The Marriage of the Century - A Burgundian Timeline
- Thread starter BlueFlowwer
- Start date
I'm alive! And future updates!
Hello my darlings! I'm so sorry for the lack of updates since like 8 months or something. I'm a horrible lazy person who has worked like a madwoman since *checks notes* early april. But I am please to let you all know that I plan to continue this tl and since I just found out that I have this tl on a document on my phone, I can write on my way to and back from work, something I really should have looked into LONG ago *insert epic facepalm*
I will thus continue to write and hopefully I'll have a update before the month is over. I am so grateful that you people still like this TL and hopes that you will continue to enjoy all future chapters. I will be gracious and tell you that the next chapter will involve a death in England, Portugal and bethrothal shenanigans!
I will thus continue to write and hopefully I'll have a update before the month is over. I am so grateful that you people still like this TL and hopes that you will continue to enjoy all future chapters. I will be gracious and tell you that the next chapter will involve a death in England, Portugal and bethrothal shenanigans!
Chapter 45, Portugal, Spring in 1508
Chapter 45
“Your Grace, the dowager Queen of England has passed away.“ King Peter II of Portugal put his quill down on his desk, over a stack of royal papers. “My aunt, Joana, is dead? He asked, looking the messenger in the eyes. News just arrived from London, the queen dowager went to our Lord four days ago. “ Peter leaned back into his chair, his chamber being quiet with the occasional footsteps of servants, officials and others in the corridors outside. The silver wrought chandeliers holding tapered candles, scattering lights on the oriental carpets, richly woven tapestries and ornate furniture carved and brought from foreign lands. Outside the sun was setting,Peter folded his hands over his desk, drumming his fingers against the surface. The messenger stood waiting quietly near the door, no doubt expecting orders. “Send for the archbishop and members of the Royal council to meet here after dawn tomorrow. And see if the queen is awake and if, ask her to come now. Have someone bring wine and food here as well. “ The messenger departed with a bow, closing the door quietly behind him.
The fireplace near the desk burned steadily, warding off the evening chill from outside the windows. Peter warmed his hands over the flaming embers while his thoughts wandered. He and his brother Alfonso had adored their aunt, spent evenings with her, playing childhood games, reading about Portugals history and its kings, praying at mass. She had selected the monks who had educated them in matters of faith, hidden sweets in their wardrobes and under their pillows, and been a solid support for different matters growing up. When she had left for England in 1484, he had hardly recognised her clad in splendid garments and jewellery, rather then her simple clothes she had worn for most of his life. “The Lord has seen fit to call me to a earthly throne across the seas rather then his heavenly abode.” She had said, glancing out of the windows where the ships that would take her to England gathered, sails bound and the winds picking up, almost as if preparing to sweep her out of Portugal. Joanna had nervously twisted the rings around her fingers, the only sign of anxiety she had allowed herself to show at all. “May I be enough for the king, and may I be fruitful.” Peter had at this time considered her worry to be silly. Of course, his aunt would be enough for any king, with her regal and practical bearing. Richard III of England would not want any other wife.
Now as a king of 31 years old, rather then doting nephew being seven, his aunts concern made more sense. Given she was 32 years old meant that Joana’s fertile years were of limited supply and England, with its decade of civil wars and discontent needed security and a male heir. Not York bastards that brought plague to the kingdom. Everyone in the Christian realms had heard of the sweating sickness enveloping England and reaping the lives of her heirs with the swiftness of the scythe. Edward IV had nearly caused the fall of his house with his bigamous marriage to Eleanor Talbot before wedding the Woodville witch and scorning royal ladies of foreign lands. Richard would not be as foolish, hence the marriage to Joana, a prestigious princess of a mighty kingdom.
His aunt had outdone herself as he always knew she would. Not only had she delivered England a healthy prince, but also a thriving spare and to beautiful princesses to boot. Thus, reassuring the whole country that God’s favour shone again on the royal family and fending of lurking pretenders. And now she had died, joining her husband in heaven. His cousin, Richard IV would certainly sent a letter to Peter, it was probably on the way. As often as they wrote, the knew each other well enough, despite never meeting each other.
A soft knock interrupted his thinking. A couple of servants slank into the room on silent feet with trays bearing wine, bread, cheese, fruits and pastries. They left just as quietly, shutting the door after themselves. A few moments later another knock sounded. “Enter”, Peter called. A page entered and bowed. “Her grace, the queen is here, sire.” He bowed and left and Margaret of Burgundy stepped into the room, curtseying before her husband. “I was about to retire when your message arrived. What has happened?” Peter said nothing for a few moments, observing the woman he had married 15 years earlier. Margaret had begun to recover from the stillborn son she had delivered two months earlier. The birth had been premature and bloody, with the queen running high fevers. Fortunately, she had recovered, but she was still rather weak and Peter felt a twinge of guilt for preventing her from sleeping. Margaret wore a fur lined cape over simple clothes and a linen cap.
“Come sit by the fire, darling. News have arrived and I want your sage council” Peter said, offering his hand to guide her into a comfortable armchair and picking up a plate. He loaded it up with cherries, orange slices, cheese and bread. Margaret poured a goblet of rhenish wine, a favourite of hers and rumoured for its strengthening properties.
“The queen of England passed away four days ago. Our cousin King Richard will most likely reach out to us. And there are new opportunities to strengthen our ties to them. The earl of Chester is one year old, and Queen Catherine is expecting again. Joana left Portugal almost 25 years ago to link our kingdoms together. Maybe the time is right to join our families once again.
Infanta Isabella, you mean.” Margaret asked, nodding in understanding.” Our Margarida is to wed Archduke Maximilian, Prince Peter will marry Anne of France, my sister’s daughter. Alfonso needs a Portuguese match.”
With the Empire and France joining us, England will be another valuable ally. Especially if Austria withdraws. Maximilian are six years younger than Margarida.” Peter says, frowning at the fire. That’s not necessary a deal breaker, Austria needs her dowry and our daughter being empress suits us perfectly. And Isabella is a bright little girl, she will be a fine queen one day.”
Margaret shifts in her chair and takes a sip of her wine. “She’s already learning to read, with her sister helping her. And my late mother would love for her granddaughter to become Queen of England.” She held the goblet of wine in her lap, contemplating. “Yes. I agree with you. Let’s reach out to King Richard and make the offer.”
Peter sinks down to his knees in front of Margaret and pulls her hands into his. “You, my love, are the very best of women. Let us pray that Isabella and Richard will have a glorious reign in England.” Margaret bows down, resting her head on top of his. For several moments neither spouse moved. To Peter, his wife’s hand felt far too thin, skin stretched over bones. “I love you” he whispered to her, pressing his lips to her fingers. Margaret kissed his forehead slowly in return. It was all the answer he needed.
Margaret of Burgundy, Queen Consort of Portugal
To @VVD0D95 with love.
“Your Grace, the dowager Queen of England has passed away.“ King Peter II of Portugal put his quill down on his desk, over a stack of royal papers. “My aunt, Joana, is dead? He asked, looking the messenger in the eyes. News just arrived from London, the queen dowager went to our Lord four days ago. “ Peter leaned back into his chair, his chamber being quiet with the occasional footsteps of servants, officials and others in the corridors outside. The silver wrought chandeliers holding tapered candles, scattering lights on the oriental carpets, richly woven tapestries and ornate furniture carved and brought from foreign lands. Outside the sun was setting,Peter folded his hands over his desk, drumming his fingers against the surface. The messenger stood waiting quietly near the door, no doubt expecting orders. “Send for the archbishop and members of the Royal council to meet here after dawn tomorrow. And see if the queen is awake and if, ask her to come now. Have someone bring wine and food here as well. “ The messenger departed with a bow, closing the door quietly behind him.
The fireplace near the desk burned steadily, warding off the evening chill from outside the windows. Peter warmed his hands over the flaming embers while his thoughts wandered. He and his brother Alfonso had adored their aunt, spent evenings with her, playing childhood games, reading about Portugals history and its kings, praying at mass. She had selected the monks who had educated them in matters of faith, hidden sweets in their wardrobes and under their pillows, and been a solid support for different matters growing up. When she had left for England in 1484, he had hardly recognised her clad in splendid garments and jewellery, rather then her simple clothes she had worn for most of his life. “The Lord has seen fit to call me to a earthly throne across the seas rather then his heavenly abode.” She had said, glancing out of the windows where the ships that would take her to England gathered, sails bound and the winds picking up, almost as if preparing to sweep her out of Portugal. Joanna had nervously twisted the rings around her fingers, the only sign of anxiety she had allowed herself to show at all. “May I be enough for the king, and may I be fruitful.” Peter had at this time considered her worry to be silly. Of course, his aunt would be enough for any king, with her regal and practical bearing. Richard III of England would not want any other wife.
Now as a king of 31 years old, rather then doting nephew being seven, his aunts concern made more sense. Given she was 32 years old meant that Joana’s fertile years were of limited supply and England, with its decade of civil wars and discontent needed security and a male heir. Not York bastards that brought plague to the kingdom. Everyone in the Christian realms had heard of the sweating sickness enveloping England and reaping the lives of her heirs with the swiftness of the scythe. Edward IV had nearly caused the fall of his house with his bigamous marriage to Eleanor Talbot before wedding the Woodville witch and scorning royal ladies of foreign lands. Richard would not be as foolish, hence the marriage to Joana, a prestigious princess of a mighty kingdom.
His aunt had outdone herself as he always knew she would. Not only had she delivered England a healthy prince, but also a thriving spare and to beautiful princesses to boot. Thus, reassuring the whole country that God’s favour shone again on the royal family and fending of lurking pretenders. And now she had died, joining her husband in heaven. His cousin, Richard IV would certainly sent a letter to Peter, it was probably on the way. As often as they wrote, the knew each other well enough, despite never meeting each other.
A soft knock interrupted his thinking. A couple of servants slank into the room on silent feet with trays bearing wine, bread, cheese, fruits and pastries. They left just as quietly, shutting the door after themselves. A few moments later another knock sounded. “Enter”, Peter called. A page entered and bowed. “Her grace, the queen is here, sire.” He bowed and left and Margaret of Burgundy stepped into the room, curtseying before her husband. “I was about to retire when your message arrived. What has happened?” Peter said nothing for a few moments, observing the woman he had married 15 years earlier. Margaret had begun to recover from the stillborn son she had delivered two months earlier. The birth had been premature and bloody, with the queen running high fevers. Fortunately, she had recovered, but she was still rather weak and Peter felt a twinge of guilt for preventing her from sleeping. Margaret wore a fur lined cape over simple clothes and a linen cap.
“Come sit by the fire, darling. News have arrived and I want your sage council” Peter said, offering his hand to guide her into a comfortable armchair and picking up a plate. He loaded it up with cherries, orange slices, cheese and bread. Margaret poured a goblet of rhenish wine, a favourite of hers and rumoured for its strengthening properties.
“The queen of England passed away four days ago. Our cousin King Richard will most likely reach out to us. And there are new opportunities to strengthen our ties to them. The earl of Chester is one year old, and Queen Catherine is expecting again. Joana left Portugal almost 25 years ago to link our kingdoms together. Maybe the time is right to join our families once again.
Infanta Isabella, you mean.” Margaret asked, nodding in understanding.” Our Margarida is to wed Archduke Maximilian, Prince Peter will marry Anne of France, my sister’s daughter. Alfonso needs a Portuguese match.”
With the Empire and France joining us, England will be another valuable ally. Especially if Austria withdraws. Maximilian are six years younger than Margarida.” Peter says, frowning at the fire. That’s not necessary a deal breaker, Austria needs her dowry and our daughter being empress suits us perfectly. And Isabella is a bright little girl, she will be a fine queen one day.”
Margaret shifts in her chair and takes a sip of her wine. “She’s already learning to read, with her sister helping her. And my late mother would love for her granddaughter to become Queen of England.” She held the goblet of wine in her lap, contemplating. “Yes. I agree with you. Let’s reach out to King Richard and make the offer.”
Peter sinks down to his knees in front of Margaret and pulls her hands into his. “You, my love, are the very best of women. Let us pray that Isabella and Richard will have a glorious reign in England.” Margaret bows down, resting her head on top of his. For several moments neither spouse moved. To Peter, his wife’s hand felt far too thin, skin stretched over bones. “I love you” he whispered to her, pressing his lips to her fingers. Margaret kissed his forehead slowly in return. It was all the answer he needed.
Margaret of Burgundy, Queen Consort of Portugal
To @VVD0D95 with love.
Thank you, Lemmy! I dedicated this chapter to you since we have been planning so, so, so many marriages for years. You're my Rock of Gibraltar and I hope you want to continue plotting shenanigans, schemes and scenarios with me. ❤️
Always, my darling.
Next chapter is half written and we return to Burgundy (paging @The Merovingian). Featuring sibling dynamic and departures.
Btw, does anyone have any tips about Lorraine and its court culture in the early 16th century?
Chapter 46 - The Burgundian Princesses
Loook! It's a bird! No, it's a plane! No, it's a finished f*****g chapter!
Chapter 46. The Queen of the North and The Lady of the Rhine (spring and autumn 1507)
The winds from the North Sea blew hard and cold that April evening, even reaching into Bruges. The windows rattled in the ducal Palace and made the candles flicker across Margaretha’s chambers. The sound pulled the young woman sitting in an armchair near the fireplace out of her thoughts. “Greetje, are you not nervous for the journey?” Magdalena asked, pacing in front of the fire, amber skirts swishing with every step. Her long golden hair tumbled over her shoulders, falling to the small of her back in a waterfall of gilded tresses. With the gown and cream skin, her sister shimmered and gleamed, reflecting the light of the fire like a divine icon spreading a halo.
Margaretha put her book down, the tome of Gesta Danorum with its pages worn from the years of reading. “Lena, it is a short trip traveling by the sea. Unless a storm reaches down between Amsterdam and Copenhagen, the worst that will happen is wet clothes. Our ships are quite steady and its away from the engelse kanaal. I have complete faith in our sailors. Our Lord Father is sending his best men on the voyage.”
Lena snorted. “I better pray for our belle-soeur Isabelle in her voyage across the la Manche next year then. Seeing as she might have use of it more then you. Greetje, you must have nerves of ice. You will fit right into that cold winter kingdom.” Margaretha said nothing at all, just watching her sister. Lena had stopped pacing at last. She was far too used to Lena’s wit to respond with anything other then calm nodding. Her own hair was brown and mostly straight, neither dull nor lustrous. With a round face and plain features, Margaretha could never compete in beauty. Young courtiers and ambassadors made no secrets of which daughter of the Grand Duke they called The Light of the West.
Magdalena of Cassel had inherited her grandmother’s height and at seventeen stood at nearly six feet tall. With slender curves and a graceful neck, she contrasted Margaretha, the latter being short and sturdy. And brilliant blue-grey eyes for the elder’s brown. Lena played music better, danced more gracefully, charmed people like the pied piper of Hamelin. In the palaces she kept a small court of glittering young ladies in the last two years ago, fluttering around like multi-coloured butterflies.
Margaretha keep her own large circle of friends, scholars and courtiers from all over the duchy. She knew the content of every account book in the ducal households and how to manage the estates from Antwerp to Le Crotoy. Being the practical sister had it advantages at times, even if it didn’t give loads of poems.
Margaretha of Burgundy in 1508
Duchess Ann occasionally sighed over Lena’s exuberance, but her stepdaughter always stayed within the boundary of decorum and her studies and religious devotions always left nothing to be desired. Their little sisters Katrine and Beatrijs adored her, and Lena cheerfully played games with both whenever they demanded it. Margaretha had spent countless days in gardens reading with their little brother Peter in her lap while her sisters amused themselves with the court games. Margaretha had always been Peter’s favourite sibling, much to her delight. Leaving him for the north had almost torn her in half. Little Anne she had only seen a few times, she had never left the nursery in Malines.
Her brother Ferdinand’s betrothal to Marguerite of Angouleme had been broken earlier that spring, in favour of Madeleine de la Tour Auvergne, a calculated move from their father’s side as her sole brother’s health was fading.
Duchess Ann, however, was expecting another baby. The pregnancy had been announced a month ago. “I seemed to gain my lastborn child in the same year my firstborn child leaves my duchy.” Duke Philip had said to Margaretha the evening before she left for Bruges.
“Father, there is a question I’ve been longing to ask. Most fathers would have sent me to Denmark much earlier. I’m nineteen now, my mother married earlier. As did my aunts. Why have you waited this long?”
Her father tapped hir knuckles on the table. “Prince Christian became viceroy of Norway last year. The union between Denmark, Sweden and Norway is turbulent at times. I wished to know I left you to a steady kingdom first. Plus, we got better terms with the wait. And on a personal note…” Philip’s voice trailed off and he looked contemplative out of the window. You, Magdalena, and Philip are what I have left of your late mother. I loath to let you leave to early. I rarely allow myself sentimentality. It’s not the benefit of rulers to do so. But sometimes…sometimes, even grand dukes can be tender-hearted. You and your sister are my pride and my joy.” Her father looked straight at her. “Margaretha, whatever the wagging tongues in court says, you have always been my pride.” It meant a lot to hear it, even if she already knew it since long.
“It’s not all winter and ice in Denmark. And Norway and Sweden have lovely summers too. And I’ve longed to be a queen. To have a husband and children of my own.” Margaretha told her sister at last. Lena’s gaze went down, grey-blue eyes tracing the pattern of the woven carpet. A blush came over her cheeks. After a few moments of heavy silence, Lena spoke; “I am sorry, Greetje. I guess I’m more upset about you leaving then I think. Our girlhood is over now. I’ll go to Lorraine after summer. Philip will wed next spring. And Ferdinand after that” Margaretha snorted “He’s fourteen years old, Lena for pity’s sake. Everyone is self-obsessed and romantic at that age. Even if he drives our mother up the wall.”
A knock on the door sounds when their giggling had gone down and their brother Philip stepped into the chamber. His dark hair was wet with rainwater, curling around his temple and his heavy eyebrows had knitted into a scowl. “If the winds keep howling like this, you can fly all the way to Denemarken without a ship, sister. You’ll risk a proper drenching just stepping out of the door right now.” His large mastiffs Willibrord and Radboud followed Philip’s heels as always.
Margaretha turned her head and looked out of the window. It was indeed pouring a flood down outside. “Well, it that is the case we better make ourselves comfortable for the evening.” Flagons of mulled wine, roasted quail, tart winter apples, manchet bread and spermyse cheese were brought in, card games brought out and Catherine of Navarre’s children spent their last evenings together in the Palace of Bruges before Margaretha’s departure to Denmark a fortnight later. The following December, on the ninth evening, Duchess Ana was safely delivered of a daughter, Isabella of Burgundy.
Margaretha of Burgundy later in life as queen regent of Denmark
Margaretha would have four living children with Christian.
-Kristina b 1508
-Fredrik b 1510
-Magdalena b 1516
-Hans b 1517
Magdalena of Burgundy, Duchess of Lorraine 1510
It’s no secret that Antoine of Lorraine fell in love with Magdalena of Burgundy the moment he laid eyes on her. So did most of the populace at her entrance in Nancy when her carriage entered through the Porte de la Graffe on a golden tinted day in late august, with the trees shrouded in reddening and yellow leaves. Magdalena cut a splendid figure in cloth of gold with her golden hair loose to the waist, arrayed in jewels.
Porte de la Graffe in Nancy where Magdalena entered.
Antoine and Magdalena enjoyed a very happy, if not a long-lasting marriage for eleven years. The ducal court of Lorraine drew influences from France, Italy and Flanders, and the cultural crossroads of the north and south of Europe. Long trading routes sneaked from northern Italy, Savoy and Provence and merchants from Spain mingled with Danish and Englishmen. Olives, rhenish wine, silks from Milan all ended up in the ducal banquets with spices and other food from the new world that began to trickle into Europe. In the center was Magdalena, who’s charm and joy gave the glittering court a joyous mood, with games, dances and artistic patronage during a whole decade.
Magdalena bore four children during her marriage, Philippa in 1509, Nicholas in 1510, Jean in 1514 and a stillborn daughter in 1518. Their joyous court came to a crashing end in the 5th of September when Magdalena died from eclampsia a few hours after her last child. Her horrified ladies and midwives were helpless when their duchess died in agony from suffocating seizures, traumatising the court and casting everything in a dark and gloomy autumn that persisted until spring the next year. Antoine would not remarry until two years later to Jacquetta of Luxembourg, Magdalena’s cousin. While their marriage would be a content one, Jacquetta would never be as loved as Magdalena by her husband.
Antoine and Jacquetta would have two daughters, Magdalena, and Marie. Nicholas succeeded his father as Duke of Lorraine in 1540. Most of his reign would be spent in religious turmoil and he would be succeeded by his brother Jean’s son Charles in 1548.
Jacquetta of Luxembourg
Nicholas II of Lorraine
In case anyone wonders, I distinguished between Margaretha and Magdalena by linguistic means. I kind of think Margaretha is using more dutch languages and names, while Magdalena is more leaning to French terms. It just makes sense to me.
Chapter 46. The Queen of the North and The Lady of the Rhine (spring and autumn 1507)
The winds from the North Sea blew hard and cold that April evening, even reaching into Bruges. The windows rattled in the ducal Palace and made the candles flicker across Margaretha’s chambers. The sound pulled the young woman sitting in an armchair near the fireplace out of her thoughts. “Greetje, are you not nervous for the journey?” Magdalena asked, pacing in front of the fire, amber skirts swishing with every step. Her long golden hair tumbled over her shoulders, falling to the small of her back in a waterfall of gilded tresses. With the gown and cream skin, her sister shimmered and gleamed, reflecting the light of the fire like a divine icon spreading a halo.
Margaretha put her book down, the tome of Gesta Danorum with its pages worn from the years of reading. “Lena, it is a short trip traveling by the sea. Unless a storm reaches down between Amsterdam and Copenhagen, the worst that will happen is wet clothes. Our ships are quite steady and its away from the engelse kanaal. I have complete faith in our sailors. Our Lord Father is sending his best men on the voyage.”
Lena snorted. “I better pray for our belle-soeur Isabelle in her voyage across the la Manche next year then. Seeing as she might have use of it more then you. Greetje, you must have nerves of ice. You will fit right into that cold winter kingdom.” Margaretha said nothing at all, just watching her sister. Lena had stopped pacing at last. She was far too used to Lena’s wit to respond with anything other then calm nodding. Her own hair was brown and mostly straight, neither dull nor lustrous. With a round face and plain features, Margaretha could never compete in beauty. Young courtiers and ambassadors made no secrets of which daughter of the Grand Duke they called The Light of the West.
Magdalena of Cassel had inherited her grandmother’s height and at seventeen stood at nearly six feet tall. With slender curves and a graceful neck, she contrasted Margaretha, the latter being short and sturdy. And brilliant blue-grey eyes for the elder’s brown. Lena played music better, danced more gracefully, charmed people like the pied piper of Hamelin. In the palaces she kept a small court of glittering young ladies in the last two years ago, fluttering around like multi-coloured butterflies.
Margaretha keep her own large circle of friends, scholars and courtiers from all over the duchy. She knew the content of every account book in the ducal households and how to manage the estates from Antwerp to Le Crotoy. Being the practical sister had it advantages at times, even if it didn’t give loads of poems.
Margaretha of Burgundy in 1508
Duchess Ann occasionally sighed over Lena’s exuberance, but her stepdaughter always stayed within the boundary of decorum and her studies and religious devotions always left nothing to be desired. Their little sisters Katrine and Beatrijs adored her, and Lena cheerfully played games with both whenever they demanded it. Margaretha had spent countless days in gardens reading with their little brother Peter in her lap while her sisters amused themselves with the court games. Margaretha had always been Peter’s favourite sibling, much to her delight. Leaving him for the north had almost torn her in half. Little Anne she had only seen a few times, she had never left the nursery in Malines.
Her brother Ferdinand’s betrothal to Marguerite of Angouleme had been broken earlier that spring, in favour of Madeleine de la Tour Auvergne, a calculated move from their father’s side as her sole brother’s health was fading.
Duchess Ann, however, was expecting another baby. The pregnancy had been announced a month ago. “I seemed to gain my lastborn child in the same year my firstborn child leaves my duchy.” Duke Philip had said to Margaretha the evening before she left for Bruges.
“Father, there is a question I’ve been longing to ask. Most fathers would have sent me to Denmark much earlier. I’m nineteen now, my mother married earlier. As did my aunts. Why have you waited this long?”
Her father tapped hir knuckles on the table. “Prince Christian became viceroy of Norway last year. The union between Denmark, Sweden and Norway is turbulent at times. I wished to know I left you to a steady kingdom first. Plus, we got better terms with the wait. And on a personal note…” Philip’s voice trailed off and he looked contemplative out of the window. You, Magdalena, and Philip are what I have left of your late mother. I loath to let you leave to early. I rarely allow myself sentimentality. It’s not the benefit of rulers to do so. But sometimes…sometimes, even grand dukes can be tender-hearted. You and your sister are my pride and my joy.” Her father looked straight at her. “Margaretha, whatever the wagging tongues in court says, you have always been my pride.” It meant a lot to hear it, even if she already knew it since long.
“It’s not all winter and ice in Denmark. And Norway and Sweden have lovely summers too. And I’ve longed to be a queen. To have a husband and children of my own.” Margaretha told her sister at last. Lena’s gaze went down, grey-blue eyes tracing the pattern of the woven carpet. A blush came over her cheeks. After a few moments of heavy silence, Lena spoke; “I am sorry, Greetje. I guess I’m more upset about you leaving then I think. Our girlhood is over now. I’ll go to Lorraine after summer. Philip will wed next spring. And Ferdinand after that” Margaretha snorted “He’s fourteen years old, Lena for pity’s sake. Everyone is self-obsessed and romantic at that age. Even if he drives our mother up the wall.”
A knock on the door sounds when their giggling had gone down and their brother Philip stepped into the chamber. His dark hair was wet with rainwater, curling around his temple and his heavy eyebrows had knitted into a scowl. “If the winds keep howling like this, you can fly all the way to Denemarken without a ship, sister. You’ll risk a proper drenching just stepping out of the door right now.” His large mastiffs Willibrord and Radboud followed Philip’s heels as always.
Margaretha turned her head and looked out of the window. It was indeed pouring a flood down outside. “Well, it that is the case we better make ourselves comfortable for the evening.” Flagons of mulled wine, roasted quail, tart winter apples, manchet bread and spermyse cheese were brought in, card games brought out and Catherine of Navarre’s children spent their last evenings together in the Palace of Bruges before Margaretha’s departure to Denmark a fortnight later. The following December, on the ninth evening, Duchess Ana was safely delivered of a daughter, Isabella of Burgundy.
Margaretha of Burgundy later in life as queen regent of Denmark
Margaretha would have four living children with Christian.
-Kristina b 1508
-Fredrik b 1510
-Magdalena b 1516
-Hans b 1517
Magdalena of Burgundy, Duchess of Lorraine 1510
It’s no secret that Antoine of Lorraine fell in love with Magdalena of Burgundy the moment he laid eyes on her. So did most of the populace at her entrance in Nancy when her carriage entered through the Porte de la Graffe on a golden tinted day in late august, with the trees shrouded in reddening and yellow leaves. Magdalena cut a splendid figure in cloth of gold with her golden hair loose to the waist, arrayed in jewels.
Porte de la Graffe in Nancy where Magdalena entered.
Antoine and Magdalena enjoyed a very happy, if not a long-lasting marriage for eleven years. The ducal court of Lorraine drew influences from France, Italy and Flanders, and the cultural crossroads of the north and south of Europe. Long trading routes sneaked from northern Italy, Savoy and Provence and merchants from Spain mingled with Danish and Englishmen. Olives, rhenish wine, silks from Milan all ended up in the ducal banquets with spices and other food from the new world that began to trickle into Europe. In the center was Magdalena, who’s charm and joy gave the glittering court a joyous mood, with games, dances and artistic patronage during a whole decade.
Magdalena bore four children during her marriage, Philippa in 1509, Nicholas in 1510, Jean in 1514 and a stillborn daughter in 1518. Their joyous court came to a crashing end in the 5th of September when Magdalena died from eclampsia a few hours after her last child. Her horrified ladies and midwives were helpless when their duchess died in agony from suffocating seizures, traumatising the court and casting everything in a dark and gloomy autumn that persisted until spring the next year. Antoine would not remarry until two years later to Jacquetta of Luxembourg, Magdalena’s cousin. While their marriage would be a content one, Jacquetta would never be as loved as Magdalena by her husband.
Antoine and Jacquetta would have two daughters, Magdalena, and Marie. Nicholas succeeded his father as Duke of Lorraine in 1540. Most of his reign would be spent in religious turmoil and he would be succeeded by his brother Jean’s son Charles in 1548.
Jacquetta of Luxembourg
Nicholas II of Lorraine
In case anyone wonders, I distinguished between Margaretha and Magdalena by linguistic means. I kind of think Margaretha is using more dutch languages and names, while Magdalena is more leaning to French terms. It just makes sense to me.
Ooh lovely, it's too bad that poor Magsalena passed too early, I look forward to seeing how Margaretha does as regent.
I decided to kill Magdalena so that her golden youth would be forever preserved and untarnished by the complications that comes with aging.
Chapter 47 - Edmund the Grouch-back
Chapter 47 – Edmund the Grounch-back August 1508
One of the many tired thoughts running around in her head after the churching was whether her son’s nursemaid made sour milk. Despite all the love she felt as a mother towards her new little baby boy, Catherine of Aragon, Queen of England, could not help but to realise Edmund was the single most scowling infant she has ever laid her eyes on. Most of the time his little face glared at whomever held him and his chubby fists flailed in annoyance, accompanied by shrieking, if he stayed to long in someone’s arms. Her son seemed the most content in the cradle, being rocked while his nurse read stories about king Arthur hunting the beast glatisant, unicorns and maidens, Sigurd Dragonbane out loud.
It had never been hard for Catherine to bond with her children. Isabella and Joanna had been affectionate babies, an intimate atmosphere easily created while safely ensconced in Ludlow castle. Little Richard had been rather easy as well. The darling of the nursery and already learning to toddle.
Edmund’s birth had been long and arduous, and Catherine felt worn out and sore several weeks afterwards. Her body ached and moved more sluggishly than before. Edmund’s grouchiness and unwillingness to be held came as a blessing. Slowly Catherine began to spend an hour each day in the nursery in Windsor Castle reading to him. It felt easier to love her boy while reading the freshly printed copy of Amadis de Gaula sent over from her brother Ferdinand VI of Castile. Edmund’s little face cooing at her while her dramatic storytelling of Amadis being persecuted by the evil wizard Arcaláus rolled on. Catherine was rather certain that Ferdinand had sent her the book due to England being connected to the story. Her niece, Infanta Blanche, had been born around the same time as Edmund, with a sister, Infanta Yolanda, the year before him, the same age as little Richard. Lots of gifts had been exchanged between them this past year.
Edmund had fallen asleep when Amadis entered the arch of faithful lovers and Catherine silently closed the book. These hours made her feel like less of a failed mother, like not being able to hold her son for more then ten minutes without handing him to someone else stained her. Sewing smocks and bonnets, getting report from Elizabeth Poyntz and Elizabeth Denton, embroidering bedlinens for the cradle had become a replacement.
Catherine must have been watching the fireplace longer than she thought, because when she blinked back to the room, her husband entered the room.
“Your ladies said you often spent the evenings in here. I thought you could use some company, especially as you haven’t felt well for a while.”
For a long moment Catherine could not look at Richard, the silence lying thick on her tongue. During these past weeks she had not seen her husband frequently, often using tiredness as an excuse. The truth was that she felt like a failure with Edmund and had not wanted Richard to see her like this. Catherine knew deep inside her that Richard would not fault her for not bonding with the baby as easily as her other children, but it still felt like a point of pride as a mother. And now it did not work.
Queen Catherine and Prince Edmund of York
(Seen here being suspicious of each other)
“My mother told me John was rather like this too as an infant. Grouchy and solemn to people. Perhaps Dickon and Edmund are like me and my brother. Richard leaned down and stroked the baby’s ear, Edmund twitching in his swaddling, but not waking up. He’s a strong baby, he will thrive and grow out of this fretting stage. Don’t worry about it, my love. We have four strong and healthy children in seven years of marriage. And more will come in time.
I need at least a year before we try for a fifth child”, Catherine said firmly. My body is exhausted, and it needs to rest.” Richard nodded simply, and Catherine sent a silent prayer for her husbands’ sensibility.
“Is there news from outside England?
Oh, yes, lots of them. Richard said. The king of France has a daughter, Isabelle, the princess of Denmark delivered a daughter, Christina. Your sister Juana had a son, Ferdinand, named after your father and brother. My sister Anne has had a second son, Robert of Scotland. My sister Isabella is due to leave in two months for Flanders to marry the Count of Somme. My brother’s wife miscarried her baby again.
Poor Margaret,” Catherine murmurs. She felt a stab of guilt for her sister in law’s sake. It was her second miscarry since last year. The duke and duchess of York did not spend a lot of time with the court, frequently spending time in their several estates amongst England, traveling as much as the royal household did across the country.
“I would go with Isabella to Flanders for the wedding, Catherine said. It would be good to see Ana again and my nieces and nephews. Plus, I need to get back on my feet at some point. And her trousseau needs to be collected as well. We can’t have the king’s sister come to Flanders with empty hands after all.
Richard, Prince of Wales and Prince Edmund in 1516
To @VVD0D95, after years of plotting, we finally have our grumpy prince on scene.
One of the many tired thoughts running around in her head after the churching was whether her son’s nursemaid made sour milk. Despite all the love she felt as a mother towards her new little baby boy, Catherine of Aragon, Queen of England, could not help but to realise Edmund was the single most scowling infant she has ever laid her eyes on. Most of the time his little face glared at whomever held him and his chubby fists flailed in annoyance, accompanied by shrieking, if he stayed to long in someone’s arms. Her son seemed the most content in the cradle, being rocked while his nurse read stories about king Arthur hunting the beast glatisant, unicorns and maidens, Sigurd Dragonbane out loud.
It had never been hard for Catherine to bond with her children. Isabella and Joanna had been affectionate babies, an intimate atmosphere easily created while safely ensconced in Ludlow castle. Little Richard had been rather easy as well. The darling of the nursery and already learning to toddle.
Edmund’s birth had been long and arduous, and Catherine felt worn out and sore several weeks afterwards. Her body ached and moved more sluggishly than before. Edmund’s grouchiness and unwillingness to be held came as a blessing. Slowly Catherine began to spend an hour each day in the nursery in Windsor Castle reading to him. It felt easier to love her boy while reading the freshly printed copy of Amadis de Gaula sent over from her brother Ferdinand VI of Castile. Edmund’s little face cooing at her while her dramatic storytelling of Amadis being persecuted by the evil wizard Arcaláus rolled on. Catherine was rather certain that Ferdinand had sent her the book due to England being connected to the story. Her niece, Infanta Blanche, had been born around the same time as Edmund, with a sister, Infanta Yolanda, the year before him, the same age as little Richard. Lots of gifts had been exchanged between them this past year.
Edmund had fallen asleep when Amadis entered the arch of faithful lovers and Catherine silently closed the book. These hours made her feel like less of a failed mother, like not being able to hold her son for more then ten minutes without handing him to someone else stained her. Sewing smocks and bonnets, getting report from Elizabeth Poyntz and Elizabeth Denton, embroidering bedlinens for the cradle had become a replacement.
Catherine must have been watching the fireplace longer than she thought, because when she blinked back to the room, her husband entered the room.
“Your ladies said you often spent the evenings in here. I thought you could use some company, especially as you haven’t felt well for a while.”
For a long moment Catherine could not look at Richard, the silence lying thick on her tongue. During these past weeks she had not seen her husband frequently, often using tiredness as an excuse. The truth was that she felt like a failure with Edmund and had not wanted Richard to see her like this. Catherine knew deep inside her that Richard would not fault her for not bonding with the baby as easily as her other children, but it still felt like a point of pride as a mother. And now it did not work.
Queen Catherine and Prince Edmund of York
(Seen here being suspicious of each other)
“My mother told me John was rather like this too as an infant. Grouchy and solemn to people. Perhaps Dickon and Edmund are like me and my brother. Richard leaned down and stroked the baby’s ear, Edmund twitching in his swaddling, but not waking up. He’s a strong baby, he will thrive and grow out of this fretting stage. Don’t worry about it, my love. We have four strong and healthy children in seven years of marriage. And more will come in time.
I need at least a year before we try for a fifth child”, Catherine said firmly. My body is exhausted, and it needs to rest.” Richard nodded simply, and Catherine sent a silent prayer for her husbands’ sensibility.
“Is there news from outside England?
Oh, yes, lots of them. Richard said. The king of France has a daughter, Isabelle, the princess of Denmark delivered a daughter, Christina. Your sister Juana had a son, Ferdinand, named after your father and brother. My sister Anne has had a second son, Robert of Scotland. My sister Isabella is due to leave in two months for Flanders to marry the Count of Somme. My brother’s wife miscarried her baby again.
Poor Margaret,” Catherine murmurs. She felt a stab of guilt for her sister in law’s sake. It was her second miscarry since last year. The duke and duchess of York did not spend a lot of time with the court, frequently spending time in their several estates amongst England, traveling as much as the royal household did across the country.
“I would go with Isabella to Flanders for the wedding, Catherine said. It would be good to see Ana again and my nieces and nephews. Plus, I need to get back on my feet at some point. And her trousseau needs to be collected as well. We can’t have the king’s sister come to Flanders with empty hands after all.
Richard, Prince of Wales and Prince Edmund in 1516
To @VVD0D95, after years of plotting, we finally have our grumpy prince on scene.
Awww sweet to see Richard and Catherine discussing their family, would he interesting if little Edmund remained serious and solemn into adulthood...
Oh, trust me he does. And everyone in England thanks god that his brother becomes king instead. Not that poor Richard will be a sunshine prince forever...