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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𝔄𝔫𝔦𝔪𝔞𝔲𝔵 𝔇𝔢𝔭𝔯𝔞𝔳𝔢𝔰
Francoise sat in her apartments at her window still in her night shirt. Her long auburn hair was in waves down her back, contrasting with her porcelain skin. Her mother and sister were sat at the table in her room playing cards, occasionally one of them would send Francoise a look. They both had different opinions on the (ahem) situation Francoise found herself in and neither were being subtle about it.
Her mother especially. Jeanne d’Aydie was not known for her tact with her many lovers and bastard children. Some say that she was the daughter of some poor pagan woman who died in a sacrafice; that would explain her temperment and devious vices. In her mature age of six and fourty, Francoise regrets to say that her mother had not mellowed out in time. An embarrassment to the family. That was her mother’s role.
It seems she had passed the mantle onto her daughter.
“Odette and Gabrielle must be jealous,” Jeanne smirked as she layed down a card. “I know their aunts are. Marie, Henriette, and Esme were practically foaming at the mouth when they heard the news.”
“Maman…” Yvette tried to scold. “Please don’t–”
“To think! Notre petite vierge, Francoise, pregnant with the king’s child. We shall worry for nothing,” the woman continued. “Francoise, ma nymphe sournoise, you have secured our place!”
“She has secured her downfall,” Yvette argued. “I thought that Marie was supposed to–”
“To hell with that Bourbon bitch! She’ll be sent to Italy to marry that Medici dog and we’ll never have to worry about her again,” Jeanne said before turning to address Francoise properly. “We cannot have the king stray, Marie de Bourbon was your greatest competition, but now? We have time to establish our– you. We have time to further secure your standing with the king and at court.”
“Is my place not already secure,” Francoise more stated than asked as she raised a brow. “I am carrying his child. Perhaps it is even a son.”
Jeanne scoffed, “Please. A bastard child.”
Francoise did not need to be reminded of that; it was all that she could think of. The poor bastard festered in her womb, infecting her with paranoid thought and plaguing her normally uncomplicated mind with anxiety.
She missed her childhood in the country badly. She missed the fresh air and the freedom that came with living away from court. Away from her mother and aunts who gossiped and drank and galavated with any man with coin. Perhaps that is unfair to say. After all, her family may be whorish but they did earn her ,begrudging, respect a long time ago.
