father no children with Anne of Brittany. Let Katherine wed little Dickon of Gloucester instead and let his own lineage die out. Anne could go back to Brittany and wed someone else.
The City of Exeter in 1563
His black mood persisted all the way to Exeter, where the royal entourage stopped to wait for the Breton entourage that was mere days away. The duke and duchess of Bedford had gone to greet them, as well as the Bishop of Exeter, John Vesey. The king and prince settled into Rougemont Castle; the old castle that Richard III had restored near two decades earlier. The hall and rooms were scurrying with servants and courtiers at their arrival. The floors had been swept and fresh rushes had been laid, the glassy windows polished to a shine and the facade scourged clean for the new bride’s arrival.
Prince Richard had opted to take a ride just outside of the city on the morning as the Breton company was due to arrive later that day. Despite the bright sunshine at that day and the pleasant breeze, his dark mood persisted. Soon he would be married again. Sold to another foreign interest of his father and kingdom. His mother had attempted to console him, but it didn’t help. He would not fall in love again, would not loose his heart again, not ever again.
Anne of Brittany arrived to the city of Exeter just after noon. Her escort led her to the city gate where the aldermen would greet her, bearing gifts as gold coins and silver rings to their princess to be. Little girls wearing their best clothes held flowers and sweet-smelling herbs for the Bretons to receive and Anne charmed them in turn with her brightest smile. Exeter had decorated for her arrival, as the white rose of York was clustered all over the buildings.
Richard and Anne would meet before the mighty Cathedral Church of Saint Peter, as her carriage drew up before the steps where the king and the prince awaited her.
Whatever notions Richard had of not loosing his heart to his new bride, fell quickly apart the second he laid his eyes on Anne herself. As she stepped out of her carriage, dressed in pale blue gown lined with cloth of silver and her French hood of white and black silk in the Breton colors, Richard immediately lost his heart anyway. Anne might not be the daughter of a reigning emperor or even a king’s child, but what the ducal daughter had, in spades, was an immense magnetic beauty capable of captivating all whom gazed at her. The tall and slim princess, with a heart shaped face, large eyes, set in ivory completion with faint blushing cheeks, outshone both Elizabeth and Charlotte with ease. To Richard her appearance was no less than a thunderbolt crashing across the clear skies in the sudden surging power it invoked and like a man struck by lightning, he remained dumbstruck for several moments.
“Your royal highness, may I present to you, my granddaughter, the lady Anne of Brittany.”
Richard heard the words being spoken to by his half-aunt Eleanor as if it came to him in the waking moments of a dream. Nothing else seemed to be present than the loveliest vision of a woman standing before him at the moment, meeting his eyes with her own. For several heartbeats, the red of her delicate lips was the sole thing in the world, followed by the brightness of her grey eyes, the pale curve of her neck or the tantalizing glimpse of her decolletage under the gown’s embroidered neckline.
Somehow, he finds his voice. To his relief it comes out normally and not as a embarrassed squeak before his father and Eleanor and especially Anne.
“My lady Anne, I bid you welcome to England. I have prayed for your arrival, and it is a delight to finally meet such an honored and graceful lady.”
Those are not the words he wants to say.
“I want to taste the sweetness of your lips.”
“I want kiss your lovely breasts.”
“I want to peel that gown off your body to see the light of the sun glistering of your soft skin.”
All those sentences whirled around the Prince's head like dust being stirred into the air.
And so, Prince Richard lost his heart and soul to the woman whom would become his third wife moments after their meeting. In the days to follow the prince would make up excuses to spend time in her company and Anne coyly indulged his reasons; a walk around the castle, a tour of the cathedral, a boat ride on the river Exe followed in the next days. The black mood that would be a reoccurring theme for the rest of his life seemed to have vanquished as soon as he saw Anne and even the king seemed completely surprised for the changing temperament of his eldest son. Eleanor was not even remotely shocked; this was the precisely the outcome she had predicted. She knew instantly that her granddaughter had taken her fiance's heart the way a hawk stuck in the hunt.
The actual wedding would not take place in Exeter, the place for that would be the city of Winchester and the great cathedral. The third marriage would not be quite as splendid and expensive as his first and second had been, but the bride and groom lit up the whole place by themselves. Anne wore a costly gown of cloth of silver, white silk and black embroidery in the Montford house colours for the wedding, while Richard shone in the blue and Murray of the Yorks. Catherine of Aragon and Richard IV stood to the side while their son recited his wows to Anne. The queen’s gown had been made with cloth of gold and had a shiny silver lamé petticoat lined with violet velvet and raised York roses wrought in gold. The joy was plainly written on her face, and the adoration of her son had clearly soothed her frayed nerves. King Richard seemed pleased with Anne as well, and for the beautiful day he had been able to set aside his other worries as turmoil raged in the rest of Europe.
Anne of Brittany, Princess of Wales
Author's Note: I was meant to post a chapter about Spain/HRE - Ottomans clash, but I'm having troubles finishing it, so here is a chapter about other things. Things are looking very calm and not at all like they are about to explode pretty soon, right? Credit to this chapter goes to @Parma and @Liminia1 for setting the plotbunnies about Champagne in my brain. Don't forget to vote for this story for the Turtledoves awards if you like it!
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Calling it now. Anne is not long for this world either. The Sweat in 1528?
It would just be too easy and lovely if wife nr. 3 would reignite love in him and they’d live happily ever after. I don’t expect joy and love in your tls as much as I expect death and chaos
One day I'm gonna write a chapter where things are just cotton candy and roses and you are gonna spend the rest of your life worrying about where I have put the pitfalls!It would just be too easy and lovely if wife nr. 3 would reignite love in him and they’d live happily ever after. I don’t expect joy and love in your tls as much as I expect death and chaos
@BlueFlowwer ! Amazing work! And yeah. That was pretty clear girl. You love your death
Well, I have written that his reign is gonna be a less cheerful one, so I can't suddenly make a switcheroo and making him happy all that time. I'm not the writers of Game of Thrones after all.
Thanks God you're not. Dumb and Dumber still Owe US Jon sitting on his rightdul throne