Katherine Tudor was supposed to be stillborn. A dead daughter of Elizabeth of York whom would die days before her mother.
That is no longer the case. Instead she became Queen of France at 13. The wife of Le Garcon Roi; the boy king. The Queen Mother...
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Katherine would never complain about carriage rides again. She was sure of it.
“Bleghhh!”
The stench of stomach acid and vomit made the Princess tear up in horrified disgust. She was shaking, whether from the harsh cold of the March winds, the erratic rocking of the boat or from fear was lost to her. Her governess was with her, as well as two new ladies; Anne and Mary were their names. They were Catherine’s ladies before but they were hers now.
They were at sea for a day or two, slowed down due to a storm but they didn’t once consider turning around. They docked in Brittany and then began their four hour journey to Paris to be greeted by the court.
Katherine, fatigued from the ship, slept through it until they stopped at an inn for the Princess to change clothes. She had been sent the latest fashions from Paris before she left, so she changed into a french gown. It was a bright and vibrant blue with gold accents. Her ladies added her jewelry (gold necklace, bracelets and a tudor rose brooch).
“You look magnificent, your highness,” Mary complimented her as the reentered the carriage. “A true French-woman.”
“You’re too sweet Mary,” Katherine giggled. “Stop it, you’ll rot my teeth out of my mouth, then how will the French King marry me?”
“With a smile and heart content that he should marry the most beautiful Princess in Christingdom,” another one of her ladies (a gift from the French King along with the dresses) called Anthais, said.
“Just Christingdom?” Katherine asked with a cheeky smile. “Not the world?”
“I have not seen all of the world, your highness,” Anthais said. “And now I do not need to, the King will be enamoured with one look at you.”
“I take the KIng is not one for conversation, then?” Anne asked.
Anthais shrugged, “He is a young man, young men are filled with emotion, ambition, and insatiable libidos,” she smirked at Katherine, “he likes conversation, but he is more than okay with quiet company.”
Katherine blushed and Anthais pretended to fuss over her, cooing. “Oh, your highness, you are so red!”
“Stop teasing her,” Mary said, but the smile on her face betrayed any serious tone in her voice. “The Princess is innocent, she will not understand your jokes.”
Anne smirked, “By the color of her cheeks I have to assume she understands on some level.”
The rest of the ride to Paris was spent playing car games and getting to know each other a bit better. Anne and Mary were sisters, Mary being the older by two years, their father was Sir Thomas Boelyn. They used to be her sister's ladies when May (Tudor) was Queen of France and when Louis XII died they followed her back to England where they became Catherine’s ladies.
